Running in Heels

THE BRIDE IS CLIMBING A TREE.

“Babs, that branch looks unsafe, are you sure…”

Crash. Splash.

“Oh well,” she says, squelching from the pond, a happy green and brown mud monster. “At least I got the ball down.”

A
tut!
of wonder drags me from my thoughts and I realize that the bride is no longer twelve years old and soggy. She is all grown up and gorgeous, a Botticelli come to life. There is a swish of silk and a rustle of taffeta as my best friend halts and turns to face her groom. Her gaze is so intimate that I look away. A goose honks or, possibly, my mother blows her nose. The vicar smiles crossly until there is quiet, then compares marriage to building a house.

I'm craning over the rows of prettily feathered hats, when my brother digs a sharp elbow into my ribs and says, “There's nothing like a big bride. Always reminds me to lay off the cake.”

I blush. “Please, Tony!” I whisper, “Babs is Amazonian.”

My brother needs attention like other people need to breathe, but despite his ungracious presence, this day is a perfect day for Babs. It is her own personal fairy tale made real in a haze of confetti and lace. She looks radiant. And I know as I sit
here, sighing and cooing with the rest of the crowd, that I'll never forget her wedding as long as I live. It is the beginning, and the end. The start of a marriage and the end of a beautiful relationship. Ours.

 

T
o say that Babs is my closest friend is like saying that Einstein was good at sums. Babs and I know each other like we know ourselves. We were blood sisters from the age of twelve (before my mother prized the razor out of Babs's hand). And if you've ever had a best friend, you'll know what I mean. If you've ever had a best friend, I don't need to tell you about making blackberry wine in the garden and being rushed to the hospital, puking majestic purple all the way. Or about our secret language (which is lucky, because I'd have to kill you). Or when we touched tongues to freak ourselves out. Or about our Spanish holiday, age sixteen. Or when Babs dated the coolest, tallest, blondest guy in school and set me up with his wetter, shorter, prematurely balding friend. (He wasn't keen on me either.) Or when Babs thought she was pregnant and we bunked biology to beg the morning-after pill from her GP.

I don't need to tell you of the endless talk about details—the use of toothpaste to zap spots, the way some dads suddenly bolt to L.A. with their secretaries (adultery is rarely original), being fitted for a first bra in a shop where rude old ladies roar out your chest size, the odds of marrying Matt Dillon, wearing an orthodontic brace that Hannibal would reject as unflattering, mothers who collect you from parties with their nightie showing under their coat—so much talk, we talked ourselves into our twenties.

Even when our ambitions defined us, we couldn't bear to be apart. I chose a London college to be near Babs. We shared a flat, we shared lives. No man could hurt us like we could hurt each other. Blokes came and went—and feel free to take that literally. There were a few serious boyfriends, and a lot of jokers. We weren't too bothered. There was always next Saturday night
and anyhow, we were in love with our careers. Babs and I had such a beautiful relationship, no man could better it. And then she met Simon.

 

I
watch him slip the ring on her finger and see his hand tremble. What do I know? Is this love, or a hangover? Dubious thoughts to be having in church, so I file them under “envy,” kiss and hug the happy couple, and when Tony mutters, “I've counted seventeen strings of pearls,” I ignore him.

I squeeze through the perfumed crush of guests to where the table plan is mounted on a large easel. I'm hoping to be sat next to at least one of Babs's Italian male relatives (her mother, Jackie, is from Palladio, a small town near Vicenza, and its entire population—seemingly composed of film stars—appears to be present). I scan the M's until I see Miss Miller, Natalie.
Table 3
. There is a disappointing dearth of Cirellis and Barbieris on this table, but it's a nice distance from Mrs. Miller, Sheila
(Table 14)
.

That's the trouble with close friendships formed in early adolescence. Your families see it as their divine right to muscle in, and before you can say “interparental surveillance,” the lot of them are as enmeshed as the jaws of a zipper. Having been shadowed by my mother throughout the service, I'm pleased that we're dining apart. She'd have tried to cut up my poached salmon for me.

I jump as someone smacks me on the bottom.

“Fluff,” trills my mother. She gazes at me, licks her finger, and rubs it around my cheek.

“Mum!” I feel like an extra in
Gorillas in the Mist
. “What are you doing?”

“You've got red lipstick all over your face, dear,” she explains.

“Oh. Thanks.” (It would be cheeky to suggest that lipstick is preferable to spit.)

“So who've you been put with?” she demands, peering at the board.

“Tony—”

“Ah! He wears a tux beautifully!”

“Frannie—”

“Frances Crump! A dot of blusher would make all the difference. She looks like a Gypsy in that purple skirt. I don't know what Babs sees in her, yes, who else?”

“Er, some guy called Chris Pomeroy—”

“Sounds like a poodle, who else?”

“Andy—”

“The brother of the bride? The brother of the bride! What an honor! I must go and say hello, haven't seen him for years what with all that fiancée business, terrible shame, and leaving his job like that. Apparently he only got back last week, darling, you
must
remember to thank Jackie, a note
and
a telephone call I think would be appropriate, not tomorrow though, she'll be inundated, leave it till Monday, would Monday be best? Yes, I'm sure Monday would be best, the day after your daughter's wedding is always fraught, although saying that, what would
I
know—”

If you haven't already guessed, my mother has a habit of thinking aloud. Incessantly. I suspect it comes from living alone, but it's a quirk easier to understand than to tolerate. When the master of ceremonies orders the ladies 'n gentlemen, boys 'n girls to take their seats, I'm the first to obey.

The chairs are adorned with winter roses. White roses in January. I find mine before anyone else has even approached the table. I check the name cards on either side. Tony is on my left and poodle man is on my right. Frannie—in an error comparable to handing a pyromaniac a blowtorch—has been placed next to Tony. I am studying the menu (which I already know by heart, as Babs devoted as much time to it as a scribe on the Magna Carta), when the chair beside mine is yanked out and a man wearing a white jacket and a crumpled black shirt sags into it. I look up, smile doubtfully, and he nods, once.

Under cover of the menu, I watch Andy. He is leaning across the table listening to Frannie.

Tony's eyes gleam. “All right, Anders!” he roars, slicing through Frannie's chat like a knife through lard. “How you doing? Bit swish, this!”

Andy—who is irritatingly tanned—raises a hand and grins. “Good to see you again, Tone,” he says. “We'll catch up!” He winks at me, mouths “Hello, Natalie,” then turns back to Frannie.

His memory may be selective, mine isn't. Twelve years ago, when Babs and I were fourteen, our older brothers were great friends. They had masses in common, for instance a pathological desire to make their sisters' lives wretched. Where do I start? When Babs and I took Silky Drawers, her family retriever, for a walk and Tony screeched in front of the neighborhood, “Anders, look! There's three dogs!” When my mother gave Andy a lift home and I sang in the car and Tony said afterward, “Anders found your singing very amusing.” When Andy released my budgie from its cage because it “looked depressed” and it flew to the top of the curtains and Tony tried to coax it down with a broom and crushed its head.

And there was other stuff.

I smooth my napkin on my lap. Tony has been distracted by the little disposable camera, placed in remarkably good faith on the table for guests to record their own celebrations. He unwraps it, and slides low in his seat until his hand brushes the floor like an orangutan's. Then he casually tilts the lens so that it points up Frannie's skirt.

“Tony, no!” I whisper, trying not to giggle. “Don't, please, you know what she's like, she'll prosecute!”

Tony's blue eyes crinkle and he cracks up laughing. He wriggles upright and punches me gently on the arm.

“I'm playing with you, floozie.” He grins. “Your face, though. Priceless.”

Tony (thirty this year) is like a hyperactive child—sugar and encouragement are bad for him. I bite my lip and squint at poodle man's name card. Then I tap him lightly on the arm and say, “Excuse me, Chris, could you possibly pass me the water?”

Chris, who is picking a cigarette to bits on the cream tablecloth, slowly turns and looks at me and my heart does a double take. I wish I were either wittier or invisible. The man has a face like a fallen angel. Dark shaggy hair, designer stubble, sulky brown eyes, and a wide pouty mouth. My mother would describe him as in need of a Lysol bath. As for me, I'd join him in it. He looks down a fraction, at my chest, then up again, glances lazily at my name card, and drawls, “Yes,
possibly
I could pass you the water.”

He retrieves the Perrier and pours.

“Thank you,” I mutter, cursing my mother for teaching me manners. Chris leans back in his chair and doesn't smile. I snatch up my glass but—I am still being ogled like a lab rat—feel unable to drink from it. I am about to take a sip when he leans toward me and says, “You have a blow-job mouth.”

I nearly bite through the crystal. My brain paddles in thin air for a second, then from nowhere, I produce a reply. “But what a shame you'll never know for sure.” I scurry upstairs for a cigarette and try to compose myself. My hand shakes as I flick the lighter. You can't just
say
what you think. And what is a liability like Chris doing at Babs's wedding? You don't meet dark, smoldering sex beasts at weddings (I
knew
I'd be cordoned off from the Italians). You meet balding Keiths who wear Next ties, work in marketing, and laugh at their own jokes.

I suppose I have the groom to thank for my good fortune. Babs has a protective nature, and if she'd devised the table plan I'd have been seated next to the vicar. I grin and lean over the balcony. Andy is still listening to Frannie. He raises a finger and gets up. I wonder where he's going. I glance at the top table and I see the bride bend toward the groom. His head is tipped back like a fire-eater and he is gulping champagne from a large flute. She whispers in his ear. Instantly, Simon places his glass on the table and gives it a small push away from him. Wow. It must be love.

I close my eyes. Babs would still be single if it weren't for me. It was her idea to go clubbing. (“Come on, Nat. It's a seventies night. I'm sick of the modern day, I need to dress up!”) But I approached Simon. Normally I don't approach men. I'd prefer to approach a grizzly bear: you have less chance of being rejected.

But this was different. I was trying to locate the beat in “Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now” and wishing I hadn't worn a poncho when a lanky guy in brown flares and stacked heels clumped up. Where's Scooby? I thought. But Shaggy looked through me as if I was wearing glasses (pink heart-shaped glasses, to be precise), placed a hand on Babs's lower back, and shouted something profound in her ear. I believe it was “Are you a model?”

Babs, who weighs 154 pounds in her socks, tossed her hair and tee-heed daintily until her cartoon suitor relaxed. Then she stopped laughing—in that abrupt way that gang bosses do in films shortly before they execute a minion—and shrieked, “Are you a moron?” A smarter man would have run for it. But Shaggy chuckled senselessly and roared, “No, but seriously, what do you do?”

Babs bellowed, “I eat men like you for breakfast.”

Shaggy smirked and yelled, “I look forward to it.”

By now, I was feeling about as edgy as a goat in a voodoo doctor's waiting room. I slunk off, lit a cigarette to give my presence meaning, and watched Babs dance. Two smokes later, she staggered over.

“He's called Will,” she boomed. “He's not such a dollop as he looks. Come and chat to his mates.”

Conscious that
I
was dressed in the theme of “the decade that style forgot” while all the other women were glam-rock to the tips of their fake eyelashes, I declined.

“I'm wearing a red fright wig,” I said. “I look like Ronald McDonald. I might go home.”

Babs pouted. “You're all right if I stay?” she asked.

I hesitated, then nodded. “Oh! yes. Yes.”

Babs beamed and said, “Brilliant.” Then she added humbly, “I don't know why he picked me with
you
about—he must be blind. Blind drunk, maybe.”

All very consoling. But as the girly rule “I'm So Rubbish You're So Great” was, in fact, written by me, I didn't fall for it.

“Go and play,” I mumbled. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

I shuffled off to the ladies' and as I emerged, passed Babs on the way in. “Will's at the bar getting me a vodka Redbull,” she said gleefully. “Check out his beautiful arse!”

I dutifully scanned the bar for nice bottoms, but saw none. But I did see a huddle of guys, all crumpled with laughter, except one, who was shaking his head.

“You bastard, Will,” drawled the head-shaker, a tall bloke in a safari shirt and dark trousers. “You're such a
heel
.”

Apart from the fact I'd never heard the term
heel
applied to anything but a foot, I was intrigued. I crept closer.