CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
‘If your dress is so tight we can see your pudendum then it is not a dress it’s a compression bandage,’ Pete’s mum, Wendy, said through disgusted crimped lips, her eyes on Giselle.
I choked on my drink and pulled at the low neckline of my own dress.
Pete’s dad looked like he didn’t mind the pudendum at all. ‘I think she looks nice,’ he said, while chomping on a vol-au-vent, the flakes catching in his bushy moustache.
‘I know you do.’ Wendy’s magenta lips crimped further. ‘The whole room knows you do. Stop staring, Gary!’ She glowered at the flakes of vol-au-vent falling down her husband’s substantial stomach then turned to me. ‘It’s very bad taste bringing her here and I told him as much, but he wasn’t listening to his old mum, was he? I’m so sorry, pet; it’s not ruining your night, is it?’
I glanced across the room at Pete and Giselle. With her tanned limbs, tight red dress and elaborate French braid up–do, she looked like a Baywatch babe on a night out. Pete had turned up in an ensemble unfortunately similar to the waiters’ uniform; black suit trousers, navy shirt and maroon waistcoat. Mum and Dad’s friends (the ones who didn’t know him) kept asking him for Campari and sodas, and even though he was attempting to be good-natured about it, his tight smile and glances towards Giselle made me realise he was dying of embarrassment. And that gave me a small comfort.
‘It’s OK,’ I said to Wendy. ‘Well, it’s a bit shit, but he did call and ask and I said yes so I can’t really complain, can I?’
‘No, I guess not,’ Wendy said, and she appeared to be embarrassed on behalf of her son. ‘Oh Gary, would you stop staring!’
I nailed my Campari and soda (I’d wanted to see what all the fuss was about), made my polite excuses and left Gary to be chastised for being male and in possession of eyes and a heartbeat. Giselle had at least had the grace to come over and introduce herself and tell me how kind I was to invite her. I managed not to point out that I hadn’t invited her, and that I was actually quite shocked Pete had still wanted to come. Had I not had a knot in my stomach knowing this was the final time Mum, Dad, Annabelle and I would be together in front of people who thought of us as a normal family and not a shameful ‘B Team’, then Pete and Giselle’s presence would have had me shallow-breathing into a paper bag in the corner of the room, which, by the way, doesn’t work and is just something they do in the movies. But, as it was, I almost didn’t care. Almost. Luckily Mum had already informed everyone who knew Pete and me that we were no longer together so I had no awkward explaining to do. I did get lots more hugs from fragrant ladies ‘in the prime of their lives’, though. And the dapperly dressed men gave me ‘chin up’ nods after their watery gazes flicked disapprovingly from Pete and Giselle to me.
It was weird not having told Pete about what was going on with Mum and Dad. I’d always told him everything about everyone in minute detail for so many years. Now, the biggest thing in the world that could ever happen to me had happened and I wasn’t sharing it with him. As I wove through the partygoers looking for a waiter, and trying to contain my boobs in a dress I’d bought six months ago but, because of all the running, was now too big for me, I thought not about Pete and Giselle, who were at the buffet table, their heads inclined towards one another, giggling at Mum’s mono-mealing options I’d asked the long-suffering caterers to put back on the menu, but about Jimmy.
After Dad had dealt the blow that he was going to stay with his original family, if they’d have him, I’d felt like I had nothing left to lose. I’d called Jimmy as soon as I got home from Annabelle’s with the intention of telling him exactly how I felt; that I liked him more than baby hedgehogs. And perhaps even elephants. And that he should call his dad, tell him he knew about the ‘we’ve got gay kids’ support group thing and that he was proud of him. And sorry. Then borrow money, get on a plane and come and be with me. But Jimmy didn’t answer his phone. Or any of my texts. So instead I’d called Diego.
‘He’s not here, sweet girl,’ Diego had said.
It had only been 11.30 a.m. in Cape Town; a time when Jimmy could usually be found wandering the house in his boxers, Flora trotting behind him, or out on the sun-soaked balcony sipping coffee and intermittently singing or playing an instrument.
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘No,’ Diego had said and he’d sounded oddly taciturn.
‘Do you know where he is? His phone is off.’
‘No, sorry.’
I braced myself. ‘Did he come home last night?’
Diego made noises of discomfort.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Right.’
I’d hung up from Diego, who’d made weak promises to tell him I’d called when he next saw him, and felt unbearably, despairingly heartbroken. Like I’d missed out on something that could have been truly special. But I had no claim over Jimmy; we’d only had that one time together. And I couldn’t expect him to . . . what? Wait around for me in South Africa, a place I loved but had no intention of moving to?
I found a roaming waiter and asked for another Campari and soda.
‘Make it two, actually,’ I said and the guy winked his approval.
When he returned three minutes later I slurped down the first one before he’d even left me, then handed him the empty glass and began on the next one while scanning the room for Annabelle. I spotted her across the bustling room, introducing some old family friends to Marcus. She looked beautiful in a 1990s-style navy shift dress and a new necklace Marcus had given her that evening. It was a tiny heart on a delicate gold chain and was something the old her would have thought cheesy. But her fingers were constantly reaching for it and she’d look at Marcus and radiate bliss.
I was just about to head over to her when a short lady in swathes of floaty turquoise approached me, her wrinkled coral lips in a sweet smile. ‘Are you Greta’s daughter?’ she said, wafting Chanel No. 5.
‘Yes,’ I said, plastering on a smile that felt contradictory to my mood. ‘I’m Jess.’
‘What a lovely party,’ she said, taking my hand in both of hers. ‘Your mother told me you pulled this all together by yourself, you clever girl.’
I made ‘oh, it was no big deal’ and ‘yes, they are a happy couple’ kinds of noises while she enthused about the music, the catering, Mum and Dad and told me she was a friend of Mum’s from pottery classes and had heard all about my thrilling job in the music industry and my clever schoolteacher boyfriend (obviously someone Mum hadn’t remembered to inform), and ‘Is marriage on the cards, my dear?’ and ‘I know you young people like to leave it all to much later but best be getting on with things, I say’.
‘Now that looks interesting,’ she said as I took a large, very large, swig of my Campari. ‘Where can I get one of those?’
‘From him,’ I said, pointing across the room at Pete.
‘Lovely,’ the turquoise lady replied, then said a multitude of goodbyes and ‘clever girl’s and made a beeline for Pete. I watched with amusement as Pete went to the bar and irately ordered a Campari and soda because it was easier than explaining to a ceaselessly yakking old lady that his waistcoat was maroon and the waiters’ were burgundy.
Still sniggering to myself, I turned and scanned the huge network of friends Mum and Dad had made in the four decades they’d been together, looking again for Annabelle. And with a start I realised Dad must have something like this in Cape Town. The thought hit me like a hurricane. With bricks in it. But I was getting used to these kinds of thoughts. They were a fact. A fact that shocked me in that split second when I first realised it, then became yet another piece of reality I filed in my brain as ‘fucked-up shit that will come out later as cancer’.
‘Do you think any of these people knew about Derek and Magdalena?’ I said, finding my sister and sidling up to her.
‘Nooo,’ Annabelle said, turning around with Katie on her hip and an anguished look on her face. ‘Not the code again.’
‘Do you think people will take sides?’
‘There aren’t any sides to take,’ Annabelle glanced down. ‘Jesus, I can almost see your nipples!’
‘Do you think they will think we’re simpletons for not suspecting anything was up?’ I said, hoisting my neckline up with one hand and trying to bring my Campari to my mouth with the other. It was an awkward manoeuvre that had Campari spilling, Annabelle frowning and me looking like a simpleton.
Annabelle suddenly spotted Hunter serving himself a Hagrid-sized portion of chocolate cake. ‘I have to go.’ She turned back to me and watched me drain my glass. ‘Go easy on the drinking, OK?’ she said, a wrinkle of concern between her delicate eyebrows. Then she glanced down again and the wrinkle became a furrow. ‘And cover yourself, you look like a page three.’
Annabelle drifted towards Hunter and I stood alone again, contemplating the roomful of people who may or may not have known about my parents’ big lie. Ruth and Bert, our old neighbours, were dancing to ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. Did they ever overhear an incriminating conversation between Mum and Dad as they sat in the garden in the summer sipping gin and tonics? Patrick, the producer at Mum’s radio station, was at the buffet struggling with a pair of tongs. He’d had a relationship with Mum. Did he know about Dad’s other family? And what about Dad’s business partner, standing close by talking to Marcus? Surely he, if anyone, would have had an inkling at least. Every thread of enquiry brought forth a torrent of questions and I had to order another Campari and soda to quiet the noise in my head.
*
At 9 p.m., as I’d scheduled, the band stopped and everybody took their seats to listen to the speeches. I’d decided against giving mine. Prior to my trip I’d been writing it during quiet moments at work. But although every word in it was true: what a great mother Mum had been, a great father Dad had been, and how I wished I would one day have a relationship that made me as happy as they made each other; all those words were attached to a lie. Mum wasn’t emotionally strong enough to give a speech and Annabelle had a deathly fear of public speaking. So that just left Dad. He took to the stage with Mum at his side in her shapeless eco-dress that was probably made out of something Annabelle would have once tried to smoke. Whoops and cheers erupted from the Camparimerry crowd.
‘Here we go,’ I said, standing next to Annabelle behind the kids’ table.
She turned to smile at me but her smiled dropped. ‘Put your bosoms away.’
‘They aren’t bosoms,’ I said, pulling up my dress while Dad started talking about his friends, happy times and getting through tough times. ‘Bosoms are older and get hefted around to Neil Diamond songs. These are tits,’ I said, pointing directly at my cleavage and making Annabelle hiss at me to be quiet. ‘And they want to twerk to Nicki Minaj.’ Dad had moved on to talking about surviving teenagers and stock market crashes. I frowned. ‘Only butts twerk. What do tits do?’
‘How much have you had to drink?’ Annabelle whispered, looking at my half-filled Campari glass.
‘Enough to make me talk about tit-twerking. Not enough to quiet the dramatic stage production of our ridiculous life that’s going on in my head right now.’
Annabelle looked at me blankly.
‘Winona Ryder is playing you. Reality Bites Winona though, you know? With the spiky hair and the 1990s waif look? Not Stranger Things Winona with the screaming and the running and the really ugly coat.’
Annabelle gave me a stern ‘shut-up’ kind of look and I turned my attention to Dad.
‘I’ve made some mistakes in my life,’ he said, getting serious.
‘You don’t say,’ I muttered.
‘Shhh!’ Annabelle whispered.
Dad’s eyes scanned the crowd and stopped when he found us. I stiffened.
‘My life, as I’m sure happens to everyone, has had its ups and downs,’ Dad continued, his voice wavering. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time away . . . working. And as I’ve reached this age, I look back and . . .’ He faltered and reached for Mum’s hand. ‘We’ve got two beautiful girls . . .’
‘Three,’ I whispered to Annabelle, who scowled.
‘. . . whom I’ve had the privilege to watch grow into remarkable young women. And two grandchildren . . .’
‘Four,’ I whispered in her ear again.
Annabelle took my drink off me and handed it to Marcus. ‘Pull your dress up,’ she hissed.
‘. . . who mean the world to me. And if it all ends now,’ he looked at Mum, then out at Annabelle and me. I grabbed Annabelle’s hand and gripped it hard, trying to overcome the desire to flee the room. She wrapped her arm around my waist. ‘Well . . . I wouldn’t have changed anything for the world.’
Mum stood next to Dad with tears trickling down her lightly rouged cheeks and catching in the overhead lights. She seemed so tiny. Dad looked at Mum and I could see the words were stuck in his throat. He appeared to lose his thread. ‘I’m . . . I . . .’ He turned back to the crowd. His hand tightened its grip around Mum’s. ‘I’m just so happy to be here with my family and friends. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? All I know is that I am where I want to be right now. Thank you for being with us on this special night to celebrate love, life . . .’ His gaze fell on Annabelle and me. ‘And family.’
Dad stepped down from the stage as the band took up their positions. Annabelle and I stayed side by side, her dabbing at her moist eyes and me fussing with my neckline.
As the dance floor filled up to the sound of ‘Gloria’, Mum and Dad arrived in front of Annabelle and me.
‘That was a good speech, Dad,’ Annabelle said as she handed Mum a napkin from the kids’ table.
‘Your maths needs some work though,’ I mumbled, making Annabelle smile despite herself.
‘Thank you, Belle-belle,’ Dad said, with a look of relief. ‘And Plum, I have a surprise for you.’
‘Your last surprise sucked,’ I said, smiling to show I meant it light-heartedly. Sort of.
He smiled back then pointed behind me. Holding the neckline of my dress up, I turned around. And in the doorway across the room stood Jimmy, tanned, tall, grinning and filling out a navy suit in an exceptionally attractive manner.
‘H-wh-?’ I managed to stutter.
Dad gave me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Time for a new start for you too.’
Mum laid a bony hand on my arm and whispered in my ear, ‘Go get him, Plum.’
I turned to Annabelle, who was smiling, Marcus’s arm around her shoulders. The dance floor began to fill with lively, Spanish-countryside-cycling, Swiss-mountain-hiking, let’s-book-a-walking-wine-tour-of-Umbria active couples in their seventies. I stayed still, rooted by shock. And Campari consumption. And the fear my dress was going to fall down. Jimmy began to move across the room. There was a moment when he was lost from view in the gambol of dancers and then he was there.
‘You’re – you’re here!?’ I stammered. ‘How? Why?’
He grinned. ‘Because this is where you are.’