by Gil McNeil
‘Great.’
‘And it’s still going all right then, with the hotel and everything?’
‘Oh yes, the business is fine. We’re booked solid, and Luca’s wonderful. Actually, that’s one of the reasons I came over, to tell you, I mean, to ask you, will you be my bridesmaid?’
It takes me a minute to work out what she’s just said, and then we both end up shrieking and hugging, and Alfie comes running over, and she asks him to be her page boy and he says yes, even though he has no idea what a page boy is. Actually, that bit might be slightly tricky – he’s bound to stand on her dress or something. But she seems so happy: I knew it was going well with Luca, but she says the last few months have been perfect, and she knows he’s The One.
‘I mean not that he doesn’t drive me mad sometimes, and his mother’s crazy – I think she’d still dress him in the mornings if she could – the way she fusses round him is unbelievable. But I love him, and I want to have babies with him, lots of bilingual babies. We want the wedding to be fairly low-key, but my mum’s gone into overdrive already, so you’ll have to help me with her. And it’s in six weeks. I know it’s all a rush but I think his mother wants to get on with it in case we change our minds. Half the island thinks I’m pregnant.’
‘But you’re not, right?’
‘No, but I want to be. That’s what finally decided me. You can’t have children and not get married – they’d probably parade you round the harbour on a special boat or something.’
How sweet. She looks so happy, and I’m really pleased for her. I promise to help her handle her mum, and say I think the hotel sounds perfect, and then we go into serious dress talk. She’s thinking of a veil and everything, but she’s also quite keen on a trouser suit, mainly to annoy her mother. I make her promise not to kit me out in anything too reminiscent of Little Bo Peep, and god knows what Alfie will wear, but if it involves kilts she won’t stand a chance.
Supper on Saturday goes very well, and I’ve told Jim about Em getting engaged so he arrives early with two bottles of champagne and we all get rather drunk while Em cooks, which is great because living in Italy has only improved her cooking, which was pretty good to begin with. She does something very clever to the joint of lamb with rosemary from the garden, and Jim pretends to be devastated that she’s got engaged and says he’s been saving himself for her, and she’s the only girl he ever wanted to marry and now she’s broken his heart.
Em ignores him, and concentrates on Harry. They talk about herbs, and cooking, and then they talk about wine and Em tells him all about the local wines on the island, which apparently taste fantastic when you’re there but if you bring them back with you to England they taste just like syrup.
Jim puts Alfie to bed, which takes hours, so we eat quite late, and we end up having a competition to see who’s had the most annoying client, which Em wins with a woman who turned up at the hotel and handed her a huge pile of clothes to iron, and then rang room service in the middle of the night to complain that her mineral water had gone flat. In the end she drove them all so crazy that when she rang up a few months later to make another booking Em says she kept pressing buttons on the phone and pretended the line was breaking up.
Jim is very impressed with this, and says he once tried something similar with his managing director, but unfortunately he was on his mobile, and only managed to activate some traffic-update service, which meant his phone rang every thirty seconds with an update on tailbacks on the M25.
Harry helps me make coffee, which is a good job because I’ve drunk rather a lot, whereas he hasn’t. He’s really dreading his lunch tomorrow, and says his brother is very dismissive of rural life and makes lots of jokes about compost.
‘He’s probably jealous.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, you never know.’
‘Trust me. Actually, I really must be making a move soon, or I’m going to be tempted to stay until dawn again, and I’m knackered enough already.’
‘Charming.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but I was really busy with deliveries this afternoon, and it’s been a long day. And tomorrow’s going to be even longer.’
Jim starts shouting from the living room.
‘Come on you two, where’s that coffee? Honestly, what are you doing in there? I hope you’re not snogging.’
We hear Em hit him with something that sounds like a cushion because he suddenly goes all muffled.
Harry smiles.
‘What a good idea.’
After Harry leaves we open another bottle of wine. I’m relieved he’s gone in a weird sort of way. I mean apart from anything else, with Alfie in my bed and Jim on the sofa we’d have ended up in a tent in the garden if he’d been able to stay. And I haven’t actually got a tent. But also it’s nice just to be able to relax with Em and Jim and not have to be on my best behaviour, which I know technically I don’t have to be with Harry, but I’m still at the stage where I hold my stomach in if I think he’s looking at me, and it’s pretty exhausting.
‘So what’s the verdict then?’
‘He’s all right, I suppose, although I still think herbs are girly. At least he could grow something a bit more macho. Killer vines or something. And his mother sounds like a nightmare. But he seems all right, if you like that kind of thing.’
‘I wasn’t asking you, actually.’
Em says she thinks he’s a grown-up, and he seems really keen.
‘And he doesn’t seem like he’ll suddenly announce he needs “space”, or anything crap like that. God, this wine is delicious.’
‘Blimey, he’s certainly taught you how to knock it back, this Captain Kirk of yours.’
Jim has decided, for reasons best known to himself, to refer to Luca as Captain Kirk. Something to do with Jean Luc Picard and Star Trek I think.
‘Shut up.’
‘To boldly go where no man has gone before. But are you sure he’s The One, Em? That’s the thing. You could be making a terrible mistake.’
‘Just ignore him.’
‘Mock me now but you’ll see. When his mother turns out to be a klingon, you’ll wish you listened.’
‘You might have a point there. I could really do with one of those transporter-beam thingies – that would be a really great wedding present. I could beam her off somewhere useful when she gets too annoying.’
‘We might need one for Alfie, you know. I’m still not completely sure about this page-boy idea – he’s quite likely to start singing or something, you know.’
Jim seems delighted at the prospect of Alfie bursting into song in the middle of the service.
‘I’ll teach him a few useful tunes, if you like. “My Old Man’s a Dustman”, “Rule Britannia”. That kind of thing. Liven things up a bit for you.’
I’m so looking forward to this wedding.
We spend Sunday reading the papers and trying to stop Jim teaching Alfie ‘Rule Britannia’. Luckily he’s not that interested, and is concentrating on getting us round to Molly’s to meet Eddie and the other chickens.
Jim leaves after lunch and Alfie drags us straight to Molly’s. Eddie’s got much bigger, and all the chicks run round in hysterics pecking and flapping, while Em makes suitably impressed noises and says she thinks Eddie is the best chicken she’s ever seen.
‘But isn’t Eddie short for Edward? That’s a boy’s name, and Eddie’s a chicken and they’re all girls, aren’t they?’
‘I know that, silly. Boy chickens are called cockenels. But I want her to be called Edward. Girls can have boys’ names. There’s a girl at my playgroup called Sydney.’
‘Fair enough.’
We sit in the kitchen watching Alfie and Lily to make sure they’re not rounding up the chickens too enthusiastically.
‘You’re looking very pregnant all of a sudden, you know, Molly.’
‘I know. If I go on like this I won’t be able to get in the car. Dan says he’ll rig up a roof rack for me, but
I don’t really fancy it.’
‘I think you look fabulous. I used to love the feel of Alice’s tummy with Alfie.’
Em gets a dreamy look on her face.
‘Oh yes, it’s marvellous. I can’t sleep for more than an hour because the baby’s lying on something vital, and then Lily wakes up at the crack of dawn. And even if she sleeps in, bloody Bernard’s up doing his cock-a-doodle-do thing. It’s bloody getting on my nerves, I can tell you. I think we might have to go in for some coq au vin soon.’
‘I thought you were a vegetarian.’
‘I am. But I’ll make an exception for Bernard.’
‘I really envy you, though. It must be lovely being pregnant.’
‘Feeling broody, are we?’
‘Definitely. Ever since Alfie was born, to be honest.’
I’m rather touched by this.
‘I remember feeling like that.’
‘Me too. It soon wears off – trust me.’
‘Oh don’t be so horrible – you adore Alfie.’
‘Yes, of course I do, but I never realised just how big a deal it is. I mean everything changes, you know. Everything. I really can’t remember what it was like before I had him: it’s like I’ve had some sort of operation and that bit of my brain has gone for ever, the bit that could read for hours, or really get engrossed in something. And your memory goes too. I used to be able to plan out all sorts of things in my head, but now I have to write it all down. They say it comes back, but mine bloody hasn’t.’
‘Neither has mine, and it’s getting worse. I nearly got lost driving home the other day – I went right past our turning. God knows why.’
‘Oh I get it. This is the put-me-off-having-babies talk. OK, what else?’
Molly laughs.
‘Sorry, it’s lovely, it really is, but it does change you. You can’t ever be totally selfish again. They come first. For ever.’
‘And you love them so much, it’s scary. Terrifying, actually. I used to look at Alfie sometimes when he was tiny and I loved him so much it hurt. Actually physically hurt. They’re so fragile and it’s all down to you. I have nightmares sometimes where I can’t get to him, and it’s awful. It’s like you’ve got a layer of skin missing. You look the same, but everything’s changed.’
‘That sounds quite nice, actually. Well, apart from the skin thing.’
‘It is, but Alice’s right, that’s just how it feels. And then there’s your pelvic floor, of course.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
We explain about pelvic floors and the dire warnings you get about not being able to sneeze in public if you don’t do your exercises every ten seconds for the rest of your life. We all sit in silence for a bit, having a pelvic-floor moment. Clenching and unclenching with rather strained looks on our faces.
‘God, it’s really hard, isn’t it?’
‘The woman who runs the classes at the hospital says you have to imagine it’s a lift. And you go from the ground floor up to the tenth, and then back.’
We all consider this.
‘I can only get to the third.’
‘So can I.’
‘Fuck.’
Mum’s made me promise to get home from work early if I can, for my birthday tea. The tradition in the office is that you buy cakes for everyone, and then we all stand round at teatime in an awkward silence while Janet presents you with a really cheap card. But since I want to leave early I produce a selection of cakes at lunchtime.
Janet’s not pleased.
‘Oh well, if you insist, maybe I could just have a little smidgen of this one here.’
I really hate people who cut a chocolate éclair into three pieces, and then only eat the smallest piece.
Malcolm wanders over and grabs a large cream horn, and licks his lips in a rather unattractive manner.
‘Happy Birthday, and many more. You seem to look younger by the day, you know, Alice – you must tell us your secret.’
‘Gin, mostly.’
Malcolm laughs, but Janet’s not amused.
Brenda has organised my card herself this time, which has been signed by everyone and is along whisky-makes-you-frisky-brandy-makes-you-randy lines. There’s a special badge with the card, which says ‘Make Mine A Large One’.
Brenda’s asking me about the latest on Em’s wedding. I’ve shown her the email from Em with a selection of hideous frocks in various shades of what Em calls aubergine but is actually purple. I think she’s joking, but I’m not sure.
‘She’s only got two more weeks to get everything organised, so she’ll have to get a move on. And her mother’s driving her demented.’
‘Oh mine did that too. I almost called the whole thing off. And then my Brian got drunk at the reception and told her to piss off.’
‘What about you, Janet? Any last-minute wedding dramas?’
‘Oh no, it was all perfect.’
‘Well, apart from the fact that it poured with rain, and half the guests got food poisoning, that is.’
Janet’s looking really furious now. I don’t think she was expecting Malcolm to be quite so forthcoming.
‘Actually, I was meaning to have a little word, Alice. I notice you’ve been getting rather a lot of emails lately from your friend, and we don’t really encourage people to use the office computers for personal communications, you know. It’s not really appropriate.’
‘Sorry, she normally emails me at home, Janet, but my modem’s gone on the blink so I asked her to send it here. I use my computer at home quite a bit for work, actually, so I’m sure it all balances out.’
Mean cow. That should shut her up.
‘I’m sure it does, Alice, and I’m sure Janet wouldn’t want you to think we were being petty, would you, darling?’
Oh dear. Janet’s really going to hate me now. Public criticism from the great man himself.
‘And if we do owe you anything, for the work you do at home, Alice, please do let us know. I don’t want you subsidising your work for us – far from it.’
This just gets better and better.
I drive home and the man behind the till in the petrol station gives me a very strange look and winks, which alerts me to the fact that I’m still wearing my ‘Make Mine A Large One’ badge. I take it off before I get home because I don’t think Mum would think it was funny: ‘Make Mine A Large One’ badges aren’t really her style, unless Domestos have started issuing them.
Alfie’s standing in the front garden keeping watch, and I promise to close my eyes as he leads me into the living room rather fast, so I walk straight into the door. I manage not to swear, but only just, and then he says I can open my eyes, and presents me with a large box of Maltesers. He thinks Maltesers are the height of sophistication because I told him we couldn’t buy a big box in the village shop once because they’re only for grown-ups.
‘Oh thank you, darling, how lovely.’
‘Yes, and you can eat them all yourself. Although sharing is good, you know, Mummy. Very good. Nice people share.’
Mum’s done a proper birthday tea, with sausages on sticks, crisps, and jelly. And balloons, which unfortunately Alfie decides to pop just as we’re having our second cup of tea. She draws the curtains and turns the lights out, just like she used to do when we were little, and carries in the birthday cake, with Alfie doing a faintly Nazi-type military march and what look suspiciously like kung fu kicking actions. The icing is bubble-gum pink, and there’s a great deal of it, and in chocolate letters it says ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAM’, which strikes me as a bit Catherine Cookson until Mum explains that she bought the letters in the special cake shop in town, and it was meant to say MAMA, but Alfie ate the other A.
We blow out the candles, and I make a wish, and then we light them again so Alfie can make a wish. I know he’s wished for a dog, mainly because he tells me, and I wish for more birthdays just like this one, although maybe without quite so much balloon-popping.
Mum goes off home with a slice of cake for Dad, and as sh
e’s leaving I give her a hug.
‘Thanks, Mum. Really.’
‘What for? It was just a little cake.’
‘Yes, but the tea and everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Oh stop it and get back inside – it’s getting quite chilly.’
Alfie and I wave her off, and then go back inside to watch telly and eat all my Maltesers. Bliss.
Harry calls to wish me Happy Birthday and we arrange to meet up at the weekend. We’re sort of developing a little Friday-night routine, which suits us both, I think. He comes round for supper and stays until four or five, and then he leaves before Alfie wakes up. He doesn’t seem that bothered about us going out anywhere, and neither am I, to be honest. I’m happy keeping things fairly low-key: it makes it more manageable, somehow.
‘So, I’ll see you Friday then?’
‘Sure. Around eight. Oh, and by the way, your friend Lola rang and asked me along to Glyndebourne, but I said I couldn’t make it. I hope that’s all right, only I had enough of that kind of thing when I was working. Corporate entertainment and all that – I always hated it.’
I’m sure I asked Lola not to call him. Bugger. He’s bound to think I put her up to inviting him.
‘That’s fine. I didn’t know she was calling you, actually, or I’d have warned you.’
‘Well, I just hope it’s not Wagner, for your sake – they’re all about three weeks long. Oh and take an umbrella. In my experience it’s always pouring with rain at Glyndebourne.’
Great.
Lola’s sorted everything out perfectly for the Glyndebourne extravaganza, and she says she forgot she wasn’t supposed to ring Harry, and she’s pretty miffed he turned her down. She makes me promise to wear a dress, and no wellies, and not mention gardens all night because she says Charles is really annoying her talking about the garden all the time and he doesn’t need encouraging.
Since I don’t really have a dress that’s posh enough I race round all the shops at lunchtime, and find one in pale-blue silky stuff, with little beads round the hem, in a new shop that has just opened, and I’ve got a pair of pale-blue girly mules, which I bought last summer, that will go with it perfectly.
