Needles and Pearls (16 page)

We’re all outside in the garden, watching the bonfire, with the doors open to the dining room so people can help themselves to more food. Elsie’s finally given up on her mission to get Grace to eat something, and is now bringing plates of food to Bruno, who’s very impressed by the way Trevor keeps chasing round the front garden barking at the photographers.

‘He could teach Tom and Jerry a thing or two, you know. I might bring them round one day. Nice for them to get to know other dogs.’

Maxine shakes her head.

‘They’re enough trouble already without picking up new tricks, Bruno. Great party, Jo, but I think we’re going to be off soon.’

‘Oh, right, well, thank you for coming. And for the presents. He’s thrilled.’

‘I gathered.’ She smiles: she got a sticky thankyou kiss too.

Grace comes towards us, holding Lily, who’s starting to get fed up.

‘I think we’d better make a move, but I can’t wait until I’m doing her first party. Are all these kids from his school?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it only boys at his school?’

‘No, but he banned girls this year, apart from Nelly.’

She smiles.

‘So we’ll see you next week. Ready, Bruno?’ Bruno stuffs another sausage roll into his mouth.

‘Jesus, don’t you ever stop eating? Go and get the car.’

We walk back into the house and Maxine gets her mobile out, and stands by the front door as I hand her a
Batman
party bag and a balloon; God knows what they’ll make of a bottle of bubbles, a jelly snake and a packet of Smarties, but I’m thinking Bruno will be pleased.

‘There’s cake too, if you want a slice for later.’

Grace smiles.

‘We’re okay, thanks.’

Maxine’s phone beeps.

‘Bruno’s outside.’

‘Great.’

There’s another round of flashing as she gets into the car, just as Tina arrives to collect Travis, and then I’m in the back garden trying to make sure the sparklers don’t lead to any emergency dashes to A & E. Martin’s being stalwart with a bucket of water, and Archie’s on his third pair of gloves because he keeps plunging them into the bucket to
make sure everything is properly extinguished, but Gran and Reg are keeping an eye on him, while Connie ladles out more bowls of fish soup for everyone.

Salvatore is sitting at the table in the kitchen flirting with Elsie and Betty, as parents start arriving to take small people home, thank God. Gran and I put slices of cake into party bags. Mark’s really outdone himself on the cake: I was worried the Superhero theme might be tricky, but he’s made a circular Batcave, with a Batmobile on top, and black candles and black-and-grey icing over a chocolate sponge, with cherry jam. It’s so delicious I’ve already had two slices, and I’m hoping for a third. Or possibly some more soup, and then more cake. I’m seriously getting into this eating-for-two thing.

Ellen’s pouring herself a drink as I go back into the kitchen.

‘Great party, darling. This is just the kind of thing I want for my wedding.’

‘A Batcake and balloons? I bet Harry will be thrilled.’

‘No, but everyone relaxed, nothing too formal. Did I tell you I think we’ve found the hotel?’

‘Great, where? Hang on, Seth. Don’t run with that, love – you might trip and hurt yourself.’

‘It’s my stick, for later, I found it in the garden. Can I keep it?’

‘Yes, but let’s put it over here, until your mum comes, shall we?’

‘Ok.’

He runs back out into the garden.

‘Sorry, so where’s this hotel?’

‘Scotland. It’s more of a castle, but very postmodern, fabulous spa, and acres of private land so the snappers will be easy to control. Rebecca found it; she’s talking rates with
them now. They’re not open yet, so this will be one of their launch events, which should save us a few quid.’

‘Sounds perfect.’

‘I always thought wedding planners were crap, but I’ve got to admit she’s turned out to be incredibly useful, although with what she’s charging she bloody should be.’

‘It’ll be handy for Harry’s family too.’

‘Yes, that’s the only drawback. They’ll all be belting over from Glasgow, and there’s millions of them.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘So we’re still thinking kilts, for the boys.’

‘Jack, possibly.’

‘I thought I’d try a spot of bribery with Archie?’

‘Good luck.’

‘I’ve got a dress fitting next week and she’s starting on yours. What size do you think you’ll be by June?’

‘Huge.’

‘Can you be a tiny bit more specific, darling? She really needs to know. There’ll be room to spare, though – we’re going for an empire line.’

‘It’ll have to be a bloody big empire then.’

She laughs.

‘How big did you get with Archie? I can’t remember.’

‘Enormous. Nick used to call me Big Bertha by the end. Don’t you remember?’

‘Oh yes, he called you BB for short, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

There’s a silence.

‘I really wish he was here on days like this.’

‘I know, but look on the bright side, darling. At least nobody will be calling you Big Bertha.’

‘Or laughing when I get stuck in wicker chairs.’

‘That was a kid’s chair, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Not really.’

‘I’ll tell them to make it extra floaty, and then we can adjust it, if it’s too big.’

‘Trust me, too big is not going to be an issue.’

‘Will Vin and Lulu be back by then?’

‘Looks like it. Gran’s is only a week before yours, so I’m sure they’ll be around.’

‘Great, I’ll put them on my invitation list.’

‘How many are you up to now?’

‘Six hundred. And the castle ballroom holds three hundred, max, so we’re talking about a marquee.’

‘I thought you said you hated marquees.’

‘I do. But not as much as I hate the idea of being pressed up against the walls at my own wedding reception by hordes of pissed Glaswegians. It’s a fucking nightmare.’

‘Mummy, Aunty Ellen said the F-word.’ Archie’s thrilled.

‘Did she? Well, never mind … where are your gloves?’

‘They got wet. And, Mum?’

‘Yes?’

‘There’ll be six people in our family, when the new baby comes, you and me and Jack, and Bruce and Nemo, and the baby, and I’m six too. Gran was telling me. That’s very clever, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, love.’

‘And if we had a dog, we’d be seven. Which is even better. Can we do our castles now, Mum? We’ve done all the sparkers and Martin says he’ll help me, so I can beat Jack and get my castle done first. Marco’s going to help Jack build his, but I bet me and Martin will beat them.’

‘Okay, but hang on a minute – there’s something Aunty Ellen needs to ask you. About kilts.’

Ellen’s giving him one of her Big Smiles as I retreat into the garden to check all the sparklers are really out and there are no children lurking by the bonfire. Ellen can be very persuasive when she wants to be, but I’ve got a funny feeling she might have met her match with our birthday boy.

Flaming June has begun with a heatwave. I’m wearing baggy shorts around the house, which are far too Morecambe and Wise to wear outside so Gran’s made me a couple of voluminous pinafore dresses on her sewing machine; I’ve got one with pink flowers and one with lavender, and they both make me look like I’m auditioning for a part in
Little House on the Prairie.
All I need is a bloody bonnet. But at least they’re cool, and that’s all I really care about at the moment.

I’m opening the post on Wednesday morning, and there are a few catalogues, so I’m looking forward to a mini-Boden moment, not that I buy anything from them any more; there’s something faintly depressing about all those amusing patterns in stretchy cotton, soon to be seen on all the Tabithas and Olivers of every middle-class family with a Volvo estate and private health insurance. And anyway, they’re far too expensive for me now. But I like a quick perusal of the catalogue to see what we’d be wearing if we lived in Fulham.

There’s a letter on posh cream paper, which I’m opening while I put the kettle on. Christ, it’s from Daniel. Or rather
his lawyers. I recognise the firm; they’re one of the ones who issued injunctions on behalf of big names when we were in the middle of researching stories at work. Very expensive, and very aggressive. God.

‘Without prejudice.’ This isn’t going to be good.

Their client has informed them of a potential claim, and a test at an approved laboratory would seem to be best way forward in the circumstances as outlined above. Bloody hell.

I call Ellen.

‘I’m not surprised, darling. I told you he’d do something like this.’

‘They’re practically calling me a liar.’

‘That’s just lawyer bollocks – they’re all like that. Get your own fuck-off-and-die firm – they’ll sort it. Do you want me to talk to James?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll win, darling, so he won’t charge you. I’ll square him with an interview or something – he loves being on telly.’

‘Win what?’

‘Don’t start all that again, sweetheart. You’ve told him the good news, and now he’s saying prove it. So prove it.’

‘I don’t have to. If he doesn’t believe me then that’s his problem.’

‘Not if you want child support, it isn’t.’

‘But I don’t. You know I don’t.’

‘That’s because you’ve gone all hormonal.’

‘No it isn’t, Ellen. If he wants to do something for the baby, he can, but not via me. It would make me feel like I was beholden to him, and anyway, as soon as money comes into it everything always changes. He can start a savings fund or something for the baby, if he wants to. I’ve still got Nick’s money for Jack and Archie, in accounts for them, so they’ll all have a little bit put by.’

‘Stop calling it Nick’s money – it’s your money, for Christ’s sake. And what about you? Who’s starting a savings fund for you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Yes, but Daniel’s worth an absolute fortune, darling. Why not make it easier on yourself?’

‘Because it wouldn’t be easier, not really, and I can do this, Ellen. I didn’t know I could, not when Nick died; I thought I’d go under on my own. But now I think I can. And it’s peaceful; I don’t feel like I’ve been hijacked any more, that what someone else wants always comes first. Which I really like. Well, apart from the kids, but I don’t mind that. We won’t have to go on parish relief or anything, you know. I can manage, if I’m careful, I know I can.’

‘Christ, is this some post-feminist thing?’

‘There’s nothing post about it. Sisters are definitely doing it for themselves round here, have been since the war in Gran’s case. And look at Grace: nobody thinks she’s being a post-feminist, whatever that is.’

‘That’s because she’s incredibly rich. Rich people and aristocrats have always been able to write their own rules.’

‘Well, so can the rest of us. I mean if it’s really working, like with you and Harry, or Connie and Mark, then great, but the average version, like me and Nick, where the mortgage is what really keeps you going more than anything else, well, no thanks. Been there, done that. Almost stopped feeling crap about it. Of course that could be because I haven’t actually got a mortgage any more. But still, I like the idea that I can take care of us, all of us. And I don’t want to rush into changing that, not just for the sake of money.’

‘Yes, but why not have lovely clothes at the same time, the occasional gorgeous handbag? Would that be so terrible?’

‘Yes, I think it might. I’ve had enough of compromising; I’ll compromise for the kids, but not for a handbag. And it’s amazing how little you can get by on when you stop buying stuff you don’t need, you know.’

‘Oh God, you’re starting to scare me now. You’re not going to start knitting your own shoes, are you?’

‘No, but you know what I mean.’

‘Not really, but then my definition of need has always been different from yours, darling.’

‘I just don’t know what to do about the letter.’

‘Ignore it, if you’re determined to be poor for ever. Make the bastard sweat, and then he’ll realise that he’s got it wrong and you’re probably one of the only women in Europe who doesn’t want to help herself to his assets.’

‘Sounds like a plan. Great. I’ll do that.’

‘What?’

‘Ignore it.’

‘So what are you up today then? Got a consciousness-raising session in the shop, have you, reclaiming the night?’

‘We do that on Thursday at Stitch and Bitch.’

‘With the fabulous cakes. That’s definitely my kind of women’s group, excellent patisserie and knitting on-trend items. Germaine Greer, eat your heart out.’

‘Or not. I bet she knits.’

‘I bet she bloody doesn’t. How is the gorgeous Mark, by the way? Connie still got him locked in the kitchen?’

‘Yes, but he loves it, although he works too hard.’

‘Unlike my future husband, who was out on a bender last night, so God knows what time I’ll see him. One of his freelance mates celebrating not getting shot, or getting shot but coming home with all his bits, I forget which.’

‘Sounds like a good reason to celebrate.’

‘They don’t need a reason, trust me; freelance cameramen
are a law unto themselves. They should get special jackets. They’re always in and out of bloody hospital, pretending it was in pursuit of a breaking story, but usually they’ve just got pissed and fallen off something. They should open a private press ward somewhere, make the sods pay.’

‘How was the meeting with Rebecca about the guest list?’

‘A total nightmare. Harry keeps adding names, including all his ex-girlfriends.’

‘Sweet.’

‘Sorry?’

‘He’s obviously so proud of you, he wants to show you off.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. Maybe. But what if I look like an idiot in my dress? Some brides do, you know. It’s a hard look to get right, and you can end up looking like the dress is wearing you.’

‘You won’t. And you’ll have a giant person behind you, as a useful contrast.’

‘True. Thanks, darling. And you’re right, fuck it – throw it in the bin and go for it. You don’t need him or his money. I’ll always help out, if you get stuck. You know that, don’t you?’