Trophy Life (12 page)

Marshall Shawe was the firm’s big rival. So whenever a member of one firm got divorced, the other would jump at the chance to represent their spouse. It was like rival football clubs playing a friendly. A good chance to practice.

That night, Amy felt the tension in their bathroom the moment she entered it and found Harry cleaning his face like he was sanding down furniture, scrubbing it vigorously. Harry had said nothing yet, but there was something about the way he tensed as she came in, the fact he had gone upstairs without so much as telling her that’s where he was going that told her something was up. Hoping that it was all in her head, she attempted light conversation as she reached for her cleanser.

'That was a good night. Everyone had a great time and the food was fantastic, wasn’t it?' She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t help it. 'Did you enjoy it?'

She could feel him simmering a few steps away from her.

'It was great,' he said in a measured tone. 'It was just a shame my own wife felt the need to humiliate me in front of my colleagues.' She could see his anger beginning to surface.

'What?' She stopped rubbing a cotton wool pad on her face and looked at him, willing him to speak. In turn, he made his way to his bedside table, where he checked his alarm clock, his back to her.

'Whatever your own views, I expect you to support me when we’re in public like that. Especially in front of my colleagues.'

'What? Are you talking about the divorce conversation? Don’t be ridiculous,' she retorted. 'It was a debate. Dinner chat. Claire and Jill were doing exactly the same thing.'

'I am not married to Claire or to Jill,' he fumed. 'I am married to
you
. I will not have you making a fool of me.'

Amy wasn’t sure how to reply to this. She looked at him through the reflection in the bathroom mirror. 'So, what? I can’t express my own views?' She felt her emotions burble and bubble, threatening to overflow like an overfilled glass of Coke.

'Of course you can share your views,' Harry said tightly, putting his legs into his pyjama trousers in a staccato  punctuation of his point. 'But you must consider my position. How people see me. How they see us.'

Amy sighed. This was infuriating. Sometimes she thought that Harry saw them as a brand. Brand Green. She had to stay on message, to toe the party line. She carried on removing her mascara before brushing her teeth and swishing with mouthwash. The room was full of angry silence. She stole a glance at Harry, who was carefully buttoning up his pyjama top. She hated when they argued. It always made her feel so unsettled. Had she been wrong?

She had known that she had been siding with Jill, not him. It was disloyal. She could never imagine her mum behaving that way to her dad. They always complemented each other’s stories, laughing together. Yes, they enjoyed a good debate, but she could see that maybe she had gone too far. After all, it was in front of his colleagues. She certainly shouldn’t have high fived Jill.

'I’m sorry,' she relented. 'You’re right.'

Harry stopped stomping and thwacking his way around the room and came over to her with a serene smile. 'Thank you,' he said, bringing her in for a hug. She hugged him back feeling genuinely gratified at his humility and kindness in that moment. How many other husbands would just accept an apology like that so quickly? She knew from Jill and Claire that their husbands both sulked for hours after a disagreement.

He pulled away and looked at her, finger lifting her chin. 'You just have to understand that people look up to me. They expect a higher standard.' He smiled before leaning in and kissing her directly on the lips. As his mouth lingered on hers, she felt the tension leave her body and, with the wine still coursing through her veins it was easy to relax into him and tumble together onto their bed.

***

'So what are you wearing?' Lucy asked the next night as Amy answered the phone, her voice tinny, but unmistakeable over the line.

'I wouldn’t greet everyone like that Luce,' Amy joked. 'You might get more than you bargained for.'

'Haha,' Lucy replied in exasperation. 'But seriously, have you made an effort?'

Amy looked down in the mirror at her long silk deep blue lace evening dress, a long slit cut up one side, revealing a slim, newly spray-tanned leg, elongated by a pair of strappy Jimmy Choos in which she could barely walk.

The day had been a typical Sunday in the Green house. After Harry did some work in the morning and she had pottered around the house, they had made their way to his mother’s house for lunch. There they had had a long and luxurious meal with his brother and his wife and children in a scene which wouldn’t have looked out of place in the pages of
Vogue
; the sun streaming into the large country style kitchen with an enormous wooden Conran table filled with every conceivable type of bread, bagel and deli filling. Amy had been careful not to eat too much, aware that she had opted for a fairly form hugging dress that evening.

Giselle, who had never knowingly eaten a carb, let alone a deli filling, sipped on an iced tea while the children’s nanny Clara followed them round the garden trying to persuade them back in to eat their meals.

After lunch, Amy had several appointments while Harry read the paper and perused the online world. She had arranged for her hair and makeup to be done, reasoning that she would do that for every wedding she ever went to. As a result, her hair was in a loose, ethereal updo, her complexion airbrushed to flawless perfection and her eyes seemingly enormous thanks to the MAC trained stylist who had been there earlier. 

'Just dressed for a wedding really,' she under played, trying to sound casual. 'I have to look dressed up; it would be rude to the bride otherwise.'

'I’m sure.' Lucy's tone was so overly effusive, it unambiguously expressed the fact that she was unimpressed with Amy's arguments. 'You probably just threw something on. Just tell me this. Is it new?'

Amy looked guiltily at the Prada bag on her bed. 'What difference does that make?'

'Don’t play coy with me missy,' Lucy said mock threateningly. 'We both know the difference and I’m going to take that as a yes.'

When Harry came in, he did a double take. Amy waited for a complement, at least a comment on her appearance. She had told him about the evening, but had been careful to stress that it was research for the dinner. Not that it was anything other than research. After all, she and Freddie were allowed to be friends, colleagues even. She needn’t have worried.

'Have we got an event?' He sounded annoyed and bewildered. 'I have work to do.'

'Gotta go Luce, speak later,' Amy said, the guilt of what they were talking about creeping into her voice. She disconnected the call. 'No, just going to a wedding with the caterer for the Society. My old friend, remember? We’re going to look at their work and suggestions as to what we can do for the dinner.'

But Harry seemed to have dropped out of the conversation as soon as he’d realised it didn’t involve him having to wear black tie. 'Goodo.' He walked out of the room and she heard the door of his study shut with finality.

***

When Amy arrived at The Dorchester, she went straight to the reception desk where she and Freddie had agreed to meet. She felt slightly self-conscious amidst the milling hotel guests, but the moment she saw Freddie, that all melted away. Dressed in a grey suit with a black skinny tie, she couldn’t help but notice a pair of black converse trainers peeking out at the bottom where she had expected shiny leather shoes to be.

'Hi,' she said as he kissed her on the cheek, enveloping her in his sweet fragrance that was still the same as from university.

Noticing her gaze on his feet, Freddie explained, 'The couple are super hip. They wanted something a bit different, so the dress code is more lounge suits than black tie and all the men are in trainers. But don’t worry, the women are in full evening dress, it’s just the blokes that got a night off.'

She laughed, partly relieved at the thought that she wasn’t overdressed.

'You look beautiful by the way.' He said it in a matter of fact way, but one which showed he clearly meant it. Amy couldn’t help but compare his reaction to her efforts with Harry’s non-existent one.

'I’m actually a bit nervous,' she smiled, talking quickly in a bid to hide the blush that had crept into her cheeks. 'I’ve never crashed a wedding before.'

'Ah, stick with me, kid,' he sparkled. 'I’ll get you into all sorts of trouble.' And with that, he extended his arm to her and she linked through as they walked through the hotel and to a large set of double doors.

As they entered the entertaining suite, Amy couldn’t help a small gasp escaping her lips. Amy had been to a wedding at The Dorchester before. A distance cousin of Harry’s had married there in what was a distinctly traditional affair: Round tables with pretty, but unoriginal rose arrangements and plain candles. This didn’t even look like the same space.

Illuminated in an enchanting shade of bluish purple that gave it an other worldliness, the room was filled with long rectangular tables in the middle of which there sat vast orchids reaching towards the ceiling, which itself twinkled like a starry night sky. Vast candles also shimmered on each table.

The tables themselves were already buzzing with a crowd well into their stride. Many people were on the dancefloor moving as one to the sounds of what was the biggest band Amy had ever seen perform at a wedding. There must have been fifteen people on stage, all dressed in dazzling white.

'It’s incredible,' she murmured.

'The parents both wanted something very traditional. The groom’s mother in particular wanted The Dorchester. But the couple is very young and cool. She’s a model,' he gestured at the tall brunette bride who, in her clearly couture gown, was on the dancefloor surrounded by a gaggle of bridesmaids. 'He’s a trader.' This time Freddie pointed at the bar, where a handsome early-thirty-something was downing shots with a group of other men, all clad similarly to Freddie.

'So we reached a compromise,' he continued. 'Traditional, but with a modern twist. I think it could work really well for the dinner as well.'

A pretty, blond waitress approached them with a tray of champagne. 'Thanks Tracey,' he said smiling, as they each took a glass.

'No problem,' she returned, smiling at him flirtatiously before sashaying off. Despite herself, Amy felt a stab of annoyance at Tracey’s blatant behaviour. She told herself off. She had no business being possessive over Freddie or minding how he interacted with other women.

Reminding herself of why she was here, she brought the conversation back to what she had come to talk about.

'So you’re thinking something like this for the dinner?' Even she heard the dubious note in her voice.

'We can tweak the levels of modern and traditional, but yes,' he said simply.

'You’re a brave man,' she said, not quite being able to picture her mother-in-law’s reaction to such an event. 'I’m not sure the London Ladies are ready for this.'

'Oh, they are.' His tone was confident. 'They just don’t know it. Come on, let’s go.' And with that, he took her hand and led her to a discreet set of doors.

Swinging through to the other side, the sound of the music became muffled and replaced with the hustle and bustle of a busy working kitchen. Stainless steel covered every surface and confident fast working men and women, a few wearing chef whites and others in various other uniforms were milling around, all looking very busy. It made her think of
MasterChef
, especially the round where they had to join a working kitchen.

'I’ve had them set aside samples of the food for us,' Freddie explained.

Over the next half an hour, Amy and Freddie laughed and ate, enjoying a condensed, fly-by version of the dinner the guests would have eaten: Every morsel from the h’ordouvres to the petit fours. Everything was delicious and it was as if the wonder of the food – and, yes, the wine – infused their conversation.

'I always thought you’d be a thrusting newspaper journalist by now,' he grinned. 'Breaking stories, hacking phones and all that. You were such a brilliant writer.'

'Thanks. I think.' She sensed the heat of a blush in her cheeks.  'I’m not sure how good I was, but it just never worked out.'

'Your life isn’t over you know,' he said, trying to catch her eye. 'You could still do it.'

'So where are you living now?' She patted the table as she asked this, as though calling his attention away from his line of conversation. She was determined to change the subject.

'Tiny flat I’m renting on Finchley Road,' he said, taking the non-sequitur with grace. 'Small, but perfectly formed. It’s near the station which is good for work.'

Emboldened by the wine and the fun they’d been having, she asked the question she had been dying to ask since they had bumped into each other in Notting Hill.

'Alone? Or with-' Her voice trailed off.

'We broke up.' His answer was abrupt and a bit too loud. She could hear a raw quality to his voice, but it disappeared when he next spoke. 'It turns out having a child together isn’t necessarily a strong foundation for a relationship. Who knew?' He laughed. 'She lives with her parents and Rupert in Mill Hill.'