by Jenny Colgan
‘What?’
‘Oh no, you wouldn’t be interested …’
‘What?’ I said.
‘That is not at all a bad idea.’
‘Thank you,’ I said proudly.
‘We could annoy them big time. In fact, a few little words in Fraser’s ear … Maybe we should let him know what little missie is really like before he gives her a castle and stuff.’
I looked at her, shocked.
‘What, like, talk to him about Amanda?’
‘Why not? You’re his friend, right?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And if you saw a friend about to be eaten by a crocodile, you’d warn them, right?’
‘Hmm.’ It sounded a bit dubious to me.
‘A big, poisonous crocodile, Mel!’
‘Do you get poisonous crocodiles?’
A look at Fran’s face convinced me that you did.
‘Well,’ I concurred, ‘then, yes, I suppose I would.’ ‘Jamesh Bond?’
‘Hullo thair, Moneypenny.’
‘You know the Evil One, whom that brother of yours insists on marrying?’
‘The person of whom you speak is not unfamiliar to me.’
‘Well, I have a secret mission for you that could piss her off mightily.’
‘Tell me more.’
I explained her treacherous betrayal, and he instantly saw no trouble at all in inviting us to Fraser’s stag night.
‘Even though I’m not best man, I’m still doing all the organizing. McLachlan can’t sort his way out of a paper bag, as you’ll see when you meet him.’
‘Are there going to be strippers?’
‘Why, do youse two want to do it?’
‘Do you think Fraser would approve?’
‘Och, you know my brother. He’ll be hiding under the table anyway. Yes, there might be a stripper, but nothing, you know …’
‘What?’ I asked innocently. I could sense his pink face getting even pinker over the phone.
‘Now, stop being a naughty girrul. It’ll be fine. Saturday night, starting at the Princess Louise. And tell that skinny pal of yours not to get into any more fights.’
‘Ha! You tell her! Then I can watch her kick your head in.’
Alex was faintly perturbed that he hadn’t been invited to the stag do and we had.
‘You don’t even know him,’ I pointed out. ‘You’ve met him about twice.’
‘I know Amanda and her friends.’
‘Well, go to her hen night then.’
‘No thanks. Bunch of screaming Harpies. Why aren’t you going?’
I rolled my eyes at him.
‘Long story. OK, look, why don’t you tag along with us? No one’s going to mind.’
Except Angus, who inexplicably hates you, I thought. Oh yes, and Fran, who barely tolerates you.
‘Well, OK then,’ he said diffidently, as if we’d all been begging him to come for hours.
He stretched his legs out on the chaise longue. Charlie’s place, while lovely and clearly very expensive, was done up in boy-meets-mother style. Soft furnishings – no doubt spares from the country – shared house room with mountain bikes; expensive and overwrought stereo equipment rested on expensive and overwrought occasional tables. Over it all was a faint aroma de rugby kit. Still, I was making the two-hour trip to West London more and more often, as Alex showed a marked reluctance to cross the river now he didn’t absolutely have to. It was Sunday afternoon.
Charlie walked in and ignored me as usual.
‘Splinters!’ he hollered at Alex.
‘Fishcake!’ returned Alex, and they burst out into hearty guffaws.
‘I’ve got tickets to Twickers on Saturday.’
Alex leapt up. ‘Fantastic! How’d you manage that, you old bastard?’
Charlie tapped his Huguenot nose. ‘It’s who you know, innit?’ he said in fake Cockney.
‘That’s Fraser’s stag night,’ I said.
Charlie’s heavy half-shut eyes lit up. ‘Stag party! Wo ho ho!’
‘And you are NOT invited,’ I added.
‘How do you know? It’s a stag party. Blokes, beer and birds, way hey!’
‘Because I’m going, and Fran’s going and – oh yes, a whole bunch of other people who actually know the groom.’
Charlie was obviously ruffled by the mention of Fran but merely swept through to the kitchen saying, ‘Totty at a stag party? Shouldn’t be allowed. Sounds like absolute crap, if you ask me.’
‘Shall we go out for lunch?’ I asked Alex pointedly.
Alex gave me a hangdog look and trailed out the door after me.
‘Got you by the apron strings there, hasn’t she, matey boy?’ I heard as we left.
‘I don’t think,’ I said, walking down the street, ‘that I could dislike that boy any more than I do. He’s such an … an oaf.’
‘Charlie is not an oaf!’ said Alex, looking cross. ‘And he doesn’t like you either.’
‘Boohoohoo,’ I said. ‘The molester doesn’t like me.’
‘You get more like that friend Fran of yours every day,’ he said.
We ate lunch reading the papers sullenly. Eventually, I kicked him under the table and gave him a grin. He grinned back and raised his eyebrows, and we returned to the papers in relative harmony, reading out our favourite small-time celebrity shagger-of-the-week stories, before Alex had to disappear for a tour in his friend Henry’s new car – a two-seater, natch.
That friend Fran of mine was waiting outside my flat when I got back later that afternoon.
‘I can’t see why you won’t just give me a key,’ she huffed.
‘I can’t see why you think you actually live at my house.’
Fran slouched herself off the wall and deigned to mount the stairs to my flat. She still looked good being pouty, given that most of us had grown out of it at nineteen.
‘Anyway …’ she said, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. This was strictly verboten in Linda’s house, but she didn’t look in the mood to be trifled with. ‘That molesting bastard friend of your very own personal bastard phoned me to ask me out for a drink.’
‘What? Charlie? NO! When?’
‘About two hours ago.’
‘Jesus. So, this time he’s going to buy you dinner before he attempts to rape you.’
‘Looks like it,’ said Fran, narrowing her eyes.
‘God. That really takes the piss. No wonder you got the big flowers. What did you say?’
‘I didn’t say anything: he left a message asking me out. Well, I think he did. You know what posh boys are like. He said, “Maybe a drink sometime, right, yars, OK, right, yars, sorry, right, bye then, yars.” So, statistically, it could have meant anything.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m not sure. I mean, I could tell him to take the phone, stick it up his arse and dial 999 with his prostrate now, or I could do it loudly in front of a lot of other people somewhere public.’
Now I came to think of it, this could be good. This could be very good indeed.
‘Ooh, do the second one. Where’s the most public place you could actually dump him?’
‘Well …’ She exhaled in an actory way and leaned forward. ‘First I thought, what’s the highest-rated TV show? Then I realized that what we’d have to do is qualify for Stars in Their Eyes.’
‘Don’t tell me … Sonny and Cher?’
‘Keith Harris and Orville.’
‘Yuk. Who’d be Orville?’
‘Who d’you think?’
I winced. ‘Well, I suppose he’d be used to it.’
‘Quite.’
‘So, you’d dump him on Stars in Their Eyes?’
‘Oh no. We’d win that, bring out a cover record, get asked on to pull the National Lottery lever, and then I’d dump him.’
‘Wow! An almost flawless plan.’
‘What do you mean, “almost flawless”?’
I put my arm around her.
‘I’m sorr
y, dear. But I don’t think even the real Keith Harris could win that show.’
She sighed melodramatically. ‘I know. Unless we were up against the fake Joe Dolce.’
‘What’s Plan B?’
She giggled maliciously. ‘Plan B is the table next to Amanda’s bunch of slavering Sloane witches at her hen night. I thought I’d do lots of shouting and maybe set things on fire.’
I loved that plan.
‘Oh yes, please, please do that, please.’
‘Unfortunately it’s on a Friday night, and they’re full up.’
‘You checked?’ I asked, full of admiration.
‘Well, I’m not called …’ she paused. ‘What am I called?’
The man-chomping gonzo of South London, I didn’t say.
‘Ehm … no one calls you anything. Except Fran.’
‘Huh. Well, anyway, so, plan C.’
‘?’
‘Keep reading the papers.’
‘What?’
Fran lifted up her profile dramatically.
‘I am going to shag him to death.’
Oh no. Fran had done this shag-to-death routine before. It was never pretty. It involved a man having a night he would probably never forget, with a woman he would never normally have a hope of scoring with – i.e. Fran – then having to follow her around in humiliation for weeks begging for a second chance. It had never failed so far, and was a punishment kept for the most flagrant transgressors.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked her. ‘That’s pretty serious.’
‘It’s poetic justice,’ she announced sternly, reaching for the phone.
‘Charlie! Hello there! How lovely to hear from you!’
I danced up and down furiously in front of her doing more and more elaborate vomit-miming. She reciprocated by making wanker motions in time with her talking.
‘Yes, that would be super.’
I couldn’t not laugh.
‘Eight thirty? I’ll see you there … OK, bye now.’
She put the phone down and I let out a suppressed snort of laughter.
‘He’s dead!’ I said. ‘You just killed a man stone dead!’
‘I doubt he’ll be able to even get it out of his pants,’ said Fran. ‘It’s almost too easy.’
Next day I got in the lift by mistake before remembering my rightful place back in the lime green basement.
Cockney Boy was on fine form. ‘Hey, snoots!’ he yelled at me. I gave him my best contemptuous look. I was a bit worried that I was taking all my career angst out on him. Then I looked at the rash of unbroken pus spots under his shaving line and thought, well, if needs must …
‘Snoots,’ he said again, ‘I got off with this girl last night, right. She was all over me.’
‘I know,’ I said, smiling sweetly. ‘She’s left some dog make-up on you.’
‘Ha,’ he said, without humour. ‘Bet you just stayed in watching EastEnders, then?’
‘Yes, I did, actually. I didn’t know you had a part-time acting job as Robbie Jackson.’
He sneered at me and left me alone. On my right, Janie was red-eyed again. We hadn’t got past the everyday stage of my asking her if she was all right when she clearly wasn’t, to which she would vehemently nod while being on the brink of tears. I got her a coffee, and didn’t get Cockney Boy one, and her eyes brimmed over at such basic human kindness.
At lunch time I took a book and a ciabatta roll – the cool effect rather spoiled by a packet of beef Hula Hoops – into an alcove I’d discovered behind reception. I was rather cross to find it already occupied. Janie was there, snivelling away into a disgusting piece of green tissue. I sighed and mentally abandoned my peaceful lunch.
‘OK, tell me: what’s the matter?’ As long as it wasn’t a lifelong infatuation with The English Patient, surely I ought to be able to do something. Oh God, I hoped it wasn’t cancer or anything really tough. Or her parents dying – oh no! That would be awful. I cringed in anticipation. I’d always thought of myself as a kind person, but now I realized that was in fact a complete fallacy. I was really a path-of-least-resistance person. Damn!
Gradually, the sobbing started to slow down. I patted her tentatively on the shoulder, and said ‘Don’t worry!’ encouragingly. This brought on a fresh wave. My sandwich began to fade away into some dried-out afterlife in my mind.
Finally she stumbled: ‘It’s James … my boyfriend … It’s – boohoohoo …’
Oh well, at least it was something I could deal with. Not-quite-up-to-scratch boyfriends were my speciality.
‘Right, tell me all about it,’ I said. ‘Has he moved to Fulham to live with someone you absolutely hate?’
‘No,’ she looked up, momentarily surprised.
‘Whoops, no, that’s me,’ I remembered. ‘Well, what’s he done?’
‘He wasn’t at home last night … and he didn’t even phone me.’ The last part of the sentence was drawn out in melodramatic sobs.
‘Ehm, so what?’ I said gaily. ‘Who are you, Ally McBeal? It’s not that much of a problem! He was probably just out for a pint or something.’
She sniffed loudly. ‘Why didn’t he ring me, then?’
‘Why? Are you two married?’
‘No.’
‘Have you got kids? Pets? Lice?’
‘No.’
‘Well, why did he have to ring you then? You’re both independent.’
God, this was good advice. I was brilliant at this.
She sniffed again.
‘Did you phone him?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
‘More than once?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many times?’ I asked, not wanting to know the answer.
‘Oh, well … I pretty much just –’
‘– pressed the redial button all night?’ I interrupted.
She nodded mutely.
‘Pfff. Bad news. How long have you two been together.’
‘Six weeks.’
I heard Psycho music in my head.
‘Oh … OK.’
I settled back into the potted plant. This story was obviously a long one.
It was, but nothing original. After being dumped by her fiancé well into plate-planning stage, she had clung on to any passing flotsam ever since. James was a stockbroker and sounded perfectly dull and nice and nothing to worry about.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ I said. ‘He sounds perfectly … nice. And at least he’s rich.’
‘I know.’ She pouted a little. ‘When we get married I think we could get one of those nice houses in Clapham … if he ever speaks to me again.’
Hang on there, schizo girl!
‘He doesn’t know you’re getting married, does he?’
‘No.’
‘Then for God’s sake, Janie, leave him alone. He’s going to do what he’s going to do anyway, whether you’re crying about it or not.’
She looked as if she was about to cry again.
‘Come on. Stop it. You know it’s true. Leave him alone. He sounds nice and you’re going to drive him away.’
She sniffed in a final kind of a way and looked up at me.
‘I know. I’m sorry. I just get a bit daft.’
‘Huh! Don’t worry about that,’ I said heartily, trying to get my hand round to where my sandwich was.
‘What about you?’ she said suddenly. ‘How’s your love life?’
‘Oh …’ I raised my eyebrows quizzically. ‘It’s good. It’s fine. No, really, I mean, it’s OK, most of the time … Well, ha ha, you know how it is.’
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘Any time you want to talk about it, just let me know.’
Hang on, I thought. Wasn’t this … I mean …
‘Righty-ho!’ I said. (I never say ‘Righty-ho.’)
I looked out through the atrium into the rain.
‘Hula Hoop?’
‘Thanks,’ said Janie, and took four.
Eight
Alex phoned that night.
‘H
ey, pumpkin.’
‘Hey yourself.’
‘What are you up to?’
‘Oh, you know, just hanging around the house in my black, silky, lacy underwear – oh, it’s so warm! I must unfasten my negligée.’
‘Yeah yeah yeah.’
‘Oh! Is that the door? Goodness me, hello, plumber. Have you come to … clean out my pipes?’
‘Mel, shut up for just one second.’
‘OK … big boy.’
‘Listen, ehm, Charlie really wants to come to this do on Saturday night.’
‘No he doesn’t. He said it sounded complete crap.’
‘Well, when I got back on Sunday he said he really wanted to come, and could I ask you.’
‘God, what’s the matter with the boy, is he a Johnny No-Mates? Is this the first party he’s ever been invited to? Hang on, no, I mean, is this the latest party he hasn’t been invited to?’
‘No, I don’t know what it is. He just keeps pestering me, and I said I’d ring you, that’s all.’
‘Ah ha ho – I think I know.’
‘What? What is it?’
‘I’m not telling you. And no, he can’t. He’s annoying.’
‘Oh, go on, Mel – please. Please. For a mate.’
‘A mate? Who, you?’
‘Well, you know what I mean.’
‘You’re my mate?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Your soul mate. Now, please, please can you get Charlie an invite?’
‘Alex, is he going to chuck you out if you don’t wangle him into this party?’
‘Ehmm … yes?’
‘Good. No, he definitely can’t come.’
‘I’ll … do the washing-up.’
‘I … probably wouldn’t notice.’
‘Oh, go on, Mel. It’ll be a laugh.’
I sighed. ‘Fine, fine, if it means that much to you.’
‘Fantastic.’ His voice turned curious. ‘Why does he want to come so much then?’
Ha! I don’t think Alex really needed to know that. Fran had obviously commenced the process.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well …’ I said. Then inspiration struck. ‘Apparently, Charlie’s never seen a stripper before and there apparently … might … be one.’
‘No, really? I’ve never seen one either.’
‘Good God, what is the public school system coming to these days? Anyway, good. I’m glad you’re happy. I’ll see you on Saturday … unless you feel like popping round now …?’
