Amanda's Wedding

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘Great! Oh, I’m sorry I can’t make you a bridesmaid, but Larissa and Portia are such good friends from varsity, I just had to ask them.’

  ‘Oh, right …’

  ‘You will meet someone, Melanie, you know. Someone nice. Such a shame about Alex dashing off like that. He was a bit of a one, wasn’t he? And of course so terribly well connected.’

  Meaning what exactly? I put my drink down, rather too emphatically.

  ‘Well, I don’t care about that, and I don’t care about Alex.’

  ‘No, of course you don’t,’ she said, patting me on the hand in an infuriating manner.

  I was constantly forgetting Amanda’s true potential for sheer malice. Revising my earlier estimate, I hoped she’d have a poxy marriage and get divorced before we’d finished the cake.

  Fran came back with the drinks, but Amanda immediately hopped up and said she had to be elsewhere. She shook back her blonde sheet of hair – rootless – and sashayed her pert little leather-trousered arse out the door to her latest-model convertible, mobile phone already clamped to her ear, waving merrily behind her, off to somewhere infinitely more glamorous and exciting than the pub on a Friday night.

  Fran and I sat in silence for a bit, till Fran said, ‘Sod that, then!’ and we drank her white wine as well as ours. Then we had another one to cheer ourselves up, and then a couple more, and before long we didn’t care that Amanda Phillips had found her handsome – if scruffy – prince and was going off to live in a castle. Much.

  Much, much later we were yabbering nonsensically about the last bloke Fran metaphorically kicked in the bollocks and threw out the house – actually, when I came to think of it, she had literally kicked him in the bollocks, and he had limped out of the house of his own accord – when across the crowded pub I spied what looked like a familiar pair of knees. Following upwards, I deduced that it was in fact Nicholas, tallest accountant in the world. (How did I know him again?) Gosh, he was tall. I liked tall.

  I tugged on Fran’s sleeve. ‘Look –’s Nicholas.’

  Fran looked roughly over. ‘Wanker,’ she said.

  Had Fran not said wanker about every bloke we’d mentioned for the last hour and a half I might have listened to her and saved myself some trauma. Instead, I waved at him in huge circular motions. ‘Knickerless!’ And I dissolved in giggles. He flew over and gave me a big kiss. Oh, we must have been old friends, then.

  ‘Melanie, fantastic to see you. I’ve just been having another crazy night out with the accountants.’

  I squinted to make out anyone else who’d been at the other end of the bar, but they all seemed to have mysteriously disappeared.

  ‘God, we’re mad. Can’t see us getting home tonight without a police caution! Chaw chaw chaw!’

  ‘Buy’s a drink, Nicklas! You’re loaded!’

  ‘Sure, babe.’ And he did so with the fervour of a man who knew only too well just how much alcohol he usually had to get down a woman to get her to sleep with him.

  In normal circumstances I would have run six miles from Nicholas, whom I had accidentally slept with at a party once because he was, er, very tall. He’d phoned me up constantly since and I’d realized that, tall though he might be, he was also the most boring bastard who’d ever lived. In fact, he was the most boring accountant who’d ever lived. After the inevitable grilling I’d caught from Fran when he turned up to pick me up in stonewashed jeans and pink cowboy boots, I’d made Linda answer the phone for a month. Now here he was again, and he was desperate, and I was desperate for attention – a deadly combination.

  Ensconced in a corner next to Fran – who looked half-asleep, but with a drowsy look that said she could still bite you on the face if you thought about trying anything – Nicholas started telling me all the latest pranks him and his fantastic accounting mates had been up to. By the time they’d finally got on the coach they’d hired to go see Bryan Adams, I was about to gnaw off my own hands in despair. With impeccable drunk logic, I decided I’d better kiss him to get him to shut the fuck up. It wasn’t the easiest of tasks; almost on a par with climbing a tree. While pissed out of your head. So, once I got to the top, I decided I’d better stay until the tree fell asleep. I’d crawled from under the wreckage the following morning.

  ‘So now what am I going to do?’ I complained to Fran. ‘There’s a big stinky man in my bedroom, whom I hate, and if I go in and wake him he’ll start telling me hysterical stories about tax again.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, ehm, could you go … like, ask him to move?’

  ‘Me! Why me? You’re the one with all his saliva! Anyway, plus, what if he’s naked?’

  ‘Oh, right, you’ve never seen a naked man before?’

  ‘Not one that’s six foot seven. It’ll put me right off my sausage sandwich.’

  Suddenly my ultra-loud doorbell rang, which made us both jump. Fran and I looked at each other and I limped dourly towards the door to stop the infernal noise.

  WHOP! Straight out of my bedroom, an absolutely starkers, very hungover, six foot seven man ran full into me in panic, and it didn’t look like he had the faintest idea what galaxy he was in.

  ‘IS THERE A FIRE?!’

  We stood for a while, looking straight at each other like rabbits caught in headlights. Then my psyche made an independent decision to turn me into my mother for as long as necessary.

  ‘No, Nicholas, of course there’s not. Go get dressed immediately! Now! – before I open the door.’

  He blinked and retreated without saying a word, headed for the bedroom, then did a quick U-turn and made a bolt for the loo, where I could soon hear him having a six foot seven pee. Well, it was either him or a passing horse had got in there. So I had solved one problem – getting him out of my bedroom – and discovered another. Maybe I could keep him locked in there for ever and the neighbours would let us use their shower.

  Finally, I opened the door, putting on an ingratiating look – not that the fat postman on the doorstep gave a toss.

  ‘Parcel.’

  I signed for it, trying not to get too excited, but this was one huge parcel. Perhaps I had a secret admirer who was sending me precious gifts because they were totally rich and also perhaps completely famous.

  Fran wandered through to try and use the loo. The fat postman noticed her – every man noticed her.

  ‘Hello, fat postman,’ she said. Then, indicating the parcel: ‘Hey, is that for you?’

  I turned it over in anticipation. ‘No, it’s for Linda. Bum bum bum.’

  ‘God, what is it – the latest in the Woodland Farm Princess Diana Star Wars plate collection?’

  ‘No, too heavy.’

  The postman wobbled off. As ever, we looked at each other, wondering how a man who walked ten miles a day could get that fat.

  ‘Books?’

  ‘Linda doesn’t read books. She eats them.’

  ‘Is that true, or is it just that you don’t like her?’

  I looked at my feet.

  ‘It’s just that I don’t like her.’

  ‘Well then, can we open it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Why not? She wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Fran, I believe she might, in fact, mind.’

  To be honest, I had no idea whether she’d mind or not. In fact, all I knew about Linda was that she worked in a bank – I couldn’t remember which one – was an only child, and had inherited money from her grandmother to buy this lovely flat and cover it in pastel tat. And I had learnt all this from the flat interview, where I had tried to look unbelievably fascinated, thus moving in under false pretences – which was a huge relief, as at the time I’d been on the run from a cabal of physiotherapists who were terrorizing me out of my shared flat in Edmonton, a period of my life I normally only flashed back to at four o’clock in the morning, wide awake and sweating.

  As if hearing our thoughts – or, more likely, she’d had her ear up against the door earwigging our entire conversation –
Linda stomped out into the corridor from her big bedroom at the back of the house, managing not to look either of us in the eye, even while grabbing the parcel out of my hand. She was short and round, with a definite aura of moustache. As she stomped back to her room, Fran and I swapped our familiar ‘Linda’ look.

  ‘Erm, guys … ha ha …’ came a strangulated voice, ‘can I, er, come out of the bathroom now?’

  Fran raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Any time you like, darling. We’ll be right here.’

  I started to giggle.

  ‘Right, OK, right …’ came the voice. Then there was a pause, during which we didn’t move back to the kitchen.

  Finally, the door started to open and Nicholas emerged, with a mass of tissue paper covering his genitals. And I mean a mass.

  ‘Bwah hah! Corking night, eh, ladies!’ he hollered, putting on a good front, I have to say. ‘What’s for breakfast?’

  ‘For you, a number sixty-eight bus,’ said Fran. ‘They deliver.’

  ‘Haw haw haw – I’ll get my dancing trousers on and be right with you. And how are you, my darling?’

  We both looked round, till I realized he was talking to me.

  ‘Oh, you know, some variation of fantastic,’ I said, hunched over, still in my towel. ‘The negative one.’ Suddenly I saw something on the floor which I hadn’t seen previously. I picked it up. It was a postcard, and this time it was for me.

  ‘Fra-an!’ my voice quavered as I followed her into the living room. ‘It’s a postcard.’

  ‘So I see. Oh, and look over there, Nicholas – it’s a door!’

  ‘Cwah cwah!’ came the voice from the other room. ‘Just wait till I tell the boys at work about this.’

  I sighed. ‘Look,’ I said urgently. ‘Look who it’s from.’

  The postcard was of the Empire State Building, almost completely obscured by a close-up of a woman’s breasts. On the other side it said simply: Darling, I’m so sorry – big mistake. I’m coming home. Alex.

  There was a long dramatic pause. Or, well, there would have been a long dramatic pause, except that Nicholas chose that moment to launch into the room wearing purple trousers (I hadn’t noticed they were purple; the effect was like a terrible plum-canning factory accident), shouting, ‘Hey, I know what would be hysterical – let’s make some French toast!!’

  Fran gave him a Paddington Bear hard stare. ‘Go look for some chocolate, Nicholas.’

  I was in shock, and scarcely noticed when Nicholas disappeared, then returned obediently with a dozen chocolate mini rolls. I was too busy staring straight ahead without blinking and trying to work everything out: Alex, Alex, Alex – my ‘one true love’, according to me. Alex, Alex, Alex, that ‘low-level rat bastard’ according to Fran and pretty much everyone else in the world.

  The first time I ever saw Alex I thought, ‘Phwoar, I’d like to get into his pants!’ And he looked at me and thought exactly the same thing: it was a true meeting of minds. Oh! That shitty West London party (well, I should have known better than to go to parties in West London and expect to have a good time, but just that once it paid off).

  I was searching for the more expensive beer that hosts hide at the back of the fridge, when:

  ‘Is it just me,’ growled a tall voice, ‘or does everyone here look like they’ve got something uncomfortable up their bums?’

  ‘That’s trendy,’ I hissed. ‘You’re supposed to be envying them. They’re only pretending not to be having a good time.’

  ‘Ohhhhh, now I understand. Right. So I can either try and get out of West London …’

  ‘Can’t be done,’ I pointed out.

  ‘True … Or I could get absolutely wasted and do something awful which I could later abdicate any responsibility for.’

  This was so pointed that I gulped and took a closer look at this six foot two, dark-haired, unruly-looking character with the most heavy-lidded, pointy-lashed brown eyes I’d ever seen.

  ‘That,’ I said, ‘sounds like it would be completely out of character.’

  Eighteen astonishing hours later, damp, grubby and absolutely starving, lying in an unfamiliar bedroom having my tummy tickled with a tea bag, I realized I was on to something.

  A year later I was blissful, swanning around with Alex, who was trying to make it as something in the music industry. He knew everyone; we always ended up at a party and all his friends were louche, slightly dodgy but with terribly nice accents. I was with the band: it was great. He wasn’t exactly the most romantic character on the planet, but I didn’t care; here I was, Melanie Pepper, twenty-six and watching minor pop-stars throw up in the corner of filthy nightclubs. Life was cool.

  More than that, though, I absolutely adored him. I loved his cool long floppy hair, and his sad brown puppy eyes, and was constantly trying to get him to notice me. I would jump up and down trying to reach him, and he would give me his big lazy grin and check out who else was in on the conversation. Occasionally he would indulge me with his attention, and I would be like one of those pathetically affectionate little dogs they’re always rescuing on programmes about the RSPCA. Other times he’d flirt with women for ages and I would be distraught. In short, he was not that good a boyfriend, no doubt about it. But in his leather trousers … well, you know, a girl is a girl, and leather trousers and pop-star friends are leather trousers and pop-star friends, so of course I did what the cool girls should NEVER do, which is fall in love with the cool boys. It blows the whole thing.

  Still, he’d been coming round. I’d notice the occasional look of tenderness on his face. Or he’d phone me, for no reason. Or come home early from a gig. He was coming round, I could sense it. He loved me. He even passed the ‘Would you mind just picking me up some Tampax on the way over?’ test. So I was just about to suggest that we … possibly … think about moving in together – not seriously or anything, just a casual moving-in thing because, after all, all that toothbrush expense just didn’t seem worth it, ha ha – when he vanished. Off the face of the earth.

  I waited for him to call one weekend and he never did. It was that simple. Assuming it was an X-Files type incident and could have nothing to do with me, I let twenty-four hours go by before I finally phoned his flatmate, Charlie, who lived in Fulham. Charlie wasn’t best pleased to have to put up with Alex’s shit, and too posh to be kind. He informed me wearily that Alex had gone to the States to find himself, and was sorry he hadn’t told me but it seemed easier that way.

  Not even a desultory note! Alex had dumped me by moving continents and leaving a message with a laconic friend!

  For weeks I was too strung out even to cry. It felt like someone had scooped out my insides with a cold spoon. Fran was wonderful then; I’d never known anyone with a fuller range of colourful epithets and hexes. She spat venom for me; I sat in corners and rocked myself. I felt embarrassed just walking down to the shops for more crisps, with the sheer humiliation I felt must be written all over my face. It was pain like I’d never known, worse even than when I got the Spangles papers stuck up my nose (I was four; I’m not weird or anything).

  As the months passed, everything had settled to the occasional dull ache, which I had most recently attempted to assuage with the guest now smacking his lips over the chocolate mini rolls as if they were caviar.

  ‘OK,’ said Fran. ‘I’m just going to take this little piece of junk mail and put it where it belongs …’

  I snatched it out of her hand.

  ‘Come on, Mel. This is low-life trash bastard post. In fact, if you like, I’ll even give you the honour of setting fire to it.’

  ‘Hey, guys, what’s going on?’ said Nicholas the Intuitive, through a mouthful of chocolate mush. Apparently, if he didn’t get 15,000 calories a day he’d die.

  I opened my eyes.

  ‘Look, I really don’t want to be rude, but would you just GO AWAY!’ I burst out, but I couldn’t hold the moment. ‘Ehm, it’s just that Fran and I have this REALLY IMPORTANT THING to do that we’ve been planning for ages
…’

  ‘Yeah, it’s called the Getting Away From Nicholas Thing,’ said Fran, not quite under her breath.

  ‘Sure, hey, not a problem, babe. How about I pick you up tonight at seven and we go for a ludicrously expensive dinner at my client’s expense? Chaw chaw chaw!’

  ‘Unfortunately this THING that Mel and I have to do lasts for AGES,’ said Fran. ‘So sorry. But you have to go. NOW.’

  ‘Hey, cool your jets. No one ever said that Nicholas Snodley couldn’t take a hint.’

  I suddenly ran to the other side of the room and started de-alphabetizing Linda’s CDs in case he tried to give me a kiss. Linda’s CDs: The Greatest Love Songs Ever – One, The Greatest Love Songs Ever – Two and, for a bit of variety, The Greatest Love Songs in the World – Ever! And some dolphin noises.

  ‘Mel, babe, I’ll ring you soon, huh? About the Brian May Appreciation bash?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘BYE.’

  He went for playing it cool: ‘Yeah, right. What’s your number again?’

  I meant to give him the wrong number, but in my confused emotional state got mixed up and accidentally gave him the right one.

  ‘Ciao then, babes,’ he sleazed, and, bending under the doorframe, he was gone. I swear I could hear the echoing ‘chaw chaw chaw’ down the corridor in his wake.

  Out of the frying pan, I thought to myself, picking up the postcard again. I moved back and collapsed on the sofa next to Fran, leaning my head on her shoulder.

  ‘Please, never do the Nicholas thing again,’ she said.

  ‘But it’s so much fun for you.’

  ‘Mel, you know I’d rather grate myself than see you go anywhere near that eight-foot pole of slime.’

  I held up the postcard weakly. ‘I missed him so much.’

  ‘I know you did.’

  ‘I still do.’

  ‘I know you do. But what kind of man would do what he did to you without being a total bastard?’