12 December
Laurie
In two days’ time I’ll become Mrs Laurel Ogilvy-Black, which is going to take a lot of getting used to after twenty-six years as Laurie James. I can’t even say it without sliding into the Queen’s English, all plummy and clipped.
Oscar left for his mum’s this afternoon and my parents are arriving here tomorrow. They’re staying with me in the flat, and then we’ll be going together to the church from here on Saturday morning. Once they arrive it’s going to be all systems go, so tonight is officially the calm before the storm. Sarah’s coming over any time now, and we’re having a mani-pedi and movie night with champagne cocktails to celebrate. I don’t have the kind of nails that grow; only women with the same kind of nails will understand. They get to the end of my finger and consider their work done, flaking and breaking. I’ve tried all of the oils, serums and creams known to man in the run-up to the wedding, because all the bridal forums tell me it’s essential that my hands are in tip-top condition. Well, I’m forty-eight hours away from the altar and they’re as good as they’re going to get; Sarah’s going to French polish them for me.
Everything about this wedding is planned, controlled and listed on Lucille’s spreadsheet. For someone who thinks her son is marrying beneath him, she sure has invested a lot of her time in dictating how it’s going to happen. To be honest I realized quite early on that she was going to steamroller her way through proceedings whether I liked it or not, so I’ve gone for the path of least resistance. By that, I mean I’ve agreed graciously to eighty per cent of her decisions, and held the other twenty per cent close to my chest and refused to be moved on them. My dress. My bouquet. My matron of honour. Our rings. They’re the only things that really matter to me anyway. I don’t mind which champagne is served for the toast, and though I’m not a huge fan of salmon mousse as a first course we’re having it anyway. Oscar has been grateful for my unterritorial approach; as he and his mum are so close, it would have made waves if I’d been difficult about things.
Thankfully, Sarah’s been there the whole way, allowing me to vent.
‘Let me in, Lu! I’ve got no hands to knock!’
Sarah’s voice rings down the hall, and I jump up to let her in. When I open the door, I see what she means. She’s dragging a hard silver suitcase behind her, has two bags hanging off her arms and a large cardboard box in her hands. She peers at me over the top of it and puffs her fringe out of her eyes.
‘Travelling light?’ I laugh, taking the box from her.
‘This is light for me.’ She smacks my hand when I try to peak under the flap of the box. ‘That’s my box of surprises. Wine first?’
‘No arguments here.’ I shut the door with my foot before I follow her down the hall. I didn’t want a traditional hen night, it’s just not my thing, but this is perfect.
‘Are we alone?’ she whispers, looking for Oscar.
‘Yes.’
She busts out a disco chest pump and then falls flat on her back on the sofa with her arms spread out wide and her feet in the air.
‘You’re getting married in the morning, ding-dong the bells are gonna chime!’ she sings out of tune.
‘You’re a day early.’
‘Better than a day late.’ She sits up and gazes around. ‘Are we having a seance?’
I’ve lit scented candles everywhere to create a calm, Zen-like atmosphere. ‘It’s supposed to be spa-ish,’ I say. ‘Go on, sniff.’
She smells the air. ‘I think my nose would work better if I had a glass of wine in my hand.’
I take the hint and head into the kitchen. ‘Wine … or Oscar’s mother’s champagne?’ I call through.
‘Oh, HRH’s champagne, please.’ Sarah comes into the kitchen and perches on one of the breakfast stools. Is it disloyal that I’ve grumbled to Sarah on numerous occasions about my mother-in-law-to-be? Everyone needs to unload to someone, don’t they, and Sarah is as good as a sister. Which reminds me … I spin round and pull a small, wrapped parcel from the cupboard.
‘I’m going to give you this now before we get too drunk and I forget, or before we get too drunk and I can’t do it because I’m crying big snotty tears.’
I uncage the champagne as she looks at the gift bag, her eyes narrowed.
‘What is it?’
‘You’ll have to open it to find out.’
She tugs the grey ribbons as I pop the cork on the bottle of Oscar’s mum’s expensive champagne. I wanted to give Sarah something really special, and after hours of fruitless internet searching I realized that I already owned the perfect thing.
‘I’m nervous in case I don’t like it,’ she says, making light. ‘You know I’m a terrible liar, you’ll know straight away.’
I push a glass towards her and lean against the breakfast bar, facing her. ‘I’m pretty confident.’
She has the threadbare velvet box in her palm as she reaches for the stem of her glass and takes a sip for courage. As she goes to open it, I reach out and lay my hand over hers.
‘Before you do, I want to say something.’ Shit. I didn’t need a drink to get over-emotional about this after all. Tears are already pricking my eyes.
‘Fucking hell,’ she says, drinking a good half of her wine and topping her glass up. ‘Don’t start already, you’re not getting married for two days. Pace yourself, woman.’
I laugh, pulling myself together. ‘Okay, I’ve got this.’ I drink a little more and then set my glass down.
‘It’s to say thank you,’ I say, looking at the box and then at Sarah. ‘Thank you for … I don’t know, Sar, everything. For letting me have the biggest bedroom in Delancey Street, and for always being next to me on Saturday nights out and groggy Sunday mornings, and for inventing our signature sandwich. I don’t know where I’d be without you.’
Now she’s choked up. ‘It’s a bloody good sandwich,’ she says, and then she opens the box. For a few seconds she’s uncharacteristically silent.
‘This is yours,’ she says quietly.
‘And now it’s yours,’ I say. I’ve had my wafer-thin purple agate pendant reset into rose gold and refashioned, now set on a slender bangle.
‘I can’t take it, Lu. It’s too precious.’
Right. ‘I’m going to cry when I say this and then we’re going to get drunk and laugh, okay?’
She bites the inside of her already shaky bottom lip.
‘I lost my sister a long time ago, Sar, and I miss her. Every single day, I miss her.’ I wasn’t exaggerating. Big fat tears roll down my face. I know Sarah understands, because she dotes on her own younger sister. ‘That stone reminds me of Ginny’s eyes, and how they were like looking into my own eyes, and my grandma’s eyes. It’s part of my family, and I’m giving it to you because you’re my family too. I think of you as my sister, Sarah. Please have it, and wear it, and keep it safe.’
‘Jesus bloody God,’ she says, coming round the breakfast bar and hugging me. ‘Shut up, will you! If that’s what it’ll take you to stop talking, then of course I’ll keep it.’
I squeeze her, half laughing, half crying.
‘I’ll wear it on Saturday,’ she says.
‘I’d really like that.’ I could tell her what’s in my heart; that it will feel as if she’s representing Ginny on my special day. I don’t though, because it’ll set us both off again, and she knows it anyway. So I tell her instead that it’ll be perfect with her dress – an understated sea-foam green gown that makes her red hair come alive – and she agrees and then puts it carefully down before topping up our champagne.
We’ve made our way merrily through two bottles of Lucille’s expensive champagne, and I can hazily report that it gets you just as tipsy as its less expensive shelf-buddies.
‘I can’t believe you’re beating me down the aisle,’ Sarah says. The credits to Bridesmaids are rolling on Oscar’s massive flat screen (I still think of everything here as his, as if I am the lodger – I wonder if after we marry that will finally change), and we have foam toe separators on our feet.
‘Me neither,’ I say.
She reaches down into her box of tricks and pulls out a pack of cards. She wasn’t kidding when she said it was full of surprises; so far tonight she’s pulled out a succession of silly presents for me, from a pot of cinnamon which is meant to increase virility, to flip-flops with my new name on. We’re now on to a card game designed to embarrass and advise potential brides before they walk down the aisle.
‘How do we play?’
She takes the deck out of the box and reads the instructions on the back. ‘Deal everyone three cards, and then going in an anti-clockwise direction, read the question to the person two places to your left, blah blah blah.’ She starts to laugh and chucks the empty box over the back of the sofa. ‘Okay, let’s just take it in turns.’ She puts the deck down on the sofa between us. ‘You go first.’
I pick up the top card and read the question aloud to her. ‘What percentage of UK marriages end up in divorce (2012 figures used for representation)?’
‘Bloody hell, I’m taking these back,’ Sarah yelps. ‘The last thing you want to think about is divorce.’ But she breaks off to think. ‘Twenty-nine?’
I turn the card over to read the answer. ‘Forty-two per cent. God, that’s a bit depressing, isn’t it?’
I put the card down and she takes one. ‘Ah, this is better. What’s the first thing most women notice about a man?’ She reads the answer on the other side and laughs under her breath. ‘You can have three guesses.’
‘His car?’ I say, wasting one of my guesses.
‘Nope, not that.’
‘I don’t know … if he looks the spitting image of Richard Osman?’
He isn’t a random choice. He’s Sarah’s celebrity crush. ‘Don’t even joke,’ she says, glassy-eyed. She met him once at an award ceremony she was covering and only just refrained from whipping her top up and asking him to sign her boobs. ‘No one looks like Richard Osman except Richard Osman. Last chance.’
I take the question more seriously now it’s my last chance. ‘Eyes?’
‘Yes!’ She high-fives me. ‘Eyes. Have you seen Luke’s eyes? I’ve never seen bluer eyes in my life.’
I nod. She’s been loosely dating Luke since the summer; he’s her date at the wedding. She’s asked me not to mention it to Jack until she’s had time to tell him herself, although I don’t know if she’s done it yet. He left for Edinburgh the day after I bought my wedding dress, and aside from a text to let me know he could make the wedding, I haven’t heard from him. I stumbled over a photo on the internet of him at an event a few weeks ago, some music launch with a tiny blonde on his arm, so at least I know he’s alive.
I pick up the next card and squint at it. ‘Most popular bridal flower?’
Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘Roses. Too easy. One all.’
I let her have the point without bothering to check if she’s right.
‘This one better be more interesting or we’ll give up,’ she says, flipping the top card. ‘How many times does the average person fall in love in their lifetime?’
I pull a face. ‘How can that be averaged? Everyone’s different.’
‘Go on your own experience. You know how hard you fell for all those guys I set you up with at uni.’ She laughs. ‘What was his name in the shorts again?’
I don’t dignify the question with an answer, because my champagne-soaked brain can’t drag up anything beyond his hairy legs.
‘Twice, maybe?’ I take a stab at the answer.
Sarah puts the card down in favour of reaching for our wine glasses.
‘I think more. Five.’
‘Five? You reckon? That’s a lot.’
She shrugs. ‘You know me. I like to spread it around.’
We both laugh, and she rolls her head sideways against the sofa to look at me.
‘So the two loves of your life have been Oscar and who? Bus boy?’
It’s been years since she mentioned him. I was sure she’d forgotten all about him. I shake my head. ‘Oscar, obviously, and my college boyfriend.’
‘Then your magic number is three, Lu, because you totally fell in love with bus boy. Hook, line and sinker. We spent an entire year looking for him. You were obsessed.’
I feel a bit cornered, so I swill my wine around and try to think of a quick change of subject. I’m too slow.
‘I wonder what would have happened if you’d ever found him. Maybe you’d have been married now with a baby. Imagine that!’
Because I’ve had too much wine, I do imagine it. I see a little boy with green-gold eyes, grubby knees and a gap-toothed smile, and the reality of him winds me. Is that what might have happened in another version of our lives, one where I found Jack first? Or one where he’d just got on that damn bus? I close my eyes and sigh, trying to send the make-believe child back on his way to never-never land.
‘Did you ever stop looking for him?’
Her softly spoken question knocks me off guard. ‘Yes.’
She’s staring at me oddly, probably because that sounded more heavy and resigned than it should have.
Her sharp intake of breath is the only warning I get of impending danger.
‘Laurie, did you find him and not tell me?’ she breathes, her eyes round.
I struggle to lie convincingly or fast enough. ‘What, no! Of course I didn’t! I mean, God, you’d know if I had and you don’t know so I can’t have.’
She narrows her eyes, and I start to panic because she’s like a dog with a bone. A sniffer dog with a T-bone. ‘I think you’re holding out on me. Tell me or I’ll flash my knickers at Oscar’s family in the church.’
I shake my head. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’ I try to muster up a light-hearted laugh, but I misjudge it and it comes out with too much force.
‘Oh my God! There is something,’ she says, sitting bolt upright. ‘Laurie James, you bloody well tell me this minute or I swear I’ll flash the bloody vicar as well!’
How I wish she didn’t know me so well or that I hadn’t drunk too much champagne. ‘No,’ is all I can manage. I daren’t look her in the eye yet.
‘Why won’t you tell me?’
She’s starting to sound hurt and I feel hideous, so I reach for her hand. ‘Let’s just talk about something else.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she says, then she falls quiet and slowly, slowly extracts her hand from under mine. ‘Shit. Lu.’
I still can’t look at her. I want to; I want to fall around laughing and say something smart that stops us going from where we’re heading, but I’m a champagne-soaked rabbit in the headlights.
‘It was Jack.’
She doesn’t phrase it as a question. She enunciates every word as if she’s sober as a judge, as if she’s known forever. Then she gasps, a delayed reaction, slapping her hand over her mouth. I shake my head, but I can’t force the lie out of my trembling lips.
‘Jack was bus boy.’
‘Stop saying it,’ I whisper, and a hot tear runs down my cheek.
She holds her head in her hands.
‘Sar …’ I struggle upright and put my wine glass on the table. When I lay my hand on her shoulder, she shrugs me off. I feel as if she slapped me. I almost want her to. I sit and wait, agonized, and then she gets up sharply to her feet.
‘I always knew there was something. I – I think I’m going to be sick.’ She lurches for the bathroom.
I think of Delancey Street, of the times I used to hold her hair for her after a big night out. Knowing that I’m the one who’s made her feel like this is the worst feeling in the world. I find myself automatically following her, but can only hover silently outside the door, hearing her retch. After a moment I sit back down. When she comes out again a few minutes later, white and drawn, she sits down on the chair opposite me rather than alongside me on the sofa.
‘Did you recognize him straight away?’
‘Please don’t,’ I say. I don’t know how to deal with this. I thought it was history, I’ve made it so in my head, but now it’s all coming out.
‘We’ve been friends for a fucking long time, Laurie. Tell me the truth.’
She’s right, of course. Our friendship deserves to be honoured with honesty.
‘Yes,’ I say, flat. ‘I recognized him the second you introduced us. Of course I did.’ I can’t get the words out at much above a whisper. They’re razor blades in my throat.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? You could have told me there and then, or the next morning at least, or any other damn day.’ Her voice rises as she speaks. ‘You should have told me.’
‘Should I?’ I say. ‘Should I, Sarah? When? When you brought him home and told me he was the man you were going to marry? What should I have said? Oh dear, there’s been some silly mix-up, you’ve inadvertently gone and fallen in love with the same man as me?’ I swipe my hands across my tearful face. ‘Don’t you think I wanted to? Don’t you think I thought about it every day?’
We stare at each other.
‘2009,’ she says, counting the years up on shaky fingers. ‘Four years, and all of that time you were secretly in love with my boyfriend and didn’t think it was important enough to tell me?’
I have no defence, and I can’t expect her to understand. I doubt if I would if the boot were on the other foot.
‘I didn’t secretly love him,’ I say, wretched. ‘It was an impossible situation and I hated it. I can’t tell you how much I hated it.’
She’s not really listening to me. I don’t think she can, the shock is still sinking in. ‘All those stupid nights we spent together in Delancey Street …’ She’s shaking her head slowly, throwing all the pieces of our lives in the air and putting them back together in a different and terrible pattern. ‘Were you just waiting for your moment to pounce?’
She’s being cruel because she’s hurt, but I can’t help it, I bite back. ‘Of course I wasn’t,’ I say, louder, clearer, harsher. ‘You know me better than that. I tried my best every damn day not to feel anything at all for him.’
‘Am I supposed to say thank you?’ She slow claps me. ‘Well done, Laurie! You’re a pal.’
‘You could at least try to understand. I was horrified when you introduced us.’
‘I very much doubt that,’ she spits. ‘At least you’d found him.’
‘No. You’d found him. I wish I’d never laid eyes on him.’
We fall into silence, and then she makes a sound that’s horribly like a hiss.
‘Did he know too? Were you both laughing about it behind my back?’
I’m mortified that she could imagine either Jack or I could do that. ‘God, Sarah, no!’
‘Were you snogging in doorways, shagging in our flat when my back was turned?’
I get to my feet. ‘That isn’t fair. You know full well I’d never do that.’
She stands too, facing me down across the coffee table. ‘You swear on my life you never so much as kissed him?’
It’s in that moment I realize I’m about to lose my best friend for ever.
I can’t lie. ‘Once. I kissed him once. It was –’ I break off because she holds her hands up in front of her, as if my words are bullets.
‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare make excuses for yourself, I don’t want to hear them.’ Her face crumples. ‘It hurts right here,’ she says, banging her fingers against her chest, vicious. She bends and grabs her discarded shoes and her suitcase, then makes a dash for the hall. I follow her, begging her to stay, and when she spins round by the door her face is a study of disgust.
‘Good luck for Saturday, because I won’t be there. You know who I feel sorry for? Oscar. Poor fuck doesn’t even know he’s second best.’ She’s saying things I know we’ll never come back from. ‘Keep your precious bracelet. I don’t want it. Keep your bracelet and your secrets and your fake friendship. I’m done here.’
I stand and stare at the door after she’s slammed it, rooted to the spot. I’m paralysed; I don’t know what to do. She obviously can’t stand the sight of me. But how will I do this without her? My family are arriving tomorrow. Our guests are coming. Even bloody Jack is coming, probably with his new girlfriend in tow.
I stuff everything – the cards, her dress, the box of surprises, into the cupboard – then go to bed and curl into a ball with my arms round my head. I’ve never felt so alone in the world as I do right now.