Panicking, I start composing another text. Sorry–just a joke. I’m not a nymphomaniac, honest! and press Send immediately.
A couple of minutes later, another arrives. It’s from him. One line.
I’ll try not to be too disappointed.
Chapter 36
Grace and Patrick’s house, Mossley Hill, Liverpool,
Friday, 30 March
Grace has broken out into a sweat again. Not the soft, glowing sort on the average deodorant advert model. More the red-faced, hair-stuck-to-your-forehead sort.
‘I wish I was back in the Maldives,’ she groans, bending down to look under the bed for her shoes. ‘I could cope with the pace of life there.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I ask, looking at my watch and thinking that the entire hen night will have graduated to tequila shots and male strippers by the time we finally arrive.
‘Er, yeah,’ she says, throwing on her top. ‘I’m sure there is. Let me think…I know, go and ask Polly if she’s seen my shoes. The ones with diamonds on them.’
Polly is downstairs watching Sponge Bob Square Pants and is so transfixed that I bet it would take nothing less than an alien invasion of the living room to snap her out of it.
‘Hey, Pol. How’s it going?’ I ask.
‘Good,’ she says, barely blinking.
‘Have you seen your mum’s shoes?’ I ask. ‘The ones with the diamonds on them?’
‘No,’ she says. I can hardly see her lips move.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Hmm, yes,’ she says.
‘Right,’ I say, wondering what to do next.
‘Evie,’ she says, as I’m heading out of the room. ‘Why have they got diamonds on them?’
Now that’s more like it.
Why is one of Polly’s words du jour, along with What? Where? and anything else that marks the start of a question. Lately, from the minute she wakes up in the morning to the minute she goes to bed, Grace, Patrick and anyone else she comes into contact with is bombarded with questions, questions and more questions. The FBI could take lessons from her.
Tonight, we’ve covered topics as varied as religion: Why does God make people and then make them die? Try answering that one when you’re trying to put your eyeliner on; physics: What is there in the sky after the clouds?; maths: How many numbers are there?; military history: When did wars start?; cinema: Why was Simba–the Lion King–born?; sex education: Why was I born? and a whole wealth of miscellany including: Who would win a fight between Superman and King Kong? and Why does Mrs Harris (her teacher) have a moustache even though she’s a lady?
It’s proof, according to Grace’s mum, that she has ‘an inquisitive mind’.
‘I think they’re there just to decorate them, just to make them look pretty,’ I say.
‘Why do they need to look pretty?’ she asks.
I can see this has the potential to be a long philosophical discussion, and with the taxi booked for 7.30 p.m. I’m not sure we’ve got time.
When I get upstairs to check on Grace’s progress, she is flinging random items of junk out from the bottom of her wardrobe. There’s old coat-hangers, plastic bags full of tights, a box full of half-used moisturisers and crusty make-up, and about six or so pairs of shoes, one of which actually has cobwebs on them. Piled up, it is the sort of collection you’d see in the scruffy corner of a car-boot sale.
‘Shit,’ she says suddenly. ‘Can you look at my curling tongs?’
The tongs have started to burn a hole in the dressing-table and are emitting the sort of aroma you’d expect from a rusty barbecue. I prop them up next to a bottle of tanning lotion as Patrick shouts from downstairs.
‘Is Scarlett’s bum meant to look like this?’
Grace takes a deep breath and runs downstairs, followed by me. I’m not sure what light I can shed on the issue, but at least it’s getting us closer to the door.
‘Hmm,’ Grace says as she bends down to examine the evidence. ‘She’s got nappy rash. Just let her dry out for five minutes then put a load of Sudocrem on.’
‘Right,’ says Patrick.
‘You’re obviously not as familiar as I am with the complete works of Miriam Stoppard or you’d have known that,’ she adds.
She’s clearly joking but I can’t help noticing that Patrick flashes her a look–a look that’s almost dirty. It’s the sort of expression Valentina throws shop assistants if they suggest she’s anything over a size eight. And it’s not one I’ve ever seen Patrick give before, particularly not to Grace.
‘Are you sure we’ve got some Sudocrem?’ he shouts through to Grace in the kitchen.
‘Yes,’ she shouts back, having finally found her shoes.
‘You’re sure?’ he asks.
‘Positive,’ she replies.
‘Because there’s none in here.’
‘There is.’
‘There’s not, I promise you,’ he tells her firmly.
‘I promise you there is,’ she says. ‘I bought some last week.’
‘Well, you can’t have put it in here,’ he says.
‘I did.’
‘You can’t have,’ he says. ‘Because it’s not here.’ His face is now so thunderous he looks less like a corporate lawyer and more like a military dictator.
I know it’s only a low-key domestic, but I’m standing here, stunned into silence, because it’s so unlike Patrick and Grace. They just don’t row. Not usually, anyway. But something’s going on here, that’s for sure, because there is enough resentment coming from Patrick alone to keep a Relate counsellor going until Christmas.
Grace walks into the living room, moves him to one side and starts rifling through the nappy box, before producing a tub of Sudocrem.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I hadn’t realised that was the stuff you were talking about.’
‘The fact that it’s got Sudocrem in big letters on the side of the tub wasn’t a giveaway?’ she enquires. Again, it’s a lighthearted jest, the kind both of them usually make all the time.
But Patrick doesn’t see it that way. He mutters something under his breath as she heads out of the room but Grace, diplomatically, decides not to ask for a repetition. As it happens, she doesn’t need to.
‘Mummy,’ says Polly, ‘what’s a pain in the arse?’
Chapter 37
‘Is everything okay between you and Patrick?’ I ask when we eventually make it into a taxi.
‘Oh God, yes,’ she says dismissively as she attempts to finish tonging her hair while we belt it along the Dock Road. It’s only half-done at the moment, which means while one side of her hair is so straight it could have been ironed, the other side looks like it has been transplanted from Leo Sayer. ‘He’s just being a bit of a grumpy old man at the moment, that’s all. It’s nothing. Oh, bugger.’
Grace’s BlackBerry is ringing so she thrusts the curling tongs towards me like some sort of relay baton, to root around in her bag for it. She studies the number which has come up and lets out a long sigh.
‘It’s Adele,’ she says dejectedly. Her boss.
‘Well, don’t answer it,’ I tell her.
She hesitates, biting her lip so much you’d think she was battling with the sort of moral dilemma nations go to war over.
‘I’ve got to,’ she says eventually.
‘Don’t!’ I say. ‘You’re on a hen night. You’re meant to be wolf-whistling at barmen and getting so drunk you can’t remember your husband’s name. This is not the time to be speaking to your boss.’
She bites her lip again and looks out of the window. I know exactly what she’s going to do.
‘Hi, Adele,’ she says cheerfully, as she answers the phone. ‘Oh, right. Oh, sorry. Well, I did stay late every night this week and…’ She pauses to listen ‘…but you see, I thought I did get that report to you…’ another pause ‘…oh well, if it wasn’t right…Yes. Okay, yes. I understand. I’ll see what I can do.’
She puts the phone down and lets out another huge
sigh.
‘What?’ I say.
‘I’m going to have to go back,’ she says.
‘Why?’ I shriek. ‘Grace, it’s eight o’clock on a Friday night. What can you possibly need to do that can’t wait?’
‘Oh, it’s just a report she’d asked for–I won’t bore you with the details. But she needs me to do something else for it tonight.’
Grace is about to lean forward to re-direct the taxi driver, and I know I’ve got to act. Thankfully, I’m faster than she is.
I lean over and grab her BlackBerry.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
I open the taxi window and hold my arm–and the BlackBerry–out as the wind from the Mersey whistles past it.
‘Evie, what are you doing!’ she screams. ‘Do you know how much they cost?’
‘Yes,’ I lie. I have about as much knowledge and interest in these executive toys as I do in mechanical engineering.
‘Look, I don’t care,’ I add. ‘Promise me you’re not going back.’
‘Evie, come on!’ she says. ‘Give it to me! That’s company property!’
‘Promise me,’ I tell her sternly.
‘I can’t–I’ll be sacked,’ she says, almost whimpering now.
‘Do you really think that being sacked is a likely prospect?’ I ask. ‘I mean, how many other employees do they have who would even consider leaving a hen night to go and start writing a report?’
She shrugs.
‘Come on now,’ I say. ‘Promise me?’
‘So what the hell do I say to Adele?’ she asks.
‘Here,’ I say, pulling the phone back in. ‘I’ll compose a text message for you. Honestly, leave this to me.’
She rolls her eyes and starts shaking her head, but at least she’s starting to see the funny side of it.
Dear Adele, I write. ‘Let’s keep it vague at this point, I think,’ I tell Grace. Family emergency, my text continues. Will explain all on Monday. So sorry but I can’t help with the report. Grace. There, perfect.’
‘So what do I tell her on Monday?’ she asks.
I shrug.
‘You’ve got two days to come up with that,’ I tell her. ‘Do you expect me to do everything around here or what?’
Chapter 38
When Georgia chose Simply Heathcotes as the venue at which to kick off her hen night, I have to say I was a little sceptical.
It is one of Liverpool’s best restaurants, housed in a stunning glass and granite building in the heart of the city centre. And while I’m not saying the off-duty city types, sophisticated couples and out-of-towners don’t look like they know how to enjoy themselves, I just know that if I’d come out for a nice dinner, I wouldn’t be entirely chuffed to find myself put next to a hen party.
But as Grace and I make our way past the tables and to a private dining room on the first floor, it’s plain that we’ll be discreetly tucked away–and won’t lower the tone elsewhere. Which is a good job really. Because as we walk in, Georgia is unwrapping a gift from one of her fellow ‘hens’–a ten-inch bright blue vibrator that on first glance looks more like Darth Vader’s light sabre.
‘We thought you’d never get here!’ she shouts, attempting to keep the L-plate pinned on the front of her dress out of her soup.
Tonight may be Georgia’s night, but there is one other hen our eyes are immediately drawn to. Charlotte. Okay, so I got a sneak preview earlier after spending the day with her on a mammoth shopping trip, followed by a session at the hairdresser. But with the look now complete–courtesy of a famous Valentina makeover–she is nothing less than stunning.
‘Bloody hell!’ I say. ‘Charlotte, what happened to you?’
‘Fabulous, isn’t she?’ says Valentina, admiring her handiwork.
‘You look unbelievable,’ I add. ‘Really, you do.’
Charlotte blushes. ‘Thank you,’ she says, smiling.
As well as her gorgeous new haircut and Valentina’s make-up, Charlotte is wearing an ultra-feminine raspberry-coloured jacket, which shows off a cleavage to die for. As I told her when I helped her pick it out, no one is a better judge, since I’m about as voluptuous as the average greyhound.
‘She looks amazing,’ says Grace, as we slip into the two seats saved for us at the other end of the table. ‘How’s her diet going?’
I glance back over to Charlotte and see that she’s chosen a salad. While she’s too far away for me to be certain, I’d bet anything she’s told them to hold the dressing.
‘It’s early days,’ I say, ‘but she did really well in week one at WeightWatchers.’
If the truth be told, Charlotte didn’t just do really well, she positively put me to shame. She lost six pounds and was rewarded with a round of applause from the other slimmers and a free packet of low sugar liquorice chews. I, on the other hand, lost 0.2 pounds and was rewarded with a sceptical look from the leader when I told her I couldn’t understand it because I’d stuck to the plan religiously. I decided not to mention the curry takeaway I’d had in front of my Lost DVD on Thursday.
‘Six pounds in seven days,’ I continue. ‘And she’s showing no sign of giving up. The way she’s going she’ll be calculating the Points value of oxygen before long.’ I beam at them all. Then I turn to Grace.
‘Anyway, listen,’ I whisper in her ear. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you what happened.’
‘What?’ she says.
‘Guess who texted me?’
‘Who?’ she asks, buttering some bread.
I raise my eyebrows and grin.
‘Who? Come on, we’ll be here all night at this rate!’
I check that nobody else is listening then lean closer to her. ‘Jack,’ I say, trying not to grin too inanely.
‘Oh really?’ She is raising her own eyebrows now. ‘Would this be the same Jack who you’re definitely, definitely, one hundred per cent not interested in?’
‘There’s no need to be like that,’ I tell her.
‘Go on then, what did he say?’ she asks.
I pause for a second, then dig out my mobile to show Grace the texts, realising I’m behaving like a giggly sixth-former.
‘You’ve saved them?’ she asks, amused.
‘Couldn’t resist,’ I shrug.
And, do you know, I can barely believe it myself.
Chapter 39
By the time we’ve got through dessert–and a hefty amount of wine–the conversation around the table has started to resemble an episode of Trisha. The subject of debate is probably inevitable under the circumstances: the pros and cons of being married.
On the cons side is Leona, one of Georgia’s former neighbours, a woman who is expensive-looking in every way and so skinny she must have been on Atkins since birth.
‘All you need to know about married life,’ she says in between healthy mouthfuls of Chablis, ‘is that you argue more and shag less.’
Everyone laughs, but tonight we’re all coming down on the side of Georgia, the blushing bride.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she says, laughing. ‘Grace, back me up here–marriage is fantastic, isn’t it? Go on, tell her–I know I can count on you.’
Grace puts down her knife and fork. For some reason she looks lost for words.
‘Grace?’ I prompt, thinking I might just have to prod her with her fork to snap her out of it.
‘Oh, sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s great. It’s lovely. Yes, it really is. Lovely.’
‘So, does it bring you closer together?’ asks Georgia.
‘Er, well, it’s difficult to say,’ replies Grace evasively.
I frown. I can’t help thinking we’d all hoped for a little more enthusiasm here.
‘What I mean is, Patrick and I have always been close,’ Grace continues. ‘Besides, it’s different when you’ve got kids. Nothing brings you together like they do. I mean, try dealing with a screaming baby at two a.m. when you’ve both got work the next morning. That’s a bonding experience if ever there is one.’
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Georgia smiles, apparently happy with this interpretation.
‘So you’re glad you did it?’ she asks.
Grace hesitates again. ‘Absolutely,’ she says, a little too firmly. ‘Yes, absolutely. I mean, it was a bloody good party at the very least, wasn’t it?’
When the meal is finished we head to Mathew Street which, with its packed bars and clubs, is a far more conventional setting for a hen party. Despite the temperature being only a few degrees above freezing, most of the women are wearing the sort of attire you might expect for the climate of, say, Fiji. The men, meanwhile, are just wearing appreciative looks.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Evie,’ says Georgia. ‘Everyone offered to carry some of my hen-party presents in their handbags so I didn’t have to cart everything round myself. I think you ended up with the fluffy handcuffs in your bag while you were in the loo.’
‘I thought it felt heavier,’ I say, ‘especially since I have been saddled with Grace’s curling tongs too somehow. Still, the handcuffs may come in handy. If that Leona woman keeps going on about how awful marriage is, we could always attach her to some railings somewhere.’
Georgia laughs as we arrive at the door to a retro club which was one of our staple nights out when we were students. As the door shuts behind us, we are bombarded with the opening bars of ‘Native New Yorker’ and Valentina wastes no time in refamiliarising herself with the dance floor.
Hands on her waist, lips pouting, she flings her coat on a chair à la Saturday Night Fever and strides her way into the centre of the dance floor, hips swinging like a professional showgirl. Or possibly ladyboy.
‘What do you reckon?’ I say to Grace and Charlotte. ‘Shall we join her? Or do you want to sit this one out at first?’
Personally, I’m dying to hit the dance floor. But the get out clause at the end is for Charlotte’s benefit, as I know she usually finds dancing as appealing as doing the can-can naked down Church Street.
Bridesmaids Page 10
