by Jenny Colgan
‘Yes.’
‘And cheap polythene veils?’
‘Yes.’
‘A socially unbalanced mix of people from completely different areas of work and home and family who had to sit next to each other all evening despite having nothing in common except for knowing you, the bridge, and therefore responsible for making sure everyone had a good time, even with Heather organising it and your mum there chain smoking and watching everything you ate and drank?’
‘Do you know, I thought it was surprising you didn’t bug me more about this before,’ said Tash. ‘You knew when it was.’
With the untimely disappearance of me, Tashy had been reduced to asking her bitter big sister, Heather, to do the honours. Badly.
‘I too have slightly other things on my mind,’ I said disconsolately.
‘Like what?’
I leaned over. ‘I snogged Justin.’
‘Justin who?’ It took a moment for her to get it. ‘NO! That’s disgusting! He’s a baby! I don’t BELIEVE you! How could you not tell me all this time?’
‘How could you not invite me to a big celebration of all the closest females in your life? Anyway, I thought you might disapprove and think it was disgusting.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’m a sixteen-year-old girl, I have sixteen-year-old hormones, do you hear what I’m saying here, people? Cut me some slack.’
‘What was it like?’ she asked suddenly in a low voice.
‘Fabulous,’ I said. ‘We snogged. He smelled unbelievably good. And you wouldn’t believe how manly his body felt. Well, boy/manly. In a good way.’
‘Was it like kissing—’
‘I’m not even considering answering that question.’
‘I’m coming straight over,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you the rest of the hen night.’
She came straight over. My dad let her in when she told him it was one of our guidance sessions and that she was giving me some counselling.
‘Very trusting, your parents,’ she said as my dad went off to make her a cup of tea.
‘God, I know. Try not to molest me, even though they’ve given you tacit permission.’
I sat on the floor, leaning against the bed, holding my knees against my chest. Tashy sat on the undersized desk chair. Exactly how we always used to sit.
‘Stop sitting like that, then.’
‘OK.’ I hopped up the bed. ‘Tell me tell me tell me.’
She let out a long sigh. ‘I’m only glad you weren’t there to see it,’ she said. ‘It meant one fewer person in the world as a witness. Leaving only every female I know, minus one.’
‘Tash, you always do this. Always have done. You always think you’ve done something terribly bad, then you’ve always just tripped over a pot plant or something.’
‘No, it was bad.’
‘Worse than kissing a teenager?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kiss the stripper?’
‘No,’ said Tash. ‘God, I wish I’d only kissed the stripper.’
‘Dancing on the table with your pants out?’
‘God, no, who’d do that?’
‘No one!’
She sighed again. ‘OK. I … um, I had a little meltdown.’
We were quiet for a second.
‘Tashy,’ I said, ‘what’s a “little” meltdown?’
Tashy’s story, as it came out, was this. About sixteen of them, various friends of Tashy’s and some workmates, her mum, her aunt Cath and her sister had been to TGI Friday, another diabolical trick of Heather’s, a place designed to induce ennui and existential angst in the most optimistic of brides.
They’d started off drinking vehemently coloured cocktails, called hilarious things like ‘Tittiepolitans’ and ‘Please Waiter Could You Give Me Some Sexual Innuendo-tinis’ and, with a kind of dedication to being drunk few people had seen for quite some time, moved on from these, not to the chain’s no doubt extensive and tasteful wine list, but to Bacardi Breezers, the natural accompaniment to curly-wurly fries, surf and turf nachos and other such food.
‘I don’t remember what we ate,’ groaned Tashy, ‘but all of it was brown.’
‘It’s sounding pretty good so far,’ I said. ‘Oh no, hang on. Sixteen to thirty-two. Mental switch. Right. I’m there. Puke.’
‘Anyway, Heather starts doing this speech, right?’
‘Uh-oh.’
‘Uh-oh is right. How hard can it be to stand up in front of a bunch of girls – OK, a bunch of girls completely fucking up the words to “Wooh-oh, those summer nights”, but still … how hard, just to say, “Well done, sis, I love you”? Something normal families do.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She flashed her tits at the waiter.’
‘Heather has no tits.’
‘Have I explained to you again about the cocktails and rum-based devastation?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘Then she kept going on about, “well, if you must do it”, and marriage really shouldn’t be something you undertake unless you really feel it’s your only option, and remember the inability of men to stay faithful through biology and how—’
My dad knocked on the door and we shut up immediately.
‘Here you go, young ladies,’ he said jovially, bringing in a tray with chocolate biscuits and everything. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing anything. I do realise privacy is very important for teens.’
I rolled my eyes at him in a proper teenage fashion that made Tashy half smile.
‘That’s right, Mr Scurrison,’ she said gravely. ‘Well done. You know, when a child is from a stable loving background like here, we rarely have too much to worry about.’ She lowered her voice until she sounded like a gossipy hausfrau. ‘It’s the broken home families we have to worry about,’ she whispered.
I was shocked and told her so, after my dad had looked very troubled, briefly rubbed his head, then left us to it.
‘What?’ she said. ‘I’m helping you out, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘I know, it’s not really my business.’
Suddenly I remembered her those nights when I did try to look after my mother. Tash had always been there, always been sympathetic, always nice to my mother and coming out with us on shopping trips and small treats. She’d been a proper friend.
‘It is,’ I said. ‘And thank you.’
I poured tea. ‘So, Heather makes a speech …’
‘Anyway, meanwhile the stripper is agreeing with everything she’s saying.’
‘Wait – the stripper’s arrived?’
‘Yes. He’s unbuttoning his shirt quite casually.’
‘Doesn’t sound like much of a stripper.’
‘No, no, well, he’s nodding along and then he says, like it’s hilarious, “Ladies, you know, it’s nothing personal. Marriage just doesn’t suit a man. You should see the trouble I have to keep out of for my bird. Those crabs were the last straw.”’
‘Bleargh!’
‘Exactly. So now I have fifteen screaming women on my hands, but they’re not screaming with excitement, they’re screaming with disgust. But the staff, rather than kick us all out and let me go home, they’re like, “Hey, it’s so great to see people having fun”, with fake American accents. So the stripper doesn’t think it’s funny any more, and he’s talking to himself, saying, “Fuck, don’t mention the fucking crabs, you fucking loser,” and trying to take his clothes off really fast now.’
‘You don’t want to see that!’
‘Well, exactly! Then he gets down to his pants, which are black leather covered in studs.’
‘And they thought the studs were—’
‘Exactly. The girls are now screaming, “Seafood! Seafood!” And someone threw a prawn from across the room to get us to shut up and …’
I shook my head sadly. ‘All it takes is one simple prawn.’
‘Every time,’ said Tashy. ‘Anyway, after that, all hell broke loose. There’s thousand island d
ressing on the ceiling.’
‘Yeech.’
‘Cheesy bacon bits down the front of my Ronit Zilkha. Selina was sobbing in the corner …’
‘Selina always cries at parties,’ I said dismissively.
‘ … my sister is whispering something in the ear of a very panicky stripper …’
We paused for a moment to try and work out what that might be.
‘Anyway. Then it happened.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, everyone else was just throwing food, right?’
‘Are we at the meltdown yet?’
‘Do keep up.’
‘OK. Yep.’
I could hear her swallow hard.
‘I dropped a plate on the floor.’
I tutted. ‘See! It’s always something really minor.’
She ignored me. ‘I threw an entire tray of plates on the floor. Just to get everyone to shut the fuck up. Then I screamed, “Shut the Fuck Up!!!” Then I shouted, “Look. All men aren’t bastards! So get over it, Heather. And believe me, if you’re trying to ruin my wedding, you really don’t have to try so hard. Some men are just wrong. And that’s just as sad. So cut me some slack, OK? I’m doing a brave thing and all I get is abuse and food thrown at me. And, YOU, go to the chemist’s.” Only, maybe I wasn’t as concise as that. And I swore a lot.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I was manhandled out the building by the suddenly much less friendly-looking staff. They were no longer interested in my having a good Friday.’
‘And?’
She sounded sorrowful. ‘I legged it as fast as I could down Haymarket.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Nope. I was out of there. I was at home tucked up cosily in bed with a cup of tea crying my eyes out by nine thirty.’
‘Result! Um, was Max there?’
‘He was out on his stag.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘He came home at three o’clock in the morning, tried to have sex with me, I threw him out of the bed, he called me a bitch then he immediately fell asleep on the floor. When I got up to go to the bathroom I … I …’
‘What?’
She choked up a little. ‘I accidentally on purpose stood on his hand.’
‘You did what?’
‘It was an accident. Pretty much.’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘when the physical violence starts, that’s about time to sort out a few things about your relationship.’
There was a furious knocking at the door.
‘Flora! FLORA! DISASTRO!!!!’
‘What the hell … ?’ said Tashy, jumping up from her reverie.
I ran to the door. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Stanzi’s face dropped about sixteen miles when she saw Tashy.
‘That’s my seat,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Didn’t my dad tell you I was having counselling?’ I said.
‘Your dad, he’s just left. In some big hurry for something.’
‘WHAT?’ Tashy and I jumped up and ran to the front window.
‘Where’s he gone?’ I said, an uncontrollable panic grasping at my throat. ‘Has he got a suitcase?’ Oh God. What was he trying to say this morning?’
‘Shit, what did I say to him?’ said Tash. ‘Jesus, our entire fucking lives are one big meltdown.’
Stanzi hadn’t followed us out. She was sitting down on the bed, looking forlorn.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said briskly, breathlessly pulling on my coat. Thank God Tashy had the car outside. He couldn’t, though, could he? Surely he wouldn’t. Not with that girl … ?
Stanzi stood up. ‘It’s awful,’ she said. ‘It’s so awful what is happening to me.’
‘Oh, petal,’ I said, ‘will it keep? It’s just … there’s this thing …’
‘Yes, there is always time for your BIG FAT friend,’ said Stanzi hotly. Her face was red and white and she looked as if she was about to explode.
Tashy looked at me.
‘OK. What is it?’ I said.
Stanzi gulped back a sob. ‘It is Kendall,’ she said. ‘He does not … he does not love me …’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Tashy, ‘can we get going? And I’m not fat.’
‘Ssh,’ I said. ‘This is very important when you’re sixteen.’
‘I shall never get over him.’ The tears were dribbling over her hot cheeks. She looked five years old as she started to cry properly.
‘Can you tell us about it in the car?’ I said, putting an arm round her and propelling her towards the door. ‘Someone else is never going to get over something either if we don’t get a bit of a fucking move on.’
I tried to give directions to a frustrated Tashy whilst comforting a frantically miserable Constanzia with the remnants of an old tissue I found under the seat.
‘He said we were too young to get serious!’ she wailed.
In the front, Tashy snorted. I shot her a look.
‘Maybe you are,’ I suggested. ‘It is possible.’
‘You don’t understand,’ she wept. ‘You’ve never been in love.’
‘You’ll get over it,’ I said desperately. ‘Left here. Past the horrible little pink office that looks like a tanning salon.’
Tashy snorted again.
‘It does too look like a tanning salon,’ I said.
‘You’re misinterpreting my snort,’ she said.
‘Look.’ I grabbed Stanzi by the shoulders. ‘Nothing that happens at this age should be so awful it bothers you for the rest of your life. Nothing.’
Tashy attempted another snort. ‘Because if it does,’ she said, twisting her head round to the ball of tears in the back seat, ‘you can let it poison your whole life. And when that happens, all hell can break loose.’
‘Yes, OK, Buffy the Vampire Slayer,’ I said. ‘Can you keep your eyes on the road?’
Tashy’s phone started ringing.
‘It’s illegal to drive with your phone,’ pouted Stanzi, not too sad to get one in.
‘Sssh,’ I said. Then I took her in my arms and gave her a big cuddle.
‘Hi,’ Tashy was saying. ‘ … No, no, I’m fine. Look, I can’t really … I can’t really … No, it’s not a good time.’
‘Who’s that?’ I asked her with my eyebrows. She shook her head at me fiercely.
‘No, we’re going to see Flora’s dad.’
‘Shut up!’ I yelped at her. Stanzi’s tears were wetting my bosom.
‘Ssh. No, don’t come … Don’t! No! I mean it. No!’ She hung up the phone.
‘Who the hell was that?’ I demanded as we swerved round a corner.
‘Nobody,’ she said.
My dad’s car was parked outside his office.
‘Shit, I said, under my breath. My dad never worked on a Saturday. Workaholism isn’t something you’d think when you looked at him. All I could think of was my mother’s face the night I got home from the party.
Next to it was a car, and straight away I just knew. It was something about the prissiness of it. It was a cheap car, but with high-end specs – black leather seats, alloy wheels, all that useless crap. It was red, but not a shocking, bright red. More an orangey hue which hinted at danger without being remotely threatening. It was spotlessly clean. I knew it was hers. I knew it immediately.
Tashy came forward.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Let me. I have to.’
She nodded wordlessly.
‘Stay and look after Stanzi.’
‘She can fuck off!’ shouted Stanzi, still in the back of the car. ‘She can’t tell me what to do.’
Well, at least they weren’t having sex. I couldn’t have coped with that. I would have had a big old primal episode right there and then, and it would have scarred my adult life for ever. Although it might have made a good conversation piece for those future student conversations about whose parents are more of a fuck-up.
My dad was talking to her urgently in the office. She looked like she’d made a
massive effort: the roots of her hair were freshly done, and she was wearing a bright flowery blouse. She was a big plain girl, not a tart at all.
‘Look, Steph, I don’t think—’ he was saying.
I summoned everything I had ever learned from EastEnders and burst through the door.
My dad’s face was a comic picture of shock, as if he’d just won an Oscar or something.
‘Flora Jane!’
‘Yes, that’s right. It’s me. Your daughter.’ I turned to the woman. ‘Hi.’
But I could tell by her face she already knew exactly who I was. She was burning up and staring at the ground.
‘Um, Flora, what are you doing here?’ said my dad, clearing his throat. He was clearly hoping to carry this off as an innocent Saturday business meeting. Maybe he thought I just didn’t have so much insight into the future.
He wanted me to say, ‘Mum forgot to tell you to get bananas yesterday, and I didn’t know you were working.’ He wanted me to say that so much.
‘You can’t do this,’ I said desperately. ‘You can’t do this to Mum. Or me. You can’t. You’ll ruin everything. Can’t you see?’
‘But, I—’
‘I mean, after everything Mum does for you … for this, this …’
I’d been meaning to say tart, or slag, or whatever word I felt like about this woman who was condemning my mother to a life of clinging, desperate misery, daily fretting, terrifying loneliness; and her daughter, the same way, jumping about, never able to make up her mind; to settle, to be happy and make someone else happy.
But then I looked at her and the heavily applied makeup, and I just saw an unhappy-looking woman. Who had missed the boat and knew it. Who had (I knew this later) been married to a horrible man; divorced and alone, conscious of her clock ticking out and her looks nearly gone completely. Could I really blame her for grabbing her last chance? Her kind, jovial, fundamentally decent last chance, and damn the consequences, because this was her life, the only one she had, and she just couldn’t bear to face it alone, unwitnessed, unattended and going out slowly like an untended fire? But he was ours first.
‘Dad,’ I begged. ‘Please.’
‘Look, Flora, you have to believe me,’ my dad said, wild-eyed. ‘I came here to break if off, honest.’
