by Jenny Colgan
He stalked to the other side of the room – which, given the size of it, took two seconds – grabbed the sill and stared out of the sash windows.
‘Play the damn thing then.’
Angus was looking at me, but I couldn’t look back. This was much much worse than I ever thought it would be. I’d had visions of him even thanking us. Angus leaned over and clicked the switch, and there it came again:
‘You’re so naïve, Melanie.’
It echoed in my brain like a special effect.
‘You’re so naïve, Melanie.’
Of course I was, otherwise what was I doing in this tiny, pristine, overheated room, betraying one friend and losing another?
‘You’re so naïve, Melanie.’
Who did I think I was, Mystic Meg? What had I done this for? Silently, I began to cry. This lovely, gorgeous bloke was still going to get married, and he was going to hate me into the bargain.
Fraser stood stock-still, looking out into the rain and the heavy traffic. Fortunately, Angus managed to stop the tape before my big speech, so at least we were spared that.
Nobody spoke for what seemed like a long time. I was trying to dry my tears without anyone noticing. Unfortunately, to maintain the silence, I had to let some snot drop out of my nose so I didn’t have to sniff. It plopped quietly on to the white rug, and I rubbed it with my foot.
Finally, Fraser turned round.
‘So, actually, she didn’t say any of those things you mentioned, about the title and the magazines and all that shit.’
I could feel Angus looking at me, but I couldn’t return his gaze. Fraser’s voice was furious.
‘In fact, she spoke for ten seconds about keeping her individuality after she gets married and having thought the damn thing through beforehand, and you take that as proof that she’s some kind of social-climbing bitch. Like you know anything about my wedding, or about my girlfriend or my own fucking life. Not only that, you manage to draft some of my friends into this idiotic scheme … Melanie, are you crying?’
‘Nooo,’ I whimpered.
He came and stood beside me and patted me on the arm – which of course made it worse – without stopping talking.
‘I mean, Gus, what the fuck do you want? What do you really want? Do you want the damn title? Because you’re making so much bloody fuss about it, you might as well have it. It doesn’t matter to me, but it looks like it matters to you.’
‘Of course it doesn’t matter to me,’ growled Angus, who looked sullen and red.
‘Well, what then? What the hell is it? Why won’t you leave this damn thing alone? You’re trying to sabotage this whole thing, and I don’t even know why.’
His face was a mixture of anger and misery, and genuine miscomprehension.
Angus bowed his head low. ‘I’m sorry we came.’
‘I’m sorry you came. And why are you dragging Melanie into it, for God’s sake?’
I snuffled.
‘I’m sorry I did that too,’ said Angus. ‘I meant well. I’m sorry.’
‘Please,’ said Fraser. ‘Please, just … leave it alone. You’re like a dog with something between its teeth, Gus. Always have been. You won’t let things fucking well alone.’
‘I’d better be going.’
‘You better had.’
I stood up awkwardly to follow him.
Fraser took my arm and looked at me with some concern.
‘Are you going to be OK?’
‘Do you hate me?’ I choked.
He smiled sadly. ‘No, of course not. Gus, are you going to take her home?’
Angus nodded. Fraser turned away from us.
‘Bye then.’ It was a dismissal.
We trooped through the corridor. As we got to the door, Angus turned round and went back to the sitting room. Blindly, I followed him.
‘Do you …’ he began, as he stepped through the door.
Fraser was sitting there, staring at the tape recorder in his hands. He looked up at his brother, his eyes damp.
‘What?’ he growled, caught off guard.
Angus blushed furiously. ‘Nothin’. Just wondering about cabs. Bye.’
That time we left for good.
Angus strode fiercely through the park, the rain blowing back his hair and coat, all mention of a cab apparently forgotten. I trotted along beside him, ashamed of myself, and terrified of what he was going to say. I felt like such a stupid girl. He didn’t speak for what seemed like miles. I was tempted to slip quietly behind him and go the other way, but I didn’t dare. Suddenly, in the dark, I tripped over something or other and let out a strangled yell. Angus whipped back and immediately his stony face softened.
‘Are you OK?’ he yelled across the wind.
‘I’m … fine,’ I croaked, although I didn’t feel fine at all. I tried to stand up, and it was agonizing. Angus caught me keeling over.
‘What’ve you done?’
‘I … I think I’ve twisted my ankle.’ I leaned on him heavily, feeling a bit green.
‘Are you going to be sick?’
‘I wouldn’t …’ I tried to take a step forward, ‘rule it out as a possibility.’
‘Great,’ he said gloomily, supporting my elbow. ‘Is this the best evening out you’ve ever had?’
I managed another step, wincing. ‘Well, it’s the best freezing cold family feud twisted ankle evening out I’ve ever had.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’
He indicated a park bench, but I could see the lights of Camden in the distance and pointed to them.
‘Can you make it?’
‘Can you carry me?’
‘I could try.’
I giggled. ‘Only kidding. I’d kill you. Just let me lean on you for a bit.’
The next ten minutes were agony, but finally we collapsed in the first pub we came to. It was so good to be out of the cold and the wet, I felt better already. The pub was quiet and old-fashioned. It actually had a fire lit in the grate, and we sat beside it to dry off.
Angus got up to fetch me a whisky. I’d rather have had a glass of white wine, but I stuck to his judgement in situations like this.
Angus returned with two large glasses. ‘Thank God for civilization,’ he said.
‘Can I have some ice in mine?’
‘No, you bloody well can’t.’
‘That’s not very civilized, telling people what to do.’
We both stared into the fire for a bit.
‘What do you think will happen?’ I ventured finally. Angus heaved a sigh.
‘I wish I knew,’ he said. ‘I felt like such a bloody fool. Tell me it had to be done, Mel.’
I thought of Fraser’s face – so pained and miserable.
‘Ehm … I suppose so.’
Angus rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s the rest of his life. Every day, having to wake up next to someone who thinks he’s an idiot. Oh God, I don’t know. I just hate her so much. And, you know, I’ve only got one brother. Since Dad died … we’ve been really close. Well, I thought we were.’
‘Have you fallen out before?’
‘Not like this. Apart from the whole Star Wars figures thing. But that was a long time ago. Normally, when I speak to him about the wedding he treats it as a joke … but it’s getting so close.’
‘God, yes … it’s soon, isn’t it?’
‘Three weeks’ time. Pyrford village church. Good Protestant vicar and four hundred guests to a five-course meal.’
‘Not for me.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry …’
‘Nope, I don’t care.’
‘You may not have to. Did you see the way he was holding that tape recorder?’
‘Yes, because he was so pissed off with you.’
‘Did you think so? I thought he was pissed off with her.’
I sipped my drink.
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Mel, can I ask you a question?’
I hate it when someone says that. What they usually mean is: Mel, can I insult you and
get away with it, having warned you in advance?
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Why did you start crying?’
‘That’s, umm, a very good question.’
‘Sorry. I don’t mean to intrude.’
‘It’s OK. I’m really sorry, actually. I got upset about things – it seemed so rotten. Why can’t everyone just be nice and end up with nice people? … That sounds pathetic.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ he said gently. ‘Do you include yourself in “everyone”?’
‘That’s the standard definition, isn’t it? I’m sorry. About all of it.’
‘Oh, it’s my fault. Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll recover. We are brothers, after all. Blood and stuff. I think I’ll give him a wee ring in the morning, once it’s all blown over a bit.’
Phew, at least I didn’t have to do that. I finished my whisky and suddenly felt enormously sleepy.
‘How are you going to get home?’ asked Angus.
I realized to my surprise that, actually, I didn’t want to go home; I wanted to curl up in front of this big fire and put my head on his shoulder. But I didn’t say that.
‘I can’t get a cab; it’ll cost a fortune,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll phone Alex. He can drive Charlie’s car and come and pick me up.’
Angus lent me his phone.
‘Does this work in underwater pipes?’ I asked, picking up the big thing with a huge fluorescent stripe down it.
‘Maybe,’ he grinned.
Charlie answered.
‘Is Alex there?’
‘Erhm – what?’
‘Charlie, it’s Mel.’ Brain of dough. ‘Is Alex there?’
‘Ehrr, um, I’ve just got in … Ehm, I’ll go and check.’
I shot Angus a look. ‘That boy gets more moronic every day.’
‘It’s the inbreeding.’
I nodded. There was a lot of scuffling in the background, and some whispering going on.
‘Hello?’ asked Alex doubtfully.
‘Alex? Hi, it’s me.’
‘Oh, hello, pumpkin. I, ehm, thought you were out tonight.’
‘I am. Was. Look, I’ve twisted my ankle, pretty badly. Do you think you could come and pick me up?’
‘Ehm … where are you?’
‘Camden.’
‘Camden. Jesus, that’s miles away! Can’t you get a cab?’
‘If I made twice the salary I do now, I would get a cab. Look, I’d rather not, I don’t feel well and I’ve really hurt myself.’ I started to get upset again. ‘Can’t you come and get me?’
‘Look, Mel, sweetheart, I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.’
‘What? What the hell is it? Why do I have to plead with you to come and pick me up?’
‘Ehm, some of the lads are round and I’ve really had too much to drink to drive.’
‘I don’t believe you. I think you just don’t want to come and get me.’
‘Pumpkin, I would if I could, honest. Trust me, it’s just impossible. Why don’t you just take a cab home and I’ll see you tomorrow?’
There was a pause. I didn’t know what to say, so I hung up the phone.
Angus looked away, embarrassed. I waited till the urge to cry had passed and swallowed hard.
‘Bastard,’ I said.
‘Sounds like one,’ said Angus. ‘I’d carry you home.’
I looked at him. ‘You would too.’
‘Damsel in distress. My speciality.’
I laughed. ‘I’m tempted.’
‘Be tempted.’ His voice suddenly turned serious. He looked at me face on, with that direct gaze of his, and my heart started beating extremely fast. We looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. Our faces began to come a little closer. Then I moved slightly, and jarred my ankle really, really hard against the chair.
‘AAAYICK!’ I yelled, bending over. The whole sleepy bar looked over to see who was being murdered. I put my hands on my ankle, trying to make it better, but it was agony. Shockwaves of pain careered up my legs.
‘Ow! Ow! Ow ow ow ow ow.’
‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Angus got up with me, as I started hopping about on one leg.
‘Ow ow ow. God, my fucking ankle! It really fucking hurts.’
‘Do you want to lean on me? Go to Casualty?’
‘No, no no. Jesus! This has happened before. Ehm, the best thing I could do really is just go home and take some aspirin. Arsing hell.’
A look passed between us. The moment when whatever might have happened was going to happen had gone.
Angus went to the bar and called a cab. I was escorted out by him and the barman, and an hour later I was safely tucked up in bed with four Nurofen and the comfort of a guaranteed sickie in the morning.
Twelve
Unfortunately, my ankle felt practically fine in the morning. Well, stiff, and it hurt if I really put my weight on it, but not quite enough to justify sickie status. And as I felt, overall, that my morality rating wasn’t at its highest, I got ready to go in.
My mind felt like scrambled eggs, so I decided to make some for breakfast.
‘Linda, do you want some scrambled eggs?’
She emerged, fully dressed but looking sleepy, from her bedroom. The look on her face plainly told me how amazed she was at this whole me-cooking thing. However, surprisingly, she took me up on it. Well, there was food involved, I supposed.
There would be no point, I surmised, in asking for her advice. So I asked her about the bank instead.
‘What bank?’
‘Ehm, don’t you work in a bank?’
‘No.’
Actually, I could pull my own teeth out just fine, thank you.
‘So, where do you work, again?’
‘Brimley’s.’
‘Brimley’s …?’
‘Insurance.’
‘Right! Right … So, how’s it going?’
‘Fine.’
I sipped my tea. It was going to be a long day.
‘I need the weekend,’ she said suddenly.
I thought she might be asking me to give back something I’d borrowed off her, and I racked my brains to remember, but couldn’t.
‘The what?’
‘The weekend,’ she said, enunciating very slowly as I was clearly such an idiot.
‘Right … the weekend,’ I said. This was turning into some sort of perpetual conversational nightmare.
‘Before Christmas. I need the flat for the weekend.’
‘Oh, right. You want me to get out?’
She nodded. There didn’t seem to be much room for argument.
‘Fine, OK,’ I said without thinking. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. Which one?’
‘All of it.’
‘Which weekend?’
‘The one before Christmas,’ she explained patiently.
Oh. Speak in sentences, you dozy cow.
‘OK. OK, fine.’
That was the weekend of the wedding, so I supposed we’d be away anyway, somehow or other. But what on earth was Linda up to? Her actually doing something threatened the stability of my already fragile view of the universe.
‘What are you up to?’ I asked her.
She stared at me, stood up abruptly from the table and walked out. Great.
I couldn’t face washing up the scrambled egg pan, so I left it and limped into work.
‘Ey up, snoots.’ I bumped into Steve coming in. ‘You been in the wars, then?’
I groaned. ‘You should see the other guy. And he was a Cockney.’
‘Yeah, right. You’d be dead.’
‘Actually, now I think about it, that’s true. I’d rather kill myself than have physical contact with a Cockney.’
I walked into the office, and got a huge sense of déjà vu. Sitting on my desk was another cheap bouquet; and there was another crying jag from my next-door neighbour.
‘What’s the matter now?’ I said brusquely, dumping the flowers in the bin.
‘I thought they were for
me.’
‘Do you want them?’ I looked at them in the bin, now covered in banana skin and old plastic coffee cups.
‘No. Aren’t you even going to read the card?’
‘I can predict the card.’ Nonetheless, I took a quick peek.
‘Sorry about your ankle, pumpkin. Can I see you tonight? I’ll pick you up,’ it said.
‘Fuck off,’ I said sourly, and plumped myself down on the stool. The phone rang.
‘Fuck off,’ I said again, and picked up all the unopened post that was spilling over my in-tray.
The phone rang fourteen times that morning. Each time I swore at it and concentrated on what I was doing instead. Finally, Janie leaned over and said quietly, ‘You know, you could put that on voice mail, then you wouldn’t even have to hear it ring.’
It pissed me off that that was such an eminently reasonable suggestion, so I just said ‘huh,’ and went back to being in a big sulk.
At lunch time the receptionist put her head round the open-plan office door.
‘Melanie Pepper!’ she shrieked.
I tentatively put my hand up.
‘You’re not answering your phone!’
Stop shrieking at me! I stood up carefully.
‘There’s someone here to see you in reception.’
Jesus. ‘Is it a man?’
‘It sure is.’
‘Can you … tell him I’m on a business trip?’
‘You ain’t on no business trip!’
‘No, but could you tell him that?’
‘You can come right upstairs and tell him yourself.’
‘How can I …? Oh, forget it, never mind.’
The receptionist had already retreated up the stairs. I followed slowly, trying to figure out a strategy. The bastard. He was going to pay, the selfish bastard.
Fraser stood nervously at the top of the stairs, pretending to admire our annual report. He looked tense. If it were an earlier age, he’d have been playing with his top hat and gloves.
I stood looking at him for a second, then crept up behind him.
‘Don’t tell me: you’re a masochist,’ I said suddenly. Startled, he turned round, then smiled shyly.
‘Hullo.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Well, Angus gave me your work address …’
