by Isabel Wolff
“Hello, Tiffany,” he said. But then he did this funny thing. He didn’t extend his hand, he tried to kiss me. Kiss me! This was extremely forward behavior. It took me by surprise and I must say I did not offer my cheek up to his lips.
“Don’t I get a kiss?” he asked with an offended air.
“No,” I said flatly. “I don’t even know you.”
He laughed. “Well, can we shake hands, then?”
“Yes, of course.” So we did. And then we sat down, and he smiled at me. But I was feeling quite shocked, so I just gave him a frigid stare.
“Well, Miss Arctic Ice Queen, it’s very nice to meet you,” he said with a smile. Ice Queen! The cheek! I hoped that such impertinence was not a common characteristic of blokes on Caroline Clarke’s register. I made a mental note not to tell him my joke about the talking pig. Despite my high hopes, the evening was not starting well. In fact it was clearly going to be a disaster.
“Let’s have a drink,” he said. He ordered a bottle of rather good Pouilly-Fuissé and before I knew what was happening the bottle was empty, conversation was flowing and I had melted like a choc-ice in July.
“So, tell me about Junior Wimbledon,” I said, genuinely impressed. “How far did you get?”
“Well,” he said. “I made it to the quarter finals.”
“The quarter finals!” I exclaimed. “Wow!”
“Yes. And I was heading for the semis, when my opponent made an unexpected comeback and I narrowly lost it in the tie-break.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “But you did terribly well to get that far. Anyway, take me through the match, point by point.”
So he did. And I found that I was really enjoying myself. And then we ordered something to eat, and had another bottle of wine, and we talked nonstop for about three and a half hours. And then I told him my joke about the pig and I was just about to hit him with the punchline, which is frankly hilarious, when he said, “. . . and the pig said, ‘But I’m a plumber.’ ”
“Oh, you know it already,” I said tipsily. “Damn. There I was thinking how funny it was, and how you were going to roar with laughter when I got to the end—and you knew it all along. You led me up the garden path there. God, I feel such a fool.”
“But I was enjoying the way you were telling it,” he said. And then he gave me a really dazzling smile, which made me feel a bit butteryfluttery, to be frank.
And then we got the bill and I said, “Can I contribute?” because it’s nice to offer, though it’s not nice when they accept. But Patrick looked shocked.
“Of course not,” he said. He didn’t say, “Yes. Let’s go Dutch,” like Paul from Eat ’n’ Greet. And he didn’t touch me for fifteen quid like Mungo Brown. He just got out his gold American Express card and paid. And then I looked at my watch, and it was midnight, and Patrick had to get back to Hammersmith and I had to get home.
“I’ve had a lovely evening,” I said truthfully. “Thank you.”
And I waited for him to say, “I’ll call you,” or “Let’s get together again really soon,” or “Let’s go line-dancing,” or something like that. But he didn’t. He just said, “Well, good-bye,” and I felt so disappointed because I thought that despite the unpromising start to the evening, we’d got on terribly well. As I sat in the back of the cab I wondered about having a little cry, but decided against it; after all I might meet someone nice at Jonathan’s wedding.
Early the following morning, at ten, the phone rang. I was still in bed.
“Yes?” I said.
“Tiffany?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Patrick here.”
“HELLO!” I said happily.
“Are you up, Tiffany?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “Been up for . . .”—ten seconds—“. . . ages.”
“Now, I know I’m not supposed to do this,” he said. “I know I’m meant to be cool and leave it at least a week before ringing you again, but I can’t be bothered with all that baloney. I just called to say . . .”
“. . . yes?”
“. . . how much I enjoyed meeting you.” Wow! “And I wondered whether you’d like to come to the theater with me.”
“Yes!” I said. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Any time. How about today?” Actually, I didn’t say that. I simply said, “Oh, well, um, yes, that would be rather nice.”
“Are you free on Saturday?”
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” I said. “I’m going up to Yorkshire for a wedding.”
“Next Wednesday, then?”
“I think so. Let me look in my diary. Yes, Wednesday would be fine.”
“You can choose the play.”
“OK,” I said happily. “I’d like to see The School for Wives.”
March
“Aren’t the daffodils wonderful!” I said to Nick as we sat on the nine-thirty from King’s Cross on our way up to Jonathan’s wedding.
“Yes,” he agreed as he gazed out the window. They lined the railroad banks, nodding and dancing with Wordsworthian élan as we swished through the Hertfordshire countryside. We had set off in good time, allowing almost three hours for the journey up to York.
“I hope Jonathan remembers his lines,” said Nick with a grin.
“Sarah will prompt him at the slightest hesitation,” I said as the train drew into Stevenage, our first stop.
“Did you bring the directions to the church?” Nick asked.
“No I didn’t. Did you?”
“No. All I’ve got with me is the invitation.”
“Same here. But it’ll be fine,” I said reassuringly, as the doors banged shut and we pulled away toward Peterborough. “It’s St. Mary’s, Westow, which is obviously very near to the city because the postal address is York. So it probably won’t take more than about ten minutes in a cab. The wedding starts at twelve, the train gets in at eleven-thirty, and so we’ll be in our pew by—ooh—eleven forty-five latest,” I said.
“Perfect,” he said. “I like your dress, Tiffany.”
“Thanks. You look pretty good yourself.” Nick, you see, was in morning dress. The full monty. This was going to be a smart affair. No New Labour lounge suits, thank you—coattails and stripy trousers only.
I fingered the viridian Swiss jersey of my Jasper Conran dress—it was very fitted, slinky almost, and totally unforgiving of the slightest bump or curve. I’d starved myself for a week to ensure that I’d be able to carry it off. And I accessorized it carefully with a big navy straw hat by Phillip Treacy and a velvet shawl in turquoise and lime. And as I sat there, happily daydreaming about Patrick, Nick reminisced, yet again, about our happy days in Downingham.
“Do you remember when Stuyvesant blew up the science lab?” he said with a sentimental sigh.
“Yes,” I said dreamily, “I do.”
“Bloody funny. And wasn’t it amusing when Jack Benson got hold of a Kalashnikov and held up the Midland Ban—oh! Why aren’t we moving?”
The train had ground to a halt. In fact it had been stationary for quite a while. Nick looked at his watch. “We’ve been stuck here for fifteen minutes,” he said anxiously.
We were somewhere outside Doncaster—I looked at my watch, ten-fifty A.M. Suddenly the public address system crackled into life, and we heard the guard apologize for the “short delay.”
“It’s probably daffodils on the line,” said Nick. “Just our luck.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “it’ll be fine.” Though to be honest, I was rather worried too. It’s so embarrassing arriving late for a wedding—unforgivable, in fact—we’d have to get a wiggle on when we got to York. Twenty minutes later we were still sitting on the track and my anxiety levels were almost Himalayan. I got out my antique roses tapestry kit and stabbed away at the canvas to calm myself down. I had just completed a small leaf when we felt the train squeak and grind into life, and then slowly shunt forward again. It was eleven-fifteen. We were now cutting it fine. Very fine.
“We’ll be fine,” said Nick. At eleven forty-two we p
ulled into York. By now we should have been calmly sitting in our pew, studying our psalters! We flung open the doors, ran across the platform, out of the station, and found the taxi rank. Oh God, oh God, a long queue! There was only one thing for it—we’d have to push in!
“Look,” I pleaded to the woman who was first in line, “I’m really really really sorry but you see, we’re going to a wedding and we’re terribly terribly late and I wondered would you mind, I know it’s really rude of us and everything, and I know this probably confirms all your prejudices about appalling Southerners with no manners, but you see the service starts at twelve and, oh thank you thank you thank you that’s so kind of you,” I said.
“St. Mary’s church, please,” said Nick breathlessly,
“Which one?” said the driver.
“The one at Westow,” he responded.
The driver rolled his eyes. “Westow? That’s a bi’ of a way.”
“A bi’ of a way?”
“It’s twenty-five miles,” he said as we drove off at speed. Twenty-five miles! That would take at least half an hour. Probably more.
“Well, please hurry,” I said. “But safely, of course, and within the national speed limit. We’re late for a wedding you see.”
“I didn’t know it was so far away,” said Nick.
“Nor did I.”
“This is entirely my fault, Tiffany,” he said gallantly. “I should have brought the directions. I take full responsibility.”
“No, no, no, let me share the blame!” I exclaimed. “I should have been more organized myself.” And then I remembered something else I hadn’t been very organized about. I hadn’t wrapped my present. It was in my basket—an alabaster lamp from Heal’s. I got it out and tried to start wrapping it, but it was impossible in the moving car. I’d have to do it in the church. We hurtled through the countryside, only half taking in the green, lamb-filled fields, cross-hatched by dry stone walls, and the thick clusters of primroses along the winding road. And then we came to Westow, screeching to a halt outside the church, just in time to see Sarah stepping into the porch with her father, her veil lifting in the breeze.
“Oh God oh God, there she is! Quick!” We paid the driver, then dashed up to the church door. The congregation were all standing for the Entrance of the Bride. Nick and I waited until she’d made her stately progress toward the altar, and then snuck into an emptyish-looking pew halfway up the aisle.
“Sorry!” we said in hoarse whispers as four beautifully be-suited bottoms shuffled along the burnished wooden bench. “So sorry!”
“Dearly Beloved,” said the vicar, “. . . gathered here . . . sight of God . . . Holy Matrimony . . . honorable estate . . .”
I looked around the church. It was full. And everyone was really well turned out. There was an abundance of frock coats and expensive suits—and the millinery—my God, the women’s hats were so sharp you could have cut yourself on them. The organ suddenly sounded and we stood for the first hymn—“I Vow to Thee, My Country”—which we all sang with lusty enthusiasm, and this gave me the chance to inspect Sarah’s dress. It was of ivory shantung silk, with long sleeves, a high neck, and a ski run of covered buttons all the way down the back. It had a dropped waist and a wide, flaring skirt, with a huge, soft bow at the base of her spine. It was lovely. Maybe I’d have something like that myself, I thought, when I marry Patrick, whose face, naturally, I substituted for Jonathan’s.
“I take thee, Patrick,” I mumbled happily to myself. “To be my wedded husband . . . for richer for poorer . . . in sickness and in wealth . . .”
Then we sat down for the first reading, which was from The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran. My God! The present! I’d completely forgotten. I took the lamp out of my basket with the sheaf of wrapping paper and the Scotch tape, and surreptitiously started to wrap it.
“ ‘Then Almitra spoke again and said, And what of Marriage, master?’ ”
“Nick, could you just put your finger there?” I whispered.
“ ‘And he answered saying: You were born together, and together you shall be for evermore.’ ”
“No, not there. There. God, this sticky tape isn’t very sticky.”
“Shhhhhh!” said someone behind me.
“ ‘You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.’ ”
“Oh God, I’ve lost the end . . .”
“ ‘Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.’ ”
“Have you got sharp nails, Nick?”
“ ‘But let there be spaces in your togetherness.’ ”
“OK Nick, just hold that there, will you, just there, now don’t move your finger otherwise it’ll all come undone.”
“ ‘And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.’ ”
“Oh God, where are the scissors? I want to curl the ribbon.” Eventually the deed was done—lamp and shade both wrapped. I stuck a shiny red bow on top, scribbled on the gift tag, and then returned the present to my basket. What a lovely wedding that was, I thought happily. I was really enjoying it. Jonathan and Sarah looked radiant, and the sun obligingly shone down on them through the stained-glass windows, flooding their faces with light. And then came the heavy bit.
“What God has joined together let no man put asunder,” boomed the vicar.
Or woman, I thought to myself, thinking of Seriously Successful.
“I now pronounce you—Man and Wife.” Oh, I always want to clap at that point. And then Jonathan and Sarah went to sign the register and someone sang “Ave Maria” and suddenly, that was it—they were hitched, and they were walking toward us down the aisle together, arm in arm, smiling and occasionally nodding as they recognized faces in the congregation, and Sarah looked so happy and so, well, relieved. Now she was Mrs. de Beauvoir. Mrs. Jonathan de Beauvoir. What a lovely name, I thought. Mrs. Patrick Miller, I reflected, wasn’t quite as nice as that, but at least it wasn’t an awful name. I mean I could never marry someone with a really hideous one, I thought to myself, like Cocup, Suett, Frogg or Shufflebottom. Tiffany Shufflebottom? Oh no. I really didn’t think so. And then I looked at the bridesmaids following in Sarah’s wake, and they were so adorable in their pale mint-green silk frocks, with winter jasmine and daffodil buds in their posies and celandines and primulas woven into their ivy headbands. They looked sweet, all except for the tallest girl, who was about eleven, and her hair—well it was terribly short, almost shaven, and were those Doc Martens I could see peeping out from under her dress? And her complexion—it was powdered a pristine white, with rings of black kohl around her eyes and—horror of horrors—there was a silver ring in her nose. Who the hell was she? She looked a sight! How could her parents let her go around looking like that? What a stark contrast she made to the angelic little girls and the cherubic pages in their dinky little breeches and bow ties. Widor’s “Toccata” thundered as we all trooped out of the church into the sharp, spring sunshine and made our way down a tree-lined path to the Old Vicarage, Sarah’s home.
“Wasn’t that lovely?” I said to Nick.
“Yeah, it was a great show,” he said.
And then we followed everyone into the yellow-striped marquee, where forty or so tables were laid with the whitest linen, shining silver and sparkling lead crystal and centerpieces of tumbling spring flowers. An English country wedding. It was perfect. Everyone looked happy as they sipped champagne and stood in line to greet the happy couple. I decided to find the loo before the wedding breakfast began. As I went into the bathroom, I could see someone was already in there, fiddling about in front of the mirror. It was the punky bridesmaid, and she was in trouble.
“Oh gawd,” she said. “Oowww!” Her nose ring had caught on the lace edging of her dress. “Oooohh!” She was pulling at it, trying to release it, but having very little luck.
“Oh gaaaawd!” she said again. It looked terribly painful.
“Can I help you?” She nodded, as far as she was able, given that her head was attached to her dre
ss. I got hold of the lace and gently worked it around until the silver nose ring was released.
“Oh fanks,” she said gratefully. “I fought I was going to rip my nostril in two there and bleed all over me frock.”
“Well, it’s fine now,” I said, looking at her. She was a mess. A complete and utter mess. In fact she looked as if she had been in a fight. But beneath the skinhead coiffure and nuclear holocaust makeup there was an extremely pretty face.
“Your dress is lovely,” I said truthfully.
“I feel a bit of an idiot in it,” she said. “I didn’t even want to be a bridesmaid, but my mum made me.”
“Why didn’t you want to be a bridesmaid?” I said.
“Because I think marriage is a load of bollocks?” Good Lord! Such cynicism in one so young. “I’m never going to get married,” she announced as she washed her hands. I glanced at her nails. They were painted black. “I mean my parents—they’re married,” she went on, “and they’re miserable. They argue all the time.”
“Oh dear,” I said.
“Lots of my friends’ parents are divorced and it’s brilliant, because they get loads of presents,” she continued, “because their mums and dads are always trying to outdo each other. I wish my parents would split up,” she said ruefully as she opened the door. “They don’t even like each other.”
“Oh dear,” I said again, completely lost for words at this un-looked-for confidence. “Well, see you later.”
