‘That’s good to know,’ Oliver says, smiling. ‘Anyway, the wedding will be somewhere in Ireland – they haven’t set a date yet, but I’ll be best man, so we’ll have to go.’
‘That’s great! Congrats!’ I say, clinking my glass against his; I can tell he’s pleased to be asked to be best man. ‘Thank God. I thought for a minute there you were going to say the wedding was in New York. My credit card was about to start weeping to itself quietly.’
‘Why – because you’ve got a girls’ weekend to fit in there as well?’
‘Oh. No, I’m not going to go with them.’
‘How come?’
‘Because I’ve had two holidays so far this year. And work is really busy. I’m going to have a big deadline around then …’ I don’t add the most important reason, which is that I hate the idea of spending a whole weekend away from Oliver at the moment. Our weekends are the only real time we have together; if I miss one, it means I don’t see him properly for a fortnight.
But it’s hard to fool Oliver. He says, ‘But work will always be busy. That’s why you need the holidays. Wasn’t it one of your New Year’s resolutions to travel more – as well as widening your social circle?’ His eyes twinkle.
‘Ye-es.’ This is why you should never tell people your New Year’s resolutions; they come back to haunt you.
‘And didn’t Lily recently break up with her boyfriend? What was his name, Jimmy?’
‘Jesse. Yes, she did.’ I should have thought of that sooner. I take out my BlackBerry again and re-read her message. Poor Lily: the phrases ‘I am really nervous’ and ‘I miss home’ jump out at me. As do the phrases ‘VIP event’ and ‘stay at the Mercer’. But that doesn’t change the real reason, which I’m going to have to admit to him now.
‘I know it’s pathetic, but it would mean we wouldn’t see each other properly for a fortnight. And that just seems like a long time.’
‘We do see each other during the week sometimes,’ Oliver points out, though we both know that our weeknight dates are really just sleepovers because we both finish work so late. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Oliver’s got plenty of energy, and … Anyway. Enough said.
‘I know it would be fun,’ I say, referring to the weekend away. ‘But I’ve got other priorities.’
Oliver shrugs. ‘Fair enough. It’s up to you.’
Hm. Now that he’s agreeing with me, I’m not so sure. I don’t mind being one of those couples, but I don’t want to be that girl … the one who drops all her friends when she gets a boyfriend. I’ve made some great friends in the past six months, and I’ve become much more spontaneous. It’s not that I don’t want to put Oliver first, because I do, but I don’t want to slip into a couple coma either.
‘Actually, you know what? I am going to go.’ I put down my drink, excited at the thought of New York – Manhattan! Central Park, the Metropolitan Museum, shopping on Fifth Avenue – and a mystery VIP event. Why was I ever going to say no to that?
‘Good idea,’ says Oliver. ‘And you know, about the other thing. I mean the whole seeing-each-other-enough thing. Logistics thereof.’ He looks almost nervous, but he’s smiling too. ‘Maybe it would help … if we moved in together?’
THE GIRLS TAKE MANHATTAN
Thirty Things To Do Before You’re Thirty.
Shuddering, I put the magazine quickly back on the rack. I’ve read those articles before. They all tell you useless things like ‘acquire one perfect white shirt’. I did acquire that one perfect white shirt, thinking it would make me look like Katharine Hepburn instead of a crumpled barmaid at the end of her shift. Don’t get me wrong: I, Poppy Desmond, am not in a flap over turning thirty. I just don’t want anyone to know it’s happening next week. Or read a stupid list about all the things I should have done by now.
Instead, I’m going to write my own list. Number one: ‘Go to New York for the weekend with three girlfriends for mystery VIP event.’ Tick tick tick! I’m at Heathrow, about to jet off to Manhattan with Maggie and Rachel. We’re meeting Lily at the Mercer, a swanky hotel in SoHo, where she’s managed to swing us three free nights. She’s refused to give us any details about what the event is, but who cares? It’s in New York!
‘Hey, beaudiful. I’d recognise that ass anywhere,’ says someone behind me in a terrible American accent. I turn around to see Rachel, her hair unbrushed and her denim shirt buttoned up wrong, looking exhausted and wired at the same time. As soon as we’ve hugged hello, she starts dancing around, singing tunelessly, ‘Rum rum rum, rum rum rum rum, do doodle dee …’ She tails off. ‘No?’
‘Sorry, darling, I give up. What is it?’
‘Sex and the City!’ Rachel exclaims. Her BlackBerry buzzes and she whips it out eagerly. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters as her thumbs dart around at bewildering speed. ‘I’m overstimulated. Big case on at the minute. I’ve been up all night working and drinking Bed Rull, I mean Red Bull. Can we get a coffee? Where’s Maggie? Where do we check in? We’re going to New York!’ She tries to stuff her BlackBerry in her pocket, drops it, retrieves it and jumps up and down again.
‘OK, calm down,’ I say, guiding her towards Costa. ‘We’re meeting Maggie here, remember? I need coffee too. I never sleep well before a flight, plus my mum rang me at six a.m. You won’t believe what she was on about …’
‘What, what?’ Rachel asks breathlessly. ‘Let’s sit here. No, here. No, here! Here’s the best!’
I don’t think now is the time to discuss my manic mum with my manic friend. Instead, I hold the table while Rachel buys our cappuccinos, and close my eyes and take deep yoga breaths as I recall my conversation with Mum this morning.
In an attack of unprecedented madness, my mother has decided it’s her duty to remind me that the women in my family tend to have – urk – very early menopauses. Hers began at thirty-five, apparently. And she thinks I should celebrate my thirtieth birthday by sharing this fact with my boyfriend.
‘That reminds me,’ she said innocently this morning, after giving me her views on ObamaCare, which was already a bit much when I was half-asleep. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to Charlie yet?’
‘Seriously, Mum!’ I growled, sitting bolt upright, my happy dream of marshmallows and Michael Fassbender gone for ever. ‘For the last time. We have been together ten months. Charlie is twenty-six years old. I can’t start telling him about my menopause!’
‘Well, I don’t think it’s a very good sign if you’re afraid to have the conversation. But if you are—’
‘Afraid! The only thing I’m afraid of is being mental.’
‘If you are,’ she continued relentlessly, ‘I’d be more than happy to talk to him myself and make sure he knows the situation. I’m friends with him on Facebook, you know. I think you can get one cycle of IVF free on the NHS, but ideally—’
I stood up, clutching one hand to my head. ‘Oh my God, Mother. If you dare bring this up with Charlie, I swear to God I will never speak to you again.’ I knew this wasn’t the best way to handle the situation, or put her off, but I was so incensed I couldn’t think straight. Why couldn’t I just lie, like a normal daughter? ‘Yes, Mum, I’ve briefed Charlie about the state of my ovaries and he is on-message.’
Mum is obviously nuts to be worrying about my menopause. But the really annoying thing is, there is a grain of truth amongst all the crazy. Charlie is over three years younger than me – twenty-seven in June. In a week’s time, we’ll be in different decades. He might not want to settle down – or think about a family – for at least ten years. How can I possibly bring it up with him? It’s way too soon. But if I don’t …
Aargh. I am evicting my mother from my head. Thank God Charlie didn’t stay the night and come with me to the airport, as he’d suggested. Imagine if he’d overheard our conversation! Early menopause: classic seduction tool.
‘Hey, where’s your steamer trunk?’ Rachel says, plonking down two cappuccinos, three giant pastries and about twenty paper napkins, sugars and coffee-stirrer
s. ‘Did you donate it to a museum?’
I roll my eyes at her. ‘Of course not. It’s been repurposed as a bedside table. I will admit, this wheelie thing is a tad more practical.’
‘I’m not sure what I’ve brought,’ says Rachel, swallowing half her coffee in one gulp and biting into a pastry. ‘I packed quite quickly. I know I brought my swimsuit. Maybe a few swimsuits. Oh look, there’s Maggie. Maggie! Over here!’ She waves frantically before adding in a loud voice, ‘What the hell is wrong with her?’
Maggie is trudging towards us, head down, pulling a wheelie suitcase that’s the size of Rachel’s and mine put together. Normally so chic and well groomed, she looks as if she got dressed in the dark: baggy leggings, pink trainers and a very unflattering green sweatshirt. Her pixie-cut hair is flat and messy, and she’s not wearing make-up. This wouldn’t be too odd with anyone else, but Maggie is a person who wears eyeliner to the gym. Maggie without mascara? Are these end times?
‘Hi,’ she says, sitting down heavily.
‘How are you, darling?’ I ask. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Maggie, cheer up,’ says Rachel. ‘Did you not hear? We’re going to New York.’
‘I did hear,’ Maggie says. ‘And you know what else I heard? Leo is officially dating that obnoxious Jenny.’
‘How did you find out?’ asks Rachel.
‘I had my suspicions when I saw that they’d entered the London Marathon together. And last night I got this.’ Maggie holds out her phone to both of us, to show us a text message from Leo: Hi, just so you know, it’s official now between Jen and I. Hope that makes you feel better about everything.
‘Hope that makes you feel better about everything?’ I repeat.
‘Patronising git,’ says Rachel, banging the table so hard I jump. ‘Idiot! Plonker. Knobhead. Loser. Gobshite!’
‘Also his grammar’s wrong,’ I add. ‘It should be “between Jen and me”. Very common mistake.’ I can’t help it; I am a grammar nerd.
But Leo’s grammar is the least of Maggie’s problems. ‘And that’s not all,’ she continues. ‘I was stood up last night, by an internet date. I sat in bloody Pearl Bar in Covent Garden for twenty minutes before I finally texted him. He said he couldn’t come because it was his birthday recently and he had to write thank-you letters.’ She shakes her head. ‘Leo has a new girlfriend already, and I’m being rejected by people I’ve never even met.’
Rachel, like me, is obviously trying to think of something positive to say.
‘If he’s never even met you, he’s not rejecting you,’ she says. ‘And he’s an idiot. Though a very polite one.’
‘What about Leo, then?’ says Maggie. ‘What does it say about me that he’d prefer to go out with Jenny, who is officially the worst person in the world?’
‘I don’t know that she’s officially the worst person in the world,’ says Rachel judiciously. ‘I mean, what about—’
‘She is pretty bad, though,’ I say, giving Rachel a discreet kick under the table. ‘But don’t forget, you dumped Leo. Jenny is just … having your leftovers. Your congealed, scummy, mouldy leftovers. Out of the bin.’
Maggie’s not listening. ‘I don’t get it,’ she says. ‘Even Hitler was married. What’s wrong with me?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with you, darling,’ I say, ignoring the Hitler thing and pulling her into a sideways hug. ‘You’re gorgeous and lovely and brilliant. And men are idiots.’
‘No they’re not. What about Sylvain?’ Her face wobbles. ‘I feel like Sylvain was the last bit of good luck I had. I should have stayed in the Alps. And you know the other annoying thing?’
We shake our heads, afraid to ask.
‘All the married women in my lab telling me how lucky I am to be single. If it’s so great, why don’t they try it?’
‘But they’re right!’ Rachel says. ‘Being single is great. You don’t need a man to be happy.’
‘Oh no you don’t,’ Maggie says, pointing a menacing finger at her. ‘I am not taking “you don’t need a man” advice from someone with a lovely boyfriend.’
‘Being single isn’t all it’s made out to be,’ I agree. ‘And it’s not made out to be much.’
‘Look. I know what you need to do.’ Rachel is bouncing her leg so energetically that I have to grab my coffee cup to stop it from falling off the table. Maggie looks at her expectantly.
‘Come to New York with us!’ Rachel finishes, waving her empty coffee cup. ‘Have a fantastic weekend and forget all about those two losers.’ She makes an L sign on her forehead.
‘Oh,’ Maggie says sadly. ‘I thought you had some real advice.’
Maggie turns down the offer of a tea and we head towards the check-in desk. Rachel, still wired, is chattering away non-stop about the case she’s been working on and some new book she’s been reading about how to talk to the head of your firm when you’re stuck in a lift together. She’s normally quite softly spoken, but not this morning; people in the queue are turning to stare at us. I decide to use the time to send an olive-branch text to Mum: Sorry about being narky this morning, I know you mean well. Talk soon. Xx
‘I can’t believe I got lash extensions for him,’ Maggie is saying. ‘Speaking of which … Shit! Don’t tell me …’ She bends down and starts rummaging in her bag.
I’m not sure if she’s talking about Leo or the internet date, but I decide it’s best not to ask, and make soothing noises while sighing internally. With Maggie in a dating quagmire and Rachel developing ADHD, this isn’t exactly a dream weekend so far. Just as I’m thinking this, my phone buzzes with Mum’s reply: Good news! I’ve checked and it’s three cycles of IVF that you can get on the NHS, not one. Xx Mum
‘Aaaaaaargh!’ I drop my phone in a rage.
‘Morning, ladies,’ says the girl at the check-in desk. ‘Is everything OK?’ She’s not looking at me, but at Maggie’s woebegone face.
‘Not really,’ says Maggie. ‘I got stood up last night, and my ex of four months has already got a new girlfriend.’
‘Oh dear,’ says the check-in girl – Patrice, according to her name badge – with polite sympathy and seen-it-all-before weariness. She’s incredibly done-up for this time of the morning; even her eyeshadow is wearing eyeshadow.
‘And I’ve just realised I’ve left my entire make-up bag, with all my favourite products, on the Tube.’
‘No,’ breathes Patrice in horror. ‘Your entire bag? You poor thing! Mine would cost me hundreds to replace.’
‘I know! Mine is going to be about that,’ says Maggie. ‘Brand-new Chanel Vitalumiere foundation … all my lipsticks … my Suqqu cheek brush—’
‘A Suqqu brush?’ the girl says, clutching her hands to her cheeks in horror. ‘No! You poor, poor thing.’
‘I should have insured it all really,’ says Maggie.
‘I tell you what.’ Patrice leans forward and lowers her voice conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but … I think this might cheer you up.’ She taps at her computer before issuing us with three boarding passes.
‘Are you upgrading us?’ Rachel asks, in her extra-loud voice.
‘It’s the least I can do. And good luck, darling! At least you’re going to the right place to restock.’
We try to act nonchalant as we stroll away, but it’s probably clear from the way we keep clutching each other and giggling that something’s afoot.
‘I’m SFU!’ Rachel says, checking her boarding pass and jumping up and down. ‘SFU! This is a life’s ambition! Suitable for upgrade,’ she explains. ‘Do you know what this means? We can go to the first-class lounge!’
‘I’m going to duty-free,’ Maggie says. ‘I’ve got to start replacing stuff. But where do I even start?’ She looks panicked.
Together we persuade Maggie that it will be cheaper to buy make-up in New York, and we head to the first-class lounge. It’s heaven: spacious, sun-drenched and calm – or at least it’s calm before we get there.
‘It’s so quiet and peaceful here
!’ says Rachel loudly. ‘And look at all the snacks! They’re free! And coffee! I was just thinking I’d love a coffee!’ She runs over to the breakfast buffet and starts loading up. Maggie and I sink into the huge, comfy chairs, hoping nobody realises we’re with her.
‘There’s even an Elemis spa!’ says Rachel, coming over with a tray piled high with enough mini pastries, cold cuts and cheese to last a week. ‘We could all go and get pedicures and a hot stone massage!’
‘I don’t think we have time for massages,’ I say, taking the tray from her before she sends it all flying. ‘Rachel, why don’t we sit down and have a little quiet time? Look, here are some magazines. Let me take this coffee away – I think you’ve had enough for now.’
The magazines and food keep her busy for a while. I start to relax and think that, given a few almond croissants and a Buck’s Fizz, Mum’s text and my impending menopause will soon be distant memories. I’ve also had a very sweet text from Charlie: Fly safe, babe. I love you. Xxxxxxxxx He always puts about eight x’s in a text, which I find incredibly endearing. In fact sometimes we exchange text messages that just consist of x’s. It’s all pretty sickening. Sighing happily, I decide that this is going to be a great weekend after all.
I’ve never turned left on a plane before. There’s no queuing or shoving; we each glide to our own white-draped throne – it’s more of a bed than a seat, with a lovely white blanket that feels like cashmere and that I’m very tempted to steal. And more Elemis products, which I discreetly snaffle after I rub in the luxurious hand cream and – miracle of miracles – lie down.
‘Look! I’m lying down on a plane,’ I tell Rachel. The whole experience seems to have overawed her; she’s been quiet for least five minutes.
‘I’m not sure I can ever go back to normal flying again,’ she says, sounding worried.
Soon we’re in the air. Maggie’s trying to read, but Rachel and I are lounging in our seats in a lordly fashion, rubbing ourselves all over with Elemis and chatting and giggling manically about our good luck. The businessman across the aisle is giving us an odd look, even more so as I start working my Elemis hand cream into my hair.
Girls on Tour Page 31
