A Groom With a View

by Sophie Ranald

  But of course none of it mattered now. Poor Alison, she’d have to find out sooner or later, and she’d think I was barking mad, but that was okay, because I’d never see her again.

  On the other side of the room, I could see Mum and Dad, still in their stage makeup, surrounded by their admiring public. I fought through the crowd towards them, collecting two glasses of sherry for them on the way.

  “Congratulations!” I said. “You were both brilliant, I was so proud. Dad, the way you turned the thing with the skull into comedy stage business was just inspired.”

  “You are kind, Pippa,” said Mum. “I fluffed my lines in scene one, did you notice? I don’t think anyone else did.”

  I assured her that I hadn’t, then my peripheral vision alerted me to the approach of Dominic Baker. I remembered his bottom-pinching ways from previous opening nights, and decided it was time to exit stage left.

  “I’d better head off now,” I said, “I’ll walk home, you stay and enjoy the party. And, Mum, I think tomorrow I’ll go back to London. I’m back in the office on Monday and there are things I need to sort out.”

  Mum said, “Yes, darling, I’m sure there are.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  From: nick@digitaldrawingboard.com

  To: susannahburgess@webmail.com

  Subject: tomorrow

  Hey sis

  I suppose you’ll see this email when you’re in a transit lounge in Dubai. Thanks so much for making the effort to come over, and I really wish it hadn’t ended up being so shit. But there you go – it is what it is. Really looking forward to seeing you and the girls anyway, and I know you’re looking forward to staying with Di in Reading for a few days. Shame Dylan couldn’t get time off work, but in the grand scheme of things I suppose that’s no bad thing, hey?

  Anyway, I wanted to tell you that Abdul from Jamaica Cars is booked to pick you up at Heathrow at 7am. He’s promised there will be car seats for B and K, and he knows Di’s address. He’ll be waiting at terminal 3 arrivals with a sign saying “WORLD’S BEST SISTER”. It’s true. Can’t wait to see you in a few days.

  Love you all lots.

  Nick

  In the end, once I’d helped Dad prune the weeping pear, roasted a chicken for lunch and had several lengthy post-mortems about the play, it was mid-afternoon by the time I left. Eloise had kindly offered me her and Dean’s spare bedroom for a few days, but I was going to have to sort something more permanent out sharpish. As I fought my way through the packed train, eventually finding a table to myself in the quiet coach, I imagined a life of sofa-surfing ahead of me, imposing myself on one kind friend after another, until I ended up sleeping on an air vent on the Strand.

  But I felt like I deserved nothing better. The thought of the next conversation I’d have to have with Nick, the one about splitting up our stuff, putting the flat on the market, and who was going to have Spanx, filled me with cold dread. But that was okay, because when I remembered the night with Gabriel, his kiss in the warm swimming pool, the drops of water clinging to his eyelashes, waking up alone in the bed, I felt a compensatory rush of hot shame.

  Every part of me cringed remembering it. How, just how, had I managed to be such a dick? I could have spoken to Nick like an equal, ended things amicably and even managed to rescue some semblance of mutual respect. But I hadn’t. I’d taken the coward’s way out. I remembered Callie saying once that even when things with David had been falling apart, she’d been careful never to treat him with less kindness and decency than she would a friend. I hadn’t done that. I’d treated Nick abysmally, leaving him with the carnage of our wedding plans, the flat filled with table centrepieces, the beautiful seating plan he’d designed propped on an easel in his office. And I hadn’t even looked at it – if I had, maybe I’d have seen that there weren’t three hundred guests like I’d thought, that he’d been quietly changing things to make me happy.

  But then I remembered the other things, the ones that really mattered – his longing for children, his insistence that I change my name, Erica’s malevolent presence, the horrible rows we’d had, the idea of him and Bethany together. I gazed mindlessly at my phone, as if Facebook would hold the answer, but it didn’t. And Nick’s blog didn’t either – he had deleted all the posts and taken it down.

  I was so sunk in gloom that I didn’t realise the train wasn’t moving, but after a while I became aware of an increased level of chuntering from the other people in the carriage.

  “It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is.”

  “And the amount they charge. . .”

  “I suppose it’s leaves on the track again.”

  “Or the wrong kind of snow.”

  “And they never tell you anything.”

  Right on cue, the PA system crackled to life. “Unfortunately, owing to high winds and speed restrictions which have affected the network, this service is being diverted via Reading. Our expected time of arrival into London Waterloo is now eighteen fifty-three, two hours behind schedule. We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.”

  There was a collective sigh and a barrage of tuts. I wished I’d bought the new Heat magazine, but all I had was my phone and a week-old copy of the Radio Times. I turned to an article about the new series of Downton Abbey and started reading it. Eventually the train crept into Reading. Through the window, I could see cross faces waiting three deep on the platform, and I said a wistful farewell to my private table for four.

  The doors opened and people poured on. I put on my best ‘ignore me’ face and carried on reading.

  “Mummy, why are there so many people?” A child’s voice chimed above the general grumbling.

  “Mummy! I want to sit down.”

  “Yes, you can, just as soon as we find. . . excuse me, please. Sorry. Come on girls, there’s a table over there at the end.”

  Great. My space was going to be invaded by some poor woman with two fractious kids. At least it wasn’t drunken football fans. I moved my bag on to my lap.

  “Excuse me, are these seats taken?” I looked up. Shit. It was Suze. Even in her harried state, weighed down by bags, she looked impossibly glamorous, tall and tanned in a sheepskin jacket, with a knitted beanie perched on her fair hair. I know Nick’s got a big family, but right now it felt like they were stalking me. I wished I could disappear under the scratchy red seat.

  “Pippa!” Suze’s polite smile morphed into a look of horror. I could see her weighing up the toe-curling embarrassment of sitting opposite her brother’s ex-fiancée against strap-hanging for two hours with her toddlers.

  “Suze,” I said. “Hello. Hello Katniss, hello Bella.” Like mirror images, the two little girls buried their faces in Suze’s thighs, so all I could see were the backs of two identical blonde heads.

  “Why don’t I move?” I said. “You can have the table, I’ll find somewhere else, it’s fine.” But the aisle was jammed solid with people. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Come on, girls, sit down,” said Suze. “You remember Auntie Pippa, don’t you? You’ve spoken to her on Skype. She was going to marry your Uncle Nick.”

  One of the children – it was Katniss, I could only tell them apart because of the dimple in her chin – said, “But they’re not getting married any more, and Uncle Nick is very sad, so we have to be very nice to him.”

  “I’m going to let him watch my Dora the Explorer DVD,” said Bella.

  Suze mouthed, “Sorry,” at me. “Yes, and you have to be very nice to Pippa too, because she’s also sad,” she said. “How are you, Pippa?”

  “Okay,” I lied. “Like you say, sad.”

  Both the little girls were staring at me, as fascinated as if I were a tentacled alien.

  “We’re not sad,” said Bella, putting the end of one of her plaits in her mouth.

  “Because we were going to have to be bridesmaids,” said Katniss, “and wear stupid frilly dresses. And now we don’t.”

  “We hate dresses,” Bella told me, confidingly.


  Suze was looking absolutely mortified. “Girls!”

  “It’s okay,” I smiled. “Why do you hate dresses?”

  “They’re scratchy,” Bella said. “And you have to wear stupid scratchy knickers with them.”

  “And firefighters don’t wear scratchy knickers,” Katniss said. “I’m going to be a firefighter when I’m grown up. I’m going to battle wildfires out in the bush.”

  “And I’m going to be a brain surgeon,” Bella said. “They don’t wear scratchy knickers either.”

  “I expect some of them do,” I objected. I was sure Nick and I had watched a video once, involving an unconscious patient and two improbably pneumatic women who’d definitely been wearing frilly knickers. At first, anyway. Although possibly they were nurses.

  Bella looked horrified. “No they don’t! But bridesmaids have to, because bloody Grandma has to get her own way.”

  “Otherwise she’ll throw another fucking strop,” said Katniss.

  Suze was absolutely scarlet under her hat. “Girls, that’s enough! I’m so sorry, Pippa, they’re like sponges at this age.”

  I started to giggle. “It’s okay. They make a good point.”

  Eventually Suze got the twins settled down with the PettingZoo app, and once they were safely engrossed, I said, “Suze, how’s Nick?”

  She said, “Gutted. But he won’t talk about it, you know what he’s like.”

  I said, “I’m so sorry, Suze. You came all this way for our wedding and now it’s not happening.”

  “Pippa, I’m not going to lie to you. I was furious when Nick told me. I called you every bad name I know, and then invented some new ones. But then I spoke to Mum, and she made me see sense.”

  “I’m sure she did,” I said ruefully. “She must be delighted it’s not going ahead.”

  “On the contrary,” Suze said. “She’s become a bit of a fan of yours recently, Pippa. She thinks you’re good for Nick, and she sees how happy you make him – made him. But she says no one knows what really goes on in other people’s relationships, and presumably you made this decision for a reason, so we need to accept it and help you both move on.”

  I was amazed at this magnanimity from Erica, especially as she appeared to have a higher opinion of me than I had of myself.

  “Besides,” Suze said, “If you and Nick were going to split up, it’s far better it should happen now than after the wedding. Or worse, after you’d had kids. It’s like ripping off a plaster, or having a Brazilian – agony, but best done quickly if it’s got to be done.”

  Her words reminded me of my afternoon in the spa in South Africa, and having every bit of me waxed in preparation for the party, my red bikini, and Gabriel’s eyes and hands. I felt like I was going to be sick. If Suze noticed my mortification, she ignored it.

  “Weddings aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, anyway,” she said. “The best thing that can happen is you have a great day and get pissed with your mates, and then a week later you’re wondering why you obsessed so much about all the details in the first place. I remember having the biggest hissy fit ever because I didn’t like the curtains at our venue. I sent the event planner this long email asking her to change them, and threatening to pull out and get married somewhere else. I bet she wished I would, but she talked me down. Now, if you asked me what those curtains were like, I couldn’t begin to tell you. But at the time, you’re reading all the magazines and they tell you the world will end if you don’t have the right tablecloths or whatever, and you believe them. Looking back, I wish we hadn’t bothered with it all. But it was what Mum wanted.”

  “It was what Nick wanted, too,” I said.

  “Really? But I thought. . .”

  Before she could say anything more, there was an announcement that we were finally arriving in London, and Suze busied herself packing up the girls’ things. We said an awkward, stilted goodbye, and I went off to Eloise and Dean’s place in Hackney and Suze went off to my home and Nick. It all felt so wrong, and I couldn’t help wondering why everyone in the world seemed to think that I’d been obsessed with planning my wedding, and I was the only one who thought it had been Nick.

  “Guido’s got something up his sleeve,” Eloise said, as we walked from the Tube station to Kaffee Klatch together the next day. “He’s told me not to put through any calls from journalists, and he’s been closeted in the boardroom for hours on Skype. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on, but I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Shit. Do you think the deal with Platinum Productions is going to go tits up, along with the Thatchell’s partnership?” I felt cold with dread at the prospect of being out of a job as well as having no fiancé and nowhere to live.

  “Zack says it’s going ahead. Yes, the usual, please,” Eloise paid for her cappuccino and almond croissant. “Apparently they’re really pleased with the unedited footage from South Africa. You, especially.”

  “Really? Just a double espresso for me, please. Thanks.” I wrapped a paper napkin round the cardboard cup. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to watch it, I’m so scared I’ll be shit.”

  “You weren’t shit,” Eloise said. “It’s official. According to their last email, anyway.”

  Hunched in our coats against the wind, we walked round the corner to the office. I buzzed us in, just as I usually did, put my bag down in its usual place, sat in my chair and turned on my PC. It should have felt familiar, normal, comforting, even, the way being back in the office does when you’ve been away, no matter how much you’ve loved where you’ve been.

  But it didn’t. It felt wrong, somehow, as if someone had adjusted the height of my chair or moved my mouse to the wrong side of the keyboard, or something. I felt like I ought to be somewhere else. It was just post-holiday blues, I told myself, and not really knowing what I was going to be doing. But I’d have a massive backlog of emails to clear, so I might as well get on with that.

  I skimmed through them, reading and deleting, and typing quick replies to the urgent things. Then I noticed a message from an unfamiliar address.

  From: angelg@ananzi.co.za

  To: pippa@falconis.co.uk

  Subject: Awkward!

  I opened it, and instantly felt the familiar flood of shame that washed over me whenever I thought about Gabriel. Why was he emailing me? Shit, shit, shit. The last person in the entire world I wanted to hear from, ever. I knew I should delete it, unread, but I couldn’t.

  Hi Pippa

  Jeez, I’ve written some embarrassing emails in my life, but this one is right up there with the worst. I don’t know if this is going to be news to you, what you’re thinking about me, how things are with you. . . But I knew I needed to get in touch with you, because otherwise you might not know.

  My shame turned to horror. He was going to tell me he had AIDS and we’d had sex without a condom. I was going to die. I was sitting here at my desk at work, reading my death sentence. And it was all my fault.

  I heard the boardroom door open behind me, and stabbed desperately at the little X in the corner of the window to close it, as if I’d been browsing on Net-a-Porter or looking at porn or something.

  “Pippa, can I see you in the boardroom, please?” said Guido.

  “What, now?” I asked stupidly.

  “Unless you’re busy?”

  Well, I wasn’t, obviously.

  “Sure.” I got up and walked the few steps towards him, feeling as if I was floating high above the reclaimed oak floorboards, my head disconnected from my body. I was going to get sacked, and then I was going to die of AIDS and all my family and friends would know what I had done.

  “Come in and have a seat.” Guido closed the door behind us. I caught a last glimpse of Eloise’s fascinated face. “So, how are things?”

  I twisted the cap off a bottle of water from the tray Guido always kept on the boardroom table and took a sip. It didn’t help – my voice still came out a husky whisper.

  “Not good,” I said. “Nick and I. .
. the wedding’s not going ahead. I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I stayed at Eloise and Dean’s place last night but obviously I can’t forever. I’m going to have to sort myself out and get a flat.”

  Guido shook his head. “Pippa, I’m so sorry to hear that. Do you need to take some more time off?”

  “No! I don’t want to make a fuss. I need to be working, I think. It’ll help.”

  Guido looked unconvinced. “That’s what I wanted to discuss, of course. But I wonder if now is the best time.”

  I stared at the bubbles in my water and said, “If I’m not going to have a job any more, I may as well know. And whatever decision I need to make about work might help with all the other ones. So it’s probably best if you break it to me now. Try and be gentle though.” I managed a feeble smile.

  Guido said, “First of all, I want to reassure you that I value you enormously, and appreciate all the work you’ve done for me and the group over the years. I don’t want you to be in any doubt about that. If you’d prefer to discuss your future here another time, that’s fine. Or we can carry on?”

  “Carry on.”

  “Pippa, what happened in South Africa was obviously deeply embarrassing for me on a personal level. But that’s my problem. However, unfortunately the way it impacts on the business affects all of us. The loss of the Thatchell’s partnership is going to mean restructuring, and rethinking what we do here.”

  I nodded again. It was the sack – I could feel it hovering over me, like a London pigeon about to dump a load of shit on my head.

  “But the publicity – and almost all of it has been terrible – has had an effect I frankly didn’t expect.”

  “What’s that?” I croaked.

  “Across the group, bookings have gone sky high. January and February are normally our worst months in the restaurants, as you know – it’s winter, people are on diets and not drinking, money is tight, businesses’ financial year-end celebrations haven’t yet begun. But we’ve had an outstanding month so far, and it looks like continuing. Over the past year or so, I’ve been giving some serious consideration to expanding the restaurant part of the group internationally. When this. . . this news broke, I thought that would be the end of that idea. But it isn’t. One of the investors I’ve been in discussions with confirmed yesterday that he is still very keen to go ahead with the launch of the first Osteria Falconi outside the UK.”