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.’
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.
But I’m about to be surprised.
‘I’ll come with you, Evie,’ she says, and I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. ‘Why not?’ she adds, smiling nervously.
Charlotte might dance in a quiet, understated way–but she dances all right. And, three or four tracks in, she actually looks like she’s enjoying herself.
‘Charlotte,’ shouts Grace over the music. ‘I know I said this before but you really do look amazing, you know.’
‘Thank you, Grace,’ she replies. ‘I know I’ve still got a long way to go.’
‘Have you?’ I wonder out loud. ‘You look like a different person already.’
‘I still need to lose a lot of weight,’ she says, ‘but I’m absolutely determined I’m going to do it.’
‘Well, good for you,’ says Grace.
‘I mean, I’d love to look like you,’ adds Charlotte.
‘Me?’ Grace looks genuinely surprised by this.
‘Absolutely you,’ she says. ‘You’re attractive, you’ve got a beautiful family. I’d kill to be in your shoes.’
A look of realisation suddenly washes over Grace’s face.
‘I
am
lucky, aren’t I?’ she says, smiling.
After a good half-hour of dancing to the sort of tracks that were last in the charts before I was on solids, Grace looks ready for a breather.
‘Do you fancy another drink?’ she mouths, competing against the Jackson Five.
I nod, and she and I make our way to the bar as Charlotte, unbelievably, stays with the others.
‘White wine?’ asks Grace.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Although I think we’re the only ones in here not drinking alcopops, you know.’
She grimaces. ‘If I wanted the sort of e-numbers that are in those, I could have stayed at home and eaten one of Polly’s strawberry mousses,’ she says. ‘Ooh, before I forget, you have still got my curling tongs, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got your curling tongs, I’ve got Georgia’s furry handcuffs, and in fact I’ve got enough of other people’s junk in this bag to hold a Bring and Buy sale. Now, am I getting these drinks or are you?’
Just as she’s about to produce a twenty-pound note, we can feel someone’s presence behind us.
‘Let me get these,’ says a vaguely familiar voice.
I turn around and can barely believe my eyes.
‘Jack!’ I gasp, with such enthusiasm that I sound like a swooning Jane Austen character on crack.
I’m going to have to learn some subtlety, I really am.
Jack isn’t as good-looking as I’d remembered. He’s better.
‘How are you, Evie and Grace?’ he asks, smiling.
‘I’m fine,’ says Grace. ‘And you? I’ve not seen you since the wedding. Listen, thank you so much for the present–it was beautiful.’
Jack spurned the wedding list and bought Grace and Patrick an Indonesian wall-hanging. Not only is it supremely tasteful and completely unique, but it also has the added benefit of being a great excuse to replace the Whitley Bay landscape that Patrick’s mother gave them four Christmases ago.
‘I’m glad you liked it,’ he says. ‘I was torn between that and a rather impressive set of garden gnomes.’
‘You made the right choice,’ she laughs.
‘I thought you might say that,’ he says. ‘And how are you, Evie? It’s nice to see you instead of just texting. It’s not really the same as a proper conversation, somehow, is it?’
‘I’m great, actually,’ I reply, trying to think of something good to say, something that will spark a brilliant conversation and make me sound fabulously intelligent. ‘Er, I didn’t expect to see you here,’ I add.
Genius at work, Evie. How about
Do you come here often?
next time.
‘It’s not one of my usual haunts,’ he replies. ‘But someone at work is leaving today so I decided to come out for just a pint. Although that was six hours ago, I must admit.’
‘Naughty you,’ I say. Oh God, what have I been drinking?
‘Listen, Evie, I’ll be back soon,’ says Grace, obviously excusing herself for my benefit. ‘I’ve just got to go and speak to Charlotte.’
She grabs her bag and heads back to the dance floor.
So, here I am, alone with the man himself.
Jack smiles again. ‘So, you’ve heard I somehow made it onto the guest-list to Georgia and Pete’s wedding?’ he says.
‘I
have
heard,’ I nod. ‘Which presumably means that you’re the reason Pete has been spending so much time at the rugby lately instead of getting ready for his big day.’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Guilty as charged. I hope Georgia will forgive me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she will.’ I am finally managing something halfway akin to a conversation. ‘Anyway, don’t let it go to your head. I think half of the country has been invited to this wedding. It’s going to be more like a football crowd.’
Jack laughs and gazes into my eyes. Just looking at him makes the blood rush to my face. I take a sip of my wine, feeling strangely nervous and excited.
‘How many people are going?’ he asks.
‘A good couple of hundred, I think,’ I say. ‘Although there are only a few of us out tonight. A handful of us went for a meal and…now this. A blast from the past.’
‘Well,’ he says. ‘It’s a lovely surprise seeing you.’
‘Really?’ I am starting to feel a little more relaxed now, a little cooler about the whole situation.
‘Yes, really,’ he says. ‘I mean, I had a good time at Grace and Patrick’s wedding. If you’d let me, I think I probably could have talked all night.’
I laugh quietly, feeling confident enough now to say something a little bit flirtatious.
‘Well,’ I say with a smile, ‘I think I probably
would
have let you.’
Jack holds my gaze and my blood starts racing again. The chemistry between us is unmistakable. Nothing is said, but our expressions speak volumes. He knows it and I know it. And I’m absolutely loving it.
‘Ay luv, have you gorra pen?’ asks a woman next to me, leaning on the bar.
‘Mmm,’ I reply, making sure I don’t take my eyes off him. I’m not about to break this gaze in a hurry.
I reach into my bag to search for the pen I know is in here somewhere. Determined my eyes won’t leave Jack’s, I root around in it with one hand.
‘I pulled the most gorgeous bloke you’ve seen in your life about twenty minutes ago…only my mobile’s broken and I can’t find anything to write his number down with,’ grumbles the woman, but I can’t engage in conversation with her. Not now. I just can’t do anything other than look at Jack.
I dare to smile–the hint of a smile–and he returns the favour with heart-stopping effect.
Distractedly, I pull Grace’s curling tongs out of my bag and put them on the bar to make some room in my bag. As soon as my hand goes back in there, I locate the pen and pass it to the woman.
‘Thanks,’ she says. Then she just sniggers and leaves. And with a very strange look on her face too.
I think nothing of it as I turn back to Jack. Until I realise he has a very strange look on his face too.
Feeling a little miffed that the spell between us has somehow been broken, I pick up Grace’s curling tongs to put them back in my bag. When they are approximately one foot in front of Jack’s face I realise something.
I’m not holding a set of curling tongs after all.
I’m holding Georgia’s ten-inch vibrator.
The vibrator was blue in the restaurant. Under the disco lights, it is fluorescent. In fact, it’s so fluorescent, you could land a plane with it. I know panicking is the worst possible tactic I could employ in such a situation. But quite frankly, I can’t think of anything else to do.
My eyes wide, I grip the vibrator and stuff it firmly back into my bag, hoping against all hope that Jack hasn’t realised what it is. But the sheer conviction with which I plunge it back in there manages to set something off. And the vibrator starts
vibrating
.
Panicking madly now, I stuff my hand back into the bag and desperately try to find the OFF button without having to get the vibrator out in public again. But as I frantically feel my way around the thing, my hands sweating and my heart pounding, I realise to my horror that there are at least four different buttons to choose from.
Instinct takes over and I start to press every one of them–my thinking being that
one
of them must shut the damn thing down.
But they don’t. Instead, the vibrator launches into an elaborate thrusting movement, the sort you’d expect to see on the production line of an automotive plant.
My bag begins to take on a life of its own, jutting in and out as if it’s inhabited by a manic small animal being given a series of electric shocks. I feverishly start pressing the other buttons, the sound of Barry White’s ‘My First, My Last, My Everything’ providing the backdrop to this horrific display. But whatever I press just makes the thrusting get faster and the vibrations get harder…and harder…and harder.
Conscious of being less than a foot away from the man of my dreams while I wrestle with a ten-inch electronic dildo, my mind starts racing with possible tactics. I am on the verge of throwing the bag over the bar and shouting, ‘Bomb!’ when finally, mercifully…it stops.
Sweating, shaking, I look up at Jack.
‘Everything okay?’ he asks.
I gulp. ‘Er, yes,’ I reply, straightening my back and putting my bag on the floor, as if what just happened was the most normal thing in the world.
‘Everything okay with
you
?’ I ask, realising immediately what a ridiculous question this is.
He’s
not the one who’s just had a fight with Ann Summers’s finest and lost.
‘Yes, everything’s cool,’ he says.
‘Er, Jack,
ahem
,’ I say. ‘Obviously, that wasn’t mine.’
‘What wasn’t?’ he says.
‘That…that…
item
,’ I whisper.
‘You mean the vibrator?’ he says.
‘It was Georgia’s!’ I jump in. ‘She thought she’d given me the handcuffs, you see, and—’
‘
Handcuffs
?’ he repeats.
Oh God.
‘Fluffy ones,’ I offer, by way of an explanation.
Just as I’m about to lose the will to live, I realise something.
Jack is smiling. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, he looks thoroughly amused by the whole episode. I can’t decide whether this is a good or bad thing.
‘I suppose you think that was funny?’ I ask.
‘
Fawlty Towers
eat your heart out,’ he says, and again gives me that wide, heart-stopping smile.
I laugh, feeling slightly relieved now, which is at least an improvement on just mortally embarrassed. I look over to the dance floor, where Valentina now has her arms draped around the neck of a Ricky Martin lookalike and is grinding her hips like a champion flamenco dancer. Charlotte has somehow ended up with a bloke who looks as if his usual Friday nights are spent rehearsing for a future appearance on
University Challenge
. I start to wonder where Grace could be when I see her battling her way through the crowds to reach us.
‘Evie,’ she says breathlessly when she gets to us. ‘I’m going to have to leave.’
I look up at Jack with a sinking feeling. For God’s sake, Grace, I can’t go yet, I think. But as my mind races with excuses to stay here with Jack, I suddenly realise her face looks drained of colour.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.
‘It’s Polly,’ she replies, clearly distraught. ‘She’s in hospital. She’s had an accident.’