Authors: Jo Watson
Here we go again. The moment I get to disappoint someone else by informing them that university’s not on the agenda right now. Or maybe ever.
“I’m quite happy where I am for the moment,” I say. “I’ve got a job, haven’t I? And they’re so hard to come by these days.”
With most people, such a comment drives them into an animated discussion about the recession.
But not Wendy.
She lowers her head, her bright smile faltering. “Sweetheart, that’s no way to live. You’re an intelligent girl! You’ve got options. Surely you don’t want to be stuck in an office job forever.”
“Don’t I?” I snap my head towards Tim. “What exactly do you do at this top law firm of yours? I’m sure there’s lots of desk work involved.”
“Tim actually spends a lot of time with his clients, don’t you, darling?” Wendy turns to Tim with stony eyes.
“Well…” Tim rubs his neck. “I…erm…”
“Anyway.” Wendy waves her hand dismissively. “What you do is hardly the same calibre as Tim’s job.” She gives a haughty little laugh.
“Of course not,” I agree, pinning a false smile back on my face. “I’m sure Tim’s office has got air-conditioning and one those fancy espresso machines.”
My mother sweeps in and offers a silver tray of champagne flutes round to the three of us. I down the contents of one before marching off to find a corner I can hide in until this party is over.
Of course, the moment I leave them behind, Bryony Hudson is hurrying towards me. Her dark hair falls in a thick curtain around her slim face, and she’s wearing a shapeless dress the colour of red wine.
“Long time no see!” Bryony embraces me like we’re best friends.
“Bryony. How’re you?”
“I’m fantastic!” she replies. “You
have
to meet Jeremy. Oh, you’ll just adore him.”
As if on cue, a tall man who makes Bryony’s tiny frame appear even smaller strides towards us.
He looks like an odd caricature of Tim, wearing an identical pair of glasses and dressed in a grey jumper and navy suit trousers with tan loafers on his feet.
Brushing a strand of inky black hair back into its neat side parting, Jeremy extends his hand to me. “How do you do?”
“Aunt Heather’s daughter,” Bryony mouths to her fiancé, and I watch his face light up with recognition.
“Ah, Maggie, is it?”
“Megan,” I correct him.
“That’s right.” He nods as though he knows my own name better than I do.
“Your mum’s offered to plan our engagement party!” Bryony squeals. “Isn’t that nice of her?”
“It’s lovely.” I nod like an idiot. This is the first I’ve heard of it. “Doesn’t your mum want to do it?”
“She’s far too busy,” she explains, waving her hands in the air. “So Aunt Heather offered to help out.”
“Well. How nice.”
“I mean, I’m sure she wanted to be organising
your
engagement party first,” she continues. “Who’d have thought I’d be the first one out of the two of us?” She lifts her left hand and examines the simple ring on her finger. “It belonged to Jeremy’s grandmother, you know.”
“Really?” I pretend to take an interest, barely glancing at the old-fashioned ring. “That’s romantic.”
“I think so, too.” Bryony gazes adoringly at her ring.
I study the groups of people standing in my mum’s kitchen, looking for an escape. “I suppose I better go mingle,” I excuse myself with one last tight smile in Bryony’s direction.
After ten more minutes swilling champagne and pretending to be interested in the things Mum’s boring friends have to say, I sneak upstairs to the spare room I always sleep in when I stay over.
Pushing the door open, I’m met by a sight I have no desire to see again.
Tim Hudson is at the far end of the room, his skinny arms straining to lift Phil’s dumbbell weights.
“Oh!” I back out of the room. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine.” Tim drops the weights. “What are you doing up here?”
“I don’t suppose there’s much point asking you the same question?” I stare at the rack of weights.
“Uncle Phil lets me use them for training,” he explains, fidgeting with his pin-striped tie. Beads of sweat are dripping from his forehead, but I don’t know if it’s from working out or from the embarrassment of being caught doing so.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” I start to pull the door shut again, but Tim leaps forwards to stop me.
“Wait! I…I’m sorry about earlier. About what my mum said.”
“That’s okay.” I shrug. “She’s just proud of you.”
“I know, but what she said to you was rude.” Tim’s hands drop to his sides. “You’re right, anyway. I do spend most of my time behind a desk.”
I laugh. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
He pumps one fist in the air. “You know what? Mum can go around saying whatever she likes. I work in an office that isn’t even close to being considered a ‘top firm.’”
This is obviously very therapeutic for Tim, and he starts shouting out random facts about his life, things like how he hates his cramped apartment. And who calls it an apartment, anyway? It’s a bloody flat! And how London is full of people who don’t have any time for you. And how he wishes he could go back to being ordinary Tim, not Tim-the-successful-lawyer, like how his mother introduces him now.
Oh, no. He’s not going to shut up, is he? He’s going to go on and on like a washing machine’s spin cycle.
In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s just mentioned his washing machine and how he has no idea how to work it and he has to take all his dirty clothes to the launderette, and it’s
so
embarrassing getting a service wash and having someone else sort his boxers from his briefs.
I don’t want to know any of this. Would it be rude to cover my ears? Or run back downstairs to the party? I think I’d rather be listening to Bryony going on about her perfect wedding.
I can hear footsteps on the stairs. Someone is coming to save me!
“…can’t even pair my socks up myself. Did you know I’m colour blind?” Tim is saying, just as my mum reaches the top step.
She gives us both a curious look before giving me a not-so-subtle wink. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine.” I assure her, scrambling towards the stairs before Tim opens his mouth again.
“You stay here, Meggy!” Mum lifts her hands, palms facing outwards. “I just came to check on you both.”
I grip the banister. “I was on my way down, anyway.”
For a second, I think she’s going to suggest I share the tiny single bed in the spare room with Tim like she and Auntie Wendy used to make us do when we were little. But she just smiles. “Well, we were about to do a toast to Bryony and Jeremy. You should be there for that.”
“Definitely,” I agree, taking the stairs two at a time to get away from Tim.
Downstairs, Auntie Wendy is welling up talking about how happy she is that her little girl has found someone as wonderful as Jeremy. There’s some more gushing and tears before someone finally proposes a toast, and I gratefully accept another glass of champagne.
My head is already starting to feel fuzzy from the alcohol. How much have I had to drink? I’m sure it’s only three glasses of champagne. Maybe I shouldn’t drink champagne ever again.
But then one of Mum’s tweed-jacket-wearing pals opens a huge bottle of vodka. And Tim fancies himself as a bit of a Tom Cruise and starts making up all these colourful creations using half of Mum and Phil’s drinks cabinet.
They all taste disgusting, but I’m knocking them back anyway. I’ve got no idea what Tim is saying now, but he is starting to look a bit less dull. And even Jeremy seems a lot more fun now. At least I
think
it’s Jeremy I’m dancing with to some ‘70s disco song.
God, Bryony’s lucky, isn’t she? I’ll be twenty-five in less than three months and what have I got to show for it? She’s only twenty-three, and already she’s found her Mr. Right and she’s going to settle down and be happy forever, probably living in a neat semi in Horsforth like my mother.
Oh. That doesn’t sound so great anymore. I don’t want to end up like my mum. Maybe I’ll move abroad and marry some gorgeous Spanish bloke instead.
Just as I’m imagining soaking up the sun outside my luxury villa that’s surrounded by tall palm trees, a shattering scream rips me from my poolside fantasy.
“Bryony, darling,” Auntie Wendy is saying, “what on earth is the matter?”
“My ring!” Bryony cries, holding out her bare left hand. “It’s gone!”
“What do you mean it’s gone?” Wendy rushes to her daughter’s side and examines her ring-free finger. “When did you last have it on?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mother! If I knew that, it would be lost it, would it?”
“Think about it, sweetheart.” Wendy eyes the crowd of guests watching their exchange. “Have you been showing it to anyone?”
“Well, that lady from the golf club wanted a look at it. And then I showed it to Auntie Heather and Uncle Phil again. And then there’s just Megan.” Her gaze locks in on me. “You showed quite an interest in it.”
Everybody in the room turns to stare at me. I bite my lip and try to look away, but it’s impossible to avoid their accusing eyes.
I showed “quite an interest”? I barely glanced at Bryony’s stupid ring! And somehow she thinks I’ve stolen it out of jealousy or something equally ridiculous.
“Right.” Auntie Wendy strides across the kitchen towards me. “Do you know where Bryony’s ring is, Megan?”
I shake my head. “I only saw it once and then I went—”
“Where did you go?” Bryony cuts me off.
Swallowing, I say, “I went upstairs.” I’m searching the hard lines of faces for someone who can back me up and get me out of this ludicrous situation. Where’s my mum? Where’s Tim?
“Have you hidden it somewhere? I can’t believe you’d do this to me.” Bryony turns to face the party guests like a stage actress addressing her audience.
“I haven’t got it,” I insist, but it’s pointless defending myself now.
“You’ve always been jealous of me!” she continues. “You couldn’t stand to see me getting married first, could you?” Her dark hair has fallen in front of her face. With her twisted expression, she looks a bit like the girl from
The Ring.
I can’t help it. I burst into laughter.
“Do you think this is funny?” she snaps.
You’ve got to admit, it is a
tiny
bit funny. I mean, aside from the fact that I’m totally blameless here, and all these people seem to think I’ve done something terrible, and they’re all whispering about it like they can’t wait to share this at the golf club’s next board meeting. Do golf clubs have board meetings?
Phil runs into the kitchen, holding something delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “Crisis averted!” he announces, holding the old-fashioned ring up for everyone to see. He turns to Bryony and taps his nose knowingly. “Found this in the cloakroom.” (Yes, Mum and Phil have a cloakroom.)
Without a word of gratitude, Bryony snatches the ring from him and slips it back on her finger. A pink flush creeps across her cheeks, but she turns on her heel and walks out of the room before anybody notices.
Auntie Wendy’s also left a bit speechless and as she shuffles away, I finally spot Tim, standing at the back with his head bowed.
Mum bounces into the room then, completely unaware of everything that’s just happened and offers me a pale pink liquid in a fancy glass, which I politely decline.
There’s never been a more appropriate time to call a taxi.
Chapter Five
My head throbs every time I try lifting it off the pillow.
Okay. I just need to stay here for a while with the covers pulled up tight.
I’ve always been able to hide under my duvet as an avoidance technique. As a kid, I used to pretend I was camping in a tent somewhere so that I didn’t have worry about monsters hiding under my bed. Then it was to pretend I didn’t have to go to school and face a nerve-wracking presentation or scary exam.
And any alcohol-related embarrassment seems to end up this way, too, with me under the covers, pretending nothing ever happened.
I should give up drinking. I think I’d suit being a teetotaller.
Except for the odd glass of wine in the evening. And what would I drink when I go out to the pub with Zara?
Right. Let’s rethink this. I’m definitely going to give up drinking champagne. And maybe bad cocktails, too.
What exactly happened last night?
I remember Tim spewing out words about his rubbish his life. And Bryony accusing me of nicking her stupid ring. Those are the only two things I need to remember to know that I had a crap night.
Why didn’t I pretend I had some contagious disease?
On the positive side, Auntie Wendy probably doesn’t want me to marry her precious son anymore. Maybe I’ll even be uninvited from the engagement party. And the wedding.
I can hear scuffling noises coming from the living room. Zara is probably wondering why I’m not up yet.
Blinking my eyes open, I grope for my phone on the bedside cabinet and see that it’s only 8:30 a.m.
Forget that. Zara knows me well enough to know exactly why I haven’t emerged from my bedroom yet.
I’m not really one for long lie-ins. Even though it’s a Saturday. But when you’re still feeling slightly delicate from the previous night’s events, it’s totally fine to stay in bed as long as you want. Which in my case will probably be until my headache goes.
Or maybe I could stay here all day and watch omnibuses of all the soaps in bed.
My phone, still sitting in my left hand, bleats my classic Nokia ringtone. I glance at the unknown caller’s number before answering the call.
“Megan Riley speaking,” I say. That’s how I always answer the phone at work, except today I omit the “Hello, Window Shine Leeds” or “How can I help you?” parts.
“Hello, Megan,” says a female voice. She has a vaguely Scottish accent. Or is it Irish? I can never tell those two apart. “This is Sue Weaver from Oxfam.”
I battle with the pillows to pull myself into an upright position. My head protests, but this is important, isn’t it? This is going to be one of those calls where the other speaker has to check that you’re sitting down first before they tell you the good news.
I’ve already forgotten about the romance-reading shop assistant and her negative response when I handed her my application form. Because this call means I’ve got the job, doesn’t it?