Nice Cousin Jim is taking a break from filming guests and is standing at the bar alone. Which is very frustrating as I’d rather hoped by now that he’d be huddled in a corner whispering some of Byron’s juicier poetry into Charlotte’s ear.
‘Hi, Jim. Er, where’s Charlotte?’ I ask. I’m being as subtle as I can be, given my aim is for him to have proposed by next week.
‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen her since dinner. Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’m fine. She’s lovely, Charlotte, isn’t she?’ I muse, sipping my wine casually.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, she is lovely.’
‘I honestly don’t think I’ve ever known anyone so kind, or generous, or intelligent, or just generally all-round fantastic,’ I add, hoping I’m not laying it on a bit thick.
‘She’s a really nice girl, no doubt about that,’ he says.
‘
Isn’t
she?’ I agree. This is showing tremendous potential.
‘Oh, there she is now,’ he says, pointing to the other side of the marquee, where Charlotte is deep in conversation with Grace’s mother.
I don’t believe this. By some miracle the table planners
put her next to a man she fancies–a man who describes her as ‘lovely’–and at the first opportunity, she goes off to talk to Grace’s mother. Oh Charlotte, what am I going to do with you?
‘Is everything all right?’ asks Jim.
‘Er, yes–why?’
‘You were shaking your head, that’s all.’
‘Oh, was I?’ I say. ‘Sorry. Er, I was just thinking about the latest council tax rises. Tsk, terrible, aren’t they? Anyway, would you excuse me?’
I am crossing the marquee with Charlotte firmly in my sights, when I spot Jack on the other side of the room. He is chatting with Georgia’s fiancé Pete and, just as I am wondering what they might be talking about, he looks up and catches my eye. Then he raises his hand and…
waves
.
As I contemplate how to react, I realise that I’ve stopped walking and am rooted to the spot. I am genuinely torn about what to do here. To wave back would be a clear declaration of interest, and that’s the last thing I want. But not to do so looks just plain rude.
‘Evie,
there
you are,’ says a familiar voice from behind me.
I freeze. And as I turn around slowly I realise that the decision has been made for me. It’s Gareth. And it’s the first time we’ve spoken since our break-up.
‘Listen,’ he says. ‘We must talk.’
Oh, God. Must we?
‘Don’t look so worried,’ he says.
‘I’m not,’ I tell him. Actually, I very much am. I’ve been avoiding Gareth all day now, because I instinctively know he’ll want to have a discussion about ‘our relationship’, a prospect I find about as appealing as a medieval torture session.
‘I really think we need to have a discussion about our relationship,’ he says.
‘Do you?’ I ask, with a sinking feeling in my gut. ‘I’m not sure now’s a good time, Gareth.’
‘It’s as good a time as any,’ he says firmly. ‘And I really do think it’s important. The thing is, Evie, I’ve just got to know something.’
‘Oh?’ I say, scanning the room for an escape route.
‘The reason you split up with me. Was it,’ he looks around to see if anyone is listening, ‘was it
the underwear
?’
A group of guests a couple of tables away start laughing and, even though I know they can’t hear us, I shift uncomfortably. Just the thought of the underwear–his hideous Valentine present purchased from the Classified Section of a publication called
Hot and Horny
–would elicit a hysterical response anywhere. I never did try it on but couldn’t help thinking that, even with the two big holes in the chest as ventilation, all that rubber had the potential to induce one hell of a rash.
‘I can’t pretend I wouldn’t have preferred La Perla, Gareth. But no,’ I add hastily, not wanting to appear coldhearted, ‘it really wasn’t that.’
But it’s too late. His puppy-dog eyes are looking at me as if I’m a vivisectionist. I feel a stab of guilt.
‘Then what, Evie?’ he wails. ‘For God’s sake, what was it?’
Then Gareth sniffs. I say sniffs, but it would be better described as a grunt. A grunt so long and loud it sounds like a cappuccino machine about to spontaneously combust. This can only mean one thing: we’re heading for emotional meltdown.
‘Don’t cry,’ I plead, grabbing his hand. I mean it too. And
not just because Grace’s Uncle Bob and Auntie Marion are looking over.
Gareth produces a threadbare piece of tissue from his pocket and gives his nose the most almighty blow I’ve ever witnessed. A blow so forceful his eyes look in danger of popping out. Then he scrunches up the tissue and, instead of putting it back in his pocket, chucks it idly on the table next to us.
I try to concentrate on what he’s saying, but suddenly find it very difficult to focus on anything other than the content of his tissue, which looks alarmingly like something from
Ghostbusters
.
‘I’m not going to cry,’ he says with a brave, wobbly smile. ‘I’m not going to cry.’
Then he pauses for a second.
‘Ohhh! Evieee!’
he blubs.
I pull my eyes away from the tissue, suddenly torn between despising myself and being desperate to get out of there. There is only one thing for it. I turn to Gareth, grab his arm and look intensely into his eyes.
‘Gareth,’ I say, gripping his elbow. ‘We
do
need to talk about this. You’re absolutely right.’
Gareth couldn’t look more surprised if I’d suggested we elope to Finland and adopt twelve reindeer.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You agree then? That we ought to talk?’
‘Absolutely. But the thing is, I can’t. Not just now anyway. I’ve got to go and help Grace’s mum…’ I scan the room for inspiration ‘…with the napkins.’
He looks at me as if I’m insane.
‘What do you need to do with the napkins?’ he asks. ‘Everyone’s finished eating.’
‘They’re a fire hazard,’ I say authoritatively. ‘You can’t just
go leaving that amount of paper around the place, it’s against EU regulations. One stray cigarette and this place will be like the
Towering Inferno
. With no Steve McQueen on hand to rescue us.’
He scrunches up his face. ‘I’ve never heard anything like that before,’ he says. ‘Besides, weren’t they linen?’
‘Even worse,’ I gasp. ‘I’m sorry, Gareth, I’m going to have to go. We’ll catch up soon.
Promise
.’
Charlotte spent the first eighteen years of her life in a dormer bungalow in Widnes, which is Cheshire, but not the wealthy part where none of the women’s breasts are real.
She had two loving parents who stayed together for the sake of the children for so long they almost forgot they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. These days, she works for the Inland Revenue doing…well, I must admit I’ve never quite worked out what she does exactly. Whenever she tells anybody about it, you can see people’s eyes glazing over, the way my Great Aunt Hilda’s do when the nursing home has given her too many pills.
The point is, Charlotte’s background isn’t very exciting. But that hardly explains why she’s as
desperately
shy as she is and why she has a love-life which isn’t so much bad as nonexistent.
‘So, how come you went off chatting to Grace’s mum?’ I ask her casually, after I’ve finally prised her away from an in-depth conversation about why gypsy grass has gone out of fashion in the floristry world.
‘Why not?’ she asks.
‘Well,’ I say, wondering how to put this, ‘I just thought
you and Jim looked like you were having a nice chat, that’s all.’
She looks slightly confused. ‘Well, we were. But then I had a nice chat with Mrs Edwards too.’
‘Okay, what about?’ I ask, feeling that this has got to be challenged.
She frowns. ‘Sudoku, mainly.’
I pause. ‘Sudoku?’
She shrugs. ‘Yes. Well, why not?’
‘Do you like Sudoku?’ I ask.
‘Well, no.’
‘Have you ever even played it?’
‘Um, no.’
‘Do you have any interest in it whatsoever?’
‘No, but I don’t mind talking about it.’
‘Charlotte,’ I say, ‘unless you’re going to tell me that Mrs Edwards has a black belt in Sudoku, I can’t see how that can possibly be more interesting than talking to Jim.’
She blushes as she realises what I’m getting at. I immediately feel guilty.
‘Listen,’ I tell her softly, rubbing her arm, ‘all I want to say is: Jim thinks you’re lovely.’
I can tell I’ve sparked her interest.
‘It’s true, I promise.’
‘We just sat next to each other, that’s all,’ she says.
‘And so–what was he saying?’
‘Okay, okay,’ she says, taking a deep breath. ‘Well, we were talking a lot about music.’
‘And?’ I prompt.
‘Well, he loves Macy Gray and plays the guitar in his spare time.’
‘Just like you!’ I exclaim.
‘I can’t play the guitar.’
‘No, but you love Macy Gray.’
‘
David
Gray,’ she corrects me.
‘Don’t split hairs,’ I tell her. ‘Honestly, you were made for each other. Come on, come back over and have a chat with him.’
We are suddenly distracted by some male voices coming from beyond the pillar next to us. It’s not that they are being particularly loud–it’s hardly quiet in here anyway–but the content of their discussion is something we can’t help overhearing.
‘It’s a shame I’m not a single man any more,’ one of them is saying. ‘Some of the women here you wouldn’t kick out of bed. The one who did the reading was bloody
spectacular
.’
I roll my eyes. The only thing more annoying than Valentina trying to attract so much attention is the fact that she usually succeeds.
‘That bridesmaid was a bit of all right, too–the one with the dirty-blonde hair,’ says the other–and I realise they’re talking about me. ‘A bit flat-chested but definitely fit.’
Talk about a backhanded compliment. I tut and am about to go back to my favourite topic of conversation when another voice chips in.
‘What about the other one though–the fat bird?’ says a voice.
My eyes widen. I know immediately who they’re talking about.
‘Who, Shrek’s ugly sister?’
They fall about laughing and I listen, dumbstruck, as
Charlotte’s face crumples. I try to think of something to do to stop her hearing what I fear may be coming next.
‘I wonder how many pies you have to eat, to fill a dress that size?’ someone else sniggers.
‘Enough to bankrupt the whole of Wigan if she ever gave up!’
Cue another round of drunken laughter.
Charlotte’s cheeks are blazing. She’s trying to look brave but her lip is quivering and I can tell she is dying inside. Oh God, I’m going to have to stop this.
‘How much would you have to be paid to shag her?’ someone says, and it’s at this point I realise that I really can’t let this go on.
‘Right, that’s it,’ I declare, not knowing exactly what I’m going to say to them, but certain that I’ve got to do something.
‘Evie, please don’t,’ Charlotte implores me.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ll just make it worse,’ she says. ‘Please don’t make me any more embarrassed than I am.’
‘
You’ve
got nothing to be embarrassed about,’ I tell her.
‘Please, Evie,’ she repeats. ‘Just leave it.’
I briefly consider not doing anything, but when I hear what comes next, I swiftly change my mind.
‘It’d have to be a hell of a lot of cash,’ comes the reply. ‘It would be like getting stuck under a giant airbag.’
‘Evie,’ says Charlotte, her eyes welling up. ‘Please don’t say anything. I beg of you.’
Her words ring in my ears as I step beyond the pillar and come face to face with the three men, still not having a clue what to do. I’m looking directly at them, but they’re completely oblivious, caught up in the humour they assume
is harmless, but is actually anything but. I know I can’t betray Charlotte, but I’ve got to shut them up. Quickly.
What I do next is something spontaneous. You could call it instinct. You could call it a moment of madness. Either way, it has the benefit of me being absolutely sure that it will work, on a certain level at least.
I throw my drink over them.
I say throw, but the technique I opt for might be better described as a ‘spray’–the sort of thing Formula One racing drivers employ after a particularly triumphant victory. The difference is, these men don’t enjoy it. You can tell by the amount they splutter and swear and by the fury and bewilderment with which they start picking bits of lemon out of their hair. I can honestly say that after about six glasses of wine and champagne, together with a massive injection of adrenaline, I genuinely don’t know who’s more surprised about the whole episode, them or me.
‘Er, sorry,’ I manage to get out. ‘I slipped.’
I spin around as fast as I can and grab Charlotte’s elbow to make a sharp exit. As we start to make our way through the crowd, I soon realise that the crowd has in fact become
an audience
. Grace’s Uncle Giles is looking at me as if I’m utterly psychotic. Auntie Marion has her hand over her mouth in horror. Little Polly’s eyes are almost popping out. But the worst is yet to come.
‘Did you do that on purpose?’ whispers Valentina gleefully, clearly as amused as everyone else is amazed.
‘Of course not, don’t be silly,’ I grunt, glancing at Jack by her side.
I wonder if what I’ve just said would convince anyone.
The look on his face would tend to indicate not.
Common sense tells me I really ought to stop drinking after that little display, but the glass of champagne Grace has just poured for me is about the only thing I’ve got to take solace in at the moment. Besides, sobering up is never a good tactic at a wedding. Not when everyone else is doing the direct opposite with such conviction.
‘So you think Charlotte’s okay now?’ asks Grace, when I’ve brought her up to date.
‘Who knows?’ I say. ‘I dragged her to the ladies straight after it happened, but she didn’t really want to talk about it, no matter how much I tried. She just kept saying she was fine. Obviously, I could tell she wasn’t, but you know what Charlotte’s like when she closes up: I don’t think even the SAS could get any information out of her when she’s made her mind up not to talk.’
I pick up a handful of peanuts from the bowl in front of us and as I start to eat them, become aware that Grace is suddenly distracted. I look up and see why: her new husband’s lips are attached to her cheek.
‘Hello, wife,’ says Patrick, looking suitably loved-up–and a little bit squiffy.
‘Husband. How the hell are you?’ she asks, smiling.
‘All the better for being a married man,’ he tells her, kissing her on the lips.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I complain. ‘I know you’re newlyweds, but you’re putting me off my peanuts.’
‘We’re married now, so if we want to snog in public we can,’ Patrick replies. ‘It’s all official.’
‘You’re not meant to
snog
in public when you’re married,’ I tell him. ‘You’re meant to
argue
in public–didn’t anyone tell you?’
Patrick sits down to join us.
‘So how do you feel?’ I want to know. ‘Different?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asks.
‘I mean,’ I say, ‘now you’re a married man, do you feel different from yesterday–when you were young, free and single?’
‘I was still thirty-four yesterday,’ he says. ‘But in answer to your question, I’m not sure exactly. I don’t think so–not yet, anyway. Although ask me tomorrow–I might thoroughly regret the whole thing.’
Grace digs him in the ribs.
‘Do
you
feel different?’ he asks Grace, obviously not certain about what he wants the answer to be.
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Good different.’
He leans over to kiss her again. They look totally and utterly in love.
When Grace had a schoolgirl crush it was on the dashing-but-dangerous Han Solo, not the nice-but-not-as-interesting Luke Skywalker. So in some ways it wasn’t a surprise that she ended up with Patrick and not with any of the men she’d been out with before. Her previous ‘serious’ boyfriends–one
in sixth form and one at university–both lasted for over two years, but it was obvious that neither was ‘the one’.
It’s not that they weren’t nice. They were probably
too
nice. Patrick has an edge about him and, in all honesty, that was far more of an attraction.
What that meant in practice was that–well, put it this way, he had played the field. Patrick had dated so many women before he met Grace that he made George Clooney look like the Pope.
Which is and always has been heartening for someone like me. Because if Patrick, former confirmed bachelor and committed Lothario, can fall in love, have two children, stay faithful for seven years and even get married, then there must be hope for someone as hopeless as me.
‘Doesn’t look like this wedding’s going to be consummated tonight,’ Grace tells me later, looking over at Patrick as he sways slightly while talking to some guests.
‘But it’s your first night as man and wife,’ I argue. ‘It’s
got
to be a toe-curler. Those are the rules.’
‘I’ve never seen him so drunk,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I don’t think even my new Agent Provocateur undies are going to be sufficient tonight.’
‘I thought those things came with a certificate guaranteeing a shag,’ I say, but as Patrick’s swaying becomes more pronounced, I believe she could be right. The only thing that’s going to spark him into action tonight is a defibrillator.
‘Mummy, will you come and dance with me?’ asks Polly, tugging at Grace’s skirt.
‘When the disco starts, I promise I will,’ she says. ‘I’ve still got to say hello to some people.’
‘It’s starting now, Mummy,’ she insists.
‘Have you asked Daddy?’ Grace wants to know.
‘Yes, but he’s too drunk,’ says Polly.
Grace isn’t really in a position to argue.
‘You know she’s right,’ I tell her, nodding towards the dance floor.
‘What, about Patrick being drunk?’ says Grace. ‘Oh yes, I think we’ve established that.’
‘No, I mean about the disco starting,’ I correct her. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be up there for a first dance?’
Putting her champagne down, Grace grabs Patrick by the hand. I follow them to the edge of the dance floor, as the other guests gather around and the music for their first dance starts.
‘Evie, will
you
dance with me?’ Polly pleads, tugging at my skirt now.
‘I can’t, sweetheart,’ I tell her. ‘It’s your mummy and daddy’s first dance. Nobody else is allowed to join in.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s just the way it is,’ I reply, realising that this isn’t a very philosophically constructed argument.
‘That’s stupid,’ she says sulkily. ‘Muuummm!’ she shouts. ‘I want to dance too!’
The guests next to her start chuckling. It’s a good job she’s cute.
Patrick pulls Grace towards him dramatically and swings her down so her back is arched
à la
Scarlett O’Hara. It’s only the fact that he nearly drops her that betrays his state of intoxication. In some ways it adds to the display, although I suspect from Grace’s expression that she’s concerned he’s going to break her neck.
The guests are certainly lapping it up, and the clapping
and cheering get louder as Patrick swings Grace across the dance floor, obviously reckoning he’d give Fred Astaire a run for his money.
I look down and suddenly realise I’ve lost Polly. I’m not overly concerned as she’s been running around all day, but I am surprised that she’s given up on finding a dance partner so easily.
However, as I look back at the dance floor, I soon spot her little figure.
She’s found someone to dance with.