by Lynda Renham
Did I really say I couldn’t wait to get back to my lovely cosy cottage in cold England? It is freezing. The olive oil in the cupboard is a frozen block. I have icicles inside the cottage and my pipes have frozen, the pipes in my cottage that is. Even the plumber had a good laugh at that one.
‘I bet they’re nice and firm then,’ he had joked. Don’t you just hate smutty plumbers?
Even with the heating on full blast I can’t get warm. I wrap myself in my long Marks and Spencer shawl, tuck my legs underneath me and settle back onto the couch with a glass of Chardonnay and a packet of marshmallows. I turn on the TV to watch a New Year’s Eve omnibus edition of EastEnders. I don’t normally watch EastEnders but I figure if anything is going to add to my misery then this will. I am going to wallow in my misery. I cannot recall a time when I have been more miserable. Even the butcher thought I looked a bit peaky and threw in half a dozen duck eggs to build me up.
‘Have them with your bacon. That will bring the colour back to your cheeks.’
I never thought I would see the day when the butcher thought I needed building up. Every cloud has a silver lining I suppose. Duck eggs are fabulous in sponges. I decide to make one tomorrow. After all, what else will I be doing on New Year’s Day? I certainly won’t have my head down the loo like everyone else. I’ve been home for just over twenty-four hours and I am beginning to know just how Jack Bauer feels at the end of his twenty-four. I’m jet-lagged, weary, and still very single. Toby was lovely throughout the whole of the flight but I just don’t love him any more. I didn’t quite find the courage to tell him this until the taxi had stopped outside my cottage and he was all geared up to come in with me.
‘I really want to be alone,’ I had said, shivering at the front door.
He stood there, his nose running and unable to do anything because he was holding both of my suitcases. The temptation to wipe his nose had been overwhelming but I fought the urge.
‘Now what’s up, Libs?’ he had asked between sniffs. ‘I thought we were getting on really well.’
I had stepped aside so he could plonk the suitcases in the porch.
‘Thanks Toby, I really appreciate everything you have done…’
He then plonked his wet lips and snotty nose onto my face and if I had any doubts about breaking up with him they all went in that moment. I stepped back and fell over the suitcases and landed with a crash onto the floor taking Toby with me. At that moment, my neighbour popped by to welcome me home with a Battenberg cake and a pint of milk.
‘I saw you pull up,’ he said brightly, watching Toby and I struggle to our feet. ‘This is all we have I’m afraid, apart from a jar of beetroot.’
‘This is great,’ I said, taking the milk and Battenberg.
‘I hate bloody beetroot,’ commented Toby.
‘You’re not bloody getting any,’ I almost said but managed to stop myself in time.
He had followed me, the Battenberg and milk into the kitchen and had filled the kettle for all the world like he lived there. I had taken a deep breath and then launched into my ‘it’s all over’ speech.
‘Toby, I really feel we have come to the end.’
‘The end of what?’ he had asked while popping the milk into the fridge and sniffing a tub of yogurt.
‘Our relationship, I think it’s time to call it a day.’
‘This is off,’ he had responded pointing to the yogurt.
‘That is exactly what I’m saying. We are off, finished, kaput, over. I don’t want to go out with you any more Toby.’
I finally said it.
‘Is this because of that Alex Bryant?’ he asked while returning the yogurt to the fridge.
‘No, it’s because of Serena Lambert and because you make comments about my weight and because I don’t love you.’
For a moment I thought he was going to storm out, but he put his arm around me and pulled me gently into the living room and sat me down on the sofa.
‘Shall I make you a nice cup of tea or something? Have a chocolate biscuit if you like. I promise I won’t say anything.’
‘I will have a chocolate biscuit if I want one but as it happens I don’t. I don’t have to ask your permission,’ I snapped, jumping up and opening the front door to which he had very swiftly walked through.
‘Let me know when you feel better,’ he had quipped and I had slammed the door with a scream.
So here I am. Five hours before a New Year, with Chardonnay and a packet of marshmallows for company, and an omnibus edition of EastEnders. What more could a girl ask for?
The phone rings and I try to ignore it. It rings incessantly. It has to be my mother.
‘Hello.’
‘Oh, darling, you’re there. I thought you would be out.’
‘If you thought I’d be out why did you phone?’
‘Well, one never knows. Good heavens, is that your neighbour screaming?’
I turn the volume down.
‘It’s EastEnders.’
She sighs.
‘Oh dear, you must be feeling depressed. Why don’t you come over? Daddy and I are going to the vicar’s for New Year, why don’t you come? They’re having a monks and nuns party. You would make a fabulous nun.’
She’s not wrong about that.
‘I wouldn’t enjoy it,’ I say shuddering at the very thought of it.
‘Your father said the same thing. But he’s coming. I talked him into it.’
More fool him.
‘I don’t think he would make a fabulous nun.’
‘Don’t be silly darling. He’s going as a monk. You can’t sit at home moping.’
‘Yes I can,’ I say, reaching for another marshmallow.
After all, I might as well enjoy the New Year as best I can, and then I can start my diet once the celebrations are over.
Mother huffs.
‘Are you absolutely sure he is going to marry that Penelope woman?’
I take a large gulp of wine.
‘She announced it to The Times, didn’t you see it? It was big enough. You usually read the wedding announcements,’ I say eventually.
It had been Jane who had alerted me to the notice.
‘What a wonderful way to start a New Year,’ she had squealed.
I had only been back at work one day and felt more depressed than ever.
‘I only read the wedding announcements in the Jewish Chronicle,’ says mother.
‘But we’re not Jewish.’
‘I know that dear, but they always seem more interesting as do their dead people.’
Christ almighty, I really should get my mother some counselling.
‘How can dead people be interesting?’
‘Anyway, I didn’t phone you to talk about Jewish people.’
I pop two more marshmallows.
‘You mentioned them, I didn’t. I don’t even read the Jewish Chronicle.’
‘So, what did it say?’
I sniff loudly.
‘I don’t remember,’ I say, opening The Times newspaper.
‘Here it is. The engagement is announced between Major Alex Michael Bryant, son of Mr and Mrs Ian Bryant of Derbyshire, and Penelope Katherine Vistor, youngest daughter of Mr Stephen Vistor CBE of Hertfordshire and Mrs Leoni Ann Vistor of Cambridge.’ I say with a hiccup.
‘I didn’t know he was a major and how could they do it so quickly. They’ve only been home a few hours?’ I say, reaching for a tissue.
‘Your father thought he was high ranking.’
‘And her father has a CBE. I can’t ever compete with that. Daddy won’t get a CBE will he?’
‘Well, he could try dear. Do you want me to ask him?’
Oh dear. I suppose she means well.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, feeling tears well up.
‘Well, we could try and get a fake one off the Internet.’
Oh God. I tuck the phone under my chin and unscrew the top off some blackberry juice.
‘Promise you’ll come round
if you change your mind. We’re not leaving for another hour. I hope you’re not drinking too much?’
‘I’m drinking wine and blackberry juice.’
‘Oh dear, you’ll make yourself ill doing things like that.’
‘Doing things like what? I’m drinking wine and blackberry juice, not shooting up cocaine.’
‘Oh dear,’ she groans. ‘Promise you’ll come if you change your mind,’
I promise to think about it and put the phone down.
Chapter Thirty
After the omnibus edition of EastEnders and what feels like a marathon session of Strictly Come Dancing repeats I feel quite exhausted. I check the time and am despondent to see it is only seven o’clock. God, I have another five hours to go yet. I turn the heating on in the bathroom and pour myself another glass of wine and wallow in the bath for forty-five minutes with a Mills and Boon. This just leaves me more depressed. I wander back into the lounge, dripping onto the carpet and flop miserably back onto the couch and glance at the TV where Bridget Jones’s Diary is now on and Renée Zellwegger is kicking her leg high to ‘All By Myself,’ which is just what I don’t need. My Blackberry trills and I answer the call from Issy.
‘I’ve just spoken to your mother. You cannot stay home on New Year’s Eve. That is bloody ridiculous and I’m not having it,’ she screeches down the phone before I even have time to say hello.
‘I’m quite happy,’ I lie.
‘Get your glad rags on and some lippy. We’ll be there in about forty minutes.’
Oh no.
‘No, I don’t want to go out,’ I whine.
‘I don’t give a shit what you want. Make yourself glam, you never know who you might meet,’ she says chirpily, ignoring my objections.
‘I don’t want to meet anyone.’
‘Not even Bradley Cooper?’
‘Oh yeah, right.’
‘Be ready. We’re going to the Glass Dome. You’ve always wanted to go there. Jonathan has tickets.’
She hangs up and I am left listening to the dialling tone.
‘I already have a ticket,’ I whisper to no one.
The Glass Dome. I can’t possibly go there. What if Alex is there with Penelope? I will die of embarrassment. I just couldn’t bear to see him with her. I look at Bridget Jones who is now flirting unmercifully with Hugh Grant. I switch it off. I drag my heavy body into the bedroom and heave myself into a Christian Dior dress that mother bought me last Christmas and which, until today, I had not been able to squeeze over my breasts. I then lazily blow-dry my hair and drag it up into a messy bun before applying some lipstick and blusher. I spend some time looking at the earrings Alex gave me and finally put them on. I flop back down on the bed and sigh. I really don’t want to go to the Glass Dome. I don’t believe this. A few weeks ago I would have given anything to be invited to the Glass Dome for the New Year’s Eve party. Only three weeks ago I was desperate to go with Toby. I even had high hopes I would be engaged to him by New Year.
Thirty minutes later, Issy bursts in with Jonathan and within moments my bedroom looks like a bomb has hit it as Issy empties my wardrobe.
‘Are you mad?’ she reprimands. ‘You can’t go in that. You look like an old frump. Are you out of your mind?’
‘I really can’t go Issy, what if Alex is…’
She gives me a cold look.
‘How will you meet anyone new if you’re frightened to go places?’
I pout.
‘Where’s your Wonderbra?’ she asks and I feel tears welling up again.
‘Don’t talk about my Wonderbra. It reminds me of Alex,’ I whimper.
She gives me an odd look.
‘What about these?’ she says hopefully, holding up a two piece.
‘No, the top is too low and my tits fall out.’
‘You’d be surprised the number of men that go for that,’ she laughs.
I give her a cross look and pull out the Jigsaw dress I had bought for the Christmas dinner.
‘Perfect,’ she smiles.
She hands me a bra, which thankfully is not my Wonderbra. I turn and step into the dress.
‘Has Jonathan seen Alex?’ I ask, turning for her to zip it up.
‘No, I don’t think Alex has been in contact with anyone since we got back. He’s been busy announcing his wedding, don’t forget.’
I wince.
‘Don’t remind me,’ I sigh.
‘Have you been drinking?’
I titter.
‘Ooh yes, and I’ve been mixing my drinks. I’ve been drinking wine and black all evening.’
‘Is that sensible?’ she tuts.
God, she sounds like my mother.
‘Issy, it’s wine and blackcurrant juice, not an A class drug,’ I say with a sense of déjà vu.
She drags me into the living room. I am grateful to get away from the hellish sight of my bedroom.
‘Hello,’ says Jonathan, looking slightly uncomfortable, fiddling with his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. It is uncomfortably warm in the cottage. No, actually, it is bloody boiling in the cottage. I have had the heating on high for the past eight hours and it’s like a sauna. I throw back the last of my wine and allow Issy to drag me outside, where the cold air hits me with such force that I reel. Issy guides me by the arm to the waiting taxi. I feel the effects of the wine and realise I am a little drunk.
‘I’ve got duck eggs,’ I announce.
‘How lovely,’ responds Issy.
‘I didn’t know Alex was a major, did you know that?’ I think I am shouting as Issy backs away slightly.
She shakes her head and pushes me into the taxi.
‘Her father’s got a BCG, did you know that? I mean how snotty is that?’
‘Snooty,’ she corrects.
‘I think she means a CBE,’ says Jonathan.
What does he mean, she? Excuse me, I am here, you don’t need to talk over me. Then, to make matters doubly worse, they get all romantic in the back seat. Issy snuggles up close to him and all I can hear are lip-smacking noises. I make a determined effort not to look. Hearing it is enough, seeing it as well will just have me throwing up into my handbag. Don’t you just hate smug loving couples? Even worse, don’t you just hate smug loving couples on New Year’s Eve? It feels to me like the whole world is full of smug loving couples and they are all going to the Glass Dome for New Year’s Eve. Hundreds of couples, all holding hands and sidling up close to each other push into the overdecorated building. I predict I will be the only one not getting shagged tonight. I must be the only singleton here.
‘Everyone is with someone,’ I whisper to Issy, thinking how that sounds like a song title.
‘Don’t be silly, there are loads of single people here,’ she says unconvincingly.
Oh God, to think I’ve got to be here for another three and a half hours. I would much rather be at home watching New Year with Julian Clary. Maybe I can get stuck in a lift or something. Anything would be preferable to standing around with lots of smug, drunk couples who can’t keep their hands off each other. I feel quite nauseous.
‘Who’s that?’ whispers Issy, as I trip up the steps and grab the back of Jonathan’s trousers for support.
I look to where her blood-red painted fingernail is pointing. A tall handsome man is looking over at us and I recognise him as the man who had been in Dirty Doug’s with Alex.
‘Keep moving,’ I hiss pushing Jonathan roughly from behind. ‘I don’t want him to see me.’
After what feels like an endless flight of stairs, we push our way through the throng of smug loving couples and find ourselves in the ‘Princeton’ room where the New Year’s party is in full swing with couples smooching on the dance floor to Jimmy Durante’s ‘As Time Goes By.’ I grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray and knock it back in one fell swoop. Issy and Jonathan disappear onto the dance floor and I am left alone. God, I’ve only been here five minutes and I’m a wallflower. I look around nervously for any sign of Alex and premier l
eague Penelope. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of them and I gratefully sway towards a chair. I plonk myself down and place my champagne glass carefully on the nearby table which is piled high with wedding magazines.
‘Great idea isn’t it?’ yells a woman who has placed herself in front of me.
Bloody stupid idea if you ask me.
‘Yes, brilliant.’
‘I’m having my wedding dress made. I want lots of lace and pearls,’ she says smiling widely and showing me lots of gum.
‘Lovely,’ I say, attempting to gush but it sounds more like a tiny retch. Why I am feeling so horrid? It isn’t her fault I have chucked my boyfriend and lost the man I love to the daughter of a CBE.
‘I’m having a joint wedding with my twin,’ she tells me.
God, how dysfunctional is that. A tray of drinks floats by and I quickly grab another glass and take a long gulp, immediately sneezing as the bubbles get up my nose. She gapes at me and then takes a small sip of her own. I feel mortally ashamed. At least she is getting married, joint or otherwise. That’s more than I’m doing.
‘I’m not having a wedding of any kind, joint or otherwise,’ I say hearing my words slur.
She sits beside me and gently takes my hand in hers. I shall be blubbering into my champagne next.
‘Oh poor you, did you get chucked?’
‘Yes,’ I blubber, ‘I kind of chucked and got chucked all at the same time, although I didn’t mean to chuck…’
‘Honestly men, they can be such bastards.’
I feel myself nodding so emphatically that my head starts to thump.
‘Yes, I mean, the one I chucked, or didn’t really chuck used me as a plaything, and then he goes and plans his wedding to his socialite girlfriend who…’
‘What a pig,’ she says waving her fist in the air and sending a tray of savouries flying. One lands on my lap and I pop it into my mouth.
‘Yes, he would slice your tongue out with a pencil, he’s that mean.’
She gulps. That sounded all wrong. It isn’t a pencil is it? I know it’s pen something. I finish the wine in the hope it will help me think.
‘And her father is CPW, whereas mine is…’
I struggle to remember. This is awful. I can’t remember what my father is. She claps a hand over her mouth.
