The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  Eamonn Nigels walked in as I was blowing my nose. He leant down, closed his eyes and kissed Rachel. The kiss looked like it meant the world.

  ‘Sarah, darling, what the bloody hell’s up with you?’ he asked with an affectionate half smile.

  ‘Oh, Devon, it’s all so beautiful.’

  ‘Meet our wedding planner, darling.’

  ‘Oh, good God,’ said Eamonn with feeling. ‘This is the one I like,’ he continued, reaching over me and picking up a brochure I hadn’t yet got to.

  ‘Darling, it would bankrupt you,’ Rachel said, shaking her head.

  ‘It’s there to be spent,’ replied Eamonn firmly.

  ‘Baby, it’s so expensive.’

  ‘Stunning,’ he said, gazing at the picture of a beautiful white Georgian house set on a hill overlooking the sea. It was surrounded by huge trees and lush green plants.

  ‘Devon, I’m in Devon,’ I sang tearfully to the tune of ‘Heaven, I’m in heaven’ as I looked over his shoulder.

  ‘It is amazing,’ agreed Rachel. ‘I’ve been there. I think it might actually be the most beautiful place I’ve ever been to. But Eamonn, I can’t let you spend all that money.’

  ‘You can,’ he said with a glint in his eye. ‘So I took the liberty of booking it today.’

  Well, that was me. I was off. Rachel started crying. Even Eamonn wiped a tear. Rachel and Eamonn smooched while I flicked through the brochure.

  ‘They do everything there. We have the whole place for guests to come for the weekend. All our professional, er, wedding planner has to do is help you choose the menu and do the seating plan. I like a carnage table plan myself. You know, mistresses next to wives, all the ex-husbands together, disgraced Tory peer next to a vicar and a journalist from the Daily Mail. That sort of thing. You’re the perfect woman for the job, Sarah Sargeant. Oh, I should give you these.’ He went into his man bag, fished out a pile of envelopes and dropped them into my lap.

  ‘What are these?’ I asked, taking an embossed card out of one and reading aloud. It was a reply slip. They had already sent out invitations asking people to keep the date free. ‘Woody Allen would love to come. Poor bloke, fancy being called Woody Allen. People would be so disappointed when you booked a table at a restaurant and then you turned up and you weren’t the famous film director,’ I said, laying the card to one side and moving on to another.

  ‘Not if you are the famous film director, Sarah,’ Eamonn pointed out.

  I looked at him.

  ‘Woody Allen as in Woody Allen is coming to your wedding?’

  ‘Yes, we go back a long way.’

  ‘Eamonn, I have to say “fuck”.’

  ‘On you go.’

  ‘Fuck me!’

  We all laughed but the sight of the next card craftily pinched the look of glee from my face.

  It was Simon’s writing. Simon Gussett, Ruth Addinel and little Anna would be pleased to come to the wedding.

  ‘You all right, Sarah?’ Rachel asked. ‘Yeah,’ I said, but I wasn’t. My eyes had filled with tears and I couldn’t see.

  ‘Oh, Sarah, yes. Ruth had the, er, the baby.’

  ‘But I didn’t think it, she, was his,’ I said quietly. ‘I didn’t think they were together.’

  ‘She is Simon’s,’ said Eamonn, gently putting a hand on my shoulder ‘I’m so sorry, Sarah, it must be hard for you. I had a long chat to him yesterday. There was a . . . what do you call it? Paternity test. And she is his and they have decided to be a family, Sarah. They’re all doing well.’

  I put the reply slip back in the envelope and vowed to place those three as far as possible away from me on my table plan.

  seventy-nine

  The next day, after Eamonn had gone to the studio, as usual, I took Rachel in her tea and toast and broccoli spears with Philadelphia on top.

  ‘How’s the bride to be?’ I asked as I did every day.

  Every morning Rachel had come back with the same one-word answer: ‘Fighting!’ But that morning she looked like all the energy had been siphoned out of her in the night. She slowly propped herself up in bed. Her hair was bedraggled and her eyes looked punched from lack of sleep.

  ‘Not feeling great, Sarah, to be honest.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, carrying the tray to her bed and propping a pillow behind her head to make her comfortable. She dropped her head against it and groaned.

  ‘No sleep,’ she said. ‘Just my breast killing and my mind going round and round.’

  ‘Were you on the crap-thought roundabout, unable to get off?’

  ‘Yeah. Big time. Bloody thing.’

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘No,’ she smiled. ‘No, no, there’s nothing anyone can do.

  It’s out of our hands, I guess. But I just want time, Sarah, more time. I don’t want this to be it. Illness and death. I mean if it is, then you know me, I’ll make of it what I can. But I just want days. Loads of them ahead of me. I still daydream. Of Eamonn and me setting up a proper home together and me learning Thai cooking. And you and I, Sarah, I want us to go New York shopping in the sales. I want to see you win an Oscar and help you dress to receive it. I want to become a yoga teacher. I want to go into schools and teach kids yoga. I want to be a good wife to Eamonn. I want to grow old and elegant and dress like a French woman. I don’t want this to be it. At thirty-two.’

  ‘It won’t be, Rach. Don’t stop daydreaming. We are so going to New York and you and I will be sitting in Paris when we’re in our sixties and the French women will be giving you French evils because you look so elegant and sophisticated and we’ll drink pink champagne in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah, I keep beating myself up. I’ve been so obsessed by crap for most of my life. About my figure and men and bollocks. Talk about being a knobhead. I never thought I’d say knobhead. See how you’re affecting me? I wish someone had tapped me on the shoulder when I was in my teens and said, “It’s short this life thing, don’t sweat the small stuff.” Sorry. I’ll shut up.’

  ‘No, don’t. To quote a bit of Bob Hoskins, “It’s good to talk.”’

  ‘Oh, right, one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Do you see this, here,’ she said, pointing a finger to her cheek.

  ‘Your cheek.’

  ‘Yes, Sarah, wonderful. It’s my cheek. But this is where I get a hair. A bloody pubic hair grows out of my cheek, right here, and it needs to be plucked. And I just want to ask you, if I do get ill, whether you’ll pluck that little bastard for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, though, one positive . . . see what you’re doing to me with all this arsing positive? One positive thing that came out of last night is I decided to ask Erin’s dad to marry us. What do you think?’

  ‘I think he and Erin would be thrilled.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s weird that he caught me having sex with another man in his church six years ago?’

  ‘I can’t say I don’t think it’s weird, Rach, and I shall have to try very hard not to remember that fact during the ceremony, because it will make me snort. Aside from that, I think he’s the perfect man to marry you. Do you want me to ask him?’

  ‘No, I thought I would. I thought I’d go along to that prayer meeting and maybe ask him there.’

  eighty

  Rachel was so nervous going to the prayer meeting that I held her hand as we walked in.

  ‘Freaky, this,’ she whispered. ‘Crazy bloody freaky. They did my head in at the convent with all that God shit. Sorry, God,’ she quickly added. ‘I’ve spent my whole life thinking it was all a load of old bollocks. And now I’m doing this. It’s not really right, is it? It’s like when you go to bed with a guy and he does his thing and then lies down and is nearly asleep and then he says, “Oh sorry, did you want me to make you come?”’

  I had to stop walking.

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Oh, dunno. Just that’s i
t’s a bit late me being here, really.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with a bloke not making you come.’

  ‘I had a boyfriend who would do that. I was thinking about him today. Cock.’

  We were in the lobby area outside the meeting room. On the notice board at our eye level a sign proclaimed JESUS IS COMING. We glanced at it at the same time.

  ‘Even he’s coming,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Duck!’ I cried and crouched down as though I was going to be sprayed with celestial semen. We laughed raucously. I was about to suggest that we go home as we weren’t in the right mood for quiet contemplation when Mr Schneider walked through the doors, clapped his eyes on me first and then Rachel. He opened his arms and walked towards Rachel.

  ‘Rachel, it is wonderful that you’ve joined us,’ he spoke slowly. Mr Schneider is the only man I’ve ever met who seems totally to mean everything he says. No wonder his daughter is such a good actress. ‘Now then, Sarah,’ he said, turning to me. ‘We have been praying for your friend. Many words have been said to the big man. I do hope your friend is feeling better.’

  Rachel took my hand. I think she knew it was her.

  ‘Um, Mr Schneider, you know, um, I’m getting married. Do you think you would be able to marry us?’

  ‘It would be an honour.’

  ‘But, but, it’s soon because of a, well, it has to be, it’s in ten days.’

  ‘The fourth?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re good. It’s the fourth.’

  ‘I am free.’

  ‘It’s, um, in England.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But we’ll pay for everything. For you and Erin, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘We’d be honoured.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’

  ‘Come through,’ he said, opening the double doors for Rachel like a gentleman. ‘And you, too, Sarah.’ I walked past him, and he winked. ‘God bless Sarah Sargeant.’

  ‘God bless Mr Schneider,’ I sang back to him.

  We walked in. The chairs were in a circle like the last time. The flowers in the middle were sunflowers. It was much busier than before. Everybody else was already seated. I spotted the tall Donkey Man and his wife.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Erin squealed when she saw us.

  We were the last to arrive and Erin helped us to the only two available seats, which weren’t together. I wished I’d been able to sit next to Rachel because I think she found the hour hard. Mr Schneider had decided that we should use the session to focus on the good that can come from hardship.

  ‘Seeing the good in the bad’ was his tagline. I wished it hadn’t been. Rachel had cancer. It was pretty hard to think of a positive. Everyone had to go round and say what they wanted to pray for and then say how their current hardship could be seen as a blessing. It was my turn before Rachel.

  ‘Sarah, do you want to share? You know no one has to share here. The big man will hear silent prayers too.’

  ‘Oh.’ I thought about not speaking, but for some reason these words came out of my mouth: ‘I lost a man I loved to another woman. And I’ve been very unhappy.’

  Everyone said, ‘Oh.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I agreed. ‘I thought we were like a done deal, together forever. But, if I had to think of a positive I’d say at least he’s happy now. He has a baby with her and he really wanted a baby. So he got what he wanted. And that’s good. And I’m glad he’s happy. I really am glad he’s happy.’

  ‘Rachel?’ Mr Schneider said kindly. ‘Is there anything you’d like to share?’

  ‘No,’ she said quietly, and hung her head so no one could see her eyes. ‘If you don’t mind. I don’t think I’m ready. No. Sorry.’

  But what was she supposed to say? Er, get to meet a lot of doctors. Scars are in this year. Never liked that breast anyway.

  eighty-one

  Rachel, Eamonn and I flew back to Heathrow five days later. My LA experience was over. After nearly quitting the film, spraining my ankle, making an enemy of an international superstar and being called fat in a lads’ mag, I couldn’t imagine being invited back soon. I was dreading seeing myself in the film almost as much as I was dreading seeing Simon at the wedding. But they were backburner fears. I was so preoccupied with making sure that Rachel was comfortable and as happy as she could be that I didn’t have much time to think about myself.

  Brian was on our flight.

  ‘What diet have you been on?’ he asked as soon as he saw me.

  ‘The bread and booze. How to put on a stone in a week one. I’m bloody brilliant at it.’

  ‘No, Sarah Sargeant, I mean it, you’ve lost weight, treacle.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘What do you mean, “Have I?” You’re a woman. Haven’t you been trying?’

  ‘No. Haven’t really been thinking about it. I did think my jeans were baggy but then I can’t remember the last time I washed them so I thought that was probably why.’

  ‘Lovely, darling,’ he said, putting a glass of champagne on my little table.

  I didn’t take it as a compliment. My friend had cancer. That’s why I’d lost weight. I would have much rather he’d said, ‘Has Sarah Sargeant been deep-frying the Melton Mowbrays?’ and Rachel had been well.

  ‘I’m a wedding planner.’

  ‘Well, yes, a perfect job for you, with your organizational skills,’ he deadpanned.

  Eamonn in the seat across the aisle pretended to choke. Brian tootled off and I resumed poring over my seating plan. I’d put Erin next to Woody Allen because I thought she could become his latest muse. I’d put Leo Clement next to Erin’s dad and a lesbian fashion designer on a table where the average age was about seventy-six so he couldn’t get up to any jizbiz. Leo had not stopped calling me. A fact I found weirder than The Krankies. Perhaps he thought tabloid humiliation got me going? Not that I cared what he thought. I was never going to speak to him again.

  ‘What’s that, angel?’ Brian said as he dropped off some macadamia nuts.

  ‘The table plan for the . . .’ As I looked at Brian’s warm, smiling face, I stopped speaking. I gasped. I was experiencing a moment of brilliance. They always surprise me. ‘Are you working next weekend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you in England?’

  ‘Yes, I’m back in Blighty. They’re forecasting torrential rain.’

  ‘Do you want to be my guest at Rachel’s wedding in Devon?’

  ‘Oh, like in that film, My Best Friend’s Wedding! I can be your dashing, sophisticated gay male escort.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I’d love to!’

  ‘Oooh,’ I squealed.

  And that was that. I had a date. The invitation said Dress code: whatever makes you feel wonderful so Brian and I discussed his outfit whenever he topped my champagne glass up, which was frequently.

  ‘Hmmm. I did feel wonderful when I went to a Super-heroes party dressed as Wonder Woman.’

  ‘Rachel probably wouldn’t mind . . . if you wanted to . . .’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘I lost the blue satin pants. It’s nothing without those.’

  ‘Well, just wear whatever you feel comfortable in.’

  ‘I could wear a pilot’s uniform. And I could pick you up like Richard Gere at the end of that film. Although I think I’ve done something to my back moving a heavy piece of hand luggage to the overhead lockers.’

  And so it went on. Thousands of miles were covered as we discussed the issue. Eventually Brian decided he wanted to wear a red suit. And although I thought it sounded a little Graham Norton, his enthusiasm blazed so brightly it would have been wrong to douse it in a fire blanket and suggest something else.

  We spent at least ninety minutes trying to find him a handsome millionaire to sit next to because I would be placed on the top table and not be able to keep him company. Eventually, I had ANOTHER moment of genius.

  ‘You can go next to Dominic. A gay theatre director. Dashing. Did cas
t me as the Beanstalk in Jack and the Beanstalk . . . but we can overlook that,’ I said, rubbing out Dominic’s date’s name and replacing it with Brian. I then put Dominic’s date on the oldies’ table with Leo Clement.

  ‘Who’s this? What have you written?’ He bent down, squinted and read the tiny writing next to Simon and Ruth’s names: to be moved if there is anywhere further away from the top table or behind a pillar if poss.

  ‘That’s Simon,’ I told him quietly.

  ‘As in Banana Man?’

  ‘Hmmm, him and Yoga Woman and their baby girl will be there.’

  ‘Oh, popsicle.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I said.

  Brian looked as though he didn’t believe me.

  ‘Fine?’

  ‘Fine like getting a garden fork and stabbing it repeatedly on my foot. That sort of fine,’ I clarified.

  ‘Your really hot gay escort will have a packet of Kleenex in the pocket of his red suit should you need.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I wished Simon and family had declined their invitation to the wedding. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see them. It had to happen at some point. I just didn’t want to see them on a happy day, that was all. I knew it was going to be emotional for me. Therefore it would have been better to meet them on a day of national mourning or after a natural disaster. Any event where people were openly howling in pain and grief would have done.

  eighty-two

  The heat under my simmering fears was about to get whacked up to high. We all got a taxi from the airport. Rachel and Eamonn dropped me off first. It was my first time away from them for days. Suddenly there was nothing to distract me from thinking about myself.

  There was no note from Si. I searched and searched for one. I wanted some words. I was frantic for them. I don’t even know what I wanted the words to say. But I wanted letters on a page that would make it all better. Words that would draw a line under Simon and me. Words that would say the pain is over. Off you go. You can move on now. Even though I’ve always hated the expression ‘move on’. Generally when people have said, ‘Oooh, you need to move on,’ I’ve moved quickly away from the person who said that awful phrase towards the nearest bar. But I so wanted a note from him that would let me move on. I wanted the alphabet to be formulated in a way that would give me closure.