Going Home

by Harriet Evans

  ‘Come on, Liz,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s get you both home, OK? Get some sleep. It’ll all look brighter in the morning.’

  Things didn’t look brighter in the morning. I slept badly, and woke up with a terrible hangover. It was overcast and misty, a damp, cold day. I helped Mum and Chin with the seating plan and the order of service, then felt so terrible I crawled back to my room and flicked through my old back issues of Vogue for an hour. Dad was busy in his study, and Mum and Chin were in wedding-catering heaven. I felt like a spare part, so when Tom phoned from Kate’s and said he wanted to get back to London that afternoon and did I want to come with him, I said yes with some relief. I wanted to go back to my flat, and think about California and my new life. Which I still hadn’t told anyone about.

  At one thirty, Tom’s car beeped outside. Mum, Dad and Chin came out with me to say goodbye.

  ‘Hello, Miles!’ Mum exclaimed, as she saw him getting out of the car.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Walter,’ Miles said. He took my bag.

  ‘Gosh, you do look well,’ Mum said. ‘John is so grateful to you, you know. That bit of leather you fixed on the bellows – well, it’s transformed them.’

  ‘Really?’ said Miles. ‘I’m so glad.’

  ‘Yup,’ Dad said, in his usual loquacious way. ‘Thanks, Miles.’

  Chin kissed me.

  ‘See you on Friday,’ I said.

  ‘What’s Friday?’ she replied.

  I groaned. ‘Chin, don’t say you’ve forgotten! Your bloody hen night, that’s what. OK?’

  ‘God, of course,’ Chin said, slapping her hand over her mouth. ‘I’ve been so busy. Yes, can’t wait.’ After a pause she said, ‘It’s not actually a hen night, is it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘I mean it’s you, me and Jess. It’s not forty pissed under-dressed girls parading round in those limos, is it?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘It’s Les Misérables. You love Les Misé;rables! And we’re having cocktails at Claridges. I told you that ages ago.’ She smiled apologetically, as if she’d been thinking of something different and much better. ‘Well, there you go!’ she said brightly. ‘That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure is,’ I said.

  She leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry about Mike,’ she whispered. ‘I know we all hate him at the moment, but it could be worse. We’ll talk about it on Friday, OK?’

  I was touched – Chin’s softer side is as rarely spotted as the N6 night bus.

  She stepped aside as Miles put my bag, plus some scones Mum had made for me, into the boot.

  ‘’Bye,’ Mum called. ‘See you soon, darlings.’

  ‘’Bye,’ we called back.

  ‘Well,’ said Tom, as we drove off. ‘It sure is mighty fine to go home once in a while. Visit the folks, find out how the old clan’s doin’, what people have been up to.’

  I leaned back and ran my hands across my eyes. I was tired.

  ‘Step on it, Tom,’ Miles said, from next to me. ‘I’ve got a dinner reservation this evening.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Tom said, with mock-interest. ‘Who with?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Miles said. ‘And I’ll mind mine.’

  ‘Oh, God, not this again,’ I said. ‘I’m going to sleep.’

  ‘Put your head on my lap,’ Miles offered. He produced a jumper from his bag and folded it. ‘Go on, you’ll be comfortable that way.’

  So I did, and as I was falling asleep, Miles stroked my hair, and started arguing with Tom about Jonny Wilkinson, a conversation that lasted all the way back to London.

  After that weekend, I felt I had to start telling people that I was taking the new job, and more than ever I felt ready for it. I just wished that there was someone close I could talk it all over with, but good advice-givers were thin on the ground. I tried ringing Georgy but she was still in Italy. Tom was busy and stressed with work (a.k.a. putting the final touches to the gayest stag night ever), and Jess, whom Mum had told about Mike when she went home the day after we left, would get upset if she was the only person entrusted with this knowledge. In the old days I would have rung Mike – he would have been the perfect person to chat to: he would have understood what I was about to do in leaving everything behind and going to America. I thought Chin might understand, even if she had turned into a mad person who shouted bewildering things like ‘SUGARED ALMONDS!’ and ‘VOILE IS SHABBY!’ at me and her other nearest and dearest. But she wasn’t around much either. She was always busy with the wedding. I understood that, but she seemed different in another way too, somehow – suddenly unavailable, even when she was there. Before all this she’d been someone you’d naturally tell things to. She was nosy, and cutting, but never judgemental.

  On Friday, I tripped into work, thrilled that it was Friday and that I had a really good evening to look forward to all day. Half-way through the morning it came to me that tonight was the stag night too, and although I’d left messages, I hadn’t yet spoken to Tom in a last-ditch attempt to persuade him to inject a note of masculinity into the proceedings. Or, if not that, at least a note of something that Gibbo might want to do. So I phoned him at work. I might as well not have bothered. The conversation went something like this:

  Me: But can’t you see that while you might love the idea of drinks at the American Bar and then Chicago, it’s not necessarily Gibbo’s idea of a great stag night?

  Tom: So what are you saying? I’ve planned a crap night out? Thanks a fucking bundle, Lizzy. I’ve really thought about this, I spent ages investigating what Gibbo might like to do.

  Me: And what you came up with was that he’d like to see Michael Greco in Chicago? And it must be sheer coincidence that you have fifteen pictures of Michael Greco in your flat and four different recordings of Chicago, on vinyl and CD.

  Tom: Yes, that coincidence took both of us by surprise.

  Me: What a load of rubbish.

  Tom: Shut up.

  Me: How many people have you persuaded to come?

  Tom: Well, Miles is coming, which is good, because a few people have cancelled this week and I’ve got to take the tickets back to the box office tonight. And we’ve got a nice surprise for Gibbo too.

  Me: A striptease by a Brighton antiques dealer?

  Tom: I’m a very busy lawyer. Go away now, please. Goodbye. (Puts phone down.)

  Although he was annoying at times, I still trusted Tom’s advice so at lunchtime I dashed out to the Holy of Holies – TopShop – to take back some lemon stilettos that he had told me were cheap and nasty, like something a group of Munchkins from the Lollipop Guild in The Wizard of Oz might have worn. I wasn’t sure he was right but I couldn’t look at them without laughing now, and it is wrong to be looking down at your feet and snorting during a meeting, as I had found out yesterday during a high-level chat with Lily. So I consoled myself while I was there by buying a lovely spring/summer vintage Liberty print flared skirt with cute deep pockets on either side.

  On my way out of TopShop, clutching the bag – which also contained a gorgeous suede belt and a black crocheted wrapover top – I veered behind Oxford Street and walked towards Great Titchfield Street to grab a sandwich before I went back to the office. I walked up to Luigi’s, and was pleased to see the little tables and chairs that dotted the patio outside occupied by some hardy shoppers enjoying the first of the spring sunshine. I dashed in, joined the queue and called Ash at the office to see if he wanted anything. We had a shouted conversation above the braying of the two girls at the first table outside. I got off the phone, made my purchases and was turning to leave when I heard a familiar voice. The braying girls were Chin and Sophia Gunning, both in outsize black sunglasses and silk scarves, pretending to be best friends.

  ‘Blimey, this is a coincidence when I’m seeing you in a couple of hours, isn’t it?’ I said, as I kissed my aunt and smiled ingratiatingly at Sophia Gunning. ‘What are you doing here?’ I said to Chin.

  ‘Guy,
in Liberty’s,’ Chin said briefly, sitting down again. ‘He’s making my shrug. I’ve got my final fitting this afternoon.’

  ‘He’s making you shrug?’ I asked stupidly. I felt like a huge large giraffe, standing up while tiny Chin and Sophia sat daintily far below me, sipping their coffee. I picked up an Amaretti biscuit from the uneaten pile on the table and put it in my bag.

  Sophia’s eyes flicked up to me with a look of total disdain, which she immediately masked with laughter. ‘Ha-ha-ha! Oh, Lizzy, you’re so funny.’

  ‘No, Lizzy,’ Chin said patiently. ‘He’s making me a shrug. To wear over my dress. Cream cashmere, lace trim. It’s going to be gorgeous.’

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ Sophia said, fluttering her eyelashes at Chin, who fluttered hers back. ‘We’re bunking off this afternoon, aren’t we, darling? I’m going shopping with Chin and we’re going to be so girly. Then we’re going for cocktails to have a proper catch-up. Oh, Chin,’ she said passionately – I wanted to delve into my bag and whip out an Oscar for her incredibly convincing portrayal of the Girl Who Isn’t A Total Bitch – ‘it’s so good to see you again!’

  Even Chin could not help but look flattered.

  I coughed. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, leaning over, ‘Chin, tonight’s the night, remember?’

  ‘What’s tonight?’ Sophia said, without interest, looking at her tiny silver phone.

  ‘It’s her hen night,’ I said proudly. ‘Isn’t it, Chin?’

  Sophia wasn’t really listening. ‘Oh, my good God, Jeremy’s texted me. Jeremy! He’s so naughty! Didn’t I tell you about him, Chin?’

  Chin slammed on her sunglasses and got up. ‘You text him back. I’m just going to have a little word with Lizzy. See you in a min.’ She grabbed my arm, and strode off round the corner. Luigi was watching us and waved at me.

  ‘Hi,’ Chin said, when we got round the corner.

  ‘Hi there,’ I said.

  ‘Listen, Lizzy,’ she sounded brisk, ‘have you gone to much trouble over tonight? Be honest.’

  ‘Er…no, of course not,’ I said, worried that she’d got cold feet or fear of condom-veil presentation. ‘Why?’

  Chin looked airily about her. ‘Well, I was just wondering if we could do it another night, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  Chin sighed, then said, in her disarmingly sweet, clear voice, ‘Look, tell me if this isn’t on. I know we’re doing our pizza thing tonight—’

  ‘After the cocktails at Claridges,’ I pointed out weakly.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Chin said impatiently. She tossed her hair, and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her beautiful black coat. ‘But I’ve been to Claridges about five times in the last few months. I’m a bit sick of it. And, well, it’d be nice to see you both but, let’s face it, we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other over the next month or so. The thing is, Sophia rang me yesterday. Do you remember you saw her at that work party thing?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said.

  Chin looked round her again, then practically hissed, ‘Give me that Amaretti. I’m starving. She eats bloody nothing.’

  I handed her a biscuit from my bag and she wolfed it. ‘Lovely. God, that’s good.’

  I scrunched up my eyes to see if I was in a dream.

  Chin sailed on, oblivious to my (a) confusion (b) rising anger. ‘Anyway, it was great to talk to her. She really enjoyed seeing you, and she’d heard about Keeper House from her mum – she was sweet about it. She said she’d thought she should give me a call for old times’ sake and that we should meet up. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we arranged to spend today together. So, yes, we’re going shopping this afternoon and out for drinks tonight. To the Sanderson. So, unless you had something really special planned, I thought it’d be OK to call a raincheck for tonight.’

  I looked at her in amazement as she crumpled the biscuit paper and threw it neatly into a bin a few feet away. Several things about this speech irritated me intensely. One, Chin was the kind of person I’d always suspected might ditch someone at the last minute for a better offer, but I’d never dreamed she’d do it tonight. Two, she was supposed to hate Sophia Gunning, but obviously Sophia Gunning came higher in the social pecking order than Jess and I did, and if she was seeking Chin’s forgiveness (or, more likely, was at a loose end on her last night in London, the friendless witch), Chin would be willing to dole it out. Three, why the name-checking of the bar at the Sanderson? Was this a covert message that she liked it much better there and we ought to have taken her there too? Finally, the whole if-you-haven’t-planned-anything-special tack was a monstrously rude way of saying, ‘If you’d planned a better evening, I wouldn’t be dropping you for someone else.’

  I was suddenly the kind of furious where you don’t really want to get into a ding-dong or unforgivable things will be said. So I just said, in a voice that could have frozen vodka, ‘That’s a real shame, Chin. Jess and I were looking forward to tonight. And, no, we hadn’t planned anything. Well, nothing we can’t change anyway.’ I wasn’t going to tell her I’d bought those tickets now. If she didn’t want to come out with us – fine.

  Chin stamped her feet impatiently. ‘So you don’t mind, then. Sorry about this. We’ll do it some other time, OK?’

  I pushed my bag on to my shoulder and made to leave. ‘I do mind, actually, but if you’d rather go out with Sophia I’m sure Jess and I would be horrified to think we were holding you back.’ I sounded like a pert housemaid. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. I’m going to be late getting back. I’ve got a few things to sort out now.’

  Chin was totally oblivious to this, damn her eyes. ‘Thanks, love. I’ll tell her you said ‘bye. You never know, she’s probably quite a useful person to know at Monumental, isn’t she? I’ll put in a good word for you – maybe she can get you a job in New York or LA or something!’

  How little you know or even care, I thought. ‘Whatever,’ I said, not wanting to talk to her any more. ‘Have a good day.’ I said mentally adding her to the ever-growing list of my relatives without whom I’d be better off.

  Chin reapplied her lip gloss, then said, ‘Thanks, Lizzy. Sorry about this – and thanks a lot! ‘Bye.’ She hugged me. ‘I’ll see you soon, OK? Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s the only day she can do before she goes back to LA.’ Then she walked off. I watched her go, unable to believe quite how rude and ungrateful she was. And she had no idea! Bloody cow. I breathed deeply. Palm trees, the ocean, waffles. What a witch. Well, I’d see about that.

  I stomped back to work, hurled myself into my office, slammed the door and sank into my chair, still in my coat. Then I had a brainwave. I rang up the Les Misérables box office and cancelled our tickets, rang Jess and told her to come to my office instead. Then I picked up the phone.

  ‘Tom, it’s me again. You said two people cancelled on the butch men’s stag do earlier this week. Are those tickets still spare? And, if so, have you got room for two more people tonight?’ I explained about Chin’s awful behaviour.

  ‘Of course,’ said Tom’s voice, reassuring and kind. ‘What a cow Chin is. Hurrah, this is going to be great! Gibbo’ll be so pleased!’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine we’re his top choice of stag-night companions.’

  ‘Well, we’ve regrouped and I’ve changed the title of the evening. It’s not Gibbo’s stag night any more. It’s Gibbo’s Friends and soon-to-be-relatives Wish Him Bon Voyage. It’s now just an excuse for us to have a nice evening out and then get mashed. Good, no?’

  ‘Great,’ I said.

  ‘Right. Better go,’ said Tom. ‘See you at the Savoy at six thirty. Don’t be late. Hey, I’m really glad you’re coming. Bloody Chin! I’ll have something to say to her next time I see her. She’s getting worse and worse, don’t you think?’

  ‘She is,’ I agreed. My heart swelled with love for Tom, then shrank again when he said, ‘And don’t wear those hideous Topshop lemon stilettos.’

  A few hours later,
Jess and I hurried through the chrome art-deco revolving doors at the Savoy and into the plushly retro lobby, trying to look as if such a place was run-of-the-mill to us. We ran up the stairs to the American Bar, where our eyes fell upon a knot of boys, sitting self-consciously in black tie and trying to make polite conversation. They looked like waiters on a busman’s stag night. Miles saw us first, and his eyes lit with relief, then Tom and Gibbo stood up to greet us. Gibbo resembled an anorexic penguin in evening dress. It wasn’t a look I’d have picked for him. His jacket appeared to be sliding off him and I made a mental note to warn Chin, if I ever got over my fury, never to let him wear it again.

  ‘Well, this is the best man, Bozzer,’ said Tom, gesturing to a short, rubbery man with a deep tan and small blue gimlet eyes. ‘He flew in from Sydney yesterday. And this is Frank.’

  ‘Hello, Lizzy,’ said Frank. He had been Gibbo’s boss at a fruit and veg stall where he’d worked briefly last summer. He was tall and thin with wispy white hair and the air of an absent-minded ghost. I couldn’t imagine him yelling ‘Five punnets for a pahnd!’ but there you go.

  We shook hands with the rest of the crew, an assortment of people Gibbo had worked with, or who had saved his life in various improbable situations, and even one bloke whom Gibbo had met on a train last year, who’d become a friend because he’d offered Gibbo a banana.

  ‘Let me get you girls some drinks,’ said Miles. I watched his retreating back, and thought that how much more he looked the part in black tie. It seemed to belong to him in the way it never quite does with many men.

  ‘How do you know Gibbo?’ I asked Ian, presuming that the usual rules of hen-night small-talk applied at the beginning of a stag night, too.

  ‘I met him a couple of years ago, near Cairns,’ said Ian.

  ‘Nice,’ I said. ‘It’s supposed to be beautiful there, but I’ve never been.’