Right about now, I’m ashamed to say, the only thing I can think of that I want to give back is my engagement ring.
‘No, I really would like to give something back! And I know how privileged I am, Barbara, honestly. But wouldn’t it be better for me to take my time working out what sort of thing I’d actually be good at? For the foundation, I mean. And leave the really serious stuff to the people who actually know what they’re doing, and can do it properly?’
‘Hmm.’ She actually makes a mulling-it-over sound as we pull into the driveway. ‘I suppose you know best, what your limitations are.’
I clear my throat. ‘I’m not sure they’re limitations, as such. I’m just trying to be realistic.’
‘Of course. Well, as I say, you know best.’ She says this in a voice that implies the exact opposite, and pulls the Range Rover into a space right outside the house. ‘And you have a lot on your plate, with the wedding, and … all that kind of thing.’
She says this in a voice that implies I’m the worst kind of airhead for not spending my every waking moment thinking about ways to alleviate poverty and suffering in the world.
‘I guess maybe I just find it hard to imagine how anyone can sit on the sidelines when they’re in a position to help. From my own personal experience, that is. I’m sure Joel’s told you that my mother’s a Holocaust survivor, and then of course I grew up behind the Iron Curtain … it’s given my son a real drive to succeed, and help people along the way. I mean, that’s absolutely integral to his character. I don’t know if he’s ever going to be truly happy with someone who … oh! Speak of the devil!’ she finished, as the door on my side opens, and Joel is on the other side of it. ‘Ahoj, miláčku!’
‘Mamicka?’ he says, looking surprised to see her. ‘I didn’t know you were driving! Actually, I didn’t even know you were here …’
‘Oh, you were busy, srediecko, I didn’t want to disturb you. And then Libby called and said she was at the station … what a perfect opportunity to get to know my new daughter-in-law a little! We’ve had a good talk, haven’t we, Libby?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘A great talk.’
‘And now why don’t I leave you two to it for a few minutes while I go and wake up Babicka?’ Barbara says, sliding out of her seat with a deliberately nonchalant air that bears little relation to the intensity she’s just shown with me for the duration of our drive. ‘We’ll all have some tea together in the sitting room, I hope? I’m assuming Julia is here?’
‘Yes, she’s just upstairs with the nanny, settling into her bedroom. Go and knock and tell her you’ve brought presents – I’m assuming you’ve brought presents? – and she’ll be downstairs quicker than you can say Snow White.’
‘Of course, but I didn’t buy her that Disney Princess doll you suggested, miláčku. I bought her a lovely folk doll from my trip to Burkina Faso instead …’
‘Lovely, Mamicka,’ Joel says, though somewhat distractedly. ‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.’
I’m sure of nothing of the sort, but I’m just rather relieved to see Barbara close her car door and head for the house.
I mean, obviously I’ve never met a prospective mother-in-law before, so I’ve no idea what sort of criteria to judge these things on … and at least, I guess, she wasn’t openly hostile about the idea of me marrying her darling boy, or anything. In fact, she seemed to be more … confused by my presence in Joel’s life than anything. And, to be fair, if she was expecting me to be some sort of gorgeous Amazonian adventurer, with a PhD in International Relations and the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound—
‘Libby.’ Joel sounds tense. ‘Did you spend seven hundred pounds on my credit card this afternoon?’
‘Yes, I did. Or rather, I put it on your credit card, because I knew for sure that would cover it. Mum’s going to pay you back, obviously. It was for her haircut, she went a bit overboard …’ Something suddenly occurs to me. ‘How do you even know about the credit card charge, anyway?’
‘American Express called me. That card is hardly ever used, and then suddenly there was a seven hundred quid charge from a hairdresser’s salon, out of the blue. It triggered a security alert. I was with my lawyers when they called, actually …’ His face is set in rather grim lines, to match his tense voice. ‘Libby, look, we might need to revisit this pre-nup thing, OK? That call really spooked the lawyers, and they’re not at all happy that we don’t have anything in place. So look, they’re drawing up some documents right now, and we should have something to look at some time this evening …’
‘Joel.’ I stare at him. ‘I don’t want to spend the night before my wedding looking at a pre-nup.’
‘Well, nobody does, and I feel foolish that I didn’t insist on it before. I just didn’t think you were … well, I’m quite sure your mother didn’t plan to overspend on her hair, but you have to look at it from the lawyers’ point of view – the day before the wedding, and the fiancée suddenly starts splashing the cash …’
‘I wasn’t splashing the cash! I was bailing out my mother! Who is going to pay you back every single penny, I absolutely assure you!’
‘OK, calm down … Look, the pre-nup is to protect you as much as it is to protect me. I’ve told the lawyers to make absolutely certain that you’re well provided for.’
I slam the Range Rover door behind me. ‘I don’t want to be well provided for! I don’t want a penny of your money, Joel. Have you stopped believing that?’
‘Oh, come on, Libby, you can’t tell me you haven’t got used to my way of life by now! And I haven’t seen you objecting to any of it, exactly.’
‘That’s not true. I objected to you spending eleven grand on a suit.’
‘Oh.’ His eyes go rather cold. ‘The suit again. If I recall, you didn’t object so much as mock me …’
‘I didn’t mock you! I just queried whether it was really necessary to spend that much on a suit for a kids’ party!’ I take a deep breath, because we’re heading into dangerous territory here: I don’t want a re-run of the Suit Row the night before the wedding. Not when it made Joel sulk for days last time. ‘Look. Please, tell your lawyers I’ll happily sign a piece of paper waiving all rights to a single fiver of your fortune – I think it’s an insult, but I’ll sign it – as long as I don’t have to sit and pore over endless documents this evening, when my family and friends are arriving, OK?’
‘Well, I think that’s foolish. And I think it would behove you to be a little more sensible about these matters, actually, Libby. I’m quite happy to pay for you to find a lawyer of your own, who I’m sure will be happy to read any documents on your behalf, tonight, if you feel you won’t understand them …’
‘Hey! I’m not stupid!’
‘No, Libby, I know that. But this is serious stuff.’
‘I can be serious, too, you know! In my own way! And nobody’s even giving me a chance to find my own way into your world, Joel. Just because I’m not forever jetting off to typhoon zones and negotiating fair-trade deals with Rwandan warlords …’
‘Are you mocking my mother?’ he snaps.
‘No, I’m not mocking her! She’s obviously an absolutely amazing woman, Joel. Nobody needs to tell either of you that. But nevertheless, both you and she seem to think it’s OK to tell me what to do with the rest of my life.’
‘The foundation, you mean? Oh, come on, Libby, she’s just passionate about her work! And, honestly, would it kill you to take a fraction more interest? I mean, you seem pretty passionate yourself about bailing your dear old mum out of an apparent crisis … I’m just surprised you don’t seem to feel the same way about displaced children in need of emergency aid!’
‘Joel, I have every interest in the foundation. But right at this very moment in time, for me, charity begins at home. Any minute now, I’m supposed to be meeting my future stepdaughter for the first time. I’d like to concentrate on that one particular child until after that, if that’s OK with you?’
‘Fine
.’ He glares at me. ‘And if you’re going to insist you’re far too busy to read a pre-nup or talk to a lawyer yourself tonight, then we’ll just have to do it after the wedding.’
‘A post-nup?’
‘Yes. That can be done.’
‘But I don’t want any kind of … nup! Isn’t marriage supposed to be about romance? Even a little bit? And trust, and companionship, and—’
‘Have you been drinking?’ he interrupts me to ask, brusquely.
‘Because I’m talking about romance?’
‘No. Because you look a bit pissed!’
‘I had one mimosa with lunch! And a glass of champagne at the wedding dress shop! Hours ago.’
‘Great!’ He throws his hands up in the air. It’s such a melodramatic gesture, for someone who usually remains pretty cool, that I can’t help but feel it’s a rather put-on way to bring an end to our row, with me placed very firmly in the wrong. ‘Congratulations, Libby. The first moment you meet my daughter, my mother and grandmother, and you’re drunk.’
‘I’m not drunk! I had a couple of drinks! Don’t be ridiculous …’
‘And you wonder,’ he snaps, turning sharply and starting to stalk back towards the house, ‘why people occasionally think you’re anything other than a hundred per cent serious!’
‘Joel—’
‘Can I suggest you get one of the girls to bring you some strong coffee,’ he throws over his departing shoulder, ‘before you come down to tea with my family?’
The front door doesn’t slam behind him, because there’s a staff member (of course, and a witness to our row; how wonderful) holding it open for him. But it might as well do.
I’ve gone through the evening on autopilot, to be honest with you.
I mean, I know what you think you’d do in this scenario – the one where you and your fiancé have a bitter row the night before your wedding. The one where his mother subtly lets you know that you’re not really good enough for him, and that she’s pretty sure your relationship is doomed to failure. The one where he starts insisting on a pre-nup, or a post-nup, or any kind of miserable financial arrangement, despite the fact he ought to know by now you couldn’t give two hoots about his bloody money. You think you’re going to summon the guy who can drive you back to the station and zoom off in his Land Rover to catch the first train back to London, never to return.
But the reality is a bit different. The reality is that you can’t put two coherent thoughts together to come up with something – anything – like a strategy for dealing with all these curveballs. The reality is that you have to go into the house even if you want to find the Land Rover driver, let alone because that’s where all your stuff is. And the reality is that once you’re in the house, you’re suddenly faced with introductions to his grandmother, who’s just flown all the way in from Florida to attend your wedding. And then, of course, his daughter appears, and she’s – there’s really no other word for it – heavenly, with her big, solemn blue eyes, and her downy skin, and her golden curls. And she sits very sweetly right beside you on the sofa, drinking a glass of juice with one hand and then, after a while, squirming the other hand into yours, to hold.
Follow this up with a hasty shower and change into your rehearsal-dinner dress, and then back downstairs to greet all the other guests, including your mum and sister and best friend and her family …
All I’m saying is, that the reality is that even if you might want to call a sensible halt to the proceedings, while you take some time to get your thoughts together, it’s actually nowhere near that simple.
The rehearsal dinner, too, has sort of taken on a life of its own. The dozen or so dinner guests have feasted on marinated salmon, roast poussins, and have just finished some (probably, nothing seems to taste of anything to me) delicious lavender and honey ice-cream, made from lavender grown in the biodynamic garden. The wine has flowed – though not for me, as I haven’t felt comfortable drinking any of it, to be honest – and there have been speeches: not from Joel, obviously, who’s saving his up until tomorrow, but from his mother, who has (actually quite kindly, albeit still with that air of mild surprise) welcomed me to the family, and from Nora’s dad, who got a bit overcome and actually shed a tear or two when he talked about what great friends Nora and I had been to each other over the years.
Though I’m avoiding Nora ever so slightly right now, I have to admit, as everyone starts to leave the dining room and filter through to the library for coffee and petits fours (made by Bogdan’s hot pastry chef). She’s been giving me The Big Eyebrows all night, across the room, presumably because she’s noticed I’m looking a bit wan, though I expect she thinks it’s about Olly not making it tomorrow.
I’ve never been very good at lying to Nora – in fact, I’m bloody awful at it – and seeing as the last thing this rehearsal dinner needs is a hormonal pregnant woman tapping her glass and announcing to the room that she thinks the wedding tomorrow should be on temporary hiatus because the bride is having some serious doubts, I think avoiding her is the best course of action.
Besides, Julia is flagging, yawning huge jet-lagged five-year-old yawns, so when she says she wants me to go upstairs with her to read her a story, I seize the opportunity: for bonding with my soon-to-be-stepdaughter, yes, but also, less selflessly, a chance to get away from it all for half an hour.
‘You’re going upstairs with Libby for a bit, are you?’ Joel asks her, tenderly, as I go to tell him where we’re off to. ‘That’s nice, darling. Be on your best behaviour!’
It’s not the time, is it, to ask if he’s talking to me or to her?
I mean, I know marriage isn’t all Happy Ever After. But still, if you’re starting to have genuine doubts that you’re not even Happy Right Beforehand …
‘Libby?’ Julia is asking me, now, as we walk up the stairs together. ‘Can I come and see your room, please?’
‘Oh … I thought you wanted me to read you a story?’
‘Oh, yes, I do. But I really want to see your room, first. And your dress,’ she adds, after a moment’s thought. ‘Will you show me your princess dress?’
‘Er, you mean my wedding dress?’
‘That’s right.’ She gazes up at me, those blue eyes, so like Joel’s, wide and friendly. ‘The one you’re going to wear tomorrow.’
‘I suppose that should be OK … but are you sure you don’t want to wait for tomorrow, and have the surprise?’
Julia thinks about this for a moment, wrinkling her nose. ‘I don’t think,’ she says, eventually, ‘I like surprises very much.’
‘You know what, Julia,’ I say, leading her down the corridor towards the bedroom I’m sleeping in for the night, ‘neither do I.’
I moved all my stuff over here earlier this morning – seems like a lifetime ago, now – so that Joel and I wouldn’t end up sharing a bedroom together the night before the wedding. It’s a lovely room – all the rooms at Aldingbourne are lovely, let’s face it – and it’s made, technically, even lovelier by the fact that my stunning wedding dress is hanging on the back of the wardrobe.
‘Wow,’ says Julia, stopping dead, as we walk into the room, and staring. ‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, that’s it!’
‘That’s the princess dress you’re going to wear tomorrow? To marry my daddy in?’
‘Mm-hmm.’ I clear my throat. ‘Do you like it, then?’
‘I love it.’ She gazes up at me, her solemn little eyes shining. ‘Will you put it on?’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes!’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Julia … I think it’s supposed to be bad luck to put on your wedding dress the night before your wedding.’
Actually, I’m not at all sure that this is the case. Bad luck for your husband-to-be to see you in your dress before your wedding: yes. But bad luck to try it on, to curry a bit more favour with your adorable five-year-old stepdaughter-to-be … no. I don’t think so.
‘Please?’ she asks. ‘I’ll go and put on m
y bridesmaid dress too, and we can have a rehearsal!’
‘Oh, well, let’s not risk getting your lovely bridesmaid’s dress wrinkled or stained,’ I say, because I don’t want to get the blame if this turns out to be the case. To distract her, I add, ‘All right, I’ll try my dress on, then, Julia, but only for a couple of minutes, OK?’
‘OK! We can play princesses!’ she says, happily, possibly not quite accepting that I really am only going to put it on for a couple of minutes.
As I unzip the Jenny Packham dress-carrier, there’s a quick tap at the door, and – without waiting for an answer – Cass suddenly sticks her head around it.
‘Lib,’ she hisses, ‘I need to … oh.’ She looks at Julia. ‘She’s here.’
‘Who’s this?’ Julia asks.
‘This is my sister, Cass … your sort-of-auntie, as of tomorrow, I guess.’
‘Oh.’ Julia stares at Cass for a long moment. ‘I don’t think I like the idea of that.’
Cass snorts. ‘You and me both, kid. Now, look, Libby ….’ she adds, teetering into the room on some eight-inch heels that give me vertigo just looking at them. (She’s looking, I have to say, sensational tonight, in the body-con, plunge-front dress she settled on when she found out it was a sit-down do – and, trust me, when my sister does plunge-front, she really does plunge-front.) ‘You have to tell me what the deal is with this Nick guy.’
‘Joel’s best man?’
‘Yes. Is he gay, or what?’
‘Cass!’ I jerk my head in Julia’s direction.
‘Oh, actually, you’re right … Juliet, is it?’ Cass asks, leaning down, suddenly, to Julia, creating a pretty perilous situation for the already straining fabric of the plunge-front dress.
‘Julia.’
‘Sure. Whatever. So, look, Julia, this Nick guy who’s your dad’s best friend … is he gay, or what?’
‘That’s not what I meant!’ I yelp at Cass. ‘You can’t ask her that!’
‘Why not? She’s known the guy longer than you have.’
A Night In With Grace Kelly Page 27
