‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You look faaabulous.’
Mum breaks into a smile. She is wearing a Max Mara cropped bouclé jacket and skirt combo. On my advice, she’s had her hair bobbed, and we have both had our make-up fixed this morning by Vanessa Chan who we used at Spot On to fix up our sickly supermodels before photo shoots. Vanessa is as good as make-up artists come, and Mark’s right – Mum is looking fabulous.
‘You’re very brave coming to such an old fogey do,’ Mum says.
‘Well, you know what they say: you’re only as old as the man you feel,’ Mark says cheekily.
Mum flashes the whites of her eyes at him and blushes. ‘Yes. Well . . . I’m sure Adam will be glad you’re here too. It’ll be nice for him to have some youngsters to talk to.’
I think about pointing out that Saddam probably considers Mark and me to be too old to talk to, but decide against it. ‘So where are the others?’ I ask.
‘Penny’s here. And Giles. They went off together to smoke cigarettes. Saddam’s lurking somewhere looking moody, and I’ve not had a peep from Lindsay and Jack since last week, so I’m not even sure they’re coming.’
She turns to Mark. ‘I don’t think they approve, to be honest,’ she says.
‘Are you bovvered?’ Mark asks, and Mum surprises me by getting the reference.
She points to her face in a very Catherine Tate fashion and says, ‘Does my face look bovvered?’
‘Not one bit,’ Mark laughs.
‘I’m sure they’ll be here,’ I say.
‘They had better be. Otherwise they’ll be off the Christmas card list faster than you can say it.’
I wink at Mark. ‘Beware,’ I say. ‘One false move and it’s the end of Christmas cards forever. Devastating!’
‘Are you doing the whole walk up the aisle thing?’ Mark asks her.
‘Yes. CC and I are vanishing next door just before the service and then coming back in,’ Mum tells him.
Suddenly aware that without Saddam, there won’t be anyone to come in to, I say, ‘I’ll go check on Saddam.’
‘I’ll stay here with you, if that’s OK,’ Mark says to Mum.
As I leave the room, I hear her say, ‘Thanks so much for coming. I’ve been telling everyone about CC’s boyfriend, but I’m not sure anyone believes me. And as I say, it’s so much nicer for Saddam to have some young—’
‘I’m not her boyfriend,’ Mark interrupts.
‘I know that, dear,’ Mum replies. ‘I’m not completely gaga. But Poppy will assume that you are, and that’s fine with me.’
Due to the rain, the corridors are still packed with the departing wedding party, who are waiting for cars, so I have to fight my way through them as I hunt high and low for Saddam. They are a surprisingly rowdy bunch; in fact I would hazard a guess that they have had some kind of boozy reception before the wedding.
Eventually, at the rear of the building, I find Poppy Meyer – one of Mum’s oldest and stuffiest friends – smoking beneath the overhang of the back porch.
‘Oh, hello, CC,’ she says. ‘You can’t bloody smoke anywhere these days. It’s like being a social outcast. Lovely outfit, by the way.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
Poppy is wearing a dreadful orange smock with a matching jacket and a netted hat, which looks like something the Queen Mum might have worn. But one has to lie in these circumstances.
‘Yours too. So lovely to have a bit of colour on a day like this.’
‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ she says, and for a moment I think that she means her dress, not the weather.
‘It’s such a load of old nonsense,’ she continues, and I realise that she isn’t, in fact, referring to either. ‘Ciggy?’ she asks, pulling a packet of Consulate Menthol from her bag.
‘I don’t usually,’ I say, taking one, ‘but what the hell.’ I know I shouldn’t be smoking, but this is, after all, an unusually stressful day.
‘Yes, utter nonsense,’ she says again, as she gives me a light.
‘What is?’ I ask, dragging on the cigarette, which tastes surprisingly good.
‘Well, all of this. I mean, I’ve known Angela for forty years, and she’s perfectly lovely, but let’s face it, Saddam’s not in love with her. How could he be? He’s in love with the idea of a nice red English passport.’
‘Well, that’s what I thought too,’ I say, ‘but Mum doesn’t see it that way, and ultimately . . .’
The guilt about smoking while pregnant is too much for me, so I fake a coughing fit and stub it out. ‘Sorry, Poppy,’ I say. ‘I’m out of practice.’
‘Once he gets his green card or whatever,’ Poppy continues, dragging deeply on her own cigarette, ‘he’ll be off, you mark my words.’
‘That’s America,’ I tell her.
‘Well, whatever it is he wants out of the deal – money, or passport, or what-have-you – he’ll be off like a shot. And then Angela will be devastated and guess who will have to pick up the pieces.’
I think that if anyone is likely to be picking up the pieces, it’s me, not Poppy, but I’m not going to make waves now. ‘Well, I’m just trying to be positive about it all,’ I tell her. ‘It’s what Mum wants, and once she has made up her mind about something . . .’
‘Well, I’m glad you agree it’s a mistake,’ Poppy says. ‘I’m glad that at least you can see that it’s not right for a woman of her age to be waltzing around with an immigrant lad who’s barely out of school.’
I’m just formulating the best way to express – without causing a ruck – that I don’t entirely agree with her point of view, and I definitely don’t agree with her terminology, when something at the corner of my vision catches my eye, and I turn to see Saddam turn and walk away from us.
‘Sorry, Poppy. I have to . . . I won’t be a minute.’
I leave her blowing smoke out into the rain and start to trot along the hallway in pursuit. ‘Saddam!’ I shout. ‘Saddam?’ But he is already vanishing into the huddle of the diminishing wedding group.
By the time I have fought my way through the remaining ten people – who, because they are pulling on their coats, form an impenetrable wall of arms – there is no sign of him. I stick my head into our reception room, where I find Mark holding forth to Mum and Giles about electronic music. He’s explaining that techno is our generation’s opera. Which is pretty much preaching to the unconvertible.
‘It’s little Chelsii!’ Giles exclaims when he sees me, opening his arms in anticipation of an embrace.
‘Hi, Giles,’ I say. ‘Sorry, but I’ll be right back.’
I start to stride from room to room, then break into a high-heeled trot as panic about what exactly Saddam might have overheard sweeps over me. Running out of options, I check the men’s toilets, where an overweight guy in a white shirt and Donald Duck tie says, ‘All right, darlin’! What can I do you for?’
I finally run to the front door and peer out into the downpour just in time to see Saddam’s hunched form round the corner onto the main road and vanish from sight.
I steal an umbrella from the stand by the door and start to run after him, instantly wishing that I had chosen the larger multicoloured golf umbrella. The downpour is lashing against my stockinged legs.
Saddam has his suit jacket pulled over his head, and is striding into the distance almost as fast as I can run, so I pause and pull off my shoes so that I can run barefoot instead. After about a hundred yards he pauses beneath a bus shelter and I finally start to catch up with him.
Just before I reach the shelter, I see him sink onto the bench seat and put his head in his hands.
‘Saddam!’ I say breathlessly as I reach him.
He looks tearily up at me. His expression instantly shifts to anger. ‘Va-t’en!’ he says. Go away.
‘Saddam,’ I say again. ‘What’s wrong? Where are you going?’
‘Away!’ he says. ‘You not my friend.’
‘Yes I am!’ I say, folding the umbrella and sinking onto the seat beside him,
‘God, you’re soaked.’ I start to brush as much water from the shoulders of his new suit as I can.
‘J’ai entendu,’ he says. I heard.
‘You heard Poppy,’ I say. ‘And she’s a bigoted old witch.’
‘You think same,’ Saddam says. ‘Everyone think same things.’
‘Come back inside,’ I tell him. ‘Come inside and dry off and we can talk.’
‘No,’ he says, ‘I can’t.’ He turns from me to hide a surge of tears, which his shuddering shoulders give away all the same.
‘But you have to,’ I tell him, thinking about how young he is to be facing all of this, and suddenly feeling genuinely sorry for him. ‘It’s your wedding day.’
He turns back to face me and his features contort with the effort of holding back tears. ‘No one want this marriage,’ he says, pronouncing ‘marriage’ the French way.
‘My mother does,’ I say. ‘You do.’
‘But you? No.’
I sigh.
‘You see!’ he says.
‘It’s . . . it’s difficult, Saddam,’ I say. ‘People are suspicious.’
‘I know,’ Saddam says. ‘Angela is tell me. Everyone is thinking I want to live here only.’
‘Yes, some people might think—’ I begin.
‘Look!’ he shouts. ‘Look at this place. Look at the rain, the cold. Why I want to live here?’
And I look out at the dismal grey of Surrey in a rainstorm and see exactly what he means.
‘You think I want to . . . to laisser . . . Morocco for this?’
I rub his shoulder. ‘Not me,’ I lie. ‘But people will think that maybe life’s easier for you here than it is over there.’
‘How?’ Saddam gasps, choked with tears and so angry that he’s forgetting to breathe. ‘I done speak English. No one like the Arabs here. I can even carry a back peck any more.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I can carry a back peck because I look like a terrorist.’
‘I’m sorry? Who said that?’
‘Someone ask in London if I am terrorist.’
‘Who?’
‘The lady on the metro train, the time before. Here I have no job. It’s raining and colding all the time. An’ you people all think England’s so good, and that’s why I want to be here? So stupid! I hate here,’ he says, angrily.
Saddam’s head drops back into his hands and he starts to sob again, so I slide my arm further around his wet back and pull him closer to me. A big lump forms in my throat because, of course, I know exactly how feeling forced to be somewhere you hate feels.
‘I thought you liked it here,’ I say. ‘Mum said you liked it.’
‘I tell her I like it,’ he says. ‘But is not true. No family. No friend. No job. No nothing.’
‘So why come?’ I ask.
‘Je l’aime!’ he says, glancing up at me and looking utterly astonished that I still haven’t grasped that simple fact.
I swallow hard and lean in against him and drop my head sideways so that it touches his. I sigh deeply. ‘God, you really do, don’t you?’ I murmur. ‘I’m so sorry, Saddam.’
‘Everything is bloody now,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what . . . I think go home.’ He starts to sob again. ‘But everything is bloody there too now. I lose job. My mother done talk to me any more.’
I lean forwards to try to see his face, but he turns away, so I stand and crouch down in front of him and pull his chin towards me so that I can look deep into his eyes. He has the most beautiful eyes that I think I have ever seen on a man. I’m even slightly jealous of his eyelashes – I can’t get that effect no matter how much mascara I put on.
‘If you love her,’ I tell him, ‘if you really love her, then you mustn’t care what anyone thinks.’
‘But everyone is against,’ he says, his voice wobbly. ‘How I can?’
‘Fuck them,’ I say, and though he continues crying, he vaguely smiles too. I smile back at him. ‘Fuck them all!’ I say again.
‘Angela says is too bad, this word,’ Saddam says with concern.
‘It is,’ I agree. ‘But between us youngsters, it’s OK. Fuck them all,’ I tell him. ‘You say it.’
‘Fuck them all,’ he murmurs, and breaks into a teary grin.
‘And you’re sure that you love her?’ I say. ‘You’re sure you’re not confused?’
Saddam nods and swallows.
‘How do you know?’ I ask.
He thinks about this, and performs a wonderful Gallic shrug. But as he does so he breaks into one of the most beautiful, genuine smiles that I have ever seen. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. But the toothy grin has said everything.
I laugh. ‘My old mum really does make you happy, huh?’
Saddam nods. ‘Beaucoup,’ he says, tears running down his cheeks.
‘Come on,’ I say, looking at him through my own watery vision, standing and holding out one hand. ‘Let’s go get you married.’
‘You think?’ he asks, looking up at me, but taking my hand all the same.
‘I think,’ I say, grabbing it and yanking him upright.
A LITTLE TOO RELAXED
As we head back in, huddled beneath the tiny red umbrella, Saddam asks, ‘You stay with me?’
‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘I have to go and get Mum, walk her down the aisle, but—’
‘No,’ Saddam says, his tone anguished. ‘Please! You stay with me.’
‘But—’
‘You show people. You show people you are OK with.’
I squeeze his arm. ‘Sure. I’ll have a word with Mum.’
Back inside the manor, I drag Saddam into the ladies’ and dry his jacket under the hand dryer. I check my face in the mirror, but luckily Vanessa’s industrial strength makeup is holding up perfectly.
When we step out into the hallway, we cross paths with the guy with the Donald Duck tie again. He glances at Saddam, at me, at Saddam again, and finally at the sign that says Ladies, then winks at me, grins, and walks off.
‘You know this guy?’ Saddam asks.
‘No, I don’t know anyone who wears a Disney tie.’
He frowns at me, so I mutter, ‘It doesn’t matter’, and drag him on down the hallway.
By the time we get to the ceremony room, it’s one minute to three and everyone is seated. ‘One second,’ I say, prising Saddam’s hand from my arm and crossing to where Mark is sitting.
I crouch down beside him and say, ‘Saddam’s having a case of nerves. He wants me to stay with him. To sort of demonstrate to everyone that I approve.’
‘I didn’t know you did,’ Mark says, grinning broadly as if this is terribly funny.
‘We had a long talk,’ I say. ‘I changed my mind. He really does love her, you know.’
‘How sweet,’ he says.
I frown at him. ‘You’re acting strange.’
‘I’m a bit stoned,’ he whispers rather loudly.
‘Jesus, Mark!’
The registrar coughs, and when I look up at her, she taps her watch.
‘It’s time. Can you go and get Mum to walk her down the aisle? So I can stay with Saddam? Otherwise I’m scared he’ll do a runner.’
‘I can stay with him if you want,’ Mark says, still grinning.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘Just explain to Mum. She’ll understand. And she’ll love waltzing down the aisle with you. I think she quite fancies you, to be honest.’
Mark stands, bumps into his chair, and then lollopingly walks from the room as I return to Saddam’s side.
‘He’s stoned?’ he asks me.
‘Apparently so,’ I say, surprised that he knows the signs so well.
‘J’aimerais bien,’ he says. I wish I was.
The registrar hits play on the ghetto blaster, and Saddam and I turn to face the door. I scan the faces present and realise that Lindsay and Jack are still missing. Giles catches my eye and winks at me, and Poppy whispers something to the woman next to her and they both shake their heads and pout. I understand entirely
why Saddam didn’t want to face them alone.
The wedding march starts to belt out a little too loudly from the sound system before the registrar finds the correct knob to lower it. And then once the volume is correct, Mum and Mark appear in the doorway, the two of them red-faced and giggling, and I realise instantly that Mark has got my mother stoned.
In deference to Saddam, the service is as short and sweet as it can be. The entire thing lasts about seven minutes, and other than a second fit of giggles by my mother when the registrar says, ‘You can kiss the bride’, everything goes off without a hitch.
Once the registers have been signed and witnessed, people stand and we start to leave the room.
I whisper to Mark, ‘Tell me you haven’t been getting my mother stoned.’
‘She was stressed!’ he laughs.
‘Jesus, Mark! You’re incorrigible.’
‘She asked for it,’ he says. ‘She begged me, in fact.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Apparently she and Saddam have quite a taste for it. She says the weed is better in Morocco.’
‘You fibber!’ I say.
Mark just shrugs and snorts.
When we get back to the house, the caterer has, as expected, moved the entire buffet in from the gazebo to the dining room.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘but it’s like Glastonbury out there. It’s a shame, but there you go.’
But the fire is flickering, the DJ in the lounge is playing sloppy love songs and the spread looks rather pretty, so I allow myself a tiny glass of champagne and decide that I’m simply not going to give a damn about anything today.
Mum floats, still grinning slightly madly, from one pair of friends to another and I notice how tight all of their expressions are and come to agree that faced with so much unspoken disapproval, stoned is the only way to be. I just wish I could join her. But as the champagne flows, even the hardest of features soften.
‘So are you happy, Mum?’ I ask, when we finally get a moment alone.
‘Oh, perfectly, dear,’ she says. ‘Thanks so much for all of this. The food is faaabulous, as Mark would say. And those prawn thingies are gorgeous. Have you had one yet?’
‘No. I’m a bit wary of prawns at the moment.’
The French House Page 32
