by Adele Parks
‘The same,’ she replies confidently.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Certain.’
‘No fifty-fifty, do you want to ask the audience? Call a friend?’ She glares at me. I know I’m being flip but actually I’m relieved. This is difficult but not a disaster. So she loves her fiancé’s brother; that’s not the most convenient scenario, I admit. But if he loves her too then it’s not an irretrievable situation. She hasn’t been seeing Gilbert that long, less than a year. Yes, there will be a lot of heartbreak and embarrassment in the short term, but providing they both have the courage of their convictions then they will pull through. I say as much to Sam.
‘You’re suggesting we tell Gilbert and weather the storm?’ She’s incredulous.
‘Yes, I am. You’re lucky you’ve discovered how you feel about one another before the wedding.’
‘I can’t do that.’
This surprises me enough to make me put my fork down, possibly the first time in months that I have voluntarily done so rather than had it wrestled from my hand.
‘Why can’t you?’
‘Because I’m marrying Gilbert.’
‘But you love James.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he loves you.’
She nods.
‘so?’
Sam becomes impatient. ‘Aren’t you listening? I’m marrying Gilbert. Marrying him. James hasn’t mentioned marriage.’
I’m astounded.
Sam sees as much and tries to explain.
‘Some people, no, to be accurate, most people think my obsession with getting married is sad and pathetic’ Yes. ‘Outdated and restrictive.’ Yes. ‘But it’s not.’ Oh yes, it is. The pantomime is in my head. ‘those people misunderstand me. They assume I need a man to define me. It’s not true. I know who I am. What I like. What I want from life. So how can I be sad?’ I assume it’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t jump in with my response that marrying one man whilst loving his brother seems pretty sad to me. The career thing has never done it for me. I admit there is a certain excitement to foreign travel, managing a team of twelve people, and I’m definitely not knocking the terrific salary, but…’
The ‘but’ hovers in the air like an annoying mosquito. The ‘but’ represents all that fails to keep her warm at night.
‘But my greatest ambition, what I really want, always wanted, all I’ve ever wanted is to be married.’
This is hardly breaking news.
‘But surely who you marry is of vital importance?’ I probe.
‘Not really. Not any more.’
I think this is the most honest thing I have ever heard anyone say. It’s also the most pitiful.
‘Oh Sam,’ I murmur, for want of anything more articulate to say.
‘Look, Gilbert is a firm offer.’
‘You’re not selling a house!’ I almost scream. I notice that a number of other diners have now abandoned their conversations, preferring instead to listen to ours. I can hardly blame them; this is better than Jerry Springer.
‘Better the devil you know,’ shrugs Sam. I know she’s trying to sound brave. I know she’s not feeling it.
‘But you know both James and Gilbert.’ It’s not the first time one of her cliches has appeared woefully inadequate.
‘Oh well, then, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’ I scowl, frustrated. ‘I can’t risk it,’ Sam explains. ‘I’m not going to repeat my past mistakes.’
It is true that Sam has been known to misread the signs of the guys she’s been dating, assuming they were further along the commitment chain than they obviously were. She’s often entertained me with tales of misadventure and misconstruing. For example, when she was eighteen she was extremely disappointed when her boyfriend at the time failed to propose at her birthday party and, instead of giving her a ring with a precious stone, he presented her with a Culture Club video and the Rocky Horror soundtrack LP. Far more useful in my opinion, but not in Sam’s. When she turned twenty-one she was sure all the signs were there that Terry was going to propose. She managed to ignore the fact that he’d repeatedly told her that he wanted to travel after he graduated, she thought he was teasing. He wasn’t. And then there was Matt, whom she dated when she was twenty-three. He kept telling her she’d make a lovely wife. Not his, apparently. Nick (she was twenty-five) did say he wanted to demonstrate his commitment, but again this declaration failed to produce a diamond ring – just a bag of dirty laundry every Sunday evening. And then there was Steve, and then Rod and then…
‘Nothing,’ Sam screeches, as though she’s been following my thoughts. ‘Not a single proposal in over seventeen years. And I used to ask, “Why not? Why not? Why not?”’ I notice that the Chablis bottle is empty. So does Sam. She beckons to a waiter and orders another. Her starter is still untouched.
‘I’m not ugly’ she shouts defiantly.
‘You’re lovely,’ I confirm. I want to say more, but she’s in full flow and it’s fuelled by alcohol; there’s nothing I can do except listen and hope that none of the diners are her clients, or are related to her mother.
‘I work out. I try to be pleasant and liberal and informed. I may be past my initial bloom, but, the point is, even when I was bursting with youth no one made an offer. I’m not dull or smelly and I don’t have any unsocial diseases. I’m fairly good at Trivial Pursuit; I nearly always win the pie pieces. I read the FT every day, for God’s sake. But for years there was nothing doing. I used to watch them on the Tube – married women – and they’re not all that special.’
I focus on the red patch of skin on her neck, which I know as well as I know my own hand. When Sam is riled or embarrassed or excited her neck blushes. Apparently, when she orgasms she looks exactly like a vine-ripened tomato.
‘Yes, of course some of them look lovely but some are real hounds, and some are obviously above average intelligence but others seem to be just one up from pond life. So I’d ask myself, why not me? It’s not that I was overly fussy, not a fact that I’m unduly proud of. And then, finally, there was Gilbert.’
She pauses not so much for breath but to replenish her glass. I start forking up bits of her starter and shovelling them into my mouth. Well, she’s barely glanced at it and I don’t want to offend the chef.
‘George, before Gilbert proposed I was at the stage where I didn’t mind if a man was short, earned less than me or used his knife and fork incorrectly. Gilbert saved me.’
I notice that Sam has stopped calling Gilbert ‘G’. He’s become Gilbert once more. Indication that she is seeing him for what he is.
Sam is blinking ferociously, because the only thing that is more embarrassing than a woman ranting in a restaurant is a woman sobbing in a restaurant. We are both glad when the waiter interrupts us to clear our plates and deposit our main course. He takes Sam’s plate away, although I am still cramming her food into my mouth.
‘The proposal was so perfect.’ She’s trying to convince herself.
‘You were drunk,’ I remind her.
She brushes my objections away. ‘He’d booked a table at the Ivy. The Ivy! Usually you have to be featured in Hello! at least twice before you can hope to secure a table at the Ivy.’
Personally, I’m not all that gung-ho on proposals at a table in public. I find the other diners intrusive, but whatever lights your fire. I’ve always known that Sam is scarily starry-eyed and idealistic.
‘The ring is beautiful.’
But not the one she wanted.
‘He thanked me for agreeing to marry him.’
This almost touches me.
‘Getting married is all I ever wanted and I’ve wanted it so desperately, for such a long time. I don’t know how to want anything else.’ She pauses. ‘James isn’t talking marriage.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I asked him.’ She has no shame. ‘It’s so unfair. If we were in a film he’d propose. He’d offer me a marriage proposal to replace the one he’s asking me to
sacrifice. No one in a film says, “Don’t marry him, shag me”, do they?’
‘What did James say when you talked about marriage?’
She waves her hand, drunkenly, ‘Oh, some nonsense about not ruling it out. Blah, blah. One day both of us may be ready to make that kind of commitment to each other. Etc., etc. Too big a decision to make in the heat of the moment. So on and so forth.’
‘Sounds pretty sensible to me.’
‘Sounds like a get-out clause to me.’
Even I am now beginning to lose my appetite. How has this happened under my nose with my failing to notice? Sam’s right. It has always been a joke that she’s desperate to marry but suddenly it seems dark and deadly serious. She is prepared to marry one man whilst loving another rather than go through life ringless. It’s as if Germaine Greer never existed. I feel irredeemably depressed. What’s left for us in the twenty-first century? We have no religion, we don’t believe in everlasting love, and the only comfort available is a handful of confetti and a three-tier fruitcake. I’ve never even met anyone who likes fruitcake. There has to be more to it than that. Doesn’t there?
Sam, oblivious to my profound pondering, comments,’men they are like buses, aren’t they? You wait for ever and then two come along at once. Perhaps it’s a case of the grass is always greener,’ she tries to comfort herself.
If I think back through our relationship, it has not been one punctuated by thoughtful pauses. The opposite is true, as we’ve always preferred chatter and irrelevant observation to silence. Our evenings together were a foggy mass of excited gossip, scandal, palaver and prattle. More babbling brook than still waters. So I know lots of stuff about Sam. I know when and where she had her first kiss, and who she lost her virginity to. I know that her favourite meal is jacket potato with curried baked beans and mayonnaise, although it’s never been fashionable. I know the sound she makes when she orgasms. I know she ‘sort of believes in God, although she only goes to church for weddings, christenings, funerals and midnight mass on Christmas Eve. I know she always believes the best of people, she invariably looks on the bright side and she doesn’t even find Anthea Turner irritating. I know how many times she’s been in love, and how many times she’s been in lust. I know which hairspray she uses, where she buys her hosiery, what she wants to call her children. In short, I know the contents of her fridge, her bathroom cabinet and her heart. And she knows lots of stuff about me – she knows I lost my virginity to Hugh. That my taste in food, art, music and film were all formed with, through or for Hugh. Well, Hugh is pretty much all there is to me.
I also know one or two things about Sam that she’s never told me; things that she’s possibly oblivious to. Things like, she’s the most generous, magnanimous, sweet-natured woman in the city of London. She’s beautiful, talented, inimitable, and the reason she’s not married isn’t because no one’s offered to date, but because she’s too good to settle for the flotsam and jetsam that has washed up on her beach. And even the flotsam and jetsam have known this.
How has this happened? What should I do or say? I can’t let her make this mistake. I’ve always followed a policy of non-interference; I’m there for my friends if they ask for help but I don’t thrust it upon them. It’s too messy. Too complex. Last time I tried to be honest with Sam was when I told her not to rush into an engagement. She’s hardly going to thank me if I underline my point with a ‘told you so’.
So she’s marrying the wrong bloke. How bad can it be, spending the rest of your life paying for a mistake?
Bad. Bloody, fucking bad. I have to be honest. I’ve been amused and indulgent for too long. I can’t stand by and let her destroy her life.
‘Sam, for goodness sake! You can’t go on living your life by following a handful of outdated old wives’ tales and cliches. It might make things appear simpler, but you’re kidding yourself,’ I burst.
‘But it is better to be safe than sorry,’ she whines.
‘This nonsense might be useful until secondary school but grown-up life’s too complex for you to retreat into The Oxford Dictionary of English Idioms every time you have a dilemma.’ Sam is silent. ‘You have to get yourself your own set of values and opinions,’ I insist. ‘You have to think about this very carefully. You have to think what is best for you. And being married to one man whilst loving another won’t make you happy. You’re not being fair to yourself, or to James or Gilbert for that matter. You have to think about Gilbert too.’
‘The way you thought about Becca?’ Sam looks up and stares into my eyes.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ I ask, genuinely bemused. We’re talking about Sam, not me.
‘Don’t you see, George? Don’t you know why I came to you?’
‘Because I’m your friend.’
‘Because we’re exactly alike.’
Whoa, hold your horses, matey. No, we are not. Sam may be the most generous, magnanimous, sweet-natured woman in the city of London. She is beautiful, talented, inimitable, but she’s also an appalling throwback as far as the cause of female independence is concerned. She thinks that being married is the only way to be happy. She believes this so strongly that she’s prepared to marry the brother of the man she loves just to ensure a dual-pension policy. I’m quite different. I’m with Hugh although the wedding band is noticeably lacking.
‘No, we are not. I’m with the man I love.’
‘Be imaginative,’ she spits nastily. ‘For Hugh, read marriage. You pursued Hugh with the same grim determination that I pursued an engagement ring. The only difference is I’m more honest with myself. You didn’t allow the fact that he was married to someone else to distract you, nor the subsequent births of his daughter and son. You’ve hardly got the steadiest grip on reality, have you? Physician, heal thyself.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong.’
‘Have I? Well, as long as you’re sure.’ I’ve never seen her so angry and bitter before. Where’s Sam gone? Gentle Sam, lovely Sam. ‘George, you punched, kicked and clawed your way to where you are now. You suffered countless humiliations. For years he ignored you. He forgets your birthday, he doesn’t pay any bills, and this is what you reinvented yourself for.’
La, la, la, la. I’m not listening. Mentally, although not physically, I’ve put my fingers in my ears. La, la, la, la. It is a technique I used to use when watching horror movies as a teenager. I’d pretend to be brave, but I’d sing to myself so the scary reality didn’t sink into my consciousness. I want this conversation back on track. I want to talk about Sam, Gilbert and James.
‘You’re marrying for the dress, the day, the fantasy,’ I accuse.
‘And why are you with Hugh?’
‘We are alike.’ But are we? I used to think we were, but now I’m not so sure. I push on as much to convince myself as Sam. ‘We have the same tastes in music and books and art.’
‘You don’t even have tastes of your own! You imitate his tastes.’
‘I wanted him from the moment I saw him and I’ve never wanted anyone else.’
‘Yeah, well, sometimes we have the best sex with the worst people. It’s God’s April fool.’
I try and be patient; after all, I’ve seen her knock back a fair amount to drink tonight, all on an empty stomach. She probably doesn’t mean most of this. ‘You’re twisting this, Sam. I’m not the one with the problem. You are. You’re deluded.’
‘At least Gilbert is a nice guy to be deluded about.’
‘Meaning?’ Actually, I’m not sure I want her to tell me.
‘Hugh is a prat, George.’
‘He is not a prat,’ I counter automatically, although mentally I know the insult has already seeped into my mind and heart, and I’ll haul it up for closer inspection when I’m next alone.
‘He is a selfish, childish, petulant, inconsiderate prat,’ says Sam, who never says anything bad about anyone.
‘I thought you liked him,’ I stutter in disbelief. ‘You’ve been his friend as long as I have.’
/> ‘He’s a funny enough guy to spend Rag Week with. He’s pleasant company at a dinner party. But that’s it. You’re wasting your life.’ She stubs out her cigarette.
I’m beginning to think I should stay at home. I certainly should avoid restaurants. Bad karma.
Our dinner ends fairly swiftly after this outburst. Sam and I struggle through the main course, she hardly eats a thing, I hoover up everything edible in the vicinity, and then we promptly pay the bill. There’s little left to be said.
39
To use a Sam phrase, ‘you could have knocked me over with a feather’. To be more original about it, I am shattered, shocked, stabbed and (this is the hardest to admit) somewhat contrite. Sam has chucked me. My status as her best friend is no more. I haven’t been seeing that much of Sam recently, but the fact that I’m unlikely to see her again sends shivers of horror bouncing up and down my spine. Another void. I used to be very good at filling gaps. I’d visit the gym, buy clothes, have a facial. In fact, these methods for filling the terrible nothingness that haunted my existence were so effective they became my life. But the pregnancy has slowed me down. I can’t shop or skip, which gives me more time to think. Forces me to think.
Sam’s right, of course, I didn’t think about Becca. Not really. If I thought of Becca at all, I thought of her as the antithesis of me. Initially, when I had spreading hips, rats’ tails hair and a limited general knowledge, she had slim hips, flowing tresses and was a serious contender for the Krypton Factor. I rarely thought of her except in terms of what I was not. Or, rather more accurately, what I had not got.
Hugh.
As I worked off the spare inches and devoted more and more time to the Times crossword, she appeared to be sliding down the slippery slope of smug marriedness, landing in a sludgy mess of mushed veg, mushed mind and mushed skin tone. It’s only now that my hands are back in the rubber gloves and the steaming bucket of hot water that I consider Becca may be, must be, more than that which I am not.
After years and years of seeing Becca as the devil incarnate, recently, since supper with Sam, I lie awake at night thinking, ‘Maybe she isn’t’. In fact, she’s beginning to look more and more like a victim in all of this. And if she’s the victim, then I’m the aggressor. Which is not how I like to see myself.
