by Adele Parks
Me.
Me.
I do.
That’s how irrational I am. It’s not my fault, it’s my hormones.
I smile a brittle smile that is all teeth and that definitely hasn’t made it to my eyes. OK, so there would be a serious possibility that I would look like an Easter egg staggering up the aisle, but I’m her best-friend Easter egg. Sam might want four identical size-10 bridesmaids, but it’s not very real, is it? Couldn’t she get married after I’ve given birth? Or not care that I’d look like an Easter egg? She shouldn’t see it as me ruining her photos, she should think of it as enhancement – she’d look like Kate Moss in comparison.
Julia tactfully picks up one of the many bridal books that Sam has taken to carrying around with her, How to Create Your Perfect Wedding Day, and asks whether it’s any good. I know that she couldn’t care less, but Sam answers the inquiry as though it was genuine.
‘It’s very helpful. It tells you all about the order of service and wedding lists and civil services. It’s terribly modern, suggesting seating arrangements if the bride or groom’s parents have divorced and remarried, up to three times each. And there’s a section that you might find useful, George –it outlines the proper etiquette as to whether the groom should mention the unborn child in his speech. It seems to depend upon whether the bump is desperately obvious. It also has suggestions as to where stepchildren should sit. All very interesting stuff.’ Yeah, right. ‘And there’s a handy wedding planner at the back of the book. It’s tear-out, so you can carry the planner around in your handbag. It’s extremely useful, timetabling when to send out invites, book cars and order almond favours. There are neat little boxes where you can tick off each task as you complete it, which I’ve always found very satisfying.’
I bet Julia wishes she’d never asked.
My mobile rings, saving me from having to slice out Sam’s tongue. It’s Hugh. When he hears that we are at the Bluebird Café, he says he’ll swing by and pick me up. I’m delighted and don’t try very hard to keep the smugness out of my voice when I tell the others his plans. Sam might have the ring but where’s Gilbert, hey? At least Hugh actually wants to spend time with me. The wind is somewhat stolen from my sails when Sam announces that Gilbert is busy taking her mother to her great-aunt’s, and she didn’t even have to go along. Whichever way I look at this (soppy, wet creep or amazing, gentle man), I have to admit it’s the action of a devoted lover.
I leap ahead again on the silent ‘I have the better deal’ poll when Hugh arrives. He looks sweaty and relaxed from his game of squash and unquestionably knicker-dropping gorgeous. I know for a fact that when Sam looks at Gilbert her first thought is not that she must dash to Agent Provocateur and stock up on scanty panties. The sexiest thing that Sam has ever said about G is that ‘there’s many a fine tune to be played on an old fiddle’. This is the only reference that Sam has ever made to their sex life. Which is odd, when you think that in the past Sam has always told us about her conquests in such gratifying and gratuitous detail that after her debriefs I always felt like going to confession, and I’m not even Catholic.
I turn my lips to Hugh’s (which always look bee-stung tender). He kisses me on the forehead and asks if I’ve told everyone our news. Establishing that I have, he orders a bottle of Bolly, shunning the house champers that Sam and Julia have been drinking all afternoon. Then he engages Sam in a conversation about bridal magazines. I feel ridiculously smug, even if I can’t enjoy the Bolly.
‘Aren’t they all the same?’
‘Not at all. There’s Brides, Brides and Setting up Home, Bride and Groom, Bridal Beauty, Beautiful Bride, Just Brides, For Brides, Wedding Day, and Beautiful Weddings. You’ve only flicked through them; if you read them properly, you’d realize that each and every one has its own individual style.’
If he read them properly I’d have him committed.
‘Doesn’t it make you want to take the plunge?’ asks Sam. She playfully pokes Hugh in the ribs, and at this point I’d cheerfully kill her.
‘What, tie the knot?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you oblivious to the connotations? Tie the noose, more like. If you looked up knot in a thesaurus, you’d find “snarl”, “tangle”, “web”, “difficulty”, “conundrum”.’ Hugh laughs. ‘Once was enough for me.’
I’ve always thought it’s best to know where you stand.
Julia diverts the conversation, but I don’t think her intentions are entirely altruistic towards me, more mischievous towards Sam, whom Julia finds too easy a target to resist ridiculing. ‘It must be a relief for you to actually be able to purchase one of these, sorry, several of these, magazines, Sam.’
Sam, bless her, doesn’t take offence, but takes the comment at face value and nods enthusiastically. The truth is that for years Sam has visited newsagents and surreptitiously flicked through the glossy pages, fantasizing about flowing white dresses, debating tiara or flowers, agonizing over the cut of the bridesmaids’ dresses. She’d almost wear the pages thin with handling. I know this because she once told me that she felt bad about leaving the mags in less than pristine condition for real brides-to-be to buy; but then she comforted herself with the thought that they were real brides. Whereas she used to have to wear a ring (that she’d bought for herself in Turkey) on her wedding finger to convince the shop assistant there was serious intent to purchase.
We stay in the Bluebird until Hugh, Sam and Julia are guaranteed hangovers tomorrow, which worries me a bit because I haven’t started to prepare for tomorrow’s dinner party. I have garlic to peel, chillies to chop and deseed, prawns to marinate… Still, at least I won’t feel as isolated when my body is convulsed with nausea in the morning. I pay the bill, hail cabs for Sam and for Julia, and then help Hugh back to his car.
Hugh wraps his arms around me, trying to find the place where my waist used to be. I make a small manoeuvre to avoid his grasp; I’m too podgy to touch. As he’s obviously in no fit state to drive, I take the keys. I’m beginning to feel queasy again; which seems unfair, because I haven’t eaten anything rich and I’ve only drunk water all day.
‘Kate and Tom are coming over tomorrow,’ he says.
Whoopee do.
‘Really? Had any ideas as to what we should do with them?’ I ask, as I lower him into the car. We always do something. I usually arrange tickets for the London Eye, or a visit to an aquarium or the London Zoo, etc. Hugh’s kids never sit in and simply watch Little House on the Prairie, like I had to when I was a kid. What I really fancy is an ice pop or a Yorkshire pudding.
‘No,’ comments Hugh, ‘any suggestions?’
‘I’ll put my mind to it.’ Between skewering and chilling and chopping and sautéing. I sigh. Tinned peaches with salt and vinegar crisps might help. I don’t mean for the dinner party, I mean now.
‘Did you buy Kate any Nutella?’ asks Hugh.
Ah, Nutella, that’s the answer. I screech the Boxster to a halt outside a Cullens, flick on the hazard lights and dash in to buy a jar of Nutella. I’m parked on a double red line but, after all, this is an emergency – I can’t wait to get home to eat the jar in the fridge. Hugh initially assumes I’m being particularly solicitous of Kate and his face oozes pride and pleasure, but as soon as I’m back in the car I open the jar and scoop a large dollop on to my finger and cram it into my mouth. Hugh says nothing, but his look of approval dissolves and he stares with open disgust as I continue shovelling.
‘Kate prefers peanut butter,’ I mutter by way of a defence.
14
‘So, what’s on the menu?’
‘Coriander-marinated prawns, chilli and lemon olives and herb-chicken skewers as nibbles. Linguine with sardines to start, monkfish baked with crème fraiche and panzanella for main, and a chocolate soufflé to finish.’
‘Hope no one is allergic to fish. Have you bought flowers?’
‘Yes, but I haven’t had chance to put them in vases yet; they’re still in a bucket of water
in the utility room.’
‘Oh, George, isn’t it a bit warm in there for flowers? They’ll open prematurely.’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ I mumble as I quickly rub moisturizer into my neck. How old do I look? Twenty-eight? Fifty-five? I can’t decide. I looked about twenty-eight this morning, but after a day with Kate and Tom I could probably apply for a bus pass and no questions would be asked. I snatch a pair of tights from my top drawer and start to examine them for runs.
‘What are you wearing?’ asks Hugh.
‘Er, maybe my grey hipsters from Joseph.’ If I can still get into them.
I rattle through my extensive wardrobe in a hapless attempt to locate a pair of trousers or a skirt that will negotiate my spreading hips and protruding stomach. I gather up four or five outfits and take them into the bathroom. I want to try them on where Hugh can’t be a witness. I have a horrible feeling that none of my clothes, selected to emphasize my normally board-flat stomach, will now zip up. Oh God. Stop the sushi bar, I want to get off. Hugh is unaware that I’m trying to carve out some privacy and follows me into the bathroom. He sits on the loo and chatters. This intimacy is lovely, obviously. But I would much prefer it if I could simply emerge, dressed, made-up and accessorized. I don’t want him witnessing my undignified wrestle with fashion; besides he’d be much better employed in the kitchen. I haven’t made the champagne framboise or the manhattans yet, let alone stoned the dates or chilled the mascarpone for pudding.
Eventually I find a Cerruti skirt, which I am able to bribe and tease my corpulent flesh into. It looks OK with the Carolina Herrera shirt, providing I don’t tuck the shirt in but leave it hanging over the groaning zip. I look in the mirror and try to decide whether I’m presentable enough.
‘How do I look?’ I ask, as I nervously run my hands over the skirt in a pointless attempt to flatten it.
Hugh stands behind me and looks in the mirror at my reflection. He doesn’t answer, but starts to kiss my neck and his hands weave their way to my breasts as though on autopilot. In a matter of weeks I’ve grown from a very attractive 32C cup to a 36DD. Personally, I think my big bosoms are farcical, it’s a look that should be confined to postcards sold on Blackpool pier. Luckily, Hugh is more enamoured but, less luckily, he shows his appreciation by constantly lurching at his new toys. The thing is, my swollen breasts are so painful that I swear if he tries to touch them again I will not be responsible.
Knifing him is too humane. Why should I be the one left alone to cope with the baby? Kneeing him in the groin or hitting him with the nearest blunt instrument are options. I’ve often wondered why there’s always a copy of the Gideon Bible in the bedside drawer in hotels; now it’s clear.
Just kidding.
I check my watch. The guests are due in forty minutes. The wine is still under the stairs and not in the fridge. Hugh kisses my neck and then he turns me towards him and starts to unbutton my shirt. If we make love, the seared and marinated tuna, the herb-chicken skewers, the coriander-marinated prawns and the chilli and lemon olives will not be ready in time for the guests’ arrival. Hugh’s kisses become increasingly intense. Well, we do have some Bombay mix in the cupboard. I could put that in little bowls. That always looks nice.
Forty minutes later the doorbell rings; Hugh is in the shower and yells to me to answer it. There hasn’t been time for me to get showered so I greet the guests feeling distinctly shabby. I suppose that it is some consolation that the just-shagged look is undoubtedly better than the just-vomited one I’ve been wearing so openly of late.
Hugh had said this supper was an opportunity to announce the pregnancy to our friends, so I’m a bit taken aback when I open the door to six smiling faces, none of which I recognize. I comfort myself that everyone seems pleasant enough and I try to think that strangers are just friends not yet made. The strangers who are friends not yet made beam at me and shout out all at once, ‘Seth’, ‘Piers’, ‘Hedley’, ‘Jasmine’, ‘Eve’, ‘Viv’. It’s not easy to know who owns which name. I beam back and offer to take their coats. The embarrassment increases substantially when the first chap through the door makes the mistake of assuming I’m Hugh’s wife. Hugh canters down the stairs in time to explain, ‘This isn’t Becca, this is George.’ Which seems to clear the matter up.
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ says Seth/Piers/Hedley, colouring, but the others help him out of the excruciating moment by laughing raucously at his mistake. Which is nice of them.
Hugh leads his guests through to the sitting room and I try not to dwell on how Seth/Piers/Hedley could mistake me for Becca. Indeed, how they even know about Becca’s existence. Why would Hugh have a need to talk about Becca to his new work colleagues? Becca is history. I pass around the Bombay mix and then go to the kitchen to pour drinks and check on the food in the oven. Hugh follows me through.
‘Have you come to help? You could mix the dressing for the salad,’ I suggest.
‘Oh, I’d best not.’ He smiles and pulls a face that clearly communicates Christ-no-don’t-let-me-near-I’d-mean-well-but-undoubtedly-cock-it-up-so-sorry-old-thing.’ Honestly, I think Hugh Grant copied it off my Hugh. ‘Best leave the cooking to the expert,’ he adds, then he smiles and pats my bottom. Before I get chance to bask in the glory of the compliment he adds, ‘Bombay mix, though, darling – what’s going on?’
‘Well, you distracted me.’ I smile and try to catch his eye so we can share the joke, but it’s hard because he’s concentrating on opening a bottle of wine. He shakes his head in genuine bewilderment, then comments, ‘You need to blend in your foundation along your jawline.’ And, whilst it probably isn’t relevant, I can’t help but remember that, besides the indiscretion with the tennis coach, Becca made the fatal mistake of ‘letting herself go’. Too many coffee mornings and finishing up the kids’ plates.
I feel as though I’ve just been shown the yellow card.
Despite the inauspicious start, the dinner party turns out to be a relative success. I say relative in so much as the monkfish is delicious and the soufflé is perfect. And I suppose it is a good thing that I can’t drink – I’m certainly more efficient when it comes to pouring other people’s drinks; in the past Hugh has often mentioned that when I’ve had one too many I forget to pour the guests drinks and just keep refilling my glass. Which is unforgivable.
But perhaps understandable if our guests are always so mind-numbingly boring.
How can Seth, Hedley and Piers possibly think that talking exclusively about advertising is interesting? I know we are all ‘in the business’, as advertising people like to say (as though there were only one business to be in), but surely their interests extend beyond this single topic. More perplexing still, how could Jasmine, Viv and Eve think that not talking at all, but simply smiling and simpering, is a valid contribution? I cooked for them, didn’t I? The least they could do is bring a bottle of wine and an entertaining anecdote. Despite having to keep one eye on the oven timer I try a number of different topics, all to no avail. It’s pretty clear, within the first twenty minutes, that a conversation about UN law is going to be a stretch, but they stare equally vacantly as I recall a particularly amusing sketch in the last episode of South Park. I then try something more hallowed in the hall of comedy fame and start to recite Monty Python scripts – not a flicker. They don’t have opinions on West End plays, whether Posh is too thin, or even the current Corrie story line. All of my usual conversation starters are met with polite but firm rebuffs.
I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong.
Hugh obviously knows how to communicate with them. Eve laughs at every word he utters, including, ‘Refill?’ and Jasmine practically has an orgasm when he passes the cheese board and asks, ‘Can I tempt you?’
Still, accepting the fairly dire company I cannot help but wait with bated breath for Hugh’s announcement. I’ve waited throughout starter, main and pud, but he’s made no hint. I pour the coffee and pass the brandy, and I’m almost giving up hope that Hugh has remembered what this dinner pa
rty is supposed to be about when, suddenly, he goes to the kitchen and comes back with a magnum of champagne. I rush to find the glasses.
‘I’d like to make a small announcement.’ He grins, naturally basking in the fact that he has everyone’s attention. He fills the glasses and passes them around. Hugh raises his glass and the light from the candles dances giddily with the bubbles in the champagne. Everyone waits – the chaps are genuinely interested, as they are probably assuming that Hugh is about to announce that RR&S have won a new account, the girls are affecting polite interest whilst desperate to feel the champers hit their throats, as champagne always represents an explosion of possibilities.
‘Please raise your glasses to toast the beautiful Georgie, who is about to become the mother of my third child.’
There is a fractional pause before Seth/Piers/Hedley find their manners. ‘To Georgie, congratulations,’ they affirm. I think that as they’ve had a fair bit to drink it took a moment for the news to sink in, and perhaps it would have been better if Hugh hadn’t mentioned that this is his third child, although obviously the first one with me. But then again I can’t expect him to ignore Kate and Tom’s presence. Viv giggles but does manage ‘fabulous news’. Eve and Jasmine barely mutter ‘congrats’ before quaffing the champers and holding out their glasses for a refill.
‘Are you having it privately? At one of the “too posh to push” hospitals?’ asks Hedley.
‘I haven’t thought about it,’ I confess, and I turn to Hugh to gauge his opinion. He doesn’t comment as he’s busy pouring drinks.
‘Names, had any thoughts?’ asks Eve.
‘I like Lizzie,’ I offer tentatively.
Eve turns to Hugh. ‘What do you think of Lizzie?’ she demands.
‘Don’t know her, what does she look like?’ asks Hugh.
