“Do you think they look alright?” she asks me.
“Yeah, they’re lovely.”
“I offered to help her myself but she wouldn’t let me,” Matt says, fiddling with a new pair of football boots.
I’m honoured.
“It’s very delicate work and your hands are too big,” Katie points out.
“I’m sure you’re devastated Matt,” I tell him, handing the Artistic Director a piece of ribbon.
Matt is an absolute gem. He and Katie met in our third year at university when she and I were staying in London for the weekend with our friend Harriett.
Katie and Harriett had gone to the toilet and while they were gone I started talking to two blokes – Matt and his mate Tony – both dressed in flares and flowery shirts and wearing enormous afro wigs.
“Bloody hell, who has she lumbered us with now?” Katie later admitted to thinking as she clocked the ‘two pillocks in afros’ on her way back from the loos. I make a habit of talking to random people in bars, apparently. I call it being sociable. Katie calls it ‘lumbering us with odd-bods’ – this occasion being the exception, as she started talking to Matt and decided he was alright after all. Turns out they weren’t just nutters in 70s gear, but on their way to a fancy dress party. We ended up joining them, so were there to witness the very moment when they discovered they were the only two nutters who had bothered with the fancy dress!
The next day Matt phoned and asked Katie out for dinner. She told him she was down from Leeds on a girly weekend. So he took all three of us out instead. We knew then that he was a keeper.
He’s three years older than Katie, he’s an architect, and he loves football. And he’s very handsome – the tall, dark variety, with thick dark hair that flops over his face. If I hadn’t recently found Alex when I first met Matt, I would probably have fancied him myself.
But Matt was made for Katie. And she was made for him. And ever since the two of them got together Matt has been like another brother to me.
“It’s a bit wonky, B,” he says, poking me in the ribs with a football boot just as I’m tightening the ribbon, ensuring it becomes even wonkier.
See what I mean?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Emma’s coming out with us tonight – to help celebrate my first week in my new job. And the fact that I have only broken three plates, two mugs, an eggcup, a tile and a saucer – none of them painted. (That’s good, by the way.)
Anyway – any excuse for a night out, I say.
But first, there’s something I must do. Something I can’t put off any longer. Bridesmaid dress shopping.
Emma is meeting us at the shop. I think Katie is planning on a last-ditch effort at persuading her that she will still get married herself one day, even if she has been a bridesmaid three times.
I don’t fancy her chances. Emma can be very stubborn.
On a personal note, I have told Katie that as long as she doesn’t make me look like a peach cobbler (whatever a peach cobbler actually is), then I’m happy to leave it up to her.
But I’m beginning to think I may be being a little too flexible. There are, after all, plenty of other garish-coloured desserts she could have me resembling. Strawberry blancmange or key-lime pie, for example, would both be fairly hideous. Still, it’s her big day, so I’ll just have to be brave.
We walk to the tube station arm in arm. There’s a new shop that’s just opened in Oxford Street, apparently, which only sells bridesmaid dresses. It’s called Bridesmaid Revisited – based on the owner’s confidence that you might look elsewhere, but you’ll always come back there in the end to buy. I almost want to hate her dresses just to prove her wrong.
“I don’t know why you’ve got it into your head that I want you in peach anyway,” Katie says as we step onto the train. “I don’t want you spoiling the wedding pictures any more that you’re already going to.”
“Oi, you cow,” I say, digging her in the ribs. The train is packed so we are forced to get up close and personal with an ensemble of dodgy-looking individuals we’d sooner not get up close and anything with. For most of the journey, I am wedged between one of the poles you’re supposed to hold onto for safety, a bloke reading the metro who looks like he has the entire contents of his local allotment under his finger nails and another bloke whose mop of straw-like hair may well be home to a small family of birds.
We tumble out with the masses at Oxford Circus and make our way to Bridesmaid Revisited where we find Emma leaning against the shop front flicking through a book of wedding readings.
We both hug her.
“I’ve found the perfect reading,” she tells us.
“The perfect reading or the perfect reading to wind me up?” Katie asks, raising her eyebrows.
“The perfect reading, of course.”
“In that case I can’t wait to hear it.”
Fifteen minutes later I am stripped down to my knickers and socks (“you can take the bra off love, we’ll find you one with a bit more padding that’ll hold the dress up better”) and I am having dresses of every style and colour – except peach – flung at me from all directions by Katie, Emma and Cheryl, one of the shop owner’s assistants, whose hair is scraped back so severely I’d swear her eyes are a centimetre further apart than they should be. I have to say, it doesn’t inspire us with confidence that she will know a good look when she sees one.
“Take that one off and I’ll see if we’ve got it in the lilac,” she instructs me, evidently not intending to leave the cubicle as I do so.
“Erm…yeah,” I say, sticking my head through the curtain and giving the girls dagger eyes – the kind that I hope convey the message ‘get this woman out of here’.
It doesn’t take long to choose a dress in the end. None of us like the lilac, which we were all convinced would be our first choice. Instead we all agree on a pale gold-coloured strapless dress which has a line of tiny glass beads across the top of the bodice, like the ones on Katie’s dress.
We love it, but we don’t buy it. We tell Cheryl that we’ll think about it – that we want to check out a few other shops first. It’s not called Bridesmaid Revisited for nothing, after all.
And we do go into a few other shops – Beauty and the Bridesmaid, Bridal Be Beautiful, The Wedding Shop and we have a half-hearted rifle through the rails. But in the end, of course we do go back to the first shop we went into.
They have to order the dress in, so I try on the twelve in a frightful green version of the same style to check the size. It fits perfectly from the waist down, but even with one of their extra-padded-for-girls-with-no-boobs bras, I will still need the top taking in, so we make an appointment to come back for a fitting and then leave to get some lunch.
“So what’s the reading you’ve found then, Em?” Katie asks, as we wait for our food at A Pizza Perfect.
Her last ditch effort at persuading Emma to be bridesmaid has resulted only in us learning that if you throw a hairy black caterpillar over your shoulder you’ll have good luck, if you step on the cracks in the pavement you’ll have bad luck, and that Katie should just live in sin with Matt instead of marrying him because his surname is Henley and her surname is Harris…
Apparently if a woman’s surname after marriage begins with the same letter as her maiden name, she will be unlucky, because:
Change the name, but not the letter
Change for the worse, and not for the better
It was at this point that Katie finally gave up trying to change Emma’s mind.
“It’s called Ten Milk Bottles,” Emma says, pulling the book out of her bag and holding up her spare hand to stop Katie before she can protest.
“It doesn’t sound very romantic,” I point out, on her behalf.
Emma carries on, undeterred.
“Ten milk bottles standing in the hall,
ten milk bottles up against the wall,
next door neighbour thinks we’re dead,
hasn’t heard a sound, he said,
>
doesn’t know we’ve been in bed,
the ten whole days since we wed.”
We both laugh.
“I think it’s perfect,” Emma says.
“I think my Auntie Rose would have heart failure,” Katie replies, pulling out the slip of paper Emma has marking the page.
“What about this one then?
Take a lump of clay, wet it, pat it
And make an image of me, and an image of you
Then smash them, crash them, and add a little water
Break them and remake them into an image of you
And an image of me
Then in my clay, there’s a little of you
And in your clay, there’s a little of me
And nothing ever shall us sever
Living we’ll sleep in the same quilt
And dead we’ll be buried together.”
“I like that,” I laugh, leaning back in my seat as the waiter puts my pizza on the table in front of me. “It reminds me of Morph on Take Hart. Do you remember that? The one with the art gallery where you could send your drawings in and Tony Hart would say ‘here’s an interesting picture of a horse made out of milk bottle tops,’ only it would look nothing like a horse, just a bunch of milk bottle tops stuck on a piece of paper.”
The waiter looks at me as if I have just tipped a bowl of spaghetti bolognaise over my head.
“Black pepper?” he asks.
“Yes please.”
“That was my picture. And it wasn’t a horse, it was a cow,” Emma says, dead serious.
“You’re kidding?”
“Yeah, I am, but you should have seen the look on your face! Don’t worry Katie,” she says, “I’m going to find a reading that you’ll love. I promise. It’ll be perfect.”
“Okay. I trust you. I think…”
“So, Em, how are things with you?” I ask. “Have you been out on any dates?”
“No,” she says, looking depressed suddenly. Maybe it was a bad idea bringing it up when we were all in such a good mood. But she’s usually so blasé when she splits up with a bloke. Out with the old, in with the new – that’s Emma’s philosophy. Well, it used to be, anyway.
“A colleague of mine is trying to set me up with her brother, but I’m not sure…”
“Why not? It could be fun. What’s he like?”
“He’s a nice guy. I met him at her housewarming party last year. I’m just not sure…”
“It might be just what you need.”
“I know. But I don’t think I’m ready…”
“It’s been a while since you and Jim split up, Em. You need to get back out there,” Katie says. “And you too, B,” she says, glancing at me cautiously. I pretend not to notice.
“I know, but I just miss him so much,” Emma says.
“Have you spoken to him lately?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I asked him if he would give it another go. And he said ‘no.’ And I felt completely pathetic,” she says, promptly bursting into tears.
“Oh, Em,” Katie says, pulling her chair closer to Emma’s and moving her pizza so she doesn’t dip her elbow in it as she hugs our friend.
“He’s not worth it, Em. He isn’t. There’s someone much better out there for you, honestly.”
“But I don’t want anyone else. I want Jim,” she mumbles.
I rummage in my bag for a tissue and hand it to her. “You feel like that now. But when you meet someone else, you’ll forget all about Jim.”
“I don’t want to meet someone else. It’s too hard – starting all over again all the time.”
“But would you rather be with someone you know isn’t right for you?” Katie asks.
“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know. I was just happy with Jim. It all felt so easy. Now I have to start all over again. Again.”
“But that’s the fun part,” Katie tells her. “I’m actually a bit envious of you two, you know. I’ll never get to do all that again – the first date, the first kiss, the first time you do the deed… Those are the exciting times, when everything is new and fresh. Choosing which colour bog roll to buy at Tesco’s is about as exciting as it gets for me and Matt these days!”
With an image of Katie and Matt stood in the household goods aisle at Tesco deliberating over toilet paper, Emma wipes a tear from her cheek and lets out a little giggle. And then she blows her nose into the tissue like a trumpet. And we all tuck into our pizzas before they go cold.
CHAPTER TWENTY
In every town and village,
In every city square,
In crowded places
I searched the faces
Hoping to find
Someone to care.
…
Then you rose into my life
Like a promised sunrise,
Brightening my days with the light in your eyes.
I’ve never been so strong,
Now I’m where I belong.
‘Where We Belong: A Duet’, Maya Angelou
“Pass me the phone book, Becky,” Emma says, back at Katie’s.
I reach across the coffee table where the phone book is sitting under a pile of Katie’s books from work.
“What for?” I ask, handing it to her.
“I’m going to phone the nearest convent. Let them know I’ll be over in the morning to sign up.”
“I’m not sure it works like that, Em,” Katie laughs, before shoving a Doritos into her mouth.
“I’m serious,” Emma says. “I’m giving up men. I’m going to be celibate from now on.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Katie and I say, simultaneously.
An hour later Emma, always the last to get ready, finally emerges from the bathroom, which now smells like a polo mint factory, thanks to her mint-scented shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner.
“I think you might be over-doing it on the whole mint thing there, Em,” I suggest as she runs a comb through her hair. “Anyone who tries to chat you up tonight will think you’ve been doing kinky things with After Eight mints.”
“Ooh goody, that might help me pull,” she says, all talk of convents and celibacy clearly forgotten.
Thirty minutes later we are ready to hit the town. I have a brand new pair of skinny jeans on with a bright pink halterneck top that has sparkly bits across the bottom. Katie has lent me her pink shoes so I am very co-ordinated. Emma is wearing a denim skirt and a silver-grey vest top. And Katie is wearing a really cute blue strapless dress. We all look fabulous, even if we do say so ourselves.
We are off to find Emma a man. She doesn’t know that yet. I suspect Katie is also planning to find me a man. I won’t be letting her. She doesn’t know that yet…
After a quick girly photo using the self-timer on Katie’s camera (‘quick’ being a slight exaggeration as it takes us three attempts before we manage to get us all in the picture) we down the last of our champagne and head outside where the taxi is waiting for us.
“Tonic on Barnaby Street, please,” Katie tells the driver.
We’re drunk.
All of us.
Spirits were doubles for an extra quid in Tonic, so we had a couple of those. It would have been rude not to, wouldn’t it? And rather pointless, considering we would have ended up having at least two singles each anyway.
Then Emma insisted on buying us all cocktails. Katie said okay, as long as it didn’t have rum in it as rum makes her sick (very sick, as I know all too well having held her hair back many a time after she has made a dash for the nearest available toilet) – and I said I didn’t really want one. But she bought me one anyway. And so I drank it. Again, it would have been rude not to.
And so now, a little after 10pm, out of sheer politeness alone, we are already three sheets to the wind, as it were.
We are in the mood for a boogie but Flares is dead – except for a couple of women with peroxide blonde hair and skirts that barely cover their arses and who should probably be at h
ome minding their grandchildren, not in Flares, shaking their booty to Kylie Minogue.
So we’ve come to the Vod Kerr Baa instead. Not so good for cheesy music, but great for vodka, as you might expect, and it does have a small space at the back that passes as a dance floor – for about five people – if we feel compelled later on.
Emma heads for the loo as soon as we get past the blokes throwing their weight around on the door, all black coats and chests pushed out like pigeons.
“Quick, grab that table,” I shout at Katie when I spot two blokes about to get up. “I’ll get the drinks.”
One of the blokes catches my eye and smiles as Katie dives into his seat – very nearly before he is even out of it, poor guy.
I smile back, apologetically. Mmm… Bit of a dish…
The queue at the bar is mammoth, but I manage to navigate my way to the front with little more than a hair out of place. It’s a skill I have honed over the years. It’s simply a matter of being ready that split second that a person’s attention is diverted, like when they turn around because they’ve forgotten to ask their mates what they want to drink. Just like I have in fact. Bugger.
I turn around to find Katie, and he’s there, right behind me. Mr Dish. I thought he was leaving.
“I hope we didn’t pinch your seats,” I say. “We thought you were leaving.”
“We are. I just…well…I just thought I recognised you.”
“Oh right. No, sorry. I don’t think we’ve met. I’ve only just moved to London.”
“Oh well, it was nice to meet you anyway. Sort of!” he grins, before turning and walking away.
And then I realise where he’s seen me before. At the gym. On the bike next to him. Completely clueless. Completely puce. Wearing my best friend’s cast-offs and absolutely no make-up. Oh my god – and he recognised me – out tonight, hair straightened, beautifully made-up (sort of), in a new outfit purchased especially for the occasion. How the hell could he recognise me?
I should be depressed. But I have other things on my mind. I have vodka to drink. Copious amounts of the stuff.
The bar is filled with bottles – in every flavour you can imagine, and lots you never would – all being served up in little shot glasses with tiny sheep on them…
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 137
