by Haley Hill
‘Maureen,’ she said, reading from one of the cards and then screwing up her face. ‘She sounds like a laugh a minute.’ She moved around. ‘And Walter, he must be her equally riveting husband.’ She picked up the next card. ‘And who have we here?’ Suddenly her face turned as white as the marquee and then she bolted off with the card in her hand.
I shrugged, assuming she was engineering a reason to speak to the ballboy and went on to examine the wedding favours in front of me. Grappling with the drawstring tennis net, I lost my patience and tore it open, spilling tiny sugared tennis balls across the table and onto the floor.
‘Bollocks.’ I said, bending down to pick them up.
‘I think they’re supposed to be tennis balls.’
The hairs on my neck stood up and a cold shiver shot through my spine. ‘Robert?’
He held out his hand to help me up.
I stared at him blankly while my mind fuzzed and crackled like an old TV set tuning into a channel. He gazed back at me. The flecks of green were still there, but the skin around his eyes seemed thinner, more creased. His smile was just as broad, but his lips seemed narrower. It took me a moment to reconcile the memory I had in my mind with the man standing before me. He seemed as alien as he did familiar.
‘Sir,’ a ballboy approached the table. Caro stood behind him, pushing him forward. ‘There has been a mix up with the seating arrangements.’
Robert raised one eyebrow. ‘I was told to sit here.’ He nodded in the direction of the usher, who was frogmarching guests to their seats as though his role were the stepping-stone to a dictatorship. ‘You want to tell him he made a mistake?’
‘It’s okay, Caro. I’m fine,’ I said, sitting down and pouring wine into my glass until it reached the rim. I’d drained it by the time Maureen and Walter joined us at the table. A plump lady with a ruddy face, she introduced herself as William’s aunt. Her husband Walter, a skinny, bulbous-eyed professor-type was William’s uncle.
The moment she sat down, she stared at Robert and then at me. ‘So, are you two married?’
I shook my head and then refilled my glass.
She looked at Caro and then back at Robert. ‘So, are you two married then?’
‘No,’ said Caro.
She looked at Caro then back at me, then covered her mouth with her hand and whispered something to Uncle Walter.
‘We’re not lesbians,’ I said.
She sat back in her chair and frowned as though she were trying to solve a murder mystery.
‘I’m single,’ I said, folding my arms.
Her eyes widened as though she had found her first clue.
‘Divorced?’ she asked.
‘No, never married,’ I replied, my irritation mounting.
Her eyes widened further.
‘I’m single. And bisexual,’ Caro interrupted.
Uncle Walter nearly choked on his wine.
‘I’m single too,’ Robert chipped in. ‘You’re surrounded. Best leave, it might be contagious.’
My stomach lurched. Robert was single?
Aunt Maureen sniffed and smoothed down her blouse. ‘We don’t mind singles. Or bisexuals. Or lesbians. Or gays. Or even Chinese people. William’s marrying one and we don’t mind at all.’
‘She’s Japanese,’ I said, topping up my glass. ‘Mitzi is Japanese.’
‘Same thing,’ she said, snatching the bottle from me.
‘Not really,’ said Robert, snatching it back. ‘China and Japan are over three hundred miles apart. Japan is an island. China is not. The population of China is 1.3 billion. Japan has only a tenth of that. In terms of land size, China is twenty-five times bigger than Japan. They speak different languages, have entirely different cultures, different political regimes and…’
‘Entirely different views on dating,’ I chipped in. ‘Ninety-eight percent of men and women in China marry, but in Japan, nearly thirty percent of women, aged between thirty and thirty-nine, are unmarried.’
‘So Mitzi’s a lucky girl to have met William then?’ Maureen concluded, pouring herself a glass of wine.
Robert looked at me with the bemusement of a president whose speech had been interrupted by an enthusiastic intern.
‘Since when did you become a love guru?’ He asked quietly, while Maureen pressed Caro for a more comprehensive definition of bisexuality.
‘Since when are you single? I thought bigamy was your preferred lifestyle choice,’ I said with a smirk.
Ten courses later, after Robert had explained every detail of his divorce, including precisely how much it had cost him, the dictator usher, now acting as Master of Ceremonies, rapped a spoon on a champagne glass.
‘Quiet please.’ Instantly the room fell to a deathly silent.
‘Ladies and gentleman. We hope you’ve enjoyed the food served – the game or pheasant that is. And you like the set-ting for this match made in Heaven.’
The guests, seemingly too fearful to groan, smiled politely. Then giggles spilled out from behind a collection of empty wine bottles lined up on a nearby table.
‘You. Behind the bottles. Shush,’ the usher said and Mandi’s head popped up, followed by that of William’s brother.
The usher resumed, yet kept his eyes on the offenders.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the groom.’
We all clapped and William stood up tentatively, smoothing his tie.
‘My wife and I,’ he began, his voice wavering, which made the applause grow louder, ‘would like to thank you all for sharing our special day. Each one of you has played your part in helping us along the path to happiness.’
He turned to Mitzi. ‘I have never been a confident man.’ The guests laughed. ‘But from the moment I saw you, sitting on that chaise longue. Amongst all those cushions. I wasn’t going to let anything stand in my way. I knew we were meant to be together.’
Gradually William’s voice seemed to fade into the background and I found myself imagining Nick in his place and myself in Mitzi’s. Wearing a simple gown, I would smile demurely while my new husband relayed paella and toilet brush anecdotes with candour and affection. Tears would well in his eyes as he described to our guests, how, in a moment of self-centred madness he nearly lost me. He would then express heartfelt gratitude to his therapist for guiding him along the path of self-awareness and back into my arms with renewed appreciation and unfaltering love.
‘I used to fear everything,’ William continued. ‘Now I fear nothing. Except failing you Mitzi. And I promise I will never fail you.’ He lifted his glass in the air. ‘To Mitzi, for opening my eyes and my heart to the world.’
‘To Mitzi.’ The crowd toasted and she flung her arms around William’s neck.
Robert rested his hand on mine.
‘I’m sorry I failed you,’ he said and Aunt Maureen raised her eyebrows as though she’d been presented with another clue.
Before I could respond, there was a collective gasp from the guests. I turned to see William, who had been thrown off balance by the ardour of Mitzi’s embrace, about to be swallowed up by a folding table. Just as it was ready to snap shut, William’s brother dived in after him, sending the cake spiralling into the air. Mandi shot out of her seat, and began darting from side to side until eventually the three tiers of sponge committed to the same path and plunged down towards the dance floor. Mandi pushed past the bridesmaids, and with one final lurch caught each tier in her arms and then held them aloft as though she had seized the bouquet.
Meanwhile, the usher, having freed William and his brother from a painful-looking encounter with a spring hinge, started acting like a detective at a crime scene. Once he had sealed off the area with what looked like tennis racket grip, he announced that there was “nothing to see” and then channelled the guests towards the bar.
Several strawpedos and some vodka shots later, I found myself dancing “The Monster Mash” with Uncle Walter. Following a surprisingly coordinated finale, which had drawn quite a crowd, Aunt Maureen, looking panicke
d by Uncle Walters open fraternisation with singles, dragged him away.
‘That was quite a performance,’ Robert said after I’d stumbled off in search of the bar. ‘I’d forgotten you had moves like that.’
I laughed, steadying myself against the counter.
He leaned towards to me, slipping his arm around my waist. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
I pushed him away. ‘It’s a free bar, you muppet.’
‘Well in that case you can have anything you want.’
‘Get me a coffee, I’m feeling a bit squiffy.’
‘Squiffy?’ He laughed, leaning in closer, hands resting on my hips. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’
Suddenly a blur of pink and blonde flashed in front of us. ‘Aren’t weddings the most, wonderful, fabulous, amazing thing ever!’ Mandi threw herself against the bar, seemingly attached to William’s brother.
Robert and I stepped back.
‘Everyone should get married,’ she slurred. ‘Let’s get married, William’s brother. Forgot your name. Sorry.’
He looked startled.
‘We should celebrate.’ She hoisted herself onto the bar like a seal onto the shore. ‘Champagne. I’m getting married.’ She said to the barman and then pulled William’s brother towards her. ‘To William’s brother.’
She turned to the barman. ‘Let me tell you something.’ She let go of William’s brother and he slid to the ground. ‘Did you know that, on average, a woman has sex with seven men before getting married? Seven.’ She held up eight fingers.
The barman nodded thoughtfully as he poured the champagne.
‘For men, it’s double that.’ She looked at her fingers and then realised that she didn’t have enough.
I stepped forward to intervene, but before I could do anything she span around, laughing like a baddy from Batman who was about to press a button that would destroy Gotham City.
‘Guess how many for Steve?’ she said, prodding my upper arm.
I stepped back but she leaned in closer.
‘Come on, guess!’ she shouted, eyes like a rabid dog.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Thirty?’
She shook her head and then drum rolled her hands on the bar. ‘One hundred and three.’
I raised my eyebrows, wondering how he had smuggled so many women past Marie’s watchful glare.
By now, Mandi was clapping. ‘Super-stud Steve. Come on everyone, a round of applause for super-stud Steve.’
Again, I reached for her hand, intending to lead her away, but instead she grabbed William’s brother’s tie and pulled him towards her. ‘You can be my number two.’ She locked her lips onto his.
Following several failed attempts to wrench them apart, I gave up and sat down at one of the tables. Robert handed me a cup of coffee along with three sambucas, just in case I changed my mind.
‘You threw paella at him?’ He laughed. ‘That takes me back.’
‘I never threw paella at you.’
‘You tipped a pan of brussel sprouts over my head.’
‘Oh God, I’d forgotten that.’ I held my head in my hands. ‘So it’s me? It was me all along? I’m a serial food thrower. A madwoman.’
‘I probably deserved it,’ he said.
I lifted up my head and looked at the blur that was his face. ‘I love him so much,’ I said and then slumped back down onto the table. ‘But he doesn’t want me anymore.’
He pushed the hair back off my face. ‘I want you,’ he said. ‘I never stopped wanting you.’
I sat up and looked at him. ‘Yeah, along with every other woman you could imagine shagging.’
‘So, this Mr Perfect never so much as looked at another woman then?’
I laughed.
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, before downing one of the sambucas.
He leaned in closer, his hand on mine. ‘For what?’
I laughed again. ‘Expecting you to make my life perfect.’
He smiled. ‘Give me another chance and I will.’
I shook my head and then stood up, steadying myself on the table.
‘Where’s Caro?’ I scanned the room as best I could given my inability to focus, and finally located her. She was entwined with one of the ballboys.
Robert slipped his arm around my waist. ‘Let me walk you back to your room.’
I stood still for an instant, feeling his hand gently resting on my hip. He looked into my eyes and then pulled me towards him. His lips almost brushed mine. I stared back at him, feeling his body pressing against me. Suddenly a surge of panic welled inside. It started in my stomach then quickly spread through my limbs. I wriggled out of his grasp.
We stared at each other for a moment.
I took a deep breath.
‘Goodbye Robert.’ I said and then staggered away.
Chapter Nineteen
That night I couldn’t sleep. I’m not sure if it was the strawpedos or the giant plate of pheasant I’d wolfed down prior, but my mind wouldn’t rest. At one point though, I must have dozed off because I had a strange dream in which I was attending a wedding with Uncle Walter as my plus one. The bride was Victoria, the groom was mainly Nick but sometimes Robert, and at one point Caro. I managed to wake myself up just as the entire congregation, led by Filippo, began dancing “The Monster Mash” out of the church.
Fuzzy-headed and perturbed, I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Following a confusing encounter with the shower control, which resulted in several aggressive blasts of ice-cold water, I abandoned any further attempts to wash myself and slung on a pair of jeans and a jumper. As I looked in the mirror, I recalled the days when I could spring back from a hangover like BA Baracus from a punch. Those were the days when I would throw on a t-shirt, add a touch of blusher, then face the world with a fresh and youthful complexion. But now, it was as if, almost overnight, my skin had decided it was time to unveil the abuse I’d inflicted on it. And today, etched onto my face, was every unit of alcohol I had ever consumed, as though my body were desperate to tell the world of its suffering at the hands of its crazy alcoholic food-throwing mistress. The frown lines were deep, the laughter lines deeper. That at least, I concluded, meant I should be in credit for happiness. Following a slap-dash application of mascara, which only worsened the situation, I grabbed my phone and called Caro.
‘Morning,’ she answered with a giggle.
‘Where are you?’
I heard the ruffle of a duvet. ‘With Tom.’
‘The ballboy?’
There was a gasp and then a nasty slurping sound in the background.
‘If you want a lift home, I’m leaving in five.’
Caro bounded into the car park five minutes later, like a puppy summoned by a squeaky toy.
‘So?’ I asked as we joined the motorway.
She smiled like a newly converted cult member, the same smile that seemed to accompany every one of her toy-boy barman-waiter-pilot encounters.
‘How old is he? He looked about twelve.’
‘He’s twenty-three.’
‘Caro, honestly. They’re getting younger.’
She huffed and then turned to face me. ‘So what? It’s not like I’m going to marry him, so what does it matter?’
I sighed. ‘As long as you’re happy.’
‘Well I’m smiling and you look like someone just drowned your kitten. So I’d say out of both of us, I’m the one who’s got it right.’
The car began to drift into the wrong lane. I swerved back on course and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
‘Studies have proven that people in long-term relationships are happier than those who aren’t,’ I said.
‘Studies rely on people being honest with themselves. I’m going to take happiness where I can get it.’
‘Where? Under a teenage barman in tennis whites?’
‘On top, actually. And don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.’
I scowled.
‘You nee
d to lighten up a bit. Go and get shagged.’
‘I don’t want to get shagged.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
She sighed. ‘We all know you still love Nick. But do you really think he’s practising post-break-up celibacy?’
I slammed my foot on the accelerator. ‘It doesn’t matter …’ The car swung across the motorway and into the fast lane like a jet-propelled rocket ‘… what …’ Cars swerved out of the way as images of Victoria straddling Nick flooded my mind, with her perfect bottom and her perfect boobs and her stupid shiny ponytail ‘… he’s doing!’
‘Jesus! Slow down will you?’ Caro yelled, clinging to her seat and mock braking in the passenger footwell.
‘No!’ I yelled back and then undertook the Porsche in front of me. ‘This is making me happy. And you said I should take happiness where I can get it.’
My jaw tensed as I swerved back into the fast lane and began tailgating the Range Rover in front.
‘Move over, knobhead!’ I raged and punched my horn. After the driver moved aside, I roared past and poked out my tongue at a child sitting in the back.
‘Will you calm down?’ Caro said. ‘Let’s pull over and have a coffee.’ She sounded like Harriet trying to placate Henry. ‘Look there’s a service station. It has a Costa.’ She pointed enthusiastically.
‘Get out of my way. Fuckwit!’ I shouted at the next car along that was impairing my progress.
‘Hazelnut mochachino,’ she said, licking her lips, ‘with whipped cream on top.’
Suddenly thoughts of a naked orgasmic Victoria were replaced by images of swirly cream floating on thick sweet coffee. A light dusting of chocolate.
‘Okay.’
With one tug on the steering wheel, we were on the exit road towards the service station. When we arrived at the car park with a handbrake stop, Caro was clinging to her seat like a cartoon character who’d just driven off a cliff.
