Miss You (19 page)

‘Don’t you like him?’ Lucy had asked me.

‘He’s not really my type,’ I replied, putting on a camp voice, which made her giggle.

Apparently, all Pippa’s previous boyfriends had been bastards – one of them had even been a drug addict – so there was huge relief that she’d ended up with someone
reliable who would look after her. But as I heard her saying her vows with a slight laugh, as if the portentousness of the familiar words was a bit silly, I couldn’t help thinking that she
was going to wake up the next morning next to the hulk and wonder what on earth she had done.

I managed to nip down the side aisle to join Lucy while the bride, groom, best man and both sets of parents went to sign the register.

‘Wasn’t it beautiful?’ Lucy whispered, her face morphing suddenly from dreamy to alarmed. ‘You haven’t got a buttonhole!’

The bells started ringing, the organ struck up Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’, and the whole thing, which had taken months to plan and rehearse, was over. Except it
wasn’t, because the photographs needed to be taken, a whole album’s worth of compulsory poses.

First, the bride’s family, which was slightly awkward for me because neither Lucy nor I knew whether I was included or not. Helen’s husband, James, was there with their daughters,
obviously. After a few shots had been taken without me, Nicky called me in.

‘Come on, Gus! Can someone please lend him a buttonhole?’

Next, the groom’s family, with the four of them taking up as much space on the church steps as the nine of us had; then the bridesmaids; the bride with bridesmaids; the bride with the
grown-up bridesmaids with her dress hitched up to show her ‘something blue’ garter; and finally, the ushers in morning suits throwing their top hats into the air in a completely
contrived act of spontaneity.

‘Why?’ I asked James, who gave me a lift back to the house.

‘I suppose it’s a use for the top hat,’ he said.

There was champagne on the front lawn while the bride and groom had their photographs taken with the cake.

I couldn’t help noticing that I was the object of interest for Lucy’s assembled relations, who appeared at regular intervals to size me up.

‘So, this is Gus! Goodness, you’re tall, aren’t you?’

‘Almost seven foot in a top hat!’

‘And you’re a medic too?’

‘I am, yes.’

‘How exciting!’

No one actually asked if we would be next, but I sensed calculations going on behind the appraising smiles.

In the marquee, we were seated at the top table. Glasses of white wine had been poured for us. I downed mine, then Lucy’s, before following her to the buffet table. I had that hungover
kind of hunger that comes from alcohol on top of lack of sleep and I continued to slake my thirst with wine, when it probably would have been sensible to switch to water. By the time it came to the
speeches, I was well on my way to being drunk.

Lucy’s father talked about Pippa being the least predictable of his daughters. If it was a warning to Greg, it seemed a bit late in the day. Greg’s speech was all about Canada, and
how he was looking forward to showing his wife everything his country had to offer. Both he and his brother were wearing little maple-leaf pins on their lapels, a bit like American Presidents wear
a badge of the Star-Spangled Banner.

‘Why do they do that?’ I whispered to Lucy. ‘It’s not as if we’re going to forget where they’re from.’

‘Sssh,’ she said.

‘Where I come from,’ Greg was saying, ‘you can swim in the sea in the morning, and ski in the mountains in the afternoon.’

‘It’s about the last place I’d want to go,’ I murmured.

‘I think it sounds nice,’ Lucy countered irritably.

Jeff got up, his broad face only distinguishable from his brother’s by the helpful addition of a moustache.

‘Are there two of them?’ Granny Cynthia asked.

‘Do you think Jeff grew the moustache for the occasion?’ I asked Lucy.

‘Stop it . . .’

He told a rambling anecdote about going fishing with Greg when they were boys. Apparently, Greg had tried every ruse to catch a fish but never got one. Now it looked like he’d landed the
biggest catch of the season!

‘Poor Pippa,’ I whispered to Lucy in the enthusiastic applause after the toast to the bride and groom.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Not only is she big, but she’s a fish. She’s a big fish!’

‘He just meant she’s a catch,’ said Lucy. ‘You’re getting a bit loud. They’ll hear you on the video if you don’t watch it.’

A cameraman was prowling the room. I’d noticed him earlier zooming in on the elaborate lacy pattern of mayonnaise on the poached salmon. Perhaps he would edit it into the fishing
anecdote?

Greg’s mother, who was seated a couple of places down from Lucy, tinkled her fork against her glass, but, when everyone in the room obediently looked in her direction, she became
flustered.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a speech!’ she said.

‘That’s a relief!’ I murmured.

‘Could you please just zip it?’ hissed Lucy.

‘In North America, when you tinkle, the bride and groom have to find each other and kiss wherever they are in the tent!’ Greg’s mother informed us.

Greg and Pippa, who were at that point still sitting next to each other, obliged.

Everyone clapped.

It was time for the cutting of the cake. Bride and groom got themselves into position with a big silver knife for some more photos. Greg’s father tinkled his fork against his glass, so
they had to kiss. Then the bottom tier of virgin cake was ceremonially pierced before being whisked away by catering staff to be portioned up into tiny cubes.

As guests returned to the buffet table to help themselves to dessert, Greg and Pippa circulated the room greeting their friends and family individually. The tinkling-glass thing was quite fun if
you waited until they were at opposite ends of the marquee, but the third time I did it, I over-hit my glass, causing it to smash instead of tinkle. Fortunately, the only person who noticed was a
tall girl with a ponytail dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. Her face broke into a wonderfully mischievous, almost conspiratorial smile.

‘Do you think you could get me another glass?’ I asked.

‘I’m not a waitress,’ she said.

‘I am a waiter,’ I told her nonsensically.

‘You’ll know where to find a glass then,’ she said, smiling again.

For a moment, our eyes held each other’s, our expressions puzzled. Did I know her from somewhere?

‘Who are you?’ I heard myself asking.

And then Lucy was standing next to me with a dustpan.

So people
had
noticed.

‘I think I need some air,’ I said.

‘Very good idea,’ Lucy said crisply.

It was already dark outside and the cool evening air was heady with the scent of tobacco plants. With ‘
La Vida Loca
’ bouncing around the dark, empty garden, I was dimly aware
that my grasp on time and space had become tenuous. I found myself sitting on the swing seat, which creaked gently as I rocked. Across the lawn, the glowing tent and thump of bass seemed far
away.

When I woke up, my head was throbbing and my face was cold against the striped cushion. The clue that hours had passed was in the music. Robbie Williams was singing ‘Angels’. I could
see the shadows of slow-dancing couples on the sides of the marquee.

A flap of tent opened, throwing a triangle of light over the lawn. I recognized the tall silhouette of the waitress who wasn’t a waitress. The triangle of light closed behind her. In the
dark stillness, I could just about see her shadowy outline and I could tell, somehow, that she was thinking about something sad.

A shaft of light fell across the lawn again as a man came out of the tent.

‘You awright?’ he asked.

‘I am,’ she said.

‘Couldn’t have done this without you,’ he said.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ she told him.

He took a step closer to her.

‘You’re not like other women,’ I heard him say.

‘How do you work that out, then?’

‘You’ve got this brilliant smile, but there’s all this stuff going on in your head.’

‘Now you’re making me sound a bit mad!’

‘Mad enough to be my girlfriend?’

A long moment of silence.

‘Lot of stars, aren’t there?’ he said, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder.

Then she turned towards him and he kissed her, and I stayed very still, praying that someone wouldn’t turn on a light in the house and reveal me there witnessing their moment.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ Lucy asked as I let myself into the living room through the French doors.

‘Fell asleep in the garden.’

‘Honestly!’

‘Have I missed much?’

‘You missed Jeff teaching me to salsa. Pip’s about to go away. Jeff and I have tied all the silver balloons to the car.’

‘You and Jeff, eh?’

‘You know what they say about the best man and the chief bridesmaid?’

‘Wasn’t Helen the chief bridesmaid?’

‘We both were!’

‘Jeff got lucky!’

Lucy gave me a playful slap on the arm.

‘Should I be worried?’ I gave her neck a quick nuzzle.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, shrugging me away. ‘Should you?’

‘Probably not with the moustache,’ I said.

Another slightly less playful slap, then Pippa was standing at the top of the stairs, wearing a flimsy summer dress with a jeans jacket over it. Greg followed close behind in pressed chinos and
a polo shirt. His hair was wet from showering. They looked as if they’d just had vigorous sex.

On the drive, a white Jaguar was waiting to take them to the airport hotel. As Pippa was about to get into the car, Helen rushed up to her with the small posy of white roses Pippa had carried
into the church. I saw Pippa glance at Lucy, who shook her head imperceptibly, so instead Pippa threw the bouquet over her head in the direction of her best friend from school, who shrieked as she
caught it.

‘What was that all about?’ I asked Lucy, as we waved the car away.

‘The person who catches the wedding bouquet is the next one who’s going to get married,’ she said.

I wasn’t stupid enough not to know that. I’d meant the silent little exchange between the sisters, which Lucy clearly thought I’d missed. Had I pissed her off so much she was
losing interest in me? I’d never quite understood what she saw in me in the first place.

‘We haven’t had a dance,’ I said, leading her back into the marquee.

Westlife’s ‘Flying without Wings’ was playing. At first, Lucy was a little stiff in my arms, but as I drew her closer in, she relaxed against my chest and I felt I’d been
forgiven.

‘I love you,’ I heard myself whisper into her hair.

She took a step back from me to look at my face.

‘Do you?’

She looked so delighted, I thought perhaps I did.

‘Asperger syndrome?’ Dad repeated, as if he had the slightest idea what that was.

For the first time in my life, I felt a tiny stab of pity for him because he’d been so stubborn in his refusal to believe that there was anything wrong with Hope, it must be humiliating to
be told there was, especially in front of me. I was careful not to look at him, but I could sense the authority seeping from him, making his presence in the consultant’s room seem smaller,
somehow.

‘So it’s not autism, then?’ Dad asked, which made me think he’d been more concerned than he’d let on.

The consultant regarded us over the top of his glasses. There was a chilly, dispassionate air about him, more what you’d think of as a bank manager than someone who specialized in
children. The room was clinical, with no personal touches except for a silver frame on his desk, which was turned towards him so I couldn’t see the photo.

‘Asperger syndrome is classified as being on the autistic spectrum. But as Hope doesn’t appear to have any significant learning disabilities, we would say that she is at the less
severe end.’

‘So it’s not autism exactly?’ Dad pushed.

‘If you want to put it like that.’

‘So, what is Asperger syndrome?’ I was determined not to go home without information because of Dad getting into a stand-off about the terminology.

It had taken months to get a referral to the children’s unit in London, and a whole morning of tests. Hope was currently in the waiting area outside with a student doctor who’d
mistaken me for Hope’s mother – she was only about my age, herself, so God knows how dreadful I must have looked – and Dad had promised Hope a trip to the zoo if she behaved
herself, but there wasn’t an endless window of opportunity to ask all the questions we couldn’t ask with her there.

Nowadays you’d look it up on the Internet, wouldn’t you? But not everyone had a laptop then. Google hadn’t become a verb. I went to the local library every week to get our
reading books, but the selection of non-fiction was very limited, and even though I’d read the entry on autism in the medical dictionary, I’d never seen a reference to Asperger
syndrome.

‘It’s characterized by difficulties in social communication, social interaction and social imagination,’ the consultant explained.

The words would mean even less to my father than they did to me.

‘Could you give us some examples, please?’ I asked.

‘Each person is different, clearly. Some might have perfectly good language skills, but they won’t understand that people often say things they don’t mean. They may find it
difficult to make friends. They may only want to talk about one thing that they’re interested in . . .’

‘That’s Hope with her CDs, isn’t it, Tess?’ Dad exclaimed.

His recognition felt like a giant step forward.

‘They may like routines or playing the same game,’ the consultant continued. ‘They may have some problems with physical coordination. They may also suffer from anxiety or
depression . . .’

Which would account for the moods.

I wondered if he had picked out all the symptoms that applied to Hope just to prove the point to Dad, or whether Hope was a textbook case.