Bridesmaids (25 page)

By the look on Grace’s mum’s face, she’s either got chronic wind or she’s not impressed with the buffet.

‘It’s an
unusual
spread, Evie,’ she says euphemistically. ‘Not many vol au vents.’

‘They’ve got some nice salads,’ Grace offers, although Scarlett, who is in a pushchair next to us, doesn’t exactly look convinced either.

‘Yes…’ replies Mrs Edwards, taking a hesitant bite out of a chick-pea patty. ‘Although some of it reminds me of that stuff you put in the bottom of Polly’s rabbit hutch.’

Suddenly, my own mum appears, straightening her peacock feather as she approaches.

‘Is everyone enjoying themselves?’ she asks.

‘Absolutely,’ says Grace. ‘I thought your service was lovely. Have you met my mother?’

Grace’s mum smiles and brushes down her dress, which looks as if it’s come straight out of the late Queen Mother’s wardrobe.

‘Del-aighted to meet you,’ she says in her best telephone voice. ‘And many congratulations.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ says my mum, grabbing her hand and shaking it vigorously. ‘I’m so happy you could come today.’

‘Oh well,’ says Mrs Edwards, continuing with the odd inflection in her voice, ‘Ay’m here to look after the little ones, that’s all. Ay’ll be taking them home soon to let my Grace have some time to herself. She doesn’t have a lot of time, normally, what with her high-powered job.’

‘Er, yes–thanks, Mum,’ interrupts Grace, before Mrs Edwards starts regaling us with how ‘advanced’ she was as a child.

‘How’s the buffet?’ asks my mum. ‘Ooh, you’ve obviously enjoyed it, Mrs Edwards.’

‘Er, yes, very nice,’ says Grace’s mother. ‘I’m more of a Marks and Spencer fan myself though, to be honest. You know–mini-quiches, sausages on sticks, that kind of thing. But er, yes, this is very nice. For a change.’

‘Oh well, Bob and I don’t buy any of our food from the conglomerates,’ Mum says.

‘From the what, dear?’ asks Mrs Edwards.

‘You know, supermarkets…chains,’ Mum explains. ‘We try to buy direct from the grower. It’s much tastier and ultimately more economical too.’

Mrs Edwards gamely tries to hide her concern for my mother’s welfare and possibly her sanity too.

‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘I don’t think that’d be practical in our case. I wouldn’t know where else to get a Battenburg from, for a start.’

‘Anyway, I do hope you’ll excuse me so I can do a bit more mingling,’ says Mum. ‘Ooh, but before I go, you don’t happen to have a lighter, do you?’

‘Not me,’ I say.

‘Sorry, Sarah,’ says Grace. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ says Mum. ‘It’s not for me, it’s for Bob’s
friend Gerry. And, between you and me, I think he only wants it for his bong.’

Mrs Edwards turns to us after she’s gone.

‘What’s a bong?’ she asks.

Grace gulps.

‘A type of barbecue,’ I say. ‘They’re about to do some corn on the cob.’

Patrick is trying to give Scarlett and Polly a kiss goodbye before Mrs Edwards takes them home. Trouble is, he’s clearly seeing four of them.

‘Wheresh my besht girlsh?’ he says, stumbling, before scooping both of them up.

‘Are you drunk, Daddy?’ asks Polly.

‘Don’t be shilly,’ he says, trying to pat her on the head but missing.

‘I’m not sure you fooled her,’ Grace tells him after they’ve gone, but he ignores her and takes another liberal gulp of his beer.

As dusk starts to descend, the lights in the marquee are turned on and the four of us–Grace and Patrick, me and Jack–watch as the band prepare for their big performance. They are friends of Bob’s and I can only describe them, from the one time I’ve seen them before, like a souped-up version of Simon and Garfunkel.

‘Hey everyone,’ says the lead singer, a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt and hair like a mad scientist. ‘Before we start, can I just say congratulations to Bob and Sarah. I can’t think of a…cooler…couple.’

Everyone cheers as the band launch into the song the bride and groom have chosen for their first dance–‘Let’s Spend The Night Together’ by the Rolling Stones.

Bob grabs Mum’s hand and leads her onto the dance floor in a half-skip as their heads bob up and down manically in time to the music. He swings her around in wild abandonment and, with both of their arms flailing like they’re performing a rain dance, they set the dance floor alight in their own unique way.

‘Other people choose James Blunt for their first song,’ I say, shaking my head.

‘Well, they’re entertaining if nothing else,’ says Grace, laughing. ‘You’ve got to admit that.’

‘Yep, they are,’ I agree. ‘Listen, I was thinking. We four should get together soon, you know.’

‘What, you mean a double date?’ says Grace. ‘I’ve not been on one of those since I was about eighteen.’

‘I wasn’t going to suggest we go ten-pin bowling,’ I say. ‘I haven’t got the co-ordination for a start. I thought a bit of dinner might be nice though. Jack’s a great cook.’

‘Tsk, Jack,’ says Patrick, as he starts to sway backwards and forwards. ‘It starts off being invited out and ends up with you doing the bloody cooking. I wouldn’t stand for it, mate.’

Patrick is clearly trying to jest, but there is something about how pissed he is that gives him the air of an
EastEnders
hard man–and seeing that he’s a corporate lawyer, it really doesn’t suit him. Fortunately, Jack is polite enough to pretend he hasn’t noticed.

‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘Maybe we should get the girls to do the cooking instead. The only trouble with that is that I’ve tasted Evie’s Pasta Putanesca and I’m a bit worried I might not survive the experience twice.’

I hit him playfully on the arm and he responds by pulling me towards him and gently kissing the top of my head. As we move away from each other, I turn to look at Grace and Patrick and am a bit shocked by what I see. They are standing apart from each other and look so uncomfortable with our display of affection, neither of them appears to know where to put their eyes. Then, something strange happens. Patrick drains his glass, turns on his heel and walks away. Just like that.

‘Are you going to the bar?’ Grace shouts after him, clearly trying to pretend she’s not as taken aback by this as we all are.

But he ignores her and continues with his swaying march away from us.

‘I hope you weren’t expecting to get lucky tonight,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen Patrick this pissed since your wedding night.’

‘Hmm,’ she says, forcing a smile.

‘Grace, are you sure everything’s all right?’ I ask, but the second I say it I know now’s not the time. She’d never spill the beans in front of Jack.

‘Oh fine,’ she answers. ‘Anyway, I’m starting to think if I can’t beat him I may join him. Can I get either of you a drink?’

We both shake our heads. As she walks away in Patrick’s direction, I grab her by the arm, out of earshot of Jack.

‘Grace, really,’ I say. ‘Do you want to talk?’

‘No, honestly,’ she says. ‘It’s no big deal.’

But it is starting to seem like a big deal to me. It’s starting to seem like a very big deal.

If I thought Patrick was acting strangely, that is nothing compared with Charlotte.

This is the first time she’s drunk anything other than saccharine-packed fizzy drinks since the start of her
WeightWatchers
regime, and it has had an immediate effect. When I shared a Portaloo with her earlier she was swaying so much trying to hover that she nearly toppled the thing over mid-flow.

‘Oooh,’ she says, throwing her head back wildly. ‘The first proper drink I’ve had in ages and it’s made me go really squiffy.’

She’s not the only one. Thanks to my black eye and painkillers I couldn’t feel wobblier if I’d spent the entire afternoon on a playground roundabout.

‘Still, it’s not unpleasant,’ she giggles. ‘In fact, it’s quite nice.’

I wish I could say the same thing.

As Charlotte and I head back into the marquee, the band are in full swing–and so is Valentina. Apparently not put off by the fact that they’re playing a Van Morrison track, she has dusted off her old Spice Girls routine and is giving it its first outing since 1999. Edmund couldn’t look more proud.

‘You know,’ says Charlotte, out of nowhere, ‘people look at you differently when you’re thin.’

‘I
don’t,’ I say determinedly. ‘I mean, you look great and everything, but you’re still the same old Charlotte to me. I’ve always thought you were lovely and I always will do.’

‘Yes, but not everyone’s like you Evie,’ she says. ‘Take my mother…’

She swallows a large gulp of her wine.

‘Do you know what she said on Sunday? “
There’s barely a pick on you
,” was what she’d said. I’d gone round for lunch and passed on the Yorkshire pudding and gravy—’

‘What, and she nearly fainted?’ I joke.

Charlotte giggles.

‘But it’s not just my mother,’ she continues, running her hands contentedly over her new bias-cut dress. ‘It’s…’

‘Who?’ I ask.

She looks up at me and smiles conspiratorially.

‘Men,’ she whispers, giggling like a naughty schoolgirl.

‘Men?’ I echo, grinning. ‘Go on, who’ve you been flirting with?’

‘Ah,’ she says, taking another liberal mouthful of wine. ‘That would be telling.’

‘Charlotte,’ I say, slightly amazed, ‘stop teasing. Come on, tell me.’

She shakes her head.

‘Not yet,’ she says.

‘Charlotte!’ I squeal. ‘Who are you talking about? Tell me this bloody instant!’

She giggles again.

‘I can’t.’

‘Okay, okay.’ I am desperate to know, but don’t want to
make her clam up completely. ‘But has anything…happened?’

She looks into her wine glass and smiles again.

‘Oh yes,’ she says dreamily.

My eyes widen.

‘What?’ I ask.

She shakes her head again, apparently enjoying teasing me with this story as much as the story itself.

‘So, have you kissed?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes,’ she says again.

‘Look here, you,’ I say, exasperated, ‘I am a journalist and I will get this out of you sooner or later–I promise. So, look, are you seeing him again?’

Charlotte’s smile suddenly disappears and she looks very serious, and very drunk.

‘I hope so,’ she says. ‘I really do hope so. But, I’ll be honest with you, I’m not so sure.’

Patrick has always been what you’d call a happy drunk. A harmless drunk. The sort of person who, after a few jars on a Friday night, does silly things with his boxer shorts and gives sloppy kisses to his male friends. Not the sort of drunk who’s obnoxious. Although on the evidence of his behaviour earlier, something’s clearly changed on that score.

It is because of this that I’ve left Jack chatting to my mum about mudslides in Guatemala and the food crisis in Malawi (glad to see they’ve kept the agenda upbeat to befit the happy occasion) and go off in search of Grace, who I find talking to Jim near the bar.

‘Hi, you two,’ I say brightly, not wanting to arouse any suspicion that I’ve come in search of a deep and meaningful conversation. ‘What do you think of the band?’

‘Brilliant,’ says Jim. ‘Although I think Valentina threw them earlier by asking if they knew any Christina Aguilera numbers.’

‘Listen, Jim,’ I say, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but I wonder if I could borrow Grace for a few minutes?’

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I was going to try and persuade Charlotte to come and dance with me anyway.’

Grace and I go in search of a quiet table in the corner away from the dance floor. I can’t help noticing as we pass that Valentina’s dancing, which always involves a fair amount of arm movement anyway, tonight involves so much conspicuous waving of the hand with her ring on it that she could be directing traffic.

‘What’s up?’ says Grace as we sit down in a suitable spot.

‘I was about to ask you the same thing,’ I say.

But before she gets the chance to answer, my handbag starts ringing and I realise it’s Jack’s mobile which, since he abandoned his jacket earlier, I’ve been looking after. Normally, I’d take it straight to him, but now is really not a good time so I just dig it out and press the silence button.

‘What do you mean?’ she asks.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to pry or anything, but I’ve noticed that you and Patrick both seem a bit…I don’t know…not really yourselves.’

She bites her lip and considers this for a second.

‘You’ve noticed then,’ she says.

‘Is something the matter?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Yes, I think there is,’ she sighs. ‘But, well, it’s hard to put my finger on really.’

Suddenly, the phone goes off again. I dig it out of my bag, and press silence again, before nodding at her to go on.

‘It’s hard to put my finger on because it’s no one big thing,’ she continues. ‘We’ve not had a huge row over money, or the kids or, well, anything. But we are at each other’s throats a lot. Everything I say seems to offend Patrick at the moment. And he just
never
seems happy.’

‘Do you have any idea what’s caused it?’ I ask.

‘You mean do I think he’s having an affair?’ she says, her eyes welling up.

‘No!’ I say hastily. ‘I don’t think that for a second.’

‘Don’t you?’ she says. ‘I’m not so sure. I’m really not so sure.’

Some people, when they cry, look like they do in the movies, with a single tear cascading poetically down porcelain skin. Grace, like me, isn’t one of them.

Her cheeks now resemble corned beef, her eyes are almost as puffy as my own and her nose has acquired that special beetrooty tinge that comes from excessive blowing on a sixply napkin.

‘Patrick loves you, I know it,’ I say. ‘God, you only had to see the way he looked at you at your wedding. Things can’t have just gone from that to what you’re talking about overnight.’

‘You wouldn’t have thought so,’ she says, sniffing into her napkin again. ‘But that’s what it feels like.’

‘I take it you’ve tried talking to him about it?’

‘Hmm, yes. I mean, sort of.’

I frown. ‘That means no.’

‘I suppose I haven’t wanted to confront him,’ she admits.

‘Well, you should,’ I say firmly. ‘Confront him, talk to him, tell him you love him.’

I see the hint of a smile.

‘For someone who has never had a long-term relationship, you’re very good at giving advice on them.’

I put my arm around her. ‘
Had
is the operative word,’ I say. ‘Commitment is my new middle name. Jack and I are so loved-up we make Romeo and Juliet look emotionally stunted.’

‘Well, I’m glad,’ she says. ‘I really am.’

Suddenly, Jack’s phone rings again. This time, for the sake of shutting the damn thing up, I decide to answer it.

‘Hello, Jack’s phone,’ I say.

‘Er, oh, hi,’ says the voice of a young-sounding woman on the other end. ‘Is Jack there, please?’

‘Not at the moment,’ I say. ‘I mean, he’s around but I’m not sure where he is right now. Can I take a message?’

‘Yeah,’ says the woman. ‘Can you tell him Beth rang. Just let him know he’s still got my T-shirt. I forgot to take it with me when I left this morning and I wanted to know whether I could come over and get it tomorrow.’

I freeze.

‘Er, can I take a number?’ I ask.

‘Oh, he’s got it,’ she replies.

I am suddenly unable to think about what to say or do.

‘Hello?’ she says.

‘Er, yes, no problem,’ I say, and end the call.

‘What’s up?’ asks Grace, leaning over. ‘Evie, you’re as white as a sheet. Whatever’s the matter?’