Prior Engagements

by Sarah Goodwin

  Mum came to the doorway as we were getting out of the car and telling the removal guys where to start unloading all my worldly shite. She was wearing her everyday uniform of a pastel cardigan over a floral shirt and linen trousers, but had, to my dismay, chosen to wear a silk scarf wrapped around her hair. It made her look like a wise man in a badly funded nursery school play.

  “Mum, hi!” I called from the garden gate. The garden stretched between us, a neat pocket hankie of a lawn with straight-as-a-ruler beds on all sides, filled with lemon balm, lavender and rosemary (As you can probably tell, the garden was my dad’s province, and he still came by to take cuttings and do some weeding).

  “You were ages coming, I thought you’d been in an accident,” she said, with an air of disappointment.

  “We had to stop for scones,” I said, waving the bag at her, “this is Dorian.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Dorian said, offering his hand to shake. Mum shook it, but dubiously.

  “I suppose you’d better come in then,” she said, thrusting the garage keys upon me. “I had to go up into the loft specially to get those.”

  “Why did you put them up there in the first place?”

  “What’s in the garage,” Mum said grandly, “is best left forgotten.”

  What was in the garage was actually a bottle of paint thinner and the remains of a suitcase that had been gnawed by generations of mice. Clearly Mum hadn’t ventured out there for a good long while, certainly not since Dad had been gone. I handed the keys off to the removal men and bolted back inside before Dorian could experience the full force of my mother.

  Inside, Mum’s house was the way it had always been, even before Dad left – stuffy, and trapped in the late fifties. Wall to wall cream carpet, a maroon chesterfield in the living room, a huge mahogany sideboard in the hall, and little fussy ornaments everywhere, from tasselled lamps to china shepherdesses. A sheer mountain of random old lady junk. The museum of tat.

  I loved it, because it was home. No matter what anyone says, your parent’s home is always your home, even if you move miles and miles away (or to the city down the road).

  I came into the kitchen just as Mum was handing Dorian a mug of tea. He was sitting at the big oilcloth topped table, on a wonky plastic chair with a vinyl seat cover. The kitchen was the least dated room in the house, which meant that everything in it was from the late eighties (Seriously, there was a food processor on the counter so yellowed and blocky that it might have served in the Thatcher administration – and it looked pretty lethal).

  “Tea, Annie?”

  “Please.”

  We sat down, and I looked down at my tea in its ‘I Climbed the High Wire at Cuffley Camp’ mug. I’d come home from our week long school trip with that mug, though I hadn’t climbed the high wire. I’d accepted the mug on behalf of a girl named Hayley, who had climbed it, but had been in traction at the time of the prize giving. She hadn’t much wanted the memento.

  “So, you’re moving to America,” Mum said, “where exactly to?”

  “New York,” Dorian said, “I have an apartment there.”

  “And what is it that you do, to afford that?”

  “Mum!” I snapped, “don’t be so rude.”

  “It’s fine,” Dorian half laughed, and I almost kissed him for diffusing the unpleasant atmosphere. “I’m an illustrator for a mildly successful American author.”

  Mum sniffed, as if she’d just heard him say ‘I’m a plasterer for a mildly successful band of gypsies’.

  “Anyone I’ve heard of?”

  “Georgio Casablancas.”

  The tips of my mother’s ears turned pink, and I shuddered to think what that might mean. I know, I know, we all watch/read/listen to audio description of, porn. That didn’t mean I had to know all about my mother’s personal preferences.

  Mum slathered a scone in cream and jam, setting it on a plate pattered with characters from The Magic Roundabout (which had been mine at age sixteen). “I still can’t believe you got married without me there to see it.”

  “It was very spur of the moment,” I said, “but, Dorian’s parents are throwing a party in honour of us getting married. So, there’ll still be a reason to dress up and celebrate.”

  Mum still looked huffy. You’d have thought she wanted to get tarted up in some mother-of-the-bride rayon horror and sip cheap plonk while me and Dorian got rat-arsed and did the Birdie Dance.

  “I suppose you’ve invited your father.”

  “Not yet, but I am going t-...shit!” I slapped my hand to my forehead.

  “What?” Dorian asked, concerned.

  “I haven’t told my dad,” I said, wide eyed.

  Shit, bugger, blast and flip. I knew there was something I’d meant to do. I’d had a niggle that it was something to do with having my gas cooker serviced. Which just goes to show how intuitive I’m not.

  Mum clattered her mug against the table top. “Serves him right, after all, he was the one who gave his blessing to that Stephen, and look how that turned out.”

  This was quite a radical rewriting of history, and not one that I particularly agreed with. Both my parents had been besotted with Stephen (if not with his parents) just like I’d been. None of us had seen him for the flake he was until it was too late.

  “Well, regardless, you’re both going to be invited to the party.”

  “Is it before or after you fly off and abandon me?”

  “After,” I said snappily.

  Mum went quiet, and Dorian glanced at me before saying to Mum, “I love your curtains.”

  It was a heinous lie, but it had the desired effect of making Mum drop her ‘woe is me’ attitude and start being a bit more civil.

  “They’re Laura Ashley.”

  Another lie – a QD’s jobby if I ever saw one.

  “They’re quite charming, my sister would love them,” Dorian said, “she’s a fan of anything classically chic.”

  Mum preened like a cockatoo covered in Bryll Cream.

  “I have the matching sofa cover, in apricot.”

  “And it’s gorgeous, I’m sure,” Dorian smiled, “you’ll have to help Annie furnish our apartment. I’m afraid my sense of design is...quite poor.”

  “I’d love to, we must arrange a visit,” Mum said, almost sounding chipper.

  Dorian charmed my mother for over an hour, during which time she ate scones, simpered, and generally proved that she was going to be the easiest mother-in-law in the world to please.

  An hour was also how long it took for my two burly (though sadly, quite plain looking) removals men to lug all my rubbish into Mum’s garage. They tramped into the kitchen to demand tea through silent glowering, and then demolished Mum’s biscuit supply in record time.

  “You’ll have to send me a postcard,” Mum insisted as we stood on her doorstep, preparing to leave.

  “I will.”

  “And buy a rape whistle.”

  “I will.”

  “And some mace.”

  “Alright Mum! I’ll get all the anti-assault paraphernalia at the New York gift shop for new residents, OK?”

  Mum glared at me. Sarcasm was not a language she tolerated in her presence.

  “Bye Mum,” I sighed, leaning in to hug her and give her a quick peck on the cheek.

  “See you at the party,” she said, smiling as I wiped cerise lipstick from my cheek, “and find something nice to wear, not those baggy shirts you’re always slumping round in.”

  I decided that I was too tired to get into the clothing argument right at that moment, so I just smiled, took Dorian’s hand, and walked towards that taxi. Once we were inside, Dorian gave it ten seconds before he glanced at me.

  “Your mother is...”

  “Ineffable.”

  He grinned, “I was going to go with ‘quite a character’.”

  “She’s that too.”

  “She’s going to work marvels on my parents,” Dorian mused, “they haven’t even heard of external pl
astic butterflies.”

  I slapped his arm. “Hush you, at least my mother made her own tea.”

  “True.”

  I sighed. “Now I just have to tell my Dad that I got married without him, and then forgot to tell him for a fortnight.”

  “I don’t envy you that,” Dorian said, “thankfully I’ve told everyone I know, or, if I haven’t, I can be sure that Fifi or my mother have taken care of it.”

  “Does Opal know?”

  Dorian turned green.

  I smirked. “Thought not.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I called my Dad to tell him about my wedding about ten minutes before my flight boarded. Classy, I know.

  Dorian was drinking a latte in the tiny Café Nero and wincing at the taste as I dialled my Dad’s number and waited for him to pick up. As if the Gods were punishing me for neglecting my father, Sandra answered the phone instead.

  “Hiya,” she trilled, “Sandra speaking.”

  “Hi Sandra, it’s Annie.”

  “Who?”

  Ordinarily, I suppose this would look like naked unfriendliness from my would-be stepmother, but Sandra really was that forgetful. Sometimes I thought she’d completely blanked on the fact that my Dad was already married when she started sleeping with him (and that was about all I thought about it, lest the image of her cellulite riddled, tango-tanned body linger too long in my mind’s eye).

  “Adrian’s daughter?”

  “Annie love!” she shrieked, like she was auditioning for TOWIE, “how are ya?”

  I carefully held the phone a little further from my ear. “I’m good actually. Could I just speak to...”

  “I’m awful darlin’, my hairdresser went on her holidays, so I got stuck with a temp called Tina who made a right mess of my bloody highlights. I look like someone’s put Tippex in my hair. And to top it off I picked up a flesh eating bacterial whatsit at my pedicure on Sunday, so now my toe’s oozing all this thick, white...”

  “Is that Annie?” I heard my Dad say in the background.

  I wanted to shout ‘Save me!’ but I reigned myself in, and waited as he procured the telephone.

  “Annie? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

  “I know Dad, I kept meaning to call but, work, you know.”

  “Yes. You do work ever so hard love. Is your mum alright?”

  “She’s fine. I actually wanted to give you some news.”

  “Oh?” Dad said, “let me guess...”

  I really hated that my Dad had to guess everything. Even if it was something little like, “I went to the supermarket today”, he always had to try and work out what you’d bought before you could tell him how some man had cut you up in the car park, so you’d dumped packets of condoms and copies of the Beano into his trolley while he wasn’t looking.

  “...you’re seeing someone?” he finally guessed.

  I felt guilt roll my stomach over and sit on it heavily.

  “Actually...”

  “I bet it’s that Will, isn’t it? You two have always been so close.”

  I closed my eyes and shouted ‘FUCK!’ inside my head. Why was it that everyone had chosen now, two weeks after my marriage, to tell me that Will and I were perfect for each other? Why couldn’t they have said something before? Before I’d even met Stephen. Before this mess really kicked off?

  “Actually Dad, I’ve had a strange two weeks, and that’s why I’m calling now, to tell you that...

  “You’re pregnant?”

  “...I got married.”

  “Because you’re pregnant?”

  My parents really were made for each other, at least as far as jumping to dramatic conclusions went.

  “No Dad. I met a man at work two weeks ago, and we clicked, so we went to Las Vegas and got married. I’m really sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner.”

  There was a long silence, which I knew was costing me precious pence.

  “Dad, I’m on a payphone at Bristol airport. I know this is really short notice, and I’m sorry, but me and Dorian- that’s my husband, we’re moving out to New York today. I’ll be back soon for our reception party, we’ll have to meet up then, OK?”

  “...yes,” said my Dad, as if translating my words from Swahili into English, “Annie...are you on drugs?”

  Typical.

  “No Dad, I’m not on drugs. I was just a little bit drunk and very desperate. And so was he.”

  “Oh, well, that’s alright then,” Dad said, worries apparently set aside for now, “I can’t wait to meet him,” he paused, “is...uh, your mother going to be there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I might let Sandra off then, if you don’t mind her not being there. She’s been dying to use her Daily Mail holiday vouchers. Nice trip to Ibiza, just what she needs.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” I said, wondering who in the world Dad thought he was fooling, because it certainly wasn’t me. “Anyway, I have to go and get on the plane now Dad, love you.”

  “Be careful in New York, won’t you sweetheart? There are all sorts out there – muggers, rapists, cultists...”

  “Mum already gave me the mace and whistle speech Dad.”

  “Oh, well then, you’ll know all about it. Love you pet.”

  “Love you too Dad.”

  I put the phone down and went over to where Dorian was giving a death glare to his empty coffee cup.

  “If I die in the next hour, I won’t be at all surprised,” he sniffed, “that coffee was appalling. It tasted like burnt earth.”

  I eyed the grounds speckled cup. “Maybe it was.”

  The chimes overhead bing-bonged, and a tinny voice informed us that our flight was boarding. With our cases already checked in, we walked towards the other end of the airport. I felt a flutter of nerves, well, actually, more of a thundering of nerves. I was travelling to a whole different country, for the second time in a fortnight, with a man I’d only recently met. I’d have been lying if I’d said I was one-hundred-percent certain that he wasn’t about to sell me into slavery.

  As well as the possible dangers of what lay ahead, and all the strange new things that being someone’s live-in wife would involve – there was the feeling that I was leaving something crucial behind. The sense of losing Will dogged me all the way through the airport, and all the way onto the plane.

  It didn’t truly depart until we caught our first glimpse of New York through the clouds, and Dorian took my hand, smiling at me. Our new life, my new life, stretched out in a carpet of dazzling glass and steel, just waiting for me to touch down.

  Dorian’s apartment was in Soho, and the moment we arrived at the building, I realised that I’d severely underestimated it. When he’s said ‘New York apartment’ I’d instantly thought of Friends, and then after a brief burst of common sense, I’d adjusted my expectations to something on the level of The Pursuit of Happyness, something small and neat, probably in a less than pleasant neighbourhood. Dorian was a well off artist, yes, but an artist all the same. I’d lived in similar places all my life, first in Twerton, then in university halls (where someone would piss in your kettle or shit in your microwave as soon as they’d stolen your Wheetos) and finally, in my teeny-weeny Bristol flat.

  Dorian lived in a 1920s loft, on the top floor. There was, thankfully, a lift (or elevator, as I felt I should be calling it) and it deposited us in a cream hallway, just in front of Dorian’s front door.

  “You’ll have to forgive the mess,” he said as he took out his keys, “I didn’t clean up as much as I should have before I went over to England.”

  “I’m sure it’s...wow,” I said, and after that, I had no words.

  The room we stepped into was enormous. The ceiling towered over us, huge sash windows looked out on the clear skies, and the hardwood floor lanced away from the door in straight as an arrow planks, all gleaming with polish. Two massive pillars of similar dark wood joined a beam in the ceiling, probably original, dating from when the building had been a warehouse. The onl
y furniture in the room was an enormous eight seater corner sofa in white leather, and a sculpture-like floor lamp.

  “Yes...it really is a sty,” I said eventually, “Jesus, it’s like an art gallery.”

  “That is the idea of these lofts,” Dorian admitted, “pretentious artists like me wanting to feel like they’ve made it.”

  “I’d say illustrating successful novels qualifies as ‘made it’ in my book.”

  Dorian smiled. “Come on, I’ll show the rest of the place.”

  ‘The rest of the place’ comprised of one blindingly white kitchen with a massive stainless steel fridge, beech breakfast bar and enough chrome gadgetry to put the star ship Enterprise to shame, a grey marble and white porcelain bathroom, and a bedroom with an enormous sleigh bed, made up as if for the president. I was flabbergasted (a word I had not understood the need for until I looked up and saw the bedroom’s chandelier).

  As we left the bedroom, I spotted an identical door opposite it.

  “Let me guess, this is where the illustrating occurs?” I said, already reaching for the handle. Dorian practically leapt past me to keep the door closed.

  “It’s really not that interesting.”

  “Well, really that’s for me to judge,” I said, with a jokey smile.

  “It’s all a mess, really.” Dorian looked incredibly nervy, almost afraid.

  “What’s the matter? Is there something in there you don’t want me to see?” I asked.

  Typical, I arrive at my dream husband’s fabulous apartment, and within ten minutes a ‘forbidden door’ has been established. What was in there? The remains of the previous Mrs Foffaney? A collection of severed penises? Margret Thatcher preserved in aspic?

  “It’s not that you can’t see it,” Dorian began, “it’s that...you might think less of me once you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t know what kind of impression I’ve given you...but I imagine, especially now that you’ve met my family, that you consider me to be respectable, organised and rational. What’s behind this door, is the reason I move apartments so much, and may disabuse you of that flattering image of me.”