‘Have you set a date?’ she asks eagerly. ‘Will it be an open bar? Do you need help finding a DJ or a dress?’
I laugh. ‘Slow down! Yes, we’ve decided to do it at the end of this summer. Daniel couldn’t wait.’ I add, smiling at him.
‘Partay!’ Lizzie squeals.
‘We’ll probably do something intimate and low-key.’ Daniel points out. ‘Small church ceremony followed by a garden party.’
‘Aha.’ Lizzie nods. ‘Just a few special friends and our two families.’
And when she says it Daniel and I turn to look at each other in horror. We’ve been so happy about getting engaged (and having all the sex) that it hadn’t occurred to us until now.
Our families.
Yes, Daniel and I have been together for nine years and you’d expect our families to have met each other during that time . . . but the truth is that we’ve done everything we can to make sure they don’t meet each other because we’re both certain, deep down to our cores kind of certain, that our families won’t like each other. Not one little bit.
‘They’re going to have to meet,’ Daniel says, almost to himself.
My stomach dips at the idea of my lovely down-to-earth dad having to interact in any way with Daniel’s snobbish parents. Daniel’s father, Rupert Balfour, is head of the Balfour empire, which is made of multiple businesses including luxury car services, restaurants, construction, and a luxury hotel chain. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. The Balfour business has been built up over the generations into the multi-millionpound organisation it is today and as the eldest son and heir to all of it, Daniel is expected to take over the business when his father eventually retires. It doesn’t matter to his father whether that’s what Daniel actually wants – his fate was sealed the day he was born. Daniel’s mother, Elena, is a hard-to-read woman. She was born in Russia with some kind of royal blood in her family line, and I’m not entirely convinced that her marriage to Rupert is one of love. I’m pretty sure it was more of a business arrangement between the families.
My thoughts turn to Daniel’s sister, Nicole, and of my own darling sister having to contend with her. I don’t like to be cruel but there’s no getting away from the fact that Nicole really is the most terrible person to ever walk the streets of Kensington and Chelsea. She’s only a couple of years younger than Daniel, but where he is intelligent, humble and hardworking, she is entitled and small-minded. She likes to think of herself as a jewellery designer but her designs are awful and I can’t imagine they sell particularly well – I’m pretty sure it’s more just a hobby for her, anyway, and a title she fancied having other than ‘professional party girl and mega-spoilt brat’. How their parents managed to raise two entirely different children, I don’t know. But I’m grateful every day for whatever stars had to align to make Daniel the man he is today. Nicole spends her days brunching and spending her dad’s money without a care in the world. She has zero responsibilities, while Daniel has always carried the weight of expectation on his shoulders. It was one of the first things we bonded over when we met. There’s nothing like family responsibility to sow the seeds of love!
I joke about it but as far as I’m concerned there’s no contest between my family and Daniel’s. I’ve been protecting Dad and Lizzie from the Balfours for years but there’s no escaping it. They will have to meet – and soon.
‘We could have them all round for dinner, I guess . . . ’ I suggest weakly, but the thought of all that awkwardness, and having to make small talk with Daniel’s parents (who I’m sure don’t approve of me, so goodness knows how they’ll treat Lizzie) already fills me with dread.
‘Dinner? What are you? MIDDLE-AGED? You need an engagement party!’ Lizzie exclaims.
Daniel nods quickly. Lizzie’s right. It makes far more sense to introduce our families to each other at something like an engagement party, rather than an intimate dinner party. Music, dancing, beer and, most importantly of all, other guests to dilute any tension is what’s needed.
I take a breath. Okay. This will be fine. This will be totally fine!
And then I see Lizzie openly pick her nose and wipe it on her playsuit and I think about how Daniel’s mum won’t use a paper napkin because she’s ‘not a hobo’.
Oh dear. Will it be fine?
Chapter Four
Lizzie
I’m having a dream about last night’s gig. The lead singer of The New Design leads me up onto the stage and I feel like an indie queen – I can just feel the jealousy radiating from every single other girl in the room. HAHA! That’s right – I’m the chosen one, biiiiitches! In your faces!
We dance together and he throws his guitar to the ground, smashing it to pieces in some ridiculously sexy yet ostentatious and frankly quite embarrassingly wasteful gesture, and just as I’m pondering how much that guitar would have been worth he stops my train of thought dead in its tracks and pulls me in for a kiss. But just as our lips are about to meet, he’s pushed off the stage by someone.
‘NOOOOOOOOOOO! Come back you gorgeous guitar god and kiss the face off meeeeee!’ I look at up at the person who’s pushed my future husband off the stage and who else would it be but my ex, Zane. Zane was a beautiful blond busker who I met in Leeds and then followed down to London two years ago. This was the guy who dumped me three months later because he was ‘going places’ and I, apparently, was not. (Looking back now, after losing my third job this year, it’s probably not an unreasonable statement – but knobby nonetheless.) Then the dream gets super weird because the crowd at the gig start chanting. At first it sounds like they’re chanting something nice, like ‘Lizzie, your hair looks soft but also full of body, which is a rare and amazing combination’ or something along those lines – I’m just spitballing here as it’s difficult to make out – but then I realise they’re shouting ‘Lizzie is a loser! Lizzie is a loser! Lizzie is a loser!’ Which sounded nothing like what I originally heard and is a whoooolllle lot meaner. And then Becky turns up on stage and brings me a coffee.
‘Wake up, Lizzie. You need to wake up.’
What kind of witchcraft is this? Was that seriously all a dream? What the hell did I eat last night? Probably more to the point: what did I drink? My subconscious drags me into waking. I open my eyes to find my sister standing over me with a cup of coffee. She’s dressed in jeans and a crisp white shirt, her hair wet from the shower. Her face is pink and flushed, and then I remember that she gets up at 6 a.m. on Saturdays to go to spin cycle class and destroy herself for a whole hour. Not quite the way I would choose to spend my Saturday morning. I don’t like to see 6 a.m. unless I’m still up from the night before and I smell like blue WKD, garlic sauce and regret: FYI the smell of a successful night.
‘I made you a coffee,’ she says with a kind smile.
I frown. ‘You weren’t just chanting “Lizzie is a loser”, were you?’
Becky laughs. ‘No! Are you okay?’
I rub my eyes and take the mug of coffee from her. ‘Sorry – just a weird dream, I guess.’
‘Drink that up and get a move on!’ she says. She sits on the end of the sofa and pats the soft woollen blanket where it’s draped over my feet. ‘It’s eight-fifteen – you’ll be late for work.’
Ah, shit.
A feeling of dread worms its way into my stomach. I have to tell Becky that I was fired. And I don’t want to. I’ve had to tell her the same thing three times in the past year and I can’t deal with seeing that look of disappointment on her face again. She’s so good to me. She always has been. I know how much she took on after Mum left. She thinks I didn’t see it, but I did. She helped raise me. So it’s hard to see her face drop when she realises I’ve let her down again. The dream crowd in the gig were right. I am a loser. But can’t help it. I just can’t seem to get my life together. I’m about as much use as a chocolate fireguard. I know it, Paulo knows it, Zane knows it, the imaginary crowd of people in my dream knew it and now Bex is going to know it – assuming she didn’t already.
Becky’s face falls. She already knows what’s coming. ‘Again? You got fired again?’
I nod, resigned. ‘It wasn’t my fault! Well. It was, but Paulo was being a real bellend about it.’
Becky looks like she’s about to get mad at me. She’s never really shouted at me, never been truly mad at me. Even though I’ve probably given her plenty reason to be. But her eyes flash with something and she frowns and I almost want her to let rip at me for messing up for once. I think it would make me feel better.
But she doesn’t. She takes a steady, careful breath. ‘Do you want some toast,’ she says simply.
‘Yes.’ I answer back. Not really knowing what else to say. She usually asks what happened, comes up with a list of alternatives, gives me advice on a next move, offers to lend me some cash until I’m ‘right’ again.
But she does none of that. She just wanders into the kitchen to make me toast. I’ve really done it this time.
While she’s in the kitchen Daniel comes into the living room and sits in the Eames armchair by the big window. He looks just as fresh as Becky does, in a crisp white polo T-shirt and jeans. They match. They’ve always matched. I idly wonder what it’s like to be so in tune with a guy. Not that I’m looking for any kind of serious relationship, but I watch Becky and Daniel sometimes and how comfortable they are with each other and I can’t help fantasising about being so much a part of someone that you don’t even need to say words to know what they’re thinking. To be one half of a perfect pair. That must be a nice feeling.
Daniel turns my telly show on mute and Becky wanders back in with a plate full of toast. I watch as she goes over to Daniel and kisses him softly and it suddenly hits me that she’s getting married. And while I know that theoretically nothing is going to change, I can’t help noticing the pit of loss in my stomach. It’s like my sister is getting ready to go to some really cool, super grown-up and uber-sophisticated party that I’m not invited to. These two just got engaged. What am I doing still sitting here like some freeloading, hungover, third wheel? They don’t want me around. They probably want to have sex on the sofa I’m sitting on. Argh. Why did I think that? I went too far. I shake my head to try to get the image of my sister and her new fiancé doing it on these very sofa cushions out of my head.
I don’t feel hungry any more.
I plaster a bright smile onto my face. ‘Right! I’m leaving, you guys!’
Becky spins around in surprise. ‘What? Why? Are you sure?’ she says.
I nod. Ordinarily she would ask me to stay a little longer. But this time she doesn’t. Message received.
‘Do you need some cash, Liz Wiz?’ Daniel asks, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.
Usually I’ll happily take a fifty from Daniel – he’s certainly not struggling, if you know what I mean, but today something feels different.
‘Nah, I’m fine.’ I smile, gathering my bag from where it lies on the cream carpet.
‘Here.’ He presses a fifty into my hand anyway, like a granddad treating his grandchild. I hate myself a little as I gruffly thank him and put it into my pocket.
‘Let me know if you need any help with the engagement party,’ I say.
The two of them are already kissing and don’t hear me.
I let myself out.
Five minutes later I find myself on Portobello Road amongst the crowds of Saturday tourists and antique hunters. I love this area of London. I can totally see why Daniel and Becky chose to settle here.
I can’t help but smile as I pass a busker playing ‘Careless Whisper’ on his saxophone, sweat beading on his forehead as he puts his all into the tune. At the next corner a Jamaican man plays a reggae riff on an electric guitar while his mate plays some steel drums. I grab myself a coffee from a nearby truck and take out my phone. I snap away as a group of Asian tourists start to dance to the reggae beat, laughing at each other.
I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Do you know where the blue door is?’ a young woman with an American accent asks. I chuckle to myself. I’ve never once been on Portobello Road and not been asked where the blue door from the Notting Hill movie is. I don’t mind, though. It means I must look like I belong here, which can’t be a bad thing.
I point the American in the right direction and continue wandering until I pass Portobello and reach Golborne Road. The crowds have thinned out here; it’s not as famous a part of the market as Portobello Road, but it’s much cheaper and a hundred per cent more authentic. I take a photo of a tiny elderly woman arguing with a stallholder over the price of a vintage teacup.
I move closer, to get a better angle of the woman’s crinkly face, when I spot that on the stall, along with candle holders and the teacups and plates and jewellery boxes, is a shabby old Polaroid camera. Something about it causes a long-lost memory to ignite at the back of my brain, but I can’t quite grab onto it before it’s gone again.
‘How much is that?’ I find myself saying to the stall owner, a happy-looking man with a beer belly and a grey skinhead.
‘Vintage Polaroid? You can have that for thirty, my love.’
Hmmm. I shouldn’t. I’ve just lost my job. I’m almost at my credit card limit and beyond the fifty pounds that Daniel just gave me, I have pretty much nothing else. Jay’s not making me pay to kip on his sofa, but I need some money for food and the Tube and gin and not necessarily in that order of importance either.
I grimace sadly. ‘I can’t afford it,’ I say, feeling littler than I ever have before.
The man behind the stall must be in a kind mood, because he says in a softer voice, ‘You can have it for a tenner. No one buys them any more, love, it’s all digital nowadays, and besides, you look like you could use some cheering up.’
I blink. ‘For real? A tenner?!’
The man picks up the camera and pops it into a paper bag. ‘I think it’s still got some film left in it as well. Go on, take it before I change my mind.’ He laughs as he hands me the bag.
I feel tears spring to my eyes. I must still be a little bit drunk from last night. Or I have the post-night-out weepies. Pull it together for God’s sake, Lizzie, you fanny.
‘Thank you!’ I say handing him over the money.
Beside me, the old lady with her teacup grumbles. ‘Oh, if you’re young and pretty with a lovely pair of bristols you get a discount, do you? All right for some.’
The man’s face grows stern again. ‘I’ve already done it for half price, Betty,’ he says. ‘You’re bankrupting me, you old boot!’
I laugh to myself, get my change and wander to the bus stop. Despite the fact that I just lost another job, have no place of my own, that my sister is growing up and that I’m a big disappointment in so many ways, a lovely butterfly feeling flutters in my stomach. I pull out the Polaroid camera and feel the weight of it in my hands. It’s chunky and ungainly and heavy. But something makes me press it to my chest in delight.
Chapter Five
Becky
‘We’ve got to be strong.’
‘And brave.’
‘We can do it.’
‘Yes, we can.’
‘I believe in us.’
‘I believe in us, too.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you.’
‘You go first, then.’
‘Nooooooo, you go first!’
Daniel and I are sitting on the tiny balcony of our flat, each one glass of Sancerre down (dutch courage), staring at the iPhone that lays on our little terrace table.
‘Come on, Bex! You go first,’ Daniel says. ‘Your dad will be happy with the news of our engagement. And then we’ll feel all happy and jolly before calling my parents—’
‘Let me finish that sentence for you: who won’t be quite as enthused because they hate me.’
‘They don’t hate you!’ Daniel protests. ‘They just always thought I’d marry,’ – he grimaces – ‘a socialite.’
/> I sigh. Daniel’s parents are snobs. Appallingly dedicated to the old-fashioned and outdated art of looking down your nose at someone if they don’t own a holiday home in Monaco and get their weekly shop delivered from Fortnum & Mason. Even after all these years they still treat our relationship as though it’s just Daniel acting out some sort of teenage rebellion and he’ll grow out of it soon enough. Like he’s sowing his posh oats with me before he settles down with someone worthy of the Balfour name. Like he’s just experimenting and I’m just his ‘bit of rough’ or something. They can’t fathom the idea that their handsome, wealthy, talented son wants to spend his life with a girl who was brought up in the working-class north and has an actual career, has to work for a living, likes to shop in Topshop and loves nothing better than finding her favourite bottle of wine is on a two-for-£15 at the local Oddbins.
‘You go first,’ I say, nudging the phone over to Daniel. ‘And then the call to my dad can be our reward, like a wonderful, gooey chocolate brownie with Green & Black’s vanilla ice cream after a week on the Atkins’ diet.’
Daniel laughs at my analogy and nods his agreement. He picks up the phone and, placing it on loudspeaker, dials his parents’ house phone at their country estate in Surrey.
‘Hello, Balfour residence,’ comes a clipped voice from the phone. It’s Elena, Daniel’s mother.
‘Mum!’ Daniel says cheerfully, a smile lighting up his face. He knows his parents can be a bit of a nightmare, but he really does love them.
‘Daniel, my darling. How are you? Mummy misses her petit cabbage.’
Yes. Daniel’s mum calls him her petit cabbage. And I die a little bit inside every time I hear her say it. And no, Daniel doesn’t know I feel this way. Even the best couples have secrets and I can’t imagine my telling him that his precious Mummy’s pet name for him makes me feel profoundly sick to my stomach is the best way to start this engagement off, can you?
‘I’m great, Mum, thanks. Erm, is Dad around?’ Daniel asks. ‘I have something to tell you both. We . . . have something to tell you.’ Argh – nice one, Daniel. Very clever. Way to throw me under the Bentley. (I would say bus but the Balfours are far too well-to-do to be associated with ‘ghastly public transport’ in any way, shape or form.)
My Sister's Wedding: For better or worse, two families are about to become one . . . Page 3
