Crappily Ever After (12 page)

A couple of the men jumped in and managed to pull Polly onto the deck. It took twenty minutes to get to dry land and another fifteen for the ambulance to arrive and take Polly to the nearest

hospital. She was pronounced dead on arrival. I sat in horrified silence. Feeling sick.

‘How do you even begin to get over something like that?’ I asked quietly.

‘You have to,’ said Alfie sadly. ‘I never thought I’d ever find someone who even came close to Polly. Aren’t I lucky I met you?’

Wow! I hadn’t expected that.

It was also this night that I saw Alfie’s apartment for the first time. It was a huge, three-bedroom place in Chelsea. Tastefully decorated, a woman’s touch definitely. It obviously hadn’t been touched since Polly’s death. One solitary photograph sat on the mantle. A wedding picture. I picked it up and had a good look. Polly was very pretty. Dark, curly hair swept off her face with a white rose stuck loosely in the back. It was a paparazzi-style shot, like they hadn’t expected it to be taken. Laughing, with their heads close, holding a glass of champagne each.

‘Oh, sorry Lucy,’ Alfie says as he walks back into the room with a bottle of Rioja and two glasses. ‘How insensitive of me. It’s just been so long since I had anyone back here…’ he trailed off, sadly.

‘Don’t be so silly!’ I exclaim. ‘Of course you should have a picture up of Polly. She’s gorgeous. It looks like it was a great day for you.’

‘The best,’ Alfie smiles wistfully, lost in thought for a moment. ‘Anyway,’ he says, coming back to Earth, ‘wine?’

I spend most of my time in Alfie’s opulent surroundings. To the extent that whenever I call any of my flatmates they say, ‘Lucy, who?’ and laugh. They are very pleased for me, particularly given my track record. Alfie is quite obviously loaded, his flat alone must have been worth a million, easily. We spend almost every night together, apart from when Alfie is away on business. Often, annoyingly, at the weekend and sometimes for up to a week and a half at a time. He insists on leaving the freezer full and inviting my friends to come around whilst he’s away. He also calls every single night. All these trips are a small price for him to pay, I guess, for the lifestyle he has.

The months with Alfie seem to fly by. Never before have I had such an attentive boyfriend. He brings me flowers, takes me out for dinner at least twice a week and constantly tries to take me on shopping trips. I often tell him not to spend money on me. I am in a full-time job too and should pay my way. I never wanted to be one of those girls who expect men to pay for everything. They irritate me beyond belief. It’s so difficult when he comes home with his ‘little gifts’ as he calls them. Designer dresses and diamond jewellery are not little gifts. The one time I attempted to refuse, Alfie looked so crestfallen, I felt awful. I’m nowhere near in the same league financially, but I do buy him the odd CD that he’s mentioned sounds good, or cook him one of his favourite meals. That’s about the limit I can stretch to. But I guess it’s the thought that counts. I‘m not a material girl in the slightest, and joke to him that the wrong type of girl really could take advantage of him.           

A few of my family members have met him now. Mary, Jo and Claire all came down to London for a girly weekend of shopping and shows. Of course, Alfie insisted they stay at his instead of booking into a hotel. They were astounded, not only by Alfie’s amazing apartment, but also his charming manner. The perfect host, he paid careful attention to the tiniest of details. By day two he knew what every girl took in their coffee and came home with a huge bunch of roses for Mary. His reasoning: she had complained the day before that never in her life had she received a bunch of flowers from a man. On the Saturday night, we were applying the finishing touches to our hair and make-up before heading off to see a West End show, when the buzzer to the apartment went.

 ‘Ladies, cab’s here,’ shouted Alfie from the hallway.

A chorus from the bedroom of ‘shit!’ and ‘bollocks, it’s early’ and ‘where’s my new pissing top’ amongst other expletives led Alfie to joke:

‘OK! Perhaps I was wrong about the ladies bit.’ Much to our hilarity.         

We headed downstairs to the cab, buttoning up coats, applying lip gloss and generally cackling like old hens. The concierge opens the front door and we thank him profusely and clatter down the marble steps. There, in front of us, is a gleaming black stretch limo. The girls squeal in unison.

‘Have fun,’ shouts Alfie from the balcony.

‘Thank you,’ we yell back, blowing kisses and waving with glee.

We all pile in and arrange ourselves in the back of the limo.

‘Fucking hell,’ yells Mary, ‘this bugger’s bigger than my living room.’

 ‘Sssh!’ hisses Jo, trying to conceal a laugh. ‘Have some bloody class, woman.’

‘Good evening ladies,’ a voice comes from hidden speakers, causing us all to glance around nervously. ‘How are you all this evening?’

‘Erm, hello Sir. We’ve come to see the wizard,’ Claire says in her best Dorothy voice. ‘Me and my dog Toto.’ She indicates Mary, who looks at her aghast, giggles, then slaps her arm. The driver gives a deep laugh.

‘Finally, some normal people in here. You couldn’t imagine some of the stuck-up arseholes I meet.’ In just thirty seconds he has gone from a BBC English accent to a broad Cockney one.

The driver, Mick, advises us to sit back and enjoy the view.

‘We shall head through Chelsea to Kensington,’ he continues, ‘and also will be taking in views of the Palace, Hyde Park, Marble Arch and Embankment this evening. You will alight at Claridge’s, where you will have dinner. Afterwards, we will carry onto the Dominion theatre in time for your show.’

‘But the show starts at five,’ exclaims Jo.

‘The show starts at seven thirty, ma’am,’ states the driver. ‘But, as Alfie said: “I’ll never get the bloody prima donnas out if I don’t tell them it’s three hours earlier.” Now sit back and crack open the champagne. Please feel free to choose any music you wish from our selection. You will find snacks in the back there too. Mr. Hughes chose them specially.’

Mary locates the champagne while Claire rummages for the snacks. We crack open the bottle, singing loudly and tunelessly to the Foo Fighters while we sink our champagne.

‘If you ever break up, he is so mine,’ declares Mary.

‘You’ll have to fight me first,’ argues Jo.

As light-hearted bickering ensues, I sit back and smile, feeling very, very fortunate indeed.

The weekend ends, all too soon. Mary, Claire and Jo take Alfie and I out for lunch to say thank you for all that Alfie has done. We choose a cosy Greek restaurant on Chiswick High Road. The wine flowed, as did the jesting from the girls. Jo enquired if Alfie had a brother or cousin, even some single cute friends like him. Alfie promised to try and fix her up with some of his mates next time she comes down. She booked her train the second she got home. We headed up to King’s Cross to see them off. I waved sadly from the platform as three heads popped out of the window, waving enthusiastically.

‘I love your family,’ smiled Alfie.

‘Me too,’ I sighed, turning and walking back along the platform.      

Christmas time comes around again. After a rare, but thoroughly enjoyable, girl’s night out, Emily declares that they need to see more of me. We have all missed each other and this one night has served to highlight the fact. Em suggests the next time Alfie is away on business we should have a girly weekend in Brighton. I agree, non-committally. I have now turned into one of those pathetic coupled-up people who don’t want to do anything when their boyfriend is away. I’d be quite happy watching movies and waiting for his call. Maybe a cinema trip or lunch with a girlfriend, but definitely not a club. Those are for people on the pull. I, most definitely, am not.

So, it’s with great trepidation that I agree to go on a girl’s weekend two weeks later.

‘You’ll have a great time,’ says Alfie. ‘And I will have a much nicer business trip knowing you are happy. Please do it. For me?’ he smiles.

‘OK, I’ll go,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Maybe some time I should accompany you on one of these trips? You can’t be in meetings all of
the time.’

‘No. I’m not,’ laughs Alfie. ‘All right. How about you accompany me to Venice in two weeks time? I’ll be busy during the day, but in the evenings I’ll be all yours.’

‘That sounds like a plan.’ I smile broadly.       

I arrive home on Saturday morning to be told that we are no longer going to Brighton, but Southampton. Better nightlife, apparently, and also Amy is to meet a website ‘Millionaire’. We head off around lunchtime, Emily driving, the rest of us sharing a bottle of wine and Jill smoking out of the window. We play a 90s CD and sing along loudly.

We pile out at our B&B and make our way to the room. I am actually beginning to enjoy myself. It’s been so long since I saw the girls like this. We head out to the pubs at around 5pm, laughing and joking along the street. We visit two dodgy-looking pubs on the main street, full of bikers who stare at us when we walk in. I wait for someone to inform us: ‘You ain’t from around these parts, are you?’

We hastily drink up and wander off along the main street, stopping off for an Italian meal. An hour later and we are sitting in the Ship, a bar on the sea front. Jill announces that she is out of fags and goes off in search of a shop. We all find this ridiculous as there is a cigarette machine in the pub.

‘I refuse to pay £6 for three fags,’ she announces huffily, and storms out to find a corner shop.    

Half an hour later, Jill hasn’t arrived back. Amy calls her on her mobile. No answer. Another ten minutes passes by and I try Jill’s number again.

‘I’m outside Lucy.  Come out a minute,’ she says seriously.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jill,’ I slur. ‘Just get yer arse in here now. We’re working our way through a tray of shots and we won’t save you any if you don’t hurry.’

‘Luce, I am serious. Come out here now! Please.’

‘For fuck’s sake, OK!’ I manoeuvre around the others and head towards the door.

‘What is it, Jill?’ I demand, hanging up my phone.

‘It’s Alfie.’ She points in the direction of the pub opposite.

‘What do you mean, it’s Alfie?’ I am starting to lose patience.

‘He’s in
there,
’ she says exasperatedly.

‘Jill, he’s in Barcelona. Come on, let’s go back to the Ship.’

‘Just take a look, Lucy. It definitely is him.’

We round up the girls and head off to the Anchor, which is across the street. The others take Jill seriously, while I fully expect to see an Alfie-alike.

We walk in and find a booth from which to observe. Amy heads to the bar and buys a bottle of wine. I glance around. Coming through the door from the rest rooms is, indeed, Alfie. The girls gasp as one. Em places a restraining arm across me, keeping her eyes firmly on Alfie, like a cat watching a bird.

 ‘Easy,’ she warns. ‘Watch and learn, sweetie.’

 Alfie rejoins a table full of men. They are raising their glasses in one friend’s direction and toasting something – I can’t hear what. Alfie’s phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket and smiles when he reads the caller’s name on the screen. He chats away, laughing and smiling affectionately.

‘He’s talking to a woman,’ whispers Em. ‘That is an “I fancy you” smile. Not a blokey “I’m talking to my mate” smile.

I agree, but say nothing. He hangs up the phone, after mouthing what looks like, ‘love you’.

I take out my phone and press Alfie’s number. We all watch as he takes his phone out of his pocket a second time. He shakes his head and laughs, saying ‘sorry’ to the boys. A flash of concern clouds his face as he checks his caller I.D. He whispers something to the man next to him and heads outside.      

‘Luce, honey, how are you?’ I watch his nervous body language as he paces back and forth in the doorway, taking long drags on his cigarette.

‘I’m good,’ I reply. ‘The girls and I are pubbing it. Having a ball. How’s Barcelona?’

‘Dull, dull,’ he says quickly. ‘Wish I was with you.’

‘Well, you could be,’ I reply.

‘I have to work, Luce. I want to keep you in the manner to which you have become accustomed.’ He laughs nervously and scratches his nose.