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?’
‘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?’
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.