The Importance of Being Married: A Novel

by Gemma Townley

  “Who the fuck was that?” Max said immediately.

  He looked outraged, and I found myself softening slightly. “That was Fenella. Of Party Party Party.”

  “That’s Fenella? Jesus, you poor thing. You’re actually going to have to spend more time with her?”

  “She is the best party planner in the whole of London,” I said, po-faced.

  “So great she doesn’t know who her clients are?” Max said wryly.

  “Hey, she’s got a lot on her mind,” I said.

  “All that hair, you mean?” Max grinned and I laughed. There was silence for a few minutes; Max and I kept glancing at each other, then looking away again.

  “I’m sorry about the meeting,” I said eventually.

  “Don’t mention it. Doesn’t matter at all,” Max said, shaking his head.

  “But it does matter. I let you down. And I’m sorry.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Max said immediately. “I totally overreacted. I just…I get carried away…” He met my eyes and reddened slightly. “With work,” he added. “I get carried away when it comes to work.”

  “That’s a good thing,” I said, biting my lip slightly. “Work’s important.”

  “You mean you don’t still think that successful people don’t work hard?” Max’s expression was unreadable. I smiled, then turned when I felt an arm wrapping itself around me. It was Anthony bearing down on me.

  “Darling! Remind me never to invite clients to anything again. Except the wedding, of course! So I hear you met Fenella, then?” he enthused.

  “Hi!” I put my arm around him, self-consciously. “And yes, I’ve just met her.”

  “So you liked her? Isn’t she fabulous?”

  I smiled weakly. “Fenella? I…uh…” I caught Max’s eye again and looked away quickly. “Yes! I mean, she seems great. Lovely.”

  “Not as lovely as you.” Anthony winked. “Isn’t she lovely, Max? Isn’t she just the blushing bride?” He stumbled slightly and I frowned.

  “She certainly is,” Max said levelly.

  “Nearly two weeks away,” Anthony continued. “Two weeks!” He held up three fingers to emphasize the point.

  “So I understand,” Max said.

  “And who are you?” Anthony asked, turning to Ivana. “I don’t believe we’ve met, have we?” His voice was slurring slightly; I tried to prize the champagne glass out of his hand, but instead he waved over a waiter to refill it.

  Ivana, meanwhile, looked at him and tossed back her hair. “I em Ivana,” she said. “Is good to meet you.”

  “Is very good to meet you, too,” he said, grinning flirtatiously. “You’re a friend of Jess’s?”

  Ivana nodded and folded her arms; the action pushed up her cleavage, which Anthony immediately stared at.

  “She has a face, you know.” My eyes widened as Sean appeared beside Ivana—his eyes were flashing.

  “Of course she does,” Anthony said, lifting his head quickly. “And who are you, anyway?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Sean muttered darkly.

  Anthony peered at Sean, then turned to me. “He looks rather familiar. Is he a friend of yours?”

  I smiled weakly. “Oh, yes, I mean, sort of.”

  At that moment Gillie appeared next to us. “Jess! Anthony!” she said breathlessly. “You’ll never guess who’s here. I was talking to this bloke and…” Suddenly she stopped talking and her mouth fell open. “Oh, you do know.”

  “Know what?” Anthony asked. “Who?”

  “Sean,” Gillie gasped. “That’s Sean.”

  She pointed at Sean; Anthony stared at him. “Sean? You’re Sean the hedge fund manager?”

  Sean, who had tugged Ivana away, no doubt to argue with her about the attention she was getting, turned around. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “That’s right.”

  “He was trying to chat me up,” Gillie continued. “And when he told me his name, I put two and two together and…” She turned to me. “You invited your ex-boyfriend to your engagement party?” she asked incredulously. “I mean, really?”

  “You chet her up?” Ivana said, her voice rising. “You jealous of me and you chet up little English girl?”

  “No,” Sean said irritably as I shrugged awkwardly.

  “I did invite him. Sort of. At least—” I began.

  “He made her invite him,” Helen said quickly. “He’s really into her. I guess he just couldn’t stay away.”

  “He couldn’t, huh?” Anthony said. “Well, he can piss off now.”

  Sean’s eyes narrowed. “You piss off,” he said angrily. “I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

  “Me? I’m not pissing anywhere,” Anthony said, then frowned. “Not pissing off anywhere,” he corrected himself.

  “Fine. Suit yourself.” Sean turned back to Ivana.

  “I will,” Anthony said. And before I realized what was happening, before I could do anything to intervene, he pulled back his hand and punched Sean in the face. I say punched; in reality it was more of a shove. But it certainly made an impact. Sean toppled to the floor, a surprised look on his face.

  “That’ll teach him,” Anthony said, looking very pleased with himself.

  “How dare you!” Out of nowhere, Ivana launched herself at Anthony, clocking him on the jaw and kicking him in the knee. Immediately he fell to the floor, too. “How dare you,” she said again as she dropped to the floor and continued pummeling him as I looked on in disbelief.

  “Ivana! No!” I yelped. “Helen! Help me get her off him.”

  We leaned down and tried to pull Ivana, but she was having none of it; seconds later, though, she was pinned down on the floor. To my surprise, Max was doing the pinning.

  “Right,” he said firmly. “I think that some people need to leave. And since this is Anthony and Jess’s party, I don’t think it should be either of them. Would you agree? Would you?”

  Ivana stared at him angrily. “I want to leave anyway,” she said, her eyes fiery.

  “Me, too,” Sean said, pulling himself up. “Crap party anyway.”

  Max let Ivana go, and she jumped up and dusted herself down, then, throwing Anthony a last look of disgust, grabbed Sean. They made their way out of the club.

  “How romantic,” Gillie said immediately. “You showed him, Anthony. But who was the woman? Was that his new girlfriend or something?”

  “New girlfriend,” I said, looking at Helen, who nodded frantically.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she agreed. “They…they started dating a few days ago.”

  “Well, they deserve each other,” Anthony said, pulling himself up and dusting himself down. “Bloody maniac. If I see either of them again, I’ll…I’ll…”

  “Let her floor you again?” Max said, a little smile playing on his lips.

  Anthony glowered at him.

  “I need a drink,” he said, brushing down his jacket.

  “Shall I come with you?” I offered, nervously.

  “No,” he said flatly. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather go alone.”

  A couple of hours later Anthony was nowhere to be seen, my head was hurting from several double vodkas that I’d decided were a necessity to get through the evening, and Helen was slumped on a leather bench. I was sitting at a nearby table with Max. I didn’t know if it was the drink or the avoidance of a fight, but all the awkwardness between us seemed to have evaporated and we’d reverted to form, eschewing conversation about normal things and instead talking about work or, more specifically, debating whether Project Handbag should have a celebrity as its figurehead or a leading businesswoman.

  “It’s for intelligent, together women,” Max was saying. “They won’t respond to some airhead celebrity. They’ll want to see someone together and wealthy whom they can aspire to be like.”

  “But,” I said, wagging my finger at him and realizing I could see two of them, “people aspire to be like celebrities, not businesswomen. Name one famous businesswoman. Go on, name one.�
��

  “Anita Roddick,” Max said immediately.

  I frowned. “Fine, her. But name another one. Someone who’s still alive.”

  “Nicola Horlick.”

  I took another sip of my drink. “See? You can only come up with two.”

  “You didn’t ask for more. What about Marjorie Scardino?”

  “What about her?” I said, shaking my head dismissively. “I mean, look, they’re all great. I’d rather be like them than some out-of-work actress any day. But people don’t buy magazines because they’re on the cover, do they?”

  “They do if they’re on BusinessWeek,” Max pointed out.

  I rolled my eyes. “People who read BusinessWeek probably already have their investments under control,” I said, looking at my drink distrustfully. “What’s in this thing? I think I might be pissed.”

  “I think you might be, too,” Max agreed, then he smiled bashfully. “You know, I miss this. You and me talking about work.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I like your ideas. I like the way you get so dogmatic when you think you’re right.”

  I laughed awkwardly. “Dogmatic? Isn’t that just another word for stubborn?”

  Max grinned. “You’re convinced you’re right. That’s a good thing.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes. I mean, take this wedding. Not many people would rush into something like that. But you, you’re fearless. You know what you want and you’re not afraid to just take it. I’d be far too scared to commit like that.”

  “You…you would?” I asked uncertainly.

  “God yes. I mean, marriage is such a huge commitment. When I get married, I want it to be it—you know, lifelong, to have and to hold, all that stuff. I’d have to know that this is the person I want to grow old with, that this is the person I want to wake up next to every morning, who will get my jokes, who will tease me, who I’ll never get bored of gazing at. But you…you just jump right in. I admire that.”

  “You do?” I cleared my throat—suddenly I was feeling slightly hot and scratchy. “I mean, marriage isn’t always a big deal. Sometimes it’s just, you know, like a business deal.”

  “A business deal?” Max looked at me incredulously. “No it isn’t, and you know it isn’t. But that’s what I admire. You’re taking a huge risk and you’re not remotely worried about it—which I think is great. Me, I’d be thinking that I’m committing myself to something—to someone—for life, and agonizing over whether I was doing the right thing. For me, for her…”

  I blanched slightly. “You would? You’d agonize?”

  “Yes! But that’s just me,” Max said quickly. “I don’t have your…your chutzpah. Your self-belief.”

  “Right,” I said, unconvinced. “Self-belief.”

  “And anyway, I’m hardly one to talk. I’m thirty-five and single.”

  Our eyes met, and for the second time neither of us seemed to be able to look away.

  “Jess? There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Max turned his head; mine followed. Anthony was standing a few feet away, his arm extended.

  I turned back to Max. “I’d better…”

  “Yes, you’d better,” Max said quietly.

  “Right then.” I stood up and shot a smile over to Anthony. Then, shaking myself, I walked toward him. Toward Anthony Milton. My future husband. Which I was really happy about. Whatever Max said about marriage and commitment, I was still doing the right thing. In just a few weeks I was going to be Mrs. Milton. Like Fenella said, I was the happiest girl in the world.

  Chapter 25

  PROJECT: MARRIAGE DAY 29, 30

  To do

  1. Choose a wedding dress.

  2. Choose a napkin arrangement.

  3. Don’t think too much…

  The next morning, I woke up in Anthony’s bed with an unsettled feeling in my stomach. It was a huge thing (the bed, I mean, not the feeling)—at least six feet square—and when I stretched out my arms and legs they still didn’t even touch him, which seemed kind of apt.

  I looked at my watch—9 AM. The engagement party had gone on until about 2 AM—afterward, Anthony had been determined to go to Henry’s party (Henry was, apparently, a “brilliant guy” and one that I would love unreservedly on meeting), and I’d gotten a sinking feeling that the whole wedding was all a huge mistake. But then, as he called a cab he’d stumbled and fallen onto the pavement and conceded that perhaps it would be more sensible to go home, so I’d buried my doubts and gone with him.

  Tentatively I crept out of bed and out of the bedroom. Anthony’s flat was a bit like a magazine spread—all beautifully presented in browns, creams, and a little bit of beige. I tried to imagine myself living here, tried to imagine my things on his shelves. But somehow I couldn’t see it. My books, my photographs, my pictures, the pale pink telephone Helen had given me for my last birthday—none of them would work at all. I walked into the open-plan living room/kitchen area. In the “living” space, sumptuous suede sofas surrounded a tasteful cream rug; the kitchen was at the other end, a symphony of stainless steel and glass.

  Frowning, I looked around for a kettle and turned it on, then started to rummage in the cupboards for some tea bags. I didn’t know where my future husband kept them, I realized. Actually, I didn’t know a lot of things about Anthony.

  Eventually, I found two cups, tea bags, some toast, and even some jam; putting it all on a tray, I made my way back to the bedroom to wake Anthony up. I wanted to talk to him, have a serious discussion, reassure myself we were doing the right thing.

  “Good morning!” I put the tray on the bed and pulled back the curtains to let in some light.

  “What the fuck’s the time?”

  I started slightly; Anthony’s voice had become a grunt.

  “Um, nine-ish, I think. I’ve made some tea. And toast.”

  “Nine AM? What the hell are you doing waking me up at nine AM? Jesus.” Anthony grabbed a pillow and shoved it over his head; as he did so, he knocked the tray, spilling tea onto his crisp white duvet cover.

  “Shit!” I yelped, trying to salvage it. Anthony rolled over to see what the problem was, forcing the tray onto its side and ensuring that now the toast was also facedown on the duvet cover and the tea was dripping down onto his cream carpet.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Oh bloody hell,” he muttered darkly.

  “I’ll go and get a towel,” I said quickly. “And we can put the duvet cover in the wash…”

  “It’s dry clean only,” Anthony said, forcing himself to sit up.

  “Right,” I said. Anthony’s face was dark and angry. I’d never seen it like that. “Look, I’m sorry. I just wanted to…I just thought breakfast might be a nice idea.”

  “It would have been. In a few hours.” He lay back against the headboard and sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said tightly. “I won’t do it again.”

  “No,” Anthony said, lying back down and this time successfully pulling a pillow over his head. “No, you won’t.”

  “Fine,” I said again, this time to myself. “Well, I’ll just go then, shall I?” I grabbed my clothes and started to pull them on. My conical breasts looked even more ridiculous at nine in the morning, but I figured in the great scheme of things it didn’t really matter.

  “Look, you don’t have to go.” Anthony reemerged from under his pillow.

  “Yes, I do,” I said, yanking my dress over my head and getting it stuck halfway.

  “No, you don’t. Don’t be angry, I’ve got a headache, I’m tired. That’s all. I’m sorry if I snapped.”

  He reached out and grabbed my hand, pulling me back onto the bed. “You can’t go, anyway,” he pointed out. “Not wearing your dress like that. You’ll get arrested.”

  I suppressed a smile. “Actually it’s the latest thing, wearing dresses on your head,” I deadpanned.

  “Interesting. Nice to know you’re at the forefront of fashion.” Anthony grinned sheepishly.

  I s
miled back, then bit my lip. “You know,” I said tentatively, “marriage is a big step. Are you sure that…well, I mean, are you sure you want to? That it’s the right thing for us to do?” I knew I was taking a risk, but I couldn’t help it.

  “The right thing? Of course it is,” Anthony said easily. “Look, how about I take you out for breakfast instead?”

  I nodded uncertainly. That was it? That was our serious discussion? “Okay. I guess.”

  “You guess? Doesn’t sound like you’re that interested. Maybe I’ll just go back to sleep,” Anthony said, his eyes twinkling.

  “No, no, I’m interested,” I said, allowing a half smile to creep onto my face. I guessed discussion could, sometimes, be overrated. And didn’t they say that actions speak louder than words?

  “In breakfast or coming back to bed?” Anthony asked, a little glint in his eye.

  “I guess I could be persuaded either way.” I smiled.

  “Maybe one then the other?”

  “Breakfast first?” I suggested innocently.

  “Better to work up an appetite for breakfast,” Anthony said, pulling me back under the covers. “Don’t you think?”

  We never made it out for breakfast. Although we did get out of the house in time for a late lunch—a long, boozy affair after which I reeled home, managed to watch Antiques Roadshow with Helen, then crashed into bed, exhausted. I couldn’t believe how quickly the weekend had gone. Couldn’t believe how decadent I’d been—I hadn’t done any work, any housework, any anything. And it felt fantastic.