The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Um, Gertrude, are you sure I can’t give you any rent for the house? I mean, we are going for quite a long time, so –’

  ‘Heavens no, I wouldn’t hear of it,’ she said firmly, taking my arm and propelling me back through the drawing room and down the hall to the front door. ‘You’re family now, Annabel. No no, just go and enjoy, and send me a PC letting me know all is well.’ She stopped suddenly in the passage, short of the door. ‘Oh Lord. I am a poor hostess, I haven’t offered you a thing! Won’t you have a coffee with me before you go?’

  ‘You’ve … just given me one, Gertrude.’

  She frowned, and I knew she thought I was tricking her again. I made a helpless gesture to the drawing room. She popped her head suspiciously round the door and spied the tray.

  ‘Good heavens, so I did!’ She clapped her hand to her head. ‘I am an absent-minded old ninny. Well, you can’t have another or you’ll be flying. Plays havoc with your nervous system, you know. You young girls drink far too much!’ She opened the door with a flourish. ‘So. Love to David then, and Flora too, and tell the dear girl to pop in before you go, hmm? I love our little chats.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised, smiling. Dear old thing. She really was losing it a bit. I made a mental note to tell David. ‘She loves seeing you too, Gertrude. We’ll pop by soon. And thanks so much for the house.’ I turned to kiss her on the step.

  ‘Toodle-oo!’ she trilled.

  ‘Toodle-oo!’ I agreed, waving as I went down the street. She watched me go, fluttering her hand from the top step. Once around the corner though, and out of sight, I took to my heels and beetled guiltily towards the bus.

  Chapter Four

  When I got back home I found Rosie on my doorstep. Her short red hair looked wild and mussed as if she’d forgotten to brush it, and she was wearing one of her husband’s jumpers. She had Phoebe, her four-year-old, on her hip and looked about to leave when she saw me come around the corner.

  ‘Oh! I was about to go!’ she yelled.

  ‘Sorry, I was round at Gertrude’s. Did you say you were coming?’

  ‘No, just popped round on the off-chance. Have you spoken to Clare?’ She looked anxious as I walked up the path towards her.

  I smiled down at the ground as I rooted in my pocket for my key. ‘I have.’

  ‘Oh Annie, I’m sorry. I meant to ring you last night and tell you. D’you mind?’

  ‘What, that you’re going on holiday with my sister? Of course not.’ I let her in.

  ‘You’re just saying that,’ she said nervously as she hastened after me down the long passage to the kitchen. ‘I can tell by your tone you’re not amused, but when she rang … God, I was at such a low ebb, Annie – just contemplating the meths, actually, since I’d run out of gin – and I thought: Bugger it. A couple of weeks by the sea is just what we need right now, Dan and I, but more particu larly the kids. I mean, Christ, we haven’t had a holiday for nearly two years now and … Oh, I don’t know. I know she’s your sister and not really my friend …’ She tailed off miserably and sank down in a heap at my chaotic kitchen table with Phoebe on her lap.

  ‘She asked you to be godmother to Henry,’ I reminded her, chucking the house keys in the fruit bowl.

  ‘Only because she’d run out of friends, we all know that.’ She clutched her head in horror. ‘I’m such a bitch! Here I am accepting her hospitality and – oh hell.’

  ‘Listen, Clare’s under no illusions,’ I said as I whisked around behind her clearing the table, slinging cereal packets in cupboards and slamming the fridge door on the milk. ‘She knows the score. She knows you’re my friend, but she likes you and desperately wants … well, sounds sad, but more mates. Particularly to go on holiday with.’

  ‘And I like her too,’ Rosie said quickly, twisting round to look at me. ‘Really like her, and would like to spend more time with her, get to know her better. It’s just she can be a bit …’ She hesitated, pulled a piece of loo paper off the handily placed roll on the table and held it to Phoebe’s streaming nose. ‘Blow, darling.’

  ‘Scratchy? High-handed? Bossy?’ I squirted some Fairy Liquid in the sink and turned the taps on hard. ‘God, you don’t have to tell me, Rosie, I grew up with her. Had to pay twenty pence to get into her room and thirty to borrow one of her conkers, but don’t worry, my friend, you won’t be alone. I’ll be there for you. Round the corner, up the creek, as it were.’

  ‘What creek?’

  I plunged my hands into the soap suds and gazed dreamily out of the window. ‘The one that snakes sleepily off the estuary under an umbrella of leaves into a thicket of green, far, far from the madding crowd.’ I smiled as I took a gleaming plate out of the water. ‘Gertrude’s lent me her house,’ I informed her. ‘The one I told you about.’

  Rosie swung around again, bog roll clamped to Phoebe’s nose. ‘She hasn’t ! Annie, that’s fantastic! God, so you’ll be down there too. Brilliant. Christ, I’m so relieved, I can’t tell you.’ She flopped back dramatically in her chair, arms and legs out like a starfish as Phoebe wobbled precariously on her lap. Suddenly she sat bolt upright again. ‘So why don’t I come and stay with you?’

  ‘Because for one thing I’m supposed to be working, and for another, you’ve just said yes to my sister. The one you want to spend so much time with? No-mates Clare?’ I eyed her beadily.

  ‘Oh. Oh yes. No, you’re right,’ she said quickly. She nodded guiltily, then plunged her hand nervously into her old suede bag to pull out a tin of Old Virginia and a packet of Rizlas – her latest economy drive.

  ‘But golly,’ she murmured, ‘if you’re there it’ll make all the difference. No, Phoebe, let Mummy do it.’ She retrieved a paper from her daughter’s hand which Phoebe surrendered with unusual complicity. ‘If you become adept at roll-ups, people will think you’re on drugs. Not a nice party trick.’ Phoebe leaned resignedly against her mother’s chest and sucked her thumb.

  ‘Why isn’t she at school then?’ I asked, scraping dried Weetabix off a bowl and eyeing the little girl’s white face.

  ‘The school’s got a staff training day, but she wouldn’t be there anyway, she’s got a bit of a temperature. Nothing serious though, is it, poppet? Hm?’ Rosie stroked Phoebe’s forehead as the child’s eyes began to shut. ‘Actually, I love my children when they’re like this,’ she confided in a hoarse whisper over her daughter’s head. ‘A bit, you know, below par. Lovely.’

  I giggled. ‘Rosie, you’re appalling.’

  ‘Just takes the edge off them though, doesn’t it? I mean, we’ve just done a huge Tesco’s shop and she actually sat in the trolley, in the seat. Usually she hangs off the side like some belligerent bus conductor, yelling: “Frosties! Lol-lies!” Or, more embarrassingly, as we cruise the feminine hygiene aisle, “Heavy or light flow, Mummy?” Today, she just sat there quietly with her head on my puffa jacket. Lovely.’

  ‘Why didn’t you leave her with Dan?’

  She shifted Phoebe on her lap. ‘Dan’s got an interview.’

  ‘Oh?’ I turned from the sink.

  ‘Don’t get excited. He’s had interviews before. Thirty-eight of them, to be precise.’

  ‘Yes, but you never know.’

  ‘How true. You never know. This could be the one. The one to raise us from the depths of shitty despair and take us sailing into the ranks of the gainfully employed. To take us back into mainstream society full of solvent optimism, with our bank balance flashing miraculously from red to black, and our children back at private schools in nice shiny shoes. I could even tell our vulturine estate agent to piss off back to Barnard Marcus and stop telling me my fixtures and fittings are a bit on the shabby side and my paintwork’s looking tired.’

  I turned to look at her from the sink. She was lighting an appalling rolled cigarette which drooped down at one end. It was shaking a bit.

  ‘You’re selling?’

  ‘We’re having it valued,’ she muttered. ‘That’s all. But with a view to selling, yes, and maybe ren
ting and then buying again when the market finally crashes. Dan says it makes sense.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said quietly.

  Rosie had the prettiest pink Fulham house which had orig inally been bedsits and which they’d bought for a song in the days when one could. Painstakingly, over the years, she and Dan, without builders, had slowly transformed the interior into the elegant house it was today, with two airy rooms on each of the four floors, and all painted in soft, muted National Trust shades. Together, amidst much laughter and swearing, they’d laid a reclaimed slate floor in the kitchen, punched out a bay window in the sitting room, opened up every fireplace, quarry-tiled the bathrooms, and agonized in salvage yards over Victorian light-switches and doorknobs. It had been a labour of love.

  I turned back to avoid her eye and rinsed a cup under the tap. ‘Well, you never know. He might get the job this morning.’

  ‘He might. And then we could relocate to mouthwatering Birmingham. Super.’

  ‘Birmingham!’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, he won’t get it,’ she said drily. ‘He’s too old. All these finance houses are looking for nice, cheap graduates. Anyway, I’ve told him if he does get it he’ll have to weekly commute. Either that or I’ll divorce him. He’s quite keen on option two, actually.’ She grinned and looked around for an ashtray. Not finding one, she flicked her ash into a pot of half-dead azaleas.

  ‘Thanks.’ I shoved a saucer under her nose. ‘Makes great compost,’ she advised, taking a bit of tobacco out of her mouth. ‘No, what we were actually thinking, last night, as we shared a bubble bath together having celebrated our free holiday with some lukewarm sex, was that maybe Michael could give Dan a job. You know, at Schroders?’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Oh!’ I whipped round in horror. ‘God, that’s what the Mitchells did last year and Clare twigged and went totally insane! Please tell me you won’t do that,’ I implored her, one hand hovering on the receiver. ‘Clare will top herself if she thinks that’s why you’re coming down!’

  ‘All right, all right, keep your wig on,’ she muttered as I lifted the phone. I was still gazing anxiously at her as I said hello.

  ‘Ah. Bad moment?’

  It was David.

  ‘Um, no, not at all. Just got Rosie here.’

  ‘Oh, right. So if I were to pop back for lunch and a bit of Midweek Sports Special, would that be inconvenient?’

  I giggled. Turned my back on Rosie. ‘Not at all, I’ll get rid of her. She’s only popped round to apologize for using my sister. I’ll see you later.’ I put the phone down.

  Rosie eyed me suspiciously as I turned back. ‘Who was that? You’ve gone all pink.’

  ‘David. He’s coming back for lunch, and then we’re going to make babies, so you’ll have to shift your ass.’

  She boggled. ‘He comes home for lunchtime sex?’

  ‘Only because it’s that time of the month, and David being David knows precisely where I am in my menstrual cycle – which is more than I do, I might add. He knows when I’m ovulating, and when, to the second, would be the best time for sperm-boy to ride that egg. He took my temperature this morning and decided I’d be peaking at precisely twelve-thirty-two. I’ll have you know you’re looking at a supremely ripe woman, my friend. My apple is fit to bust.’

  ‘Blimey, he is keen,’ she said, hastily gathering up her Rizlas and stuffing them in her bag. ‘How many does he want?’

  ‘Children? Oh, three or four, I think.’ I bit my thumbnail.

  ‘Three or four!’ she shrieked, dropping her bag.

  ‘Er, no. Three. Or two,’ I said hastily. ‘He was an only child, you see, Rosie. He’d love a big family.’

  ‘Right,’ she said shortly. ‘And would you? You’re happy to be still doing this baby lark when you’re forty, are you? Because that’s what you’ll be doing, you know, if he’s going for a baker’s dozen. It’s all right for him, he’s younger than you.’

  ‘Only four years,’ I said tetchily. ‘And of course I am, otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it, would I? And it won’t be a baker’s dozen. You know what these men are like, they think they want loads, but David’s never been a father. Speak to him after he’s been up at dawn with a filthy nappy that’s erupted into the feet of the snuggle-suit and up the back of the vest, and which he’s had to change against the clock because his horribly hormonal wife is shrieking that her milk-bar’s about to explode. Speak to him after he’s been denied rumpy-pumpy for weeks on end for fear of rupturing stitches. I think you’ll find he’ll be quite content with one.’

  ‘Quite. Dan wanted to put one of ours back. And actually,’ she sighed, ‘I applaud David’s boyish enthusiasm. I haven’t the energy to open the cat food at lunchtime, let alone have sex.’

  ‘Well, I must say,’ I admitted, ‘Bargain Hunt would otherwise be commanding my attention. But don’t tell Clare,’ I added hastily. I reached for a carton of soup and poured it into a pan.

  ‘What, that you watch daytime telly or have daytime sex?’

  ‘Either,’ I said nervously.

  She grinned. ‘Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’ She stood up and hoisted her daughter on to her hip. ‘Right, come on, young Phoebe, I’m not sure I want you to be party to this. You’re too young to witness the monstrously priapic Dr Finlay bursting through that door, tongue hanging out, hips thrusting, ready to start his dynasty. It’s back to the cat food for us.’

  At that moment the milk bottles rattled on the step outside and a key went in the door. Rosie and I stared at one another, astonished.

  ‘Bloody hell, that was quick!’ Rosie boggled. She laid a hand on my arm. ‘No, don’t tell me,’ she whispered. ‘He was in a phone box, he twirled around a few times, and now he’s standing outside with his pants over his tights. I always thought he looked like Clark Kent.’

  ‘Either that or he was en route with his mobile when – Oh!’

  The door opened and we both turned to see that it wasn’t David at all. Sauntering into my house, whistling distractedly and gazing down at the post on my mat, was my ex-husband, Adam.

  He stooped to pick up the envelopes and flicked through them nonchalantly, oblivious of Rosie and me watching. He dropped most of them but retained a free magazine which he opened and read, still quietly whistling as he came towards us. Tall, dark and disreputably handsome, he was wearing a grey T-shirt over another long-sleeved white T-shirt, cargo pants and trainers. On his head, in the manner of a gauche fourteen-year-old, a baseball cap was turned back to front. Adam is nearly thirty-eight.

  He glanced up from the magazine. Saw us for the first time. Looked surprised.

  ‘Oh. Shit. Didn’t see you in here.’

  Rosie couldn’t speak.

  ‘Adam.’ I leaned back against the sink and gripped the rim hard.

  ‘Hi, sweetie.’ He planted a kiss on my cheek, then cast a nod in Rosie’s general direction. ‘Rosie.’

  Rosie still couldn’t utter.

  ‘Sorry to bust in like this but I had a break in rehearsals and I wanted to check the diary.’ He sauntered round the room and stopped at the cork noticeboard, peering at the postcards and invitations. ‘Thought you’d be out shopping actually, but still chained to the sink, I see?’ He grinned and I loosened my grip on it. ‘That’s what I like about you, Annie, it’s either the kitchen or the bedroom and you know what to do in both. Know the quickest way to a man’s heart, as Jerry Hall once famously said.’

  ‘Although, as Ruby Wax once famously said, the quickest way to a man’s heart is actually through his chest,’ I quipped back, trying to breathe.

  He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Ah, by Jove, you have to get up pretty early in the morning to get one past you, eh, Annie? That’s what I like to see, still coming out fighting. What’s this then?’ He moved across to the stove and peered in the pan. Stuck a finger in and tasted it. ‘Vichyssoise? Oh no, parsnip. Nice. Enough for three?’ He glanced around enquiringly.

  ‘Rosie’s not
staying,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s just – well. For me. And David.’

  ‘David’s popping home for lunch?’ His eyes widened. ‘Really. And then, no doubt, availing himself of your other area of expertise in the bedroom? Oops, spot on,’ he muttered as, maddeningly, I flushed. ‘Well, I’d better make myself scarce in that case, once I’ve checked a few dates with you. All right if I help myself to one of lover boy’s Stellas? I’ve got a hell of a thirst on.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ I muttered, as he did just that, opening the fridge and offering one to Rosie.

  ‘Rosie? Annie won’t, of course, it’s her puritanical upbringing, but I know you’re a woman of the world.’ He glanced down at the ashtray. ‘See you’re even rolling your own these days. Now there’s proletarianism for you. Good on yer, girl. How’s Dan the Man? Still drinking at the Feathers? I must pop in for a pint with him one of these days.’ He threw back his head and sucked hard on his beer.

  Rosie finally found her tongue. ‘He just walks in here,’ she exploded, her face pink with outrage, ‘without a by your leave, with a key, helps himself to your fridge – why the hell don’t you change the locks, Annie!’

  ‘Ah, but that wouldn’t be fair,’ said Adam, wagging a warning finger in her direction. He crossed to the larder door where my calendar hung and began coolly to flick through it. ‘Annie gave me this here key back in the days when I visited regular, like. Every day, to be precise, and nights too sometimes, eh, Annie?’ He grinned over his shoulder at me. I flushed and stared at my feet.

  ‘Oh yes, up until a year or so ago I still had a foot firmly in this door, and a place in her heart, too. Until the flying doctor came winging by and usurped me. Bastard.’ He grinned. ‘And anyway, apart from anything else, my child lives here,’ he reminded her, letting the pages of the calendar fall back. ‘So it wouldn’t be entirely friendly to lock me out, would it?’ He glanced back at the calendar. ‘This when her school holidays start then, Annie?’ He prodded a date I’d circled in red.