Young Wives' Tales

by Adele Parks

  ‘You should have brought a date,’says Craig. ‘Then you wouldn’t have got so plastered.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have helped with my chances of pulling the bridesmaids though, would it?’I joke.

  ‘One of the bridesmaids is married, another is a lesbian and the remaining four are pre-schoolers. You were never really in with a chance,’Craig points out, tetchily.

  ‘I know, mate. Just joshing.’

  ‘I thought you’d bring a date. You’ve gone on at me for long enough to do so.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’I don’t want to comment on this so I distract him. ‘She looks happy enough, your Rose. You’re in there, mate.’

  Craig smiles and nods. ‘She is lovely. It’s going really well.’

  ‘Good on you.’I gently punch his arm. I can’t help myself. I’m half cut and my old mate is in line for breaking his celibacy vows. It’s an emotional moment. The pungent stench of puke wafts over me when I move my head. ‘Oh, sorry, mate. You have a bit of’– I point to the splatters – ‘on your lapel.’

  Craig scowls at me and marches back into the bathroom. He can’t return to his lady friend smelling of odour de puke – it’s a known passion-killer. I find a seat and light up. I’m not in a rush to get back to the reception so I might as well wait for Craig, even if his reappearance with a damp suit will be accompanied by a bollocking or at the very least, stern looks of censure.

  ‘There you are, Hardie. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  ‘Oh, Tom. Hello.’I’m pretty sure my demeanour suggests that I haven’t been searching him out. Luckily, Tom is too hyped to pay me much attention. ‘I’m just waiting for Craig.’I wave in the direction of the bogs. Tom doesn’t sit down. He’s almost on tiptoes, he’s practically bouncing.

  ‘Good do, isn’t it, eh? Having a good time, are you?’he asks.

  ‘Fucking brilliant. Best wedding I’ve been to,’I declare.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’It would crucify him to answer in any other way. In truth, I’m having a bloody miserable time and even I can see that Jen has got a bit carried away. Jordan and Peter Andre’s do was subtle in comparison to this.

  ‘Except for your own, presumably,’he says. ‘I mean, even though things didn’t work out between you and Andrea, you must still have fond memories of, you know, the early days.’

  As he makes this intimate observation Tom stops bouncing. He decelerates so much he seems to be doing a farcical impression of someone acting in slow motion. He doesn’t know how to handle something so private and delicate. Who does?

  I have to help him out. It’s his day. I don’t want to be responsible for putting a downer on it.

  ‘Ah well, all turned out for the best, mate. Did I tell you she’s up the duff?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yup, she rang me the other night to let me know the happy news. With her new bloke. So that’s good for them, eh?’

  ‘You all right with that, mate?’

  ‘Too right, mate. Better man than me for the job. I’m not ready for all that crap.’I think about what I’ve just said and I do mean it literally and metaphorically. Nappies, yuk. Tom looks nervous and I see that I have a responsibility to move the conversation back on to something we’re both more comfortable with. ‘You’re right though, mate, my wedding day was a monumental occasion. Do you remember we watched the big game?’

  ‘Jesus, yes!’Tom, a lifelong Liverpool supporter, can’t resist reliving the moment; he’s instantly buoyant again. ‘We looked beaten as Freddie Ljungberg put Arsenal ahead. I was beginning to think that Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium was an unlucky place.’

  ‘Yeah, but Owen’s dramatic double in the closing minutes gave Liverpool vic-tor-eee.’I punch the air.

  ‘Good thing, Hardie, it would have ruined the wedding if we’d lost, especially after you’d gone to all the trouble of hiring a flat screen TV for the reception.’

  We sit in reverence for a moment and would perhaps have stayed like that all night except that Craig re-emerges from the loo.

  ‘Is it time for the speeches?’he asks.

  ‘Jesus. Fuck. That’s why Jen sent me to find you. Come on lads.’

  39

  Saturday 11 November

  Rose

  I turn to the guy on my left.

  ‘Hello, my name is Rose Phillips. How do you do?’

  I hold out my hand. The guy looks at it lazily. He isn’t focusing as he’s clearly had quite a lot to drink but I can’t be tetchy about that, I’ve ignored him for most of the day because I’ve only had eyes for Craig. After a pointed pause he takes my hand and shakes it, limply. His palm is clammy.

  ‘Phillips, eh? Fancy that? I’m Joe Whitehead.’

  ‘Bride or groom?’

  ‘I’m neither, baby.’Joe Whitehead starts to laugh, clearly delighted with his own joke. ‘I’m a cousin, once removed, of the bride. Haven’t seen her since I was six. But not one to turn down a free drink.’He chuckles again and I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to take him seriously.

  ‘Jenny seems a lovely girl,’I comment, resorting to approved wedding small talk.

  ‘I can tell you about a lovely girl,’he says with a leer.

  Inwardly I groan, as I realize that Joe Whitehead is about to launch into a story about his own romantic affairs. I really couldn’t care less. My recent foray into dating has given me enough experience to nose out a rejected soul. Joe Whitehead is one. He’s drinking too much, he doesn’t appear to have a date with him and he wants to talk to a complete stranger about another girl. While I like to behave nicely on all occasions, the truth is, right now, I don’t give a damn about Joe Whitehead’s tragic love affairs. I’m as high as a kite and I don’t want to be brought down. I feel excited, ecstatic, appreciated, grateful and delightful. I wave to the waitress and ask for a refill of my coffee, and as I take a sip and nibble on a mint I think I’m eating food fit for the gods. My senses are zinging. Everything is suddenly sharper and brighter. I’m packed full of anticipation. All of a sudden, my future (at least my immediate future) seems dazzling. The last thing I want is to hear a sad tale. Sorry, selfish I may be, but there it is.

  ‘The speeches are expected to begin any moment,’I say, deflecting the opportunity for shared confidences. No doubt the off-the-blocks time depends on John’s sobriety. I saw Craig practically carrying him out of the reception a few moments ago.

  ‘Your bloke seems to have ditched you.’Joe seems to find his observation funny; he laughs like a jackal. I remain silent. ‘You’ve just got it together too, haven’t you?’

  ‘We’ve known each other a long time but yes, this is our first date.’I hate myself for sharing this with this coarse stranger, it wasn’t my intention, but good manners dictate that I can’t lie.

  ‘You can tell. He’s being very attentive. That never lasts.’

  I tune out. Cynicism and spite are not what I want to choose from today’s menu.

  Jenny’s mum and the bridesmaids look agitated, they are clustered around Jenny and are all talking at once. Clearly there is some small wedding crisis. Maybe it is to do with John’s drunkenness or maybe it’s something else. Yet Jen stands in the middle of the jabbering women and she looks unconcerned. Craig has been entertaining me with stories about how Jen has organized this wedding with military precision and dictatorial intolerance. According to Craig she has bossed, yelled, ripped and cried her way through the last six months – normal bridal behaviour. Yet she is now standing in the vortex of the day and she is calm.

  If there is a crisis, she accepts that in reality it will be minor and likely to pass unnoticed by all the guests other than the groom’s mother. She’s suddenly unconcerned about the fact that the priest wavered from the previously agreed order of service, and she’s not fretful that Tom’s dad insisted on wearing flashing heart cufflinks.

  She is serene. The full implication of her wedding day has occurred to her. Love, commitment and loyalty billow around her and she�
�s cosseted and insulated from the world’s irritations and mishaps, at least for a while.

  I understand. I catch her eye and beam; she smiles back.

  ‘She’s called Mrs Phillips too. Isn’t that the weirdest?’

  This comment comes from Joe What’s-his-name. He has been chatting on since I introduced myself but I haven’t taken in a word that he has spoken. He hasn’t noticed my lack of participation. The man is a mix of morbidity and arrogance. I gleaned this much from the first couple of sentences we exchanged. But I realize I’m being horribly rude. After all, I was the one who spoke first. Besides, maybe I’m being overly judgemental. Daisy and Connie think that I always am. Maybe I should give this man a chance to improve, like a wine that’s left to breathe. Having spent such a delightful day with Craig my tolerance stores are replete.

  ‘I’m sorry, you were saying?’

  ‘I was telling you about the most fabulous shag on this planet.’

  Stunned, I’m not sure how to respond. What is it that makes him think this is an acceptable conversation to have with a stranger?

  ‘I was saying, funny coincidence. She has the same surname as you. She’s a Mrs Phillips too. What do you make of that?’

  Very little. I stare at the horrible Joe and downgrade my first impression (boorish) to a more damning condemnation (despicably uncouth).

  ‘Not that she calls herself Mrs Phillips. She’s too independent, a career girl.’

  He grins at me and I feel an all too familiar sense of not coming up to scratch. I hate the other Mrs Phillips, without even knowing her. I take a deep breath and think about Craig. I don’t want the fabulousness of our day so far to be smeared and tarnished by this man’s sorry stories. I try to excuse myself.

  ‘I’m sorry, I need to –’

  ‘You’re nothing alike, physically,’says Joe, rudely cutting across me. ‘She’s a…’He looks me up and down and just manages to rein in the sneer that was playing on his lips. He has enough sense to shut the hell up. Clearly, he was going to say that the other Mrs Phillips, the adulterous Mrs Phillips, does not have to wear reinforced tummy-tuck knickers. No doubt her knees are not bruised when she releases her boobs from her bra; they do not shudder and scatter in an unwieldy fashion, they probably sit proudly pointing forwards. I scan the room and hope to spot Craig.

  ‘She’s bloody gorgeous. She’s got a fierce intellect too. Although, you know, whatever. I don’t need my women to be brilliant, just bendy.’He starts to snort with laughter and drains his glass of red. ‘Really, it was the best night of my life. I think I showed her a trick or two as well. I honestly think she’ll be banging on my door begging for more in the not too distant future.’

  Life really is too short for me to have to put up with this. I begin to gather my thoughts and my bag and make to leave the table. I’ll wait for Craig somewhere else. I don’t care if I appear bad-mannered, the man is insufferable. I can’t stay a moment longer.

  ‘I’m sure you and the other Mrs Phillips will be very happy together, Mr Whitehouse.’I’m not sure if that’s his name but he doesn’t correct me. Frankly I couldn’t care less. I push back my chair and stand up.

  ‘Don’t call her Mrs Phillips, she suits her maiden name best. That’s what she prefers to be known as. Lucy Hewitt-Jones, it’s got more class.’

  The room morphs. My legs, robust – sturdy even under normal circumstances – fail me. I collapse back into my chair.

  ‘Lucy Hewitt-Jones? Blonde, leggy?’I wish I could add vacant.

  ‘You know her?’Joe’s face is flushed with excitement.

  ‘Works for Gordon Webster Handle?’I need to be certain there’s no mistake. But of course there isn’t. Lucy Hewitt-Jones is a distinctive enough name.

  ‘Yes,’Joe smiles. Or rather leers. ‘I do too. That’s how we met. So how do you know her?’

  There’s horrible buzzing in my ears. I watch Joe Thingy’s mouth move but I can’t hear the words he’s stringing together. I’m suddenly icy cold and there’s a boxing match being hosted in my gut.

  ‘She’s married to my husband, I mean my ex-husband.’He looks traumatized. The arrogance floods from him in an instant. I look down as I half expect to see his arrogance in a puddle on the floor. Shaming and smelly, like the urine of a small child unable to hold it till they get to the loo. But adult ‘accidents’are never so easily detectable. Neither of us knows what to say next. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

  I lurch as I try to find my feet. I move incredibly slowly because I know to try to rush now would surely end in my tripping or fainting. The drama of which would be unforgivable. Very slowly I gather together my bag and my jacket. My fingers have turned to mush and fail me by not being able to smartly button up the jacket. As I walk from the room the sound of wailing children and the screech of the mic being called into action pierce my body like arrows. Once out of sight I start to run. The corridors close in on me as I rush like a desperate criminal from a bloody scene.

  40

  Monday 20 November

  Lucy

  The day of my epiphany in the National Portrait Gallery didn’t pan out exactly as I’d imagined, which I’m already beginning to realize is a fundamental consequence of involving oneself with children. Things rarely pan out as one imagines. I ran out of the gallery, frantically trying to flag a cab. It was still raining and so they were scarce. Never in my life have I struggled to hail a taxi, they normally risk a pile-up to pick me up. But then, never in my life have I behaved frantically; I am sure the two facts correlate. Cabbies probably steer well away from anyone looking desperate. In the end I dashed towards the underground and endured that atrocity for the second time in one day. I ran from the tube station to home and flung open the front door only to be greeted by a fairly bemused Eva. Auriol was nowhere to be seen, she was still at school. It was only two-twenty. Which seemed peculiar to me: the day already felt as though it was a month long.

  I smoked a cigarette, drank a black coffee and paced the kitchen until I alighted on the idea of popping to Connie’s. We could walk to the school gate together. That way I’d kill some time and with her at my side I was less likely to break any invisible (but all important) school gate etiquette that I was unaware of.

  Connie was delighted to see me and was thrilled with my decision to attempt to bond with Auriol.

  ‘I need her. I need to know that there is a reason, and progress, and a point,’I rambled to Connie. I didn’t say that I also needed Auriol to glue me to Peter and I didn’t mention why my hangover was quite so vicious and shaming.

  Connie is rather dreamy and impractical much of the time. She indulges in ‘why are we here’thoughts far more than the average grown-up. Her insistence on remaining eternally studenty is largely annoying but that day I found it a comfort.

  Connie was happy for me to accompany her to the school gates. Once there I became the object of more attention than I desired. Half the mums made a big thing about introducing themselves to me and saying how nice it was to meet me at last – the other half pointedly ignored me. I’d failed in their eyes by not sacrificing myself at the altar of motherhood. I tried smiling at them and conveying that I pledged to do just that, from that day forward, but I was strung out and I’m pretty sure my weak grin looked more like a hostile grimace.

  Auriol was thrilled to see me at the gate and after she’d established that no, Eva was not ill, she relaxed and took hold of my hand.

  ‘Come and see my classroom, Mummy,’she insisted.

  ‘We could go to Connie’s and play with Fran if you like,’I offered, keen to escape the confines of the school grounds as quickly as possible. It was hardly my scene.

  ‘No. I want you to see my firework picture. It’s on the wall. You said we could do anything I wanted.’

  Had I? In those brief seconds when she flung herself into my arms and I said hello and garbled other bits, had I already relinquished all power? We said goodbye to Connie and her girls and then I allowed Auriol to tug at my
coat sleeve and drag me into her classroom.

  Of course I’d visited the classroom before Auriol was offered a place at the school. I knew what to expect. Tiny tables and chairs, disorder, odd scribbled pictures hung on the wall, illegible writing proudly displayed as if it were ancient calligraphy, Lego crunching underfoot and a scruffy mat in the corner where the children listen to stories. As I entered the room Miss Gibbon, Auriol’s teacher, rushed towards me with an outstretched hand and a wide beam.

  ‘Is it OK if we take a poke around?’I asked, suddenly self-conscious. A fish out of water, I didn’t know what was allowed or expected.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you, Mrs Phillips. Most of the mums have had an unofficial tour by now. The children love it if their parents are involved and know what they’ve achieved in their first couple of months.’

  The young teacher blushed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She hadn’t meant to charge me with neglect but had done so anyway.

  ‘This is mine,’said Auriol as she proudly pointed to a coat peg. There was a passport-size photo of her, Blu-tacked above the peg. I hadn’t seen the photo before. I peered at it. ‘Eva took me to a box to get that photo,’Auriol explained. She looked anxious on the shot. Her smile was forced and lopsided.