Tales From a Hen Weekend (34 page)

‘I thought he’d told you. On the phone: I thought he’d said…’

Poor Emily. She looks like she’s going to cry, herself. Not her fault. She couldn’t have told me, could she? She was doing her best. I’d have done the same thing myself.

‘No,’ I manage to splutter. ‘No, he didn’t tell me about
Claire
. I suppose he was saving that bit for when I go home. All he told me was – it’s over. Over, no good, finished. I can’t believe he needed ten days in Prague to make up his mind; to choose between us. So much for Claire! She can’t be so very wonderful.’

We’re both crying now. In each other’s arms, sobbing properly. Thank God Emily still loves me. Why can’t men ever love us the way our girlfriends do?

‘Hey!’ We both jump at the sound of shouting from the lounge. ‘Hey, you two! What’s going on! Who’s crying? What’s happened? Your bloody prawns have gone cold and the rice is congealed! Do I have to roll off the sofa and crawl out there to find out what’s going on?’

‘OK, Jude,’ says Emily, wiping her eyes and giving me a shaky little smile. ‘Sorry. We’re coming.’ She grabs my hand and squeezes it hard. ‘You’re going to be OK, darling,’ she whispers fiercely. ‘You’re going to be fine.
Bollocks
to him.’

It doesn’t take long to bring Jude up to date.

‘I’ll fucking kill him, so I will. I’ll cut his stupid dick off and feed it to the ducks,’ she says, furiously, spitting wine across the lovely velvet cushions on her lovely leather sofa.

We’ve found a couple of bottles of wine in the fridge and we’re halfway through the second one. The giving-up of alcohol forever doesn’t apply in situations where you’ve just been dumped by the love of your life.

‘I hate her,’ I say morosely. It’s easier than hating him. I’m still too shocked to start hating him. ‘The cow. I bet she’s huge and ugly and desperate and can’t get a man of her own. I bet she forced him.’

‘She’s probably a witch,’ says Jude. ‘She’ll have put something in his tea, sure as heaven, and he’ll have fallen under her spell.’

‘A wicked witch,’ agrees Emily, slurring slightly.

‘He’ll get tired of her, Katie, so he will. You’ll see, he’ll be tired of her before the end of the year and he’ll come back to you with his tail between his…’

‘Jude, I don’t care where he puts his fucking tail. He’s not coming back to me with his tail anywhere. Not after this. Not ever. I’m finished with men! All of them. They’re all liars and cheats and fucking bastards.’ I glance at Emily, who’s looking at the floor, miserably. ‘Except for Sean,’ I add quickly. ‘He’s lovely.’

‘He is, so,’ agrees Jude, nodding solemnly. ‘Sean’s a lovely man, so he is, and it’s a great sorrow to me that there aren’t more Seans in the world to go round so that we could all have one of our own, Emily.’

I’ve had too much wine by now and this just starts me off crying again.

‘Oh, Emily!’ I wail. ‘Why couldn’t Matt have been more like Sean? You’re so lucky! You’re so right for each other! You’re so perfect together!’

‘Not perfect, Kate,’ she says, shaking her head so hard that she almost falls over. I think she’s had too much wine as well. ‘We’re not perfect. Sean’s not perfect. We didn’t have that kind of grand passion thing that you and Matt had. We were always just really good friends.’

This makes me howl out loud.

‘That’s what I want! That’s what I should have been looking for! It sounds so perfect! Why didn’t I find that?’

‘Come on, Katie, don’t cry,’ Emily says unsteadily. ‘Tell you what – let’s get into our jamas, shall we, and watch something old and soppy on telly? Yeah? And finish the wine off?’

I’m aware, vaguely, of turning out the contents of my holdall, in Jude’s spare bedroom, looking for my pyjamas. And I’m aware, even more vaguely, of collapsing back onto the sofa with a glass of something in my hand. It isn’t wine. I think it’s vodka but I’ve lost interest in anything other than pouring it down my neck.

And the next thing I’m aware of is waking up in the dark and wondering why there’s a ghost outside, tapping on the window.

Strangely enough the ghost doesn’t frighten me. I’m in that state of half-sleep, to say nothing of drunkenness, where anything, absolutely anything, that can happen in a dream seems completely reasonable and acceptable.

‘Ghost,’ I mutter to myself, stumbling to my feet, with no more surprise than if it had been an insurance salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness knocking at the door. I stagger to the window. I’m not too sure where I am. Is this a dream? The window doesn’t look like the window in my flat.

‘Hello?’ I say, softly, standing at the window and staring out. Something about this definitely doesn’t feel right. Should I be standing at the window of a strange room, in the dark, talking to a ghost? Am I awake?

Before I have time to decide, a face appears at the other side of the window, making me jump almost clean out of my skin and scream ‘SHIT!’ in such a demented squeak, I actually frighten myself. In fact I think I’ve frightened the ghost, or whoever the face belongs to, even more, judging by the way it leaps back away from the window, its eyes almost popping out of its head.

At least I’m now wide awake, although the alcohol hasn’t done much for my sense of balance. I’m trying to hold onto the window to stop me falling on the floor. Windows aren’t easy things to hold onto. The glass tends to slide under your fingers and if you’re not sure which way is up, it can make you feel really giddy.

‘Katie!’ the ghost is whispering at me now, through the window.

That’s me. Katie. I recognise the name.

‘Katie, it’s me! Open the door!’

Me? Me? I recognise that, too. If I’m Katie, who is
Me
?

Fortunately, I don’t have to puzzle over this for long, or I’d probably have passed out with the effort.

‘It’s me – Harry! Katie, can you come to the door and let me in? Isn’t anyone else at home?’

Aha! Harry. Yes, I remember Harry. The good-looking one, the one I shouldn’t really have kissed, shouldn’t really have fancied, because I was still supposed to be with What’s-His-Name. What was his name again? I let go of the window and sway slightly, frowning, worried that I can’t remember.

‘Katie!’ comes the urgent whisper again. I can see his face through the window. Not a ghost. Harry. His face looks white and ghostlike, though, in the moonlight. ‘I’ve got the crutches! Look, if you don’t want to let me in, I’ll leave them outside the front door, but I don’t want them to get nicked!’

Crutches? I start to giggle at the absurdity of the word. Why is he putting his crutches outside the front door? And where
is
the front door, anyway? I look around me at the darkened room. There’s a pillow and a pink-covered duvet on the sofa where I was sleeping. They’re not mine. Whose are they? Where am I?

I hear the crunch of Harry’s footsteps walking away from the window. Holding onto the wall now, I take a couple of steps, trying to follow in the direction that he’s going. A door! I go through, out to the hall. I remember this. I remember sitting on this carpet, some time in the past, crying. God knows why. There’s the front door. There’s a clunking noise outside. I grab the door handle, wrench it open, sway in the doorway, blinking in the fresh air.

‘So there you are!’ says Harry. ‘I was just putting the crutches…’

There’s a long silence.

‘Are you all right, Katie?’ I hear him say, just before I fall into his arms and pass out cold.

When I come round, I’m back on the sofa, under the pink duvet. There’s a cold flannel on my forehead, a glass of water next to me, and a bowl, presumably in case I’m going to be sick.

Harry leans over me and stares into my face.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks again as if there hadn’t been any interruption in the conversation.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to open my mouth.

‘Here. Have a drink.’

I drain the glass. The room spins, lurches, settles down again. I close my eyes, realise that makes everything even more frightening, and open them again quickly.

‘I’ll fill it up again. Don’t try to move.’

I couldn’t even if I tried. I watch him walking out to the kitchen. Slowly, slowly, I remember. This is Jude’s flat. Where is she? Where is Emily?

‘The other two are sound asleep in the bedrooms,’ says Harry as if I’d asked out loud. ‘I checked.’

‘We were watching a film,’ I mutter thickly. I don’t think I’m going to be sick. I try to sit up. Drink the second glass of water. That’s better. The room’s stopped spinning. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

I’m searching my memory. Give me a clue. What happened?

‘I thought you’d given up the booze?’ he says, smiling at me gently.

‘So did I. But…’

But what?

Oh, yes.

Matt. The phone call. I start to cry again, silently. I want to wipe the tears away but I’m too tired. Too ill.

‘Katie!’ says Harry, looking alarmed. He sits down on the edge of the sofa. ‘Don’t cry! What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘It’s over,’ I whimper. ‘He phoned me. He’s finished with me. Dumped me.’ I fumble around, looking for a tissue, and end up wiping my nose on the back of my hand. Very elegant. ‘Her name’s Claire. She’s… she’s a witch.’

‘Christ.’ That’s all he says. But he sounds shocked. ‘Christ!’

‘I can’t believe it! He was so
nasty.
He’s never been like that before. He said I’m off my head and I need help.’

Why am I telling him all this? Why, come to that, am I sitting here, in my shortie pyjamas, with my boobs almost hanging out of the top and Jude’s pink duvet only just about maintaining my decency, sipping water and with a sick-bowl propped up next to my pillow, crying very messily with my nose running unchecked into my mouth, while the very good-looking man I naughtily snogged on Saturday night, when I should have only been thinking about Matt, is squeezing my hand sympathetically and offering me tissues?

‘Sorry!’ I gasp, grabbing a tissue from him and blowing my nose noisily and very unsexily.

‘Don’t be silly. I’m just so shocked. Are you sure he wasn’t just – I don’t know – pissed, maybe? Angry that you haven’t gone straight home? Being an arsehole?’

‘I think
(sniff)
he’s probably always
(sniff)
been an arsehole
(sniff).
I just didn’t
(sniff)
realise it until now.’ I start to sob.

Probably wisely, Harry doesn’t say any more. He hands me another tissue, proffers the glass of water again, tucks the duvet around my shoulders as if I’m a sick child with a fever, smoothes it down over my feet, and just sits there, perched on the edge of the sofa, looking at me with grave concern while I get the wailing and sobbing out of my system. At least for now. When I’ve cried myself to a stop, he asks me if I want a cup of tea.

‘How did you know?’

‘Just a guess. My mum always gives people cups of tea when they’re upset.’

He pads quietly out to Jude’s kitchen and I listen to him boiling the kettle, getting mugs and teabags out. I wonder what I look like. My eyes are probably red and swollen and my face all blotchy. Should I risk getting up and finding a mirror, or will I feel dizzy again? Actually the alcohol seems to be wearing off.

‘I must look a terrible mess,’ I say as he hands me a mug of steaming tea.

‘No, you don’t. You look… sad, and vulnerable. How else could you look, in the circumstances?’ He shakes his head and watches me sipping my tea. ‘He’s a fucking idiot, if you ask me.’

I shrug, don’t bother to reply. He’s just trying to be nice.

‘Sorry,’ he adds quickly. ‘That’s not really for me to say, is it. I suppose you love him.’

Suppose? Of course I do, don’t I! We were getting married up till a week or so ago. We were going to have a baby!

At the thought of the baby, my eyes fill up with tears again and I have to put the mug down to blow my nose.

‘Come here,’ says Harry softly, and holds out his arms to me. Before I know it, I’m being held tight against his chest, still snivelling into the tissue that’s now scrunched up in my hand.

‘It’s all right,’ he’s muttering against my hair. ‘Ssh, come on, it’s all right, Katie.’

Just like Emily. Just like a friend – a nice, gentle, caring friend. What did I say about men loving us the way our girlfriends do?

I look up at him through my swollen eyelids and just for a minute, a crazy fleeting minute that has more to do with the kind and concerned look in his eyes than anything going on in my mess of a head, I consider kissing him.

I think he sees the idea forming in my eyes. Or in the way I very fractionally lift my lips towards his. Just fleetingly. I notice the barest twitch of a response pass across his face before he sits up straighter, strokes my hair as if I’m the feverish child again, and mutters, so quietly that I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to himself:

‘I don’t want to take advantage.’ He sits me back against the sofa and looks at me carefully before continuing, more clearly: ‘I think, if you’re going to be all right now, I’d better get going, back to my cousin’s place. Can I come back and see you in the morning?’

‘Yes,’ I say, my voice sounding small and tired in my head. ‘Thank you… for looking after me. Sorry.’

‘Don’t say sorry,’ he says, sounding quite stern for a minute. He hesitates by the door, looking back at me. I’m almost asleep already. ‘Bye, Katie,’ he says gently as he lets himself out.

Surprisingly, I sleep like a baby for the rest of the night.

In the morning, the sun’s shining and the sky’s a delicate shade of pastel blue with a few puffy light grey clouds scudding along merrily. There’s blossom on the trees outside Jude’s window. There are seagulls shouting to each other from the grey slate rooftops down the hill, the world outside looks wonderful and I feel pretty silly for believing that my life was over.