The Wedding Countdown (24 page)

‘
You
won’t find it interesting, Mills,’ Minty says.

Oh I get it. This is the bit where they go off to join the exclusive set and leave the common-as-muck Yorkshire girl behind.

‘I’ll catch you later.’ I force a light note into my voice. ‘Enjoy your party.’ And I leave them to their celeb pals and go back to the mere mortals, aka my friends.

Or at least I would go back to my friends if I could only find them. On the dance floor Kareena is trying to impersonate Raj’s exaggerated and totally camp
Saturday Night Fever
moves while the other dancers desperately strive to keep clear of his flailing limbs and stomping feet. I don’t want to spend the evening in the nearest casualty department, so I decide against joining them. Besides, my dad wasn’t particularly keen on letting his daughters go out clubbing, so my dancing skills are undeveloped to say the least. I’ve got no desire to humiliate myself in front of all these painfully cool people, so I grab a glass of Coke and decide to park my booty rather than shake it.

This party is a great chance to indulge in some serious people-watching, a skill required of every journalist, which sounds better than saying I’m going to sit and be a total wallflower.

I perch myself on the very narrow window ledge and try to hone these skills. Or at least, this is what I’m planning to do before a fellow wallflower interrupts me, plonking down unsteadily next to me.

‘Hi, I’m Schteve, a mate of Wish and Raza,’ he slurs, taking a swig of his beer. ‘Cool party, huh?’

‘Yeah,’ I nod, ‘it’s right up there with the day my goldfish died.’

‘What?’ Steve hollers, squinting at me. ‘Wossyername?’

I sigh. There is to be no escape. ‘Mills.’

‘Hi Jill, I’m Schteve. Cool party, huh?’

‘Mills,’ I repeat. ‘Short for Amelia. Mills Ali.’

‘All right, all right,’ says Steve. ‘There’s no need to shout.’

I put my drink down and wearily lean my head back against the glass. 

‘Hey!’ Steve lurches forward. ‘Are you
the
Mills?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know,’ he digs me in the ribs with a pudgy forefinger, ‘the Asian chick that’s deschperate to get married?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You are, aren’t you? You’re that girl from the north! Bradford, that was it! Your parents are forcshing you to get married to a Paki, so you ran away to London. You’re deschperate to find a husband.’ 

Who’s been gossiping and making me sound like a desperado victim of tyrant parents?

‘You seem to know a lot,’ I say. ‘Who’s been filling you in?’

Because I’ll be filling
them
in shortly.

Steve regards me sadly through bloodshot eyes. ‘Jamal told me… He once mentioned you and he told us, me and Raza, all about your tragic circumstances…’

It’s as though someone has punched me hard in the stomach. Certainly below the belt, in any case. Jamal? Wish’s brother? The brother of the very same Wish I’ve spoken to about all my deepest hopes and fears? He’s told his brother my most personal secrets?

Steve has drunken tears in his eyes. ‘Ish tragic! Is a bloody tragedy. A crying shame, that’s what. You can’t forcsh… force people to marry. You poor, poor girl. You’re beautiful. I’d marry you.’

Sod this for a packet of biscuits. I’m going to find the birthday boy, grab him by the Valentino collar and well and truly wring his neck. How dare he flaunt my private life to all and sundry? How dare he pity me? How dare he make a laughing stock out of me?

I jump to my feet. ‘It was great to meet you, Steve. But I’d better circulate. Can’t hog you all night, can I?’

‘Don’t forget your drink,’ Steve says.

I grab my Coke and stalk across the room. Being this angry is thirsty work and my mouth is parched. Thinking that I must hydrate my tongue so I can grind my axe with Wish without drying up, I take an enormous swig of Coke and gag.

Yuk. This Coke is disgusting.

It doesn’t even taste like Coke.

In fact this Coke tastes really weird, like yukky cough mixture. I swish the contents around my mouth and as the bitter taste swirls across my tongue I do a Speedy Gonzales analysis of the peculiar-tasting liquid.

It tastes like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. Unless... Unless…

Oh Allah-
ji
and the Heavens above!

I don’t think this is just Coke I’m drinking.

I think there’s alcohol in it!

Nahin
!

Without thinking twice I spit the contents out of my mouth. I will not – I cannot – swallow alcohol. At the same time I drop the cup in horror. Are my fingertips now contaminated?

Unfortunately just as I choose to expel the drink from my mouth Minty happens to come within spurting distance. The paper cup bounces beautifully off the wooden floor and splashes its contents all over her green suede mini-dress. For a split second there is silence; then all is confusion.

‘You stupid bitch!’ shrieks Minty. ‘What the Hell do you think you’re playing at?’

A dark stain spreads across the frock like blood. Squawking, several of Minty’s cronies start patting at it but she swats them away furiously. ‘It’s suede, for Chrissake, not cotton!’

‘Oh God!’ I gasp.

‘He can’t help you now,’ hisses Minty. ‘This is Gucci, you stupid cow! It’s worth thousands and you’re going to be paying for it.’

Minty thinks I’m panicking because of the dress but she couldn’t be more wrong. I don’t give a toss about her ruined frock, but I do give a toss about potentially ruining my soul. You can’t compare a suede frock with a soul.

What sin have I almost committed?

Should I race to the loo and make myself throw up, hurl out the contents of my tummy just in case the smallest alcoholic droplet has managed to make its way there? Or should I gargle with bleach or something? Or should I pray?

‘Say something, you stupid fucking northern halfwit!’ screeches Minty.

Now heads are swivelling and curious pairs of eyes are trained upon the two of us while Minty screams obscenities like there’s no tomorrow.

Wish appears behind his girlfriend. ‘Minty, whatever happened?’

‘Your precious Mills just threw her drink over me!’ Suddenly Minty metamorphoses from screaming harpy to wronged victim. Perfect diamond tears squeeze out of her eyes and glide down the peachy cheeks. In spite of my own misery I’m impressed.

Dame Helen Mirren should be very afraid.

‘That’s the sort of person she really is,’ sniffs Minty. ‘She’s had it in for me since we first met! I can’t bear it any more!’ And with this she flings herself against Wish’s chest and weeps dramatically into his shirt. He pats her back soothingly and shakes his head.

Oh God no.

He thinks she’s telling the truth.

Wish actually believed I’m capable of doing such a petty thing.

I’m staggered by the sheer unfairness of this. When Wish’s confused gaze meets mine over the top of Minty’s haloed blonde head I can no longer bear it. Steve’s conversation is ringing in my ears and so are Minty’s ugly words.

Desperate for a husband.

Forced marriage. 

Northern halfwit.

I let out a hicuppy sob and spin round, pushing my way blindly through the suddenly blurry throng of people busily rubbernecking this exciting scene.

I’ve got to get out of this room before I pass out with shame or drown an unsuspecting
bechara
bystander with my tears. The last thing I need is another person baying for my bank details and threatening to sue me for ruining their designer glad rags.

Dashing the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand, I grab the handle of the nearest available door, turn it and stumble into peace and safety.

Or at least I think I do.

Chapter 22

The door shuts and I sag against it. Little flames of humiliation lick all over my body. Can things possibly ever get any worse?

Actually, I think that they can.

I seem to have shut myself in a bedroom.

A man’s bedroom.

And not just any man either. Judging by the expensive camera placed on the chest of drawers, the series of arty photos adorning the walls and the motorcycle helmet thrown onto the bed I’ve stumbled into Wish’s domain. I can even smell his aftershave.

Above the bed hangs an enormous photograph of Minty with her hair whipped around her face. It’s a beautiful photograph. The warm light softens the sharp angles of Minty’s face and her laughing eyes look just beyond the camera, as though she’s holding back a delicious secret. Maybe Wish had just told her how beautiful she is? Or maybe she’s dreaming about their
shaadi
day? 

Get a grip,
saheli
. More likely she’s caught sight of her own reflection somewhere. I back away from the picture, suddenly feeling like an intruder. There’s no way I should be in Wish’s room.

When the door opens I nearly enter orbit.

‘There you are!’ cries Nish, unaware she’s just knocked off a decade of my life.

‘Are you OK?’ shrills Raj. His breath comes in gasps as though he’s just run a marathon. Actually, knowing Raj he probably would run twenty-six miles for a juicy morsel of gossip.

‘Kareena saw what happened,’ Nish says. ’Surely you didn’t throw a drink over Minty?’

‘Of course I didn’t!’

‘So what happened? Wish has had to take Minty outside to calm her down but we can still hear her yelling. She’s furious.’

Oh crap. There goes my salary for the next millennia or three.

I sink onto the edge of Wish’s bed and bury my face in my hands. ‘It was an accident,’ I begin and go on to explain about the tainted glass of Coke. I don’t tell them about what Steve said – some things are just too humiliating to even share with my best friends – and neither do I mention how let down I’m feeling with Wish, because I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll start to howl and won’t stop until I look like a frog. Even a girl who goes spitting drinks at models still has her pride, you know.

‘Oh Mills,’ gasps Nish. ‘You poor thing!’

Nish has known me long enough to grasp how horrified I am at the thought of consuming alcohol. During our uni years we spent many happy hours in the Union bar, me nursing an orange juice while she quaffed lager, and she knows I’m a one-hundred-percent committed teetotaller.

‘Babes, accidents happen.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘How were you to know we were mixing Bacardi with the Coke? You must have got your glass muddled up with someone else’s.’

‘The end result’s the same.’

‘But the intentions aren’t,’ points out Raj. He takes my chin between his forefinger and thumb and mops my pooling tears with a tissue. ‘Give God a bit of credit, Mills. He sees into hearts and I think He knows the difference between a pair of old soaks like Nish and I, and someone who has taken a sip by accident, don’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I know so,’ says Raj firmly. ‘Put your chin up and go back in there and show that bitch. Wish will understand when you explain what really happened.’

‘Will he? Minty was livid, Raj; that dress cost a fortune.’

‘Looked like tat to me,’ says Nish cheerfully, ‘but I’m sure we can get it dry-cleaned. Come on babes, you can’t hide in here all night.’

‘Maybe just fix your make-up first, though?’ suggests Raj. ‘The Alice Cooper look is so last party season.’

‘And have a gargle?’ adds Nish. ‘Make sure that you’ve got rid of the taste?’

I take a deep breath. Since we are many floors above ground level I can’t clamber out of the window – I might be upset but I’m not suicidal yet – so I’ve no choice but to brazen it out. Besides, what can Minty sue me for? My Nissan Micra? My comic collection? Just how much can a frock made out of chamois leather and shoelaces really cost anyway?

Promising my friends I’ll be with them in two minutes I continue my career as a trespasser and enter the ensuite bathroom. And what a bathroom it is! You could fit all three of ours back home into it and still have room to park a juggernaut. There’s an oval bath positioned directly in front of the door so that the bather can enjoy the stunning views and the ceaseless waters of the Thames. A walk-in shower is wrapped around a console, which I think is a sink although I can’t be too sure. Hoping it isn’t a fancy urinal or a bidet for very tall folk I run the taps and gargle. I try to wipe away my mascara then bite my lips and pinch my cheeks like an Asian Jane Austen heroine until I’m certain the sight of me won’t make small children scream. Then I open the en-suite door and, right on cue, the bedroom door also swings open and in walks a total stranger.

A very attractive total stranger, with a tall rangy body, long gypsy curls that tumble over his collar and a thin, clever face. He regards me with glittering black eyes.

‘What the Hell are you doing in my bedroom?’

Something very strange has happened. Wish’s bedroom has been transformed. Gone are the artistic prints and the photographic equipment and in their place an even larger room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a glittering view of the city. There’s a king-size bed complete with leopard-print throw, a huge stereo and an impressive array of high-tech toys. A giant plasma screen takes up almost an entire wall. The furniture looks bespoke: there’s a red crescent-shaped sofa and a desk fashioned from faux lizard skin. The whole effect is so Austin Powers meets
Star Trek
that I feel giddy.

Maybe I consumed more of that Bacardi than I thought?

The tall stranger crosses his arms.

‘I’m waiting for an explanation. I don’t like strangers, even pretty ones, inviting themselves into my private space.’

I’m at a loss. ‘I thought this was Wish’s bedroom.’

He whistles. ‘Isn’t Wish the dark horse?’ Dangerous dark eyes sweep my body and rest somewhere just above my chest.

‘Not like that!’ I say hastily. ‘I was using the ensuite bathroom after an incident. And now I’m here. I’m really sorry, but I haven’t got a clue how.’

‘Ah!’ His mouth curves into a knowing smile. ‘I can explain. You weren’t in the en-suite; that was the master bathroom. It links into my dressing room, which is where Wish is staying. You’ve gone through the wrong door.’