And anyway, it’s not like there’s any particularly good reason for me to stay at the house. Neither Mum nor Cass, who admittedly might need some policing, are arriving until late afternoon. Bogdan is happily ensconced in his little cottage on the estate, ordering, courtesy of Joel, old movies on iTunes to watch on the large TV in there (at least, I hope to God that’s what he’s ordering). In addition, I suspect, he’s going to end up wandering up to the main house a little later on, to see if he can track down the hot pastry chef he spotted on the house tour I gave him yesterday. And, trust me, you never want to get in the way of Bogdan and a hot pastry chef.
And Joel … well, Joel has his lawyers’ meeting-slash-golf-day today.
And he’s still in a bit of a grump about the whole sofa thing, anyway.
Which, I should say, doesn’t actually seem to be working in the way it used to. It doesn’t change a thing about the loveliness of Bogdan getting it all done up for me. But sadly – though I haven’t told him this yet – the refurb hasn’t brought the magic back.
I went up to the attic as soon as I could, after supper last night, and just … sat there for a bit. More than a bit. I even dropped off up there, actually. The new stuffing in the sofa has made it much more comfortable, and the fact it no longer smells of damp dog (well, perhaps only a very little bit, from somewhere deep, deep down inside the original body) does make it easier to spend time close up to it. But even the fact that I was up there for a good couple of hours in the end didn’t have any effect. There wasn’t even a faint whiff of Grace’s perfume.
There was nobody but me. And my thoughts.
Which are probably no more than the usual thoughts a bride-to-be has, the penultimate night before her wedding. Butterflies. Apprehension. A very, very occasional twinge of anxiety, even, that you’re definitely, one hundred per cent, doing the right thing.
It would just have been nice to have had Grace there on the sofa with me. That’s all.
I mean, she was the one who really spurred me on with Joel. She was the one who hammered home the point about Moving On and about Seizing The Day, and about the virtue of all that shoulders-back, nose-to-the-grindstone Kelly grit that had got her an entire kingdom at her feet.
It would have been really great, now I am where I am, to have the chance to tell her. Not that she’d have paid the slightest attention to the details, probably; only inasmuch as she decided to use it as yet another message from her subconscious. But still. It would have been nice to have her around to talk to.
But I can probably have a bit of a butterflies-calming talk with Nora today, to be fair, because she’s meeting me in town to pick up my dress. It was her suggestion, because – according to her, not me – she’s been a ‘crap bridesmaid’, what with being so far away in Glasgow all the time, and having work, and Clara, and – a fabulous surprise, the last time we spoke – another baby, already ten weeks in, cooking away nicely inside her.
I can’t wait to see her. I literally can’t wait. It will probably kick off the really exciting feeling, that my wedding is happening tomorrow, rather than all the nerve-wracking, stress-inducing stuff. We’re meeting at The Wolseley on Piccadilly for a late brunch and mimosas – well, orange juice for Nora, obviously – before we head up to Jenny Packham, on super-posh Mount Street, for my dress.
I’m just getting off the tube at Green Park when my phone rings.
Oh, dear God. Mum, again.
I answer, because the knowledge that five minutes from now, I’ll be sipping (or possibly downing) my first mimosa, in Nora’s soothing company, makes the prospect of Mum’s latest whinge-fest more bearable.
‘Mum, hi.’
‘Darling! Great news!’
‘Oh!’ I’m pleasantly surprised to hear this; no whinge-fest, it appears. ‘What?’
‘I’ve decided to have a complete makeover before tomorrow!’
‘Er … when you say complete …?’
‘Well, for starters, I totally rethought the frumpy old Jacques Vert thing I was planning to wear. So I popped to Selfridges as soon as they opened this morning, and treated myself to this fabulous little Oscar de la Renta number instead …’
‘Wow. Mum, that’s got to have been expensive.’
‘Darling, how often does a daughter of mine get married? Oh, that reminds me, can you please do your best to introduce Cass to all Joel’s friends this weekend? Honestly, if I have to listen to her moan, one more time, about the fact that she’ll probably never have a billionaire of her own to keep her warm at night—’
‘She’s already got me on the case, Mum. But really—’
‘Anyway, I got this lovely blush-pink dress, and fabulous jacket, and then obviously I had to get some new shoes to go with them – nude L.K.Bennett pumps, because the salesgirl reminded me that they’re the kind all the Middleton women wear – and now I’m literally right here in a chair at Nicky Clarke! They’ve given me a fabulous colour, and now they’re just finishing up my cut. They squeezed me in at the last minute, darling, wasn’t that nice of them? Of course, it probably helped that I just happened to drop Joel’s name when I called—’
‘Mum,’ I say, sharply. ‘Please. Don’t do that.’
‘Of course, darling,’ she says, solemnly, though I’m not in the least convinced that this is the last time she’ll pull this schtick. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to let you know, because I know you’re collecting your dress just round the corner from the salon some time today …’
‘Yes. I’ll drop by if I have the time, Mum. But otherwise, you and Cass will be on the five o’clock train from St Pancras, right?’
‘I will. Looking like a new woman! This is going to give that Phoebe a run for her money!’
‘Mum …’
‘Only joking, darling!’ she trills, unconvincingly. ‘Bye!’
Whinge-fest or not, I still think I need that mimosa.
I push open The Wolseley’s glass door and step into the hubbub inside, give my name to the man on the desk and …
Oh.
Olly is sitting at the table.
For a moment, I sort of wonder if he’s maybe ended up here by pure coincidence – a nice romantic lunch with Tash, perhaps, before they get the train down to Sussex themselves later this afternoon – but as he gets up to greet me, I realize that it’s obviously not a coincidence: he’ll have found out from Nora that she and I were due to meet here.
‘Libby.’ His face is breaking into a huge smile. He looks incredibly handsome, albeit a little more formal than I’m used to seeing him, in a smart shirt and with his usually messy hair tamed for once. ‘How fantastic to see you.’
‘You, too!’ I hug him, tightly, and refuse to inhale his lovely, familiar scent as I do so. We hold onto each other for rather longer than I think either of us intended, though. ‘I mean,’ I go on, reluctantly pulling myself away, ‘it’s a bit of a surprise …’
‘Yeah, sorry about that! Nora mentioned she was meeting you here – oh, she’s probably running late, by the way; Mum just called me ten minutes ago and mentioned that she’d only just left theirs …’
The closeness of the Walker family never ceases to amaze me, even twenty years after first meeting them all. At times it’s made me envious, at times I find it a tad claustrophobic, and then at times like now, when Nora and Olly and their respective partners, and Clara, and Nora and Olly’s mum and dad are all getting the show on the road ready to come down to Sussex for my wedding, I’m just profoundly grateful that I’ve got them all in my life.
‘Well, even better that you’re here, then,’ I say, sitting down in the booth opposite him. It’s such a tonic to see him, such a refreshing gasp of sweet, clean air, that I don’t even feel the awkwardness or discomfort of our most recent meetings. ‘You can keep me company in a mimosa!’
‘I shouldn’t. I do have to get back to the restaurant for the end of lunch service.’ He looks torn, thinking about this for a moment. ‘Though … well, I guess if I text Jorge and tell him
I’ll be late …’
‘Exactly! You’re the boss.’
‘That I am.’ He grins at me, takes out his phone and sends the text. ‘Come on, then, Liberty. Let’s drink!’
Him calling me Liberty – something he never ever calls me – sends a bit of a shiver down my spine for some reason. ‘Wow,’ I say, trying to hide the fact that he’s suddenly making me feel all heart-flippy. ‘We haven’t had the chance to sit across a table from each other since … well, if you don’t count that awful night at the hospital, I guess it was all the way back at the bistro. When we drank all that champagne, and … thought we’d found the Mystery Cheese.’
‘God, Lib, that seems ages ago.’
‘It does.’
‘A different world.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I say.
‘Though it reminds me, by the way – amazing news. I think I might have found a new lead on the Mystery Cheese.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, I meant to text you about it, but … well, you know how busy things get. But a former chef mate of mine has just started trading at Bermondsey Market, importing French cheese and wine … I went over there to check it all out a few weeks ago, and we got chatting about cheese, you know, as you do.’
‘As you do.’
‘And I told him all about the Mystery Cheese – well, I told him a bit about it. I didn’t actually say that you and I have been trying to hunt the thing down for over a decade, obviously – and he said he has a few ideas about what it might be. Anyway, he called me yesterday and told me he’s just had a big delivery and that I ought to go and have a little look some time soon. Obviously you’re just about to go away on honeymoon, but – I don’t know – maybe when you’re back …’
‘Olly, I’d love to!’ I grab his hand. ‘I mean, we’re only away for a week, until just after Christmas … Joel couldn’t take any more time. So I’ll be around.’
‘OK, great.’
‘Just promise me you’ll ask me, OK?’
‘OK.’ He doesn’t quite meet my eye. ‘I promise I’ll ask.’
‘I mean, please, Ol, don’t … don’t just decide I must be too busy.’
‘No, no. I wouldn’t do that. But, you know, if you are too busy, that’s OK, too. I can go and check it out myself.’
‘But I won’t be. Too busy. No matter what.’
‘Well. OK. That’s great to hear!’
‘Yes. It’s a date!’
A slightly strained silence falls between us, during which I grab a passing waiter, order a couple of mimosas, and then go on, non-sequiturially, ‘So! How’s Tash? Is she on her way down from Glasgow now, or did she come down last night?’
‘Oh, she was here late last night.’
‘Great! I’m looking forward to seeing her!’
‘Yeah … about that, Lib. I don’t think … I don’t think we’re going to be able to come.’
‘Sorry?’
‘To the wedding. I don’t think Tash and I can make it.’
‘You … sorry?’ I repeat, dumbly. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘I mean, I know it’s horribly late notice, and I wouldn’t be doing this if we had a choice. Her dad’s having emergency hernia surgery tomorrow morning.’
‘I … I mean, that’s obviously bad news … But I don’t see …’
‘Well, these things can be a bit touch-and-go.’
‘Hernia surgeries? Really?’
‘Oh, yes! Not fatal, or anything – at least, we hope not – but he’s seventy-two, and he’s not been in the best of health for a while, and Tash really wants to be there to support her mum …’
‘Right. I get that.’ I clear my throat. ‘But do you need to be there, too?’
‘I kind of do.’ He shifts a little bit in his seat. ‘I know it sounds unnecessary, but … well, after she was so amazing when Mum and Clara had their accident, I don’t want to just leave her and her mum to get on with it alone. I mean, Tash is an only child, and her mum gets a bit stressed out about these things …’
‘But this is my wedding, Olly.’ I stare at him. ‘Can you not even just dash up to Durham afterwards? The ceremony is at two thirty, so you could miss the reception and probably still get up there by late evening … oh! I could even see if Joel would be able to let you use the helicopter …’
‘Libby, come on!’ Olly looks more desperate than ever. ‘I’m not going to get your fiancé to fly me around the country.’
‘He wouldn’t mind!’
‘But I would! Look, this is utterly shit timing, I recognize that. But I’ve looked into all the train times, and even if I only came to the ceremony, I wouldn’t be able to get up to Durham until way too late to be any practical use to Tash and her mum. And they need me, Lib, they really do.’
‘I need you,’ I say, helplessly. And then, immediately, feel as if I’m sounding like the worst Bridezilla imaginable. ‘Look, I get that Tash’s dad is old and unwell, and I get that they’re worried, but he’ll be in a great hospital, and Tash and her mum can get by together just for a day, surely, and …’
‘Please!’ Olly says. He sounds anguished. ‘Please, just … it’s shit timing. And I’m so, so sorry. But I have to be there. There’s nothing else I can do.’
I sit back in my chair. ‘OK,’ I say. I feel, oddly, completely emotionless. Bleached-out, almost. ‘It’s OK. It’s just shit timing. As you say.’
‘Look, is there anyone else you can grab at the last minute, to take our places? I mean, I know you’re keeping it small, and I don’t want our absence to leave a gaping hole in your seating plan …’
‘The seating plan? Oh, don’t worry, Ol. That’s the least of my worries.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, not having you there is a bit of a gaping hole,’ I say. ‘Irrespective of the seating plan.’
‘Oh. I know.’ He stares, at the table. ‘But I’ll be there in spirit! I promise you that. And … I don’t know, I assume there’s going to be a video … Mum and Dad are coming armed with their ancient camcorder, I warn you, even if there’s not going to be a professional there!’
‘That’s nice.’ I want, I desperately want, to shake off this horrible, flat sensation. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing them.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ he croaks. ‘Please.’
‘I’m not being like anything, Ol! Of course I’m happy your parents are coming. It’s just … they’re not … you.’
What I can’t say to him – what I can’t really even say to myself, actually, given how silly it sounds, and given that I’m getting married to Joel twenty-four hours from now – is that I’ve sort of had this silly fantasy a few times recently. More than silly. Ridiculous. A fantasy about the moment in the wedding where the vicar asks if anyone knows any lawful impediment that would prevent the couple getting married.
I mean, obviously I haven’t really been hoping that Olly would get to his feet and cry out, ‘Yes! I know an impediment! Stop this wedding at once! I’m hopelessly in love with her!’
I said, already, that I know it’s ridiculous.
But obviously the fact that he’s not coming, now, turns a ridiculous fantasy into a non-existent one.
Our mimosas are arriving, thank God, to interrupt this awkwardness.
As soon as the waiter puts them on the table and leaves, both of us pick up our glasses and pretty much down the entire lot in one gulp.
‘So!’ Olly says, after a moment. ‘You’re all … ah … excited about tomorrow? Everything going smoothly? No last-minute hiccups?’
I desperately want to get things back on an even keel between us, and he obviously does too, so I try to shake off my sense of disappointment – OK, my sense of crushing despair, and say, chirpily, ‘Well, unless you count every single thing my mum and sister are doing …’
‘Got it.’ He finishes the dregs of his mimosa. ‘God, Libby,’ he suddenly says. ‘Who’d have thought, nearly twenty years ago, that one day we’d be sitting here togethe
r like this … you about to get married, me engaged …’
‘You’re right. I’d never have thought it.’ I polish off my own drink. ‘But here we are!’
‘Here, indeed, we are.’
We both fall silent again.
I think I have to say something. I mean, Say Something.
Because I just can’t live with this horrible feeling. This feeling that everything is … wrong. It’s like agitation mixed with frustration mixed with fear. It’s like the onset of the worst migraine you’ve ever had, combined with imminent gastric flu. I feel uncomfortable, and stressed, and more than a little panic-stricken, and it’s no way to live. It’s no way to live for a day, or a week, let alone for the rest of your days on this planet.
It’s why, without yet knowing exactly what the Something I’m going to Say is, I blurt, ‘Olly, I just … I really, really wish you could come.’
No. No, that wasn’t the right Something. I need to go further, be bolder …
‘I know. Me too.’ Olly sounds faintly strangled now, as if there might have been an insect in his drink and he’s only just realized he swallowed it. He clears his throat, noisily. ‘But I have to do the right thing by Tash, Libby, I know you understand that … Should you get that?’
‘What?’
‘The call. It might be something important … wedding-related …?’
I glance down at my ringing phone. It’s Mum.
‘OK, one second,’ I sigh, picking up the phone. ‘Mum? Is it really important?’
There’s no reply. Or rather, there’s no words of reply. There’s just a stifled sob.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes, it’s me … oh, Libby, I’ve done something ever so stupid.’
Given that she’s at the hairdresser, my mind boggles for a moment. Has she let them give her a perm? A Hoxton fin? A mohawk?
‘It was all the shopping this morning that did it,’ she goes on. ‘I suppose it was a bit silly to go and put all that stuff on my debit card, but I didn’t even think about going over the limit … and now I’m trying to pay at the hairdresser’s, and it’s all added up to more than I thought …’
A Night In With Grace Kelly Page 25
