Deranged Marriage (2 page)

Approximately one hundred people were crammed into the dark cave, that wasn’t big enough for half that number. The decor was minimal, but that was fine because there wasn’t room for much. Most of the people there were company staff; it was a personal finance organisation. They were all wearing suits. I felt distinctly odd as I was not wearing a suit, but a pair of black Joseph trousers, high-heeled boots and a black cashmere polo neck. More like an undertaker than a PR director.

The evening started with sparkling wine. The waiters were trying their best to distribute the drinks, but were unable to penetrate the human wall that had formed, so they stood around the perimeter of the room, shoulder to shoulder; all that was missing were the riot shields.

‘Champagne madam,’ a bespectacled youth offered. It was an indication of the complete unfashionable nature of the whole proceedings that the waiters weren’t rude. I took a glass of ‘champagne’, sipped and wrinkled my nose. I know I am a dreadful snob, but when your taste buds are prompted by your brain, which has been informed by a horribly polite waiter, to expect champagne, they are bound to be disappointed when they discover it is in fact slightly warm, slightly sweet, sparkling wine.

There was no way I could talk to people even if I wanted to, everyone was practically touching each other, and I have a problem with strangers invading my space. The music was blaring and my head throbbed. I couldn’t see my client anywhere, and the attempts I made to ask anyone about her extracted blank looks. Just as I was about to consider my options the microphone screeched. The sound grated through my body, as the taste of the wine had earlier. A rather plump woman wearing a navy-blue suit stood smiling behind it. I groaned and picked off another glass of sparkling wine. I had positioned myself as close to the drinks as possible deciding it preferable to the ‘mob’. The speeches were about to start.

I have a problem with a certain type of employer. The kind that makes a load of money off the back of its hard working employees, then decides to reward them with a party like that one. I found it demeaning to their dedication and hard work. I think I might be a bit of a socialist in that way. Although I have to say, as I studied the sweaty, smiling faces sipping wine, they didn’t look exactly demeaned. I think I was the only person there who wasn’t enjoying myself.

I should explain why I am being so horrible about the evening. Yes, it was too crowded that night, yes the wine was sweet and warm, and yes the speeches were bound to be boring. But there was more to it. I was the senior account director at Francesca Williams PR. I had worked there for a few years and apart from my boss and owner, Francesca, I was the most senior member of staff. Therefore, I was totally annoyed when I was told that I had to attend the party in person instead of sending one of my team. I head a group of eight: Freddie my account director and deputy, two account managers, two senior account executives, two account executives, and a personal assistant. But, I was the chosen one and had come to this party because the client demanded it. I would much rather have been at home painting my toenails, or unblocking drains.

The speeches started. I had three glasses of wine to alleviate the monotony, and by the third my tastebuds seemed to have adequately recovered. First, a man in a grey suit, pulled out a giant pie-chart and began talking about company performance. Apparently he wasn’t really a boring suit; he was a comedian because the throng of people were bellowing with laughter. Quite a feat as they didn’t appear to have much room to breathe. I shuddered to think how on earth they had managed to expand their lungs to that degree. I moved closer to the drinks waiters; I knew whose side I was on.

After the grey man finished to rapturous applause, the plump navy woman returned. Her speech was reminiscent of the worst Oscar acceptance speech: long, dull, fatuous. At one point I am sure I saw her sob.

Thankfully the formalities ceased and the music blared again. I took another drink, well, I had nothing else to do, smiled at a few of the pressing mob who were brave enough to smile at me. I vowed to speak to Francesca the following day about getting a better class of client.

I spotted a gap near a bar. It wasn’t a drinks bar, more of a ledge really, but I homed in on my prize: peanuts. Oh how the mob were missing out. If they knew there were four bowls of peanuts nestling behind the wall of waiters, they would have been where I was.

I put down my glass of wine on the ledge and picked up a handful of peanuts. My tastebuds were delighted with me.

Just as I had put a third fistful into my mouth, I turned slightly to my right and noticed a guy observing me. My first impression was that he was sexy. He had light-brown hair, cropped short, and was wearing a black V-neck top, with a small tuft of chest hair protruding, as if it belonged to the jumper. I couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, but he had two, and his smile was lopsided but definitely interesting. I stared at him; he stared back. I tried to swallow my peanuts so I could say something witty, but they seemed glued to my tongue. The man was tall, much taller than me; it was then I noticed he was also wearing black. We matched. He wasn’t the best-looking man in the world, but there was definitely something incredibly attractive about him.

‘I have never in my life seen someone eat so many peanuts at once,’ he said. Embarrassment flashed briefly across my eyes. Then I choked.

I really choked; my whole body shook. My face turned puce, although I couldn’t see that, but I could feel it. My eyes began to water. The man, the man who had caused this distress, stepped towards me and slapped my back, rather too hard. Unable to protest, I just coughed and coughed, until at last I regained control.

As I felt what I hoped was my face resuming its normal colour, I wiped my eyes. Still, I had no energy to speak.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, looking slightly mortified. I nodded. All my witty repertoire gone, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

‘Do you smoke?’ he asked.

I don’t smoke. I gave up smoking when I turned twenty-nine because I was worried about getting a cat-bum mouth, and other unsightly wrinkles. I only relapsed when I was inebriated.

‘Only when I’m drunk,’ I replied.

‘Are you drunk?’ he asked, his mouth curling at the corners, ever so slightly. His voice washed through me. It was melodic. Which made no sense, because I had already identified his accent—slightly Essex. My eardrums were as happy as my taste-buds.

I pulled myself back to his question. Was I drunk? No, not really. After all I drink for a living. But, even if I wasn’t, I could be. I drained my glass in one large, quite unladylike gulp.

‘I am now,’ I replied, flirtily, as my man handed me a cigarette.

We started talking and it was so easy. I discovered all about his job in design; I told him all about mine. His name was Joe McClaren, an incredibly sexy name. He was from Essex, but lived in north London. I told him a brief history of myself and proceeded to drink another four glasses of wine. I think he matched me glass for glass, although I noticed that he shuddered every time he took a sip. He smoked four cigarettes—one per glass—I smoked only the one. We stood away from the mob; we laughed. He called me ‘posh’, and was clearly mocking me. That proved to be a huge turn on.

Finally it was announced that the party was over, they switched off the lights, which made me giggle and say to Joe, ‘my father will be waiting outside to take me home’. He didn’t quite get my school disco meaning and asked me why my father was picking me up. I explained it to him and he laughed. Actually he was embarrassed, but that was because he told me that it took him longer to get my ‘posh jokes’.

Despite the fact that we did not get off to a particularly auspicious start, he asked for my phone number and I gave him my card. As he put me in a cab and told me he’d call me, I was radiator warm from the inside out.

Freddie, who works for me is also one of my best friends. He says that I only go out with ‘suits’. He would say that I will only go for men who look as if they can pay not only their own rent or mortgage but also take care of mine. He says that I am ‘classist’ as well as ‘walletist’. I only go out with middle-class men and that’s only because I am too common for upper-class men. It can sometimes be hard to understand why I love Freddie so much. When I ask him what personalities he presumes I go for, he replies that I am far too mercenary to care about personality. As long as they had the semblance of one, that would do.

So, Freddie would say that Joe isn’t my type. After all he has an Essex accent, he wasn’t wearing a suit, and he’s creative. I had no idea at that time if he was rich, or even solvent, but I didn’t care. I didn’t analyse my feelings; I was too busy enjoying them.

The day after the party I stormed into work and launched an attack on Freddie because I had a hangover. Hangovers were also part of my life. I was used to them, but I didn’t like them. I also didn’t like the fact that they seemed to get worse as I negotiated the ageing ladder. If they were that bad at twenty-nine I would be unable to get out of bed at forty. In fact, as I held my pounding head that morning, I wondered if I would make it that far.

‘Next time there’s a client party you are bloody well going,’ I shouted. I am not at my discreet best when I’m hungover.

‘Oh dear,’ he replied. ‘Was it pants?’

‘Utterly,’ I stormed.

‘No one interesting there?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Not even the designer chap. What was his name, John or Joe or something?’

‘The designer?’ How the hell did he know?

‘Yeah, I met him once, just thought he might be there.’

‘What and he’s interesting?’ My attack was ruined.

‘Very, but not your type.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s a bit common, darling. Successful, yes, probably got an OK salary, but not posh enough.’

‘Freddie, stop. Anyway I didn’t meet him last night.’

‘Really? I wonder how he got your e-mail address then.’ Freddie laughed.

‘You’ve been checking my e-mails?’ Now I was really angry. My attack had been completely foiled.

‘No, of course not, Dixie told me.’

I scowled at Freddie, and went off to shout at my assistant. Dixie is brilliant. She’s the most efficient person I’ve ever met and she keeps the whole team in check. She also has access to my e-mails because I have been known to forget to check them. She has access to my entire life, and if it weren’t for the fact that she liked gossip then that would be fine. It didn’t matter though, because he had e-mailed me.

He told me he had enjoyed meeting me. He asked if I was quite recovered from my peanut attack and he suggested going out on Friday. I e-mailed him back and said that Friday would be great.

The other thing Freddie would tell you, about me and men, is that I don’t play hard to get, or even a little bit unavailable.

I never have believed in love at first sight. My relationship history would lead any sane person to think that I barely believe in love at all. But of course I do. I’m a Piscean, our whole being is founded on love. It’s just that my past relationships weren’t right, I wasn’t right. But when I met Joe I was.

*

My twentieth year saw my first major heartbreak. Some said that I was lucky to have waited that long. At the time, I didn’t see it because Harry was the man for me. Being twenty, any man is the man for you as long as he is around. I had been living in London for a year, and I’d met Harry almost straight away. I was sharing a flat with Lisa, the daughter of a friend of my mother’s. My mother thought that nineteen was very young to be fleeing to London in search of my fortune, so she entrusted me into Lisa’s care. Lisa was ill-equipped to look after a goldfish, let alone a person, so unbeknown to my mother I ran wild. Perhaps not wild, but I met Harry, who was a model and a colleague of Lisa’s, and he was a bit wayward.

Going out with a model at such a young age was a triumph. He was gorgeous and I only wanted a gorgeous man. I didn’t mind that he was vain and self-obsessed. That he barely knew how to use a telephone, or how to tell the time. It didn’t matter. I handed my heart to him on a platter and he in turn dropped the platter, making a clang that would end all clangs.

It was another woman of course, boring and predictable I know, but for a first heartbreak, it had all the ingredients I needed to be thrown into uncontrollable grief. At least for a little while.

I didn’t stay heartbroken for long. I had always held the belief that misery was too draining on one’s energy, so I went straight for the rebound relationship. The general rules in rebound relationships are that they are not built to last. Mine lasted for one and a half years.

Ewan was at university. I met him in a bar when I was trying to meet my Mr Rebound. He was posh, he was arrogant and he was a bore. But, and it is an enormous but, he had a car. By the time I reached twenty-one, I had decided that a man with a car was far more necessary than a man with looks, despite spending most of our relationship in London traffic jams.

That characterised our time together. Ewan plodded, his car sat in traffic. But the thing I loved about the traffic was sitting in the car next to him. I felt safe, I felt secure, because unlike Harry he seemed to really care about me. And I liked his wheels.

We broke up when Ewan failed his end-of-year exams and decided to go home with his tail between his legs. I was even more heartbroken than I was with Harry. I really loved that car.

I took a break from relationships at that time to concentrate on my career. I worked hard, got as much experience as I could, and I got myself a job as an account executive at a PR firm pre-Francesca Williams. It was there that I met Marcus. Marcus was sort of my boss. He was the account manager there, so he was absolutely my senior. It was about a year after Ewan’s car had deserted me that we started dating. You know the scene; boring story of drinking too much at the pub after work, flirting wildly over a bottle of white wine. Almost the entire office witnessed our getting together, so it was no surprise to anyone when we became a couple.