by Mina Ford
‘I’m sorry,’ I rush to apologise. ‘He’s dangerously schizophrenic. We’re taking him back to hospital now. You don’t know which platform the Bath train leaves from, by any chance?’
‘Platform three,’ Purple Shell Suit informs me icily, picking gherkin out of her Quarter Pounder and tossing it to the ground.
‘What are you asking her for?’ George can be heard bitching as we make our way towards our train. ‘Probably never been further south than Morden in her life. Now are you going to carry my vanity case or not?’
‘Not,’ I say, marching off down the platform. I’ve had enough of Janice’s sulking and George’s tantrums. This is my big day. I have to make a success of this wedding or I’ll be back in that tights and handbag environment before you can say Teeline.
Sometimes mates can be bastard selfish.
As the train draws out of the station, we strike up a ‘Weddings I have known’ type conversation, partly because none of us have thought to bring any reading matter— Janice’s bridal porn excepted—partly to keep Janice’s bottom lip from wobbling as her mind wanders back to the crimson monster stuffed out of sight in a squashy heap on top of the luggage rack and partly because I’m still positively squitty with nerves at the thought of all I have to do tomorrow.
‘I hope it’s not going to be a cash bar,’ George frets. ‘So vulgar.’
‘Doubt it,’ Janice ventures, cheering up slightly at the chance of a good bitch. ‘Poppy’s dad’s a compulsive entertainer. Remember when he used to come down to see Poppy at college, Katie?’
‘God, yes.’ I laugh, trying not to slop coffee everywhere as the train rattles towards Reading. ‘He should have been a member of Lunchers Anonymous. He used to take us to all those wonderfully smart places.’
‘It was a bit pathetic, wasn’t it, really?’ she says suddenly. ‘We didn’t even like her much and it was always us she chose to take.’
‘Mmm. Quite sad in a way.’
‘Remember that Sarah-Jane’s wedding in Leeds?’ Janice asks me. ‘Where it was a sit-down meal and they didn’t put the wine bottles on the tables? They only filled our glasses about twice. We were gagging for a drink and we didn’t have any money with us so we had to keep stealing other people’s pints.’
‘Mmm,’ I remember. ‘Mind you, fuck only knows why we were remotely surprised. Sarah-Jane was as tight as a gnat’s chuff at college. She actually cried when I knocked over her Galliano and lime ’cos it cost her one pound twenty. Remember?’
‘We all reckoned she was probably born with a fifty pee clenched between her bum cheeks.’
‘Probably still there.’
‘And we were really pissed off because of all the dosh we spent on actually going to the wedding.’
‘I could have had a new bathroom installed with the money we spent on getting up there and paying for a hotel room.’
‘That’s right. So we took back the present. Remember? Swiped it off the hall table as we left and it was straight back to the shop with it for a refund. And we spent it on two vegetable biryanis and a couple of keema naans down the Punjab Paradise. Pass us a serviette, George. I’ve slopped coffee all over my boob.’
‘Napkin.’ He shudders. ‘Napkin. And there wouldn’t have been much point in you having a new bathroom installed, would there, Katie? Not with you still being in rented accommodation.’
I ignore him. Suddenly Janice is much cheerier. And I don’t want to spoil it by fighting with George.
‘You drank too many Bacardi Breezers and gave the best man a blow job under the top table,’ I remind Janice. ‘And then you blew chunks and passed out and we had to carry you back to the hotel room with bits of red wine sick in your hair.’
‘Yesss.’ Janice laughs. ‘God, don’t let me do that this time. Jasper would have a blue fit. He hates women who get shitfaced. Thinks it’s unfeminine.’
‘He would.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh,’ she tosses her head, ‘I know he’s a sad old fart. And I’m probably going to have to boff him sooner or later if I want to get my hands on his wedge. But that’s cricket for you.’
George and I exchange raised eyebrows and I swiftly change the topic of conversation before one of us is forced to tell her that Jasper is a complete arsehole. Neither George nor I would actually choose to spend one millisecond with him for all the money in the world. But because she’s my best friend and I love her to pieces, I feel the need to protect her from my caustic opinions so as not to hurt her.
‘Don’t forget I’ve booked a hotel for you tomorrow night,’ I tell George. ‘You’re staying at Poppy’s parents’ house with me tonight to help me get everything ready.’
‘A reassuringly expensive hotel, I hope?’ George asks. ‘I’m not staying in a damp B&B that smells of cat’s piss and old people’s cabbage and being forced to eat dodgy Grape Nuts for breakfast to get my bowels moving. I mean we have actually left London now, don’t forget. They have different rules in the provinces, you know. “Sophisticated menu” means “next door but one to the Little Chef”. We’ll have to eat all our meals in those places where you’re forever picking pubes out of your food.’
‘We won’t.’
‘And the waitresses all wear sovereign rings and pink gingham smocks to match their eczema.’
‘You’re such a snob,’ I accuse him.
‘I am not.’ He looks absolutely astounded at the very suggestion. ‘I slept with someone from Sheffield once. And I’ve been to Leeds. They’ve got a Harvey Nicks there now, you know.’
‘Bully for them.’
‘And I had a very lengthy telephone conversation with a Welsh person only last week.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Well, I say conversation,’ he adds. ‘In the loosest sense of the word of course. I was the only one actually forming whole sentences. Do you know, when I picked up that phone I was convinced the woman was speaking another language? God only knows what the viewers are going to think. Still, it was a toss-up between her and some slack-titted bint from Solihull when it came down to it so…’
‘So?’
‘Solihull.’ George looks at me as though I’m some kind of retard. ‘Solihull in the West Midlands? As in “close proximity to Birmingham”? We can’t go having Brummies on the show left, right and centre, darling. The accent makes people feel ill.’
The train dawdles through Didcot and chugs through Chippenham and, bored, Janice and I unpack the luxury Fortnum’s hamper we’ve bought the happy couple as a wedding gift and start to work our way through a box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.
‘They probably won’t open them until they get back from honeymoon,’ Janice reasons.
‘Exactly.’ I wedge in another one. ‘And we can’t risk them getting left by a radiator or something and going all squidgy, can we?’
At last, the solid tower of Bath Abbey looms into view. I hurriedly bunch shimmering gold cellophane around what’s left of Poppy and Seb’s gift and re-tie the white and gold ribbon.
‘Think they’ll notice?’
‘Probably won’t care.’
A watery sun warms the glowing clusters of butterscotch stone buildings on the surrounding hillsides as we pull into the station. Bath looks terribly pretty in the April sunshine. We jump in a taxi and watch, fascinated, as the car meanders through narrow cobbledy streets teeming with tourists. There are foreigners everywhere. Trendy Japanese with cameras slung round their necks like gas masks. Fat Americans in sparkling white trainers and lemon casualwear. And crocodiles of gabbling French schoolchildren with identical blue and white backpacks.
Poppy’s parents live just outside the city, in an enormous pile built of Bath stone. As we arrive, festivities of some sort are already in full swing. Poppy’s mother, a minuscule, elegant woman in an immaculate cream trouser suit, hands us a glass of mulled wine as we clomp through the door and greets us as though we’re long lost friends.
‘H
ow marvellous.’ She beams. ‘The caterer and the bridesmaid. Well, we won’t have to worry about you turning up on time tomorrow, now will we? Of course you’ll be wanting to unpack.’
‘Not really,’ I say at exactly the same time as George and Janice say, ‘Oooh, yes please.’
Poppy’s mother takes us up the grand staircase and shows us all to our rooms. Janice and Jasper get a bedroom at the front, while George and I get back bedrooms from which, she assures us, we’ll be able to see the canal winding through the valley when we wake up tomorrow. Then it’s downstairs with the lot of us to eat, drink and be merry.
‘Are you having a marquee?’ George asks as we wend our way downstairs, me trying, not very successfully, not to spill my wine all over the immaculate soft yellow carpet.
‘No.’ Poppy’s mother shakes her head. ‘The barn’s plenty big enough. We thought we’d decorate that instead. That OK with you, Katie?’
‘Erm.’ I don’t suppose I have any choice.
The house is chock-a-block with Poppy’s relations, all drinking and laughing and patting each other on the back. And while Poppy races around the hall, decorating the place with bits of holly and ivy and generally panicking about every tiny little thing, Janice, George and I take advantage of the free pre-wedding champagne, gratefully golloping every drop that’s being poured into our glasses at any given opportunity.
‘So you’re the caterer, are you?’ asks a tall streak of nothing in a silvery dress. She’s got white glitter around her eyes, which gives her an unearthly, angelic look. I can’t help noticing that she’s constantly looking over my shouder for people to flirt with.
‘Yes.’ I hate her almost on sight. ‘I’m also a person.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Oh.’ She looks momentarily confused then taps a passing waiter on the arm and bats her glitter-dusted eyelashes at him furiously. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to get me a tiddly little canapé, would you?’ she asks him.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiles. Fluttering her lashes again. ‘It’s just that I’m terribly orally fixated at the moment. I really feel the need to put something in my mouth.’
‘How’s about my fist?’ Janice, hearing her, mutters into my ear. ‘That do you?’
But she doesn’t hear. Instead, she extends a fragile hand towards mine, smiles with her teeth, not her eyes, and says, ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Persephone. Pussy for short.’
‘Figures,’ Janice says quietly.
When Pussy turns to speak to someone else, Janice exhales.
‘Fucking hell. She’s a man-eating bitch if ever I saw one. She’d better not try getting her claws into Jasper.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure her. ‘She hasn’t got a chance. No tits, for starters. Shit, she’s coming back.’
‘Those are quite nice.’ She points at my favourite palest pink strides.
‘Thanks,’ I say, chuffed, despite myself. ‘They’re Jigsaw.’
‘Thought so.’ She turns up her pretty little nose. ‘Last season, aren’t they?’
‘Cow,’ mutters Janice.
I try to rise above bitchy comments, saying instead, ‘So how do you fit in with all this? You a friend of Poppy’s?’
‘Cousin.’ She tosses her head. ‘Of sorts. Her mother’s my father’s cousin. That’s my father over there. Talking to her other sister.’
‘Which one?’ I ask politely.
‘Fat one,’ she says coolly, lighting a cigarette and pointing in the direction of a largish woman wearing a hippyish creation in flowing lilac. ‘Over there.’
‘Oh.’ I’m surprised at her frankness.
‘Yes. Never married, that one. Still, you can see why, can’t you?’
‘I think she looks nice,’ I say, hurt on the woman’s behalf. ‘She’s got a lovely face.’
‘Never goes anywhere without that little dog, poor cow,’ the girl says unkindly. ‘Oooh, look.’ She suddenly bursts into gales of tinkling laughter that reminds me of silver bells. I can’t help thinking what a pretty laugh she has for someone so transparently horrid. ‘What?’ I can’t help turning my head.
‘Will you look at that?’ She’s still pointing at the large woman. ‘It’s slobbered all over that dreadful skirt. She’s covered, look. She hasn’t even realised.’
‘Someone should tell her,’ I say, shocked at her outburst.
‘I’m sorry.’ She catches me staring at her and checks herself. ‘I don’t know whether I’m laughing so much at the dog drool or whether it’s because she had the audacity to actually wear that dreadful outfit in the first place.’
I finally manage to get away from Pussy and fetch myself another drink. Or three. By half past eleven, I realise I’m absolutely knackered. Time for bed. I have a lot to do tomorrow and I really don’t want to make a pig’s ear of the whole thing. I make my way up to my room and flop straight into bed without cleaning my teeth.
I’ve probably been asleep for about forty minutes when I’m woken by someone getting into bed beside me.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Shhhh,’ says a familiar voice. In the dark I can’t quite make out his face.
‘Sam?’
‘Yes?’
‘That you?’
‘Well of course it’s me.’ He laughs. ‘Who else would it be?’
‘Johnny Depp?’
‘Wishful thinking, Simpson,’ he says and I can hear by his voice that he’s grinning.
‘Jesus, Sam, you frightened the life out of me. What the hell are you doing here? And get your hand off my bum.’
‘Sorry.’ He moves away. ‘Didn’t realise.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘Why are you here? You’re not supposed to be arriving till tomorrow.’
‘Bloody van broke down.’
‘What?’
‘Not the actual van. The fridge part. And I didn’t want the food to go off. So I drove down here tonight. I’ve been outside with Poppy’s dad filling bins with ice.’
‘Oh, Sam.’
‘What?’
‘You’re so sweet. Thank you.’
‘I am not sweet. I’m a rugged, red-blooded male, thank you very much. And you’re welcome.’
I bend to kiss the top of my friend’s head. But because it’s so dark, I miss and the kiss lands on his mouth instead.
‘Sorry.’
‘No problem.’
But he’s grinning again. I can tell by his voice.
‘You’re laughing at me.’
‘No more than usual.’
‘Good.’
‘Although you are rather funny.’
‘Cheers.’
I smack him over the head with my pillow. And now that he’s woken me up I can’t go back to sleep. I’m too nervous about tomorrow.
‘I suppose you’ll have to sleep here,’ I grumble. ‘And just when I was looking forward to having this lovely big bed to myself.’
‘Suppose so,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
We pass the time till I’m able to nod off by talking about schooldays.
‘Remember that dreadful felt jacket with the white leather sleeves you always wore?’ I tease him.
‘My baseball jacket?’ he asks. ‘I loved it.’
‘It was awful.’
‘Not as bad as that acid yellow ra-ra job you wore to the school disco.’
‘True.’ I laugh. ‘You took the piss out of me for weeks.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘Did.’
‘I didn’t.’ He sounds hurt. ‘That was Mike McDonald. I stood up for you, I’ll have you know. Said you couldn’t help it. That you were stylistically challenged.’
‘Ho ho.’
‘And I said your legs weren’t like a chicken’s at all.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Only joking. Actually I always thought you had rather nice legs.’
‘Flatterer.’
; But despite myself, I suddenly get the urge to kiss him. He’s certainly close enough. But he’s Sam. And that would just be stupid. It’s just because I’m nervous. And he’s so familiar.
‘Remember when you had the top of your ear pierced?’ I say hurriedly, as if to take my mind off the fact that he’s lying so close. ‘My mother said you were no better than vermin.’
‘And when my dad caught us smoking in the shed…’
He’s even nearer now.
‘Do you remember when I broke your Culture Club album over your head ’cos you told everyone you’d read my diary?’
‘Hmmm. Probably best place for it. I didn’t read it, by the way.’ He pinches my cheek affectionately.
‘I know.’ I push a bit of his hair off his face. ‘You wouldn’t be talking to me now if you had. You should see some of the things I wrote about you.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He laughs.
‘Yeah.’ I grin.
And suddenly, we’re so close, our faces are almost touching. For one mad nanosecond, I think he’s going to kiss me.
And then I remember.
This is Sam. My best mate. Not some dodgy notch on the bedpost.
And I haven’t cleaned my teeth. Check me out. What the hell am I doing? I must stink of drink.
I jump away.
‘Anyway,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he says simultaneously.
Then we both look at each other.
‘Sleep.’
Chapter 10
I wake up next morning with a jackhammer thumping in my temples from last night’s champagne. Sam’s side of the bed is empty. Groaning, I scuffle downstairs, where George, wearing nothing but white Jockey shorts and a pair of pink marabou-trimmed slippers, is standing in the kitchen stirring sugar into a big cup of coffee.
‘All right?’
‘Hanging.’ He tosses his head back and points at his eyes to show how bloodshot they are. ‘My breath’s absolutely minging. Still, better show willing, I suppose, darling. Here you are.’ He thrusts a glass of champers into my hand.
‘God. Already?’
‘Hair of the dog, darling. Hair of the goddamn dog. Ohmigod.’ He suddenly gets up and stares out of the window. ‘LOOK.’
‘What?’
‘He’s here. The darling’s only bloody well here.’
