Bridesmaids (6 page)

Jack has lifted four-year-old Polly up by the waist so that her shoes are three feet off the ground, and he has her arm held out in a waltz position.

He’s gently spinning her around, but containing their movements to a small corner of the dance floor, obviously to make sure they don’t upstage the bride and groom. But to be honest, that’s a bit difficult. Because the eyes of virtually every woman in the place are glued on him.

They’re mesmerised by the ripple of Jack’s biceps as he keeps tight hold of Polly, on the wide, smiling eyes and the sensuous curve of his buttocks, now tantalisingly defined after his jacket has been discarded.

At least, I imagine that’s what they’re mesmerised by.

‘
Look
at that bum!’ gasps some woman next to me. I can only assume she isn’t referring to the one belonging to the hefty middle-aged waiter laying out the buffet.

‘Come and join us!’ shouts Grace, beckoning Jack and Polly into the centre of the dance floor with them.

Polly looks as if all her Christmases and birthdays have come at once, as Jack twirls her around and around in the centre of the dance floor while she giggles uproariously,
loving the attention. When the song finishes and Jack puts Polly down, I make a decision. I’m going to go and talk to him.

I know he’s with Valentina. I know I’ve made a complete idiot of myself today. I know I’ve got three ex-boyfriends hovering about. But it doesn’t matter. I have got to talk to him, if only for one reason: to prove to myself that my instinct was right. That the very fact of him being here with Valentina makes him as dim-witted and shallow as everyone else she’s ever gone out with. Regardless of whether he’s an Oxford-educated chief executive. Of a charity.

I take a deep breath and start walking towards him. But suddenly, there is a tap on my shoulder and I spin around.

‘Evie, we’ve got to talk.’

Oh, no.

‘There’s still so much we need to say to each other.’

No, no, no, no, no
. This is getting ridiculous.

‘Somehow, we’ve kept missing each other all day,’ Gareth tells me, with an expression so pained he looks constipated. ‘I don’t know how. But anyway, I’ve caught you now. So we can talk properly.’

‘Gareth,’ I say, ‘I know we need to talk. I know.’

‘So, how about it then?’ he asks.

‘Now just really isn’t a good time.’

‘I’m starting to get the impression that you’re avoiding me, Evie,’ he says, narrowing his eyes.

‘Me?’ I am a picture of innocence. ‘Honestly, I’m not. It’s just that…I need to go and choose some music.’

He screws up his face. ‘But they’ve hired a disco,’ he objects.

‘Oh no, the disco man’s not hired,’ I say. ‘He came free with the hotel. They threw him in with the chicken drumsticks.
The problem is, he’ll only play Neil Diamond tracks unless you tell him otherwise. I mean, I love “Cracklin’ Rosie” as much as the next person, but sometimes you just need a bit of Britney. So I’ve got to go. Sorry.’

‘Wait,’ he says, and grabs my hand. ‘I wanted to give you something.’

‘What?’ I ask, a familiar feeling of dread washing over me.

‘It’s a symbol of our relationship, Evie,’ he says, looking worryingly profound.

‘Er, right.’ I am torn between trying to imagine what he’s talking about and really not wanting to know at all.

‘A symbol of everything that went wrong,’ he continues. ‘A symbol that shows how much I’m prepared to change.’

It’s at that very moment that it dawns on me exactly what he’s about to give me, and it sends a shiver down my spine. He’s got an engagement ring, I just know it! He has that demented glint in his eye.

‘Oh Gareth, no,’ I gulp, as he reaches into his inside pocket. ‘I mean, I’m just not ready. I’ll
never
be ready.’

He grips my arm and looks deep into my eyes. ‘I know, Evie,’ he says softly. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you. I know you weren’t ready.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

As he pulls something out of his inside pocket and starts to unwrap it, it soon becomes clear that it isn’t an engagement ring.

In fact, it’s the only thing I’d rather see less than an engagement ring.

It’s
the underwear
.

The underwear he bought me from
Hot and Horny
magazine. The black rubber underwear with two holes in the
chest. The underwear that should have
Perve Magnet
written across the front.

The blood drains from my face as he whips it out of his pocket like a matador.

‘I mean this,’ he says. ‘
This
is where I went wrong. No matter what you said before, I just know it, and this is proof to you that I’m willing to change.’

It’s 12.05 a.m. and I’m self-righteously sober. Actually, that’s not strictly accurate. I’m nothing like sober. But compared with a number of the other guests I am a bastion of ladylike virtue and sobriety. Which is a miracle, really, when you consider the earlier shenanigans with Gareth.

As we’d stood there in the middle of the marquee, he brandishing
Hot and Horny
’s finest as everybody else bopped around to ‘Sweet Caroline’, I can honestly say that I have never been more acutely aware of my surroundings.

There was really only one thing for it.

I snatched
the underwear
from Gareth’s hand, turned around and ran out of the marquee as fast as my legs could carry me–until, that is, I crashed straight into Auntie Sylvia and Auntie Anne.

They took one look at what I was holding and appeared to come close to simultaneously passing out. The offending item is now stuffed into a sanitary-towel bin in the ladies cloakroom, which is hopefully where it will stay until someone wearing protective clothing comes to take it away to be incinerated, along with everything else in there. Which I can’t help thinking feels like a fitting end for its existence.

Anyway, I have been laying low for the last couple of hours. Which means that, not only have I managed to give Gareth the slip, but it’s also allowed me to quietly witness a number of alcohol-induced highlights elsewhere in the party.

Valentina has been the star of the show. In fact, courtesy of her newfound friends Moët & Chandon, she has provided more entertainment in the last hour or so than a travelling circus. As I sit at a table at the side of the dance floor, perfectly happy to have some solitude, I watch in amusement as she high-kicks her way around Uncle Bob.

‘Can I join you?’ someone says behind me.

I turn around and my pulse quickens. It’s Jack. With whom, by now, I’d completely given up on ever engaging in conversation.

‘Yes. Sure. Absolutely. Why not?’ I gabble, sounding about as cool as the average school nerd.

As he pulls up a chair, our eyes are drawn back to the dance floor, where Valentina has now moved onto the Can-Can.

‘I think you may have stolen the show before with your dancing,’ I say.

‘Oh, I think we can safely say it was Polly who stole the show,’ he smiles. I’m not so sure. ‘Anyway, I believe you’re a reporter at the
Daily Echo
?’

I take a sip of my drink and nod, and then look to see what his reaction is. Some people, believe it or not, don’t like journalists.

‘The reason I ask is that I’ve been in the
Daily Echo
myself a couple of times,’ he goes on.

‘You’re not a convicted criminal, are you?’ I ask.

‘No, no,’ he laughs. ‘At least, they’ve not caught me yet.’

‘So why have we featured you?’

‘I work for a charity called Future for Africa,’ he explains. ‘We create sustainable projects in the third world–helping farmers to help themselves–as well as running some refugee camps. Your paper did a fantastic feature about us just over a year ago. It was a double-page spread. We were really struggling at the time and I can’t tell you how much it helped. We just couldn’t have bought the publicity.’

I don’t know why, but this surprises me. The closest Valentina’s ever been to going out with someone with a social conscience before is when she tried to seduce a trainee vicar she met in second year at university.

And as the two of us start talking, by the intimate glow of a single tea light and with the disco feeling like it’s miles away, I discover a lot that surprises me about Jack.

His background, for a start. Despite his now high-flying job and hard-to-place accent, he went to a comprehensive where the average GCSE grade would only get you a job asking, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ a hundred times a day.

He was the first person in his family to go to university, and that university happened to be Oxford, where he got a First in History. He travelled all over the world in a gap year, before finally landing a job with the charity at which he has now risen to the rank of chief executive.

These days, he loves kids but loves African kids the most and says he wants to adopt at some point in his life. He is a lapsed vegetarian (the smell of bacon after a night out saw the end of it) who reads about two books a week–everything from Dickens to Lee Child.

The only thing he watches on TV is old episodes of
Frasier
, and instead he listens to so much radio that he’s
embarrassed to say he knows exactly what is happening in
The Archers
in any given week. He is obsessed with sport, and he loves spicy food (especially Thai), expensive red wine and tortilla chips.

Oh yes, and he’s recovering from a broken heart.

The details about Jack’s break-up are relatively thin. It happened recently. They’d been together a while. There’s no chance of them getting back together.

I sit and nod, taking it all in, looking as if I empathise thoroughly, as if I know
exactly
what he’s going through. But, obviously, nothing could be further from the truth. I haven’t got the foggiest what he’s going through, since the closest I’ve ever been to having a ‘serious’ relationship is with the woman who has highlighted my hair for the last five years.

The fact is, this is a subject to which I have virtually nothing to contribute. At least, not without admitting to my appalling track record in the romance stakes–and I’m not about to do that in a hurry.

Why not? Well, I just don’t want him to know that I’m about as good at relationships as I am at intergalactic travel.

Anyway, I shouldn’t give the impression that the conversation has only been about him. Far from it. I have found myself telling him about everything–from the dad I can’t remember, to my pursuit of a great journalistic career, and the fact that I’d only had time to shave one leg before we walked down the aisle. (I don’t know why I let that one slip. I regretted it immediately.)

‘What’s it like, being at a wedding where you hardly know anyone?’ I ask him.

‘I’ve enjoyed it. You soon get to know people. There’s you, for a start,’ he says, and I can’t help noticing that my heart is pounding faster again. ‘And Pete and I have become friends for life tonight. I’ve never met anyone before who’s quite as obsessed about rugby as I am.’

‘Do you play yourself?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, I do. I know being wrestled to the ground by fifteen blokes every Saturday isn’t everyone’s idea of fun, but I love it.’

I can’t work out whether it is prompted by this image, or by the fact that I have finally drunk too much champagne, but I do feel very hot all of a sudden.

‘You two–together again! Humph. I’m shtarting to think I should be getting jealous!’

You might have thought Valentina would have sobered up now, after all that dancing. Not on the evidence before us.

‘I think I’ve got a bit dirty shomehow,’ she says, flopping onto Jack’s knee.

‘Have you had a good dance?’ I ask politely.

She lifts up her skirt to demonstrate that the back of one leg and the front of the other is covered in a black streak of grime.

‘Yesh, but I have absholutely no idea how this could posh-hhibly have happened. Have you, Evie?’ she asks me.

Jack, who is trying to ensure she doesn’t fall off his knee and injure herself, looks over to me.

‘I think it’s because you did the splits, Valentina,’ I say.

‘The splits? Did I really? Ha! I amaze myshelf shometimes.’

Jack and I catch each other’s gaze.

‘And everyone else,’ I say, smiling.

She grabs Jack’s glass, obviously realising it’s been, oooh, minutes since she last had something to drink, and almost slides onto the floor in the process. He manages to stop her, but not easily. The veins in his neck are bulging as he lifts her up into his arms.

‘I think I’d better get Valentina back to the B and B,’ he pants.

‘Yeah. Of course,’ I say.

‘Jack, I…think…I think…we should go and have a good old dancsh,’ says Valentina, her head wobbling from side to side. He pulls her in tighter to make sure he’s not going to drop her.

‘It was lovely meeting you,’ he tells me.

‘You too,’ I reply.

‘Enjoy the rest of the evening,’ he adds.

‘Oh, I think I’m going to go now anyway,’ I shrug.

‘Right,’ he says.

‘Yep,’ I say.

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

And off he goes. With Valentina in his arms.

Which feels horribly, horribly wrong.

When Jack has left, I scan the room to see if Charlotte is still around and realise that she must have gone to bed, like most of the other guests seem to be doing. The disco man is packing up now and I see no particular reason to hang around, especially as Gareth is still loitering somewhere like a particularly determined Klingon.

As I lean over to pick up my bag, I spot something on the chair next to me. It’s a phone. A phone that can only be Jack’s.

Sunday, 25 February

I manage to get down for breakfast just before they stop serving. I find Patrick and Grace, polishing off huge plates of smoked salmon and free-range scrambled eggs.

‘So did he perform all right?’ I ask, as Grace and I meet at the juice table. ‘Or have you had more romantic experiences sitting on the tumble dryer?’

‘The latter, I’m afraid,’ she says, pouring herself a large glass of orange. ‘He couldn’t even stand up, never mind get it up. Still, we have got two weeks in the Maldives to look forward to, so there’s plenty of time for him to make it up to me.’

‘Assuming his hangover wears off any time soon,’ I grin. The bags under Patrick’s eyes currently look like they could be carrying a week’s worth of shopping.

‘Anyway, how did you get on after we left?’ she asks.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘What do you mean?’

She narrows her eyes. ‘You know what I mean,’ she says. ‘I
mean
Jack. Did you make any progress?’

I look at her as if she couldn’t have suggested anything
more ludicrous–as if she’d asked me about my budding relationship with Ken Dodd.

‘I don’t know where you’ve got this idea from that I fancy Jack,’ I say. ‘I mean, he’s very nice and all that…’

‘Not thick–like I told you,’ she interrupts.

‘No, not thick,’ I agree.

‘Exceptionally good-looking,’ she goes on.

I nod.

‘He’s certainly what some people might call attractive,’ I say, determined to remain non-committal.

‘Including you?’ She raises her eyebrows.

‘Look, for God’s sake, he’s going out with Valentina,’ I say. ‘Why on earth are you trying to set me up with him?’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I don’t know, I suppose I reckon you’d be good together,’ she says. Then she shakes her head. ‘No, you’re quite right, I don’t know what I’m talking about.’

I pour myself some pear juice.

‘So you
don’t
think we’d be good together?’ I mumble.

She laughs and puts her arm around me.

‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘if you must know, I may not have seen the back of Jack this weekend anyway.’

‘Oh?’ She looks interested.

‘He left his mobile phone here last night, and I’ve got the dubious pleasure of dropping it off at the Crown and Garter where he and Valentina are staying.’

Grace stifles a giggle. ‘Good luck,’ she says.

An hour later, I find myself in the reception of the Crown & Garter, face to face with a hotelier who looks about 132 years old.

‘So, you think they may have already checked out?’ I ask, Jack’s mobile phone in my hand.

‘Oooh, I’m not sure,’ he says, doddering over to a large, leather-bound diary. ‘My wife Edith tends to look after these things, you see. But she had her varicose veins done on Friday and is out of action for a few days. So it’s just me. And I’m afraid I’m probably not as on top of things as she is.’

His shaking fingers turn the pages onto February of last year.

‘I don’t think we’ve got anybody by the name you’re after,’ he says. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right hotel?’

I help him turn the page.

‘I think it’s
this
February you need to look at,’ I say gently, turning it to the right page. I scan its columns silently myself.

‘Look, there they are,’ I say, seeing Valentina’s name. ‘Room 16. So do you have a record of whether they’ve checked out?’

He frowns. ‘I know I’m meant to,’ he says, starting to look around the desk. ‘But I think that’s in another book. My wife Edith is better at this sort of thing than me. Only, she had her varicose veins done on Friday.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, perhaps somebody could go and knock on their door. You know, to see if they’re still there?’

‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ he says, shutting the book. ‘That would solve the problem!’

I smile. ‘Great,’ I say.

‘A very good idea,’ he reiterates.

‘So, will you ask someone to go up there?’ I ask.

He thinks for a second. ‘Oh, well I would do, but I’m by myself, you see,’ he says. ‘My wife Edith has had her varicose veins done.’

‘Okay–well, maybe you could go?’ I suggest.

‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that,’ he says. ‘I need to man the desk in case there’s a rush on. You see, Edith has—’

‘Had her varicose veins done, I know,’ I say.

I look around at the empty reception. The chances of there being a rush on in the next five minutes are so slim they’re anorexic. But I haven’t the heart to argue with him.

‘Right,’ I say instead. ‘What do you suggest then?’

‘Only one thing for it,’ he concludes. ‘You’ll have to go up and see them yourself.’