Читать книгу Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy - Jenny Colgan - Страница 17

Despite the cold, there was a buzz about the West End at eight o’clock on a Friday night. People had a set look on their faces, as if Fun was in serious trouble if they didn’t find it. Students on some ghastly rag week spectacular were irritating passers-by, running around with buckets and pints and their legs tied together.

Fran was uncharacteristically nervous. ‘This is going to be a laugh, isn’t it?’

I didn’t want to share my own misgivings. Going into a roomful of strangers predisposed to hating you, trying to ingratiate yourself, then taping the conversation – not my idea of a great night out.

‘Course it is,’ I said. ‘Think of it as a great acting role. Your début in the West End.’

She grinned. ‘If anything goes wrong, we leg it, OK?’

‘Let’s go, Mulder.’

‘OK, Scully.’

We pushed open the heavy doors of the restaurant. Stiff napery and mirrors stretched for miles. The light was expensively dim and golden.

‘God, not McDonald’s again!’ I whispered to Fran. She smiled, tilted her head, and with cut-glass drama school English and an imperious gait, walked over to the maître d’, and smiled.

‘The Phillips party, please.’

‘Certainly, madame. Follow me.’

He led us through tables of elegant women and corpulent old gents. Everything tinkled and glistened, and heads turned to look at Fran, who kept her head high and looked as if she owned the place.

Tucked in a banquette in the corner were several manes of straight blonde hair. I stiffened.

‘Amanda, darling!’ Fran went over and gave her a kiss, careful not to get too close in case Amanda felt the wire, while also trying to avoid Amanda’s very elaborate lip gloss.

I studied the pert little face intently. If she was annoyed to see us, she certainly wasn’t showing it.

‘Hello there, darlings!’ Actually, there were some signs of strain. Looking round, I soon realized why.

We were half an hour late – we couldn’t bear to walk in on our own – and all along the banquette there were places laid. There must have been thirty, stretching a quarter of the way up the restaurant. However, surrounding Amanda there were five people, all identikit blonde types.

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Amanda smiled sharply. ‘Oh, they’ll be joining us later on – most people have so much on in London at the weekend!’

‘Oh, well, yes, of course.’ I sat down and bit into a breadstick to stop myself biting her.

Fran sat next to Amanda, her brown hair bobbing in a sea of blonde.

‘Introduce us to everyone, then.’ She was plainly making the effort.

‘Well, this is Jacintha, Araminta, Veronica, Larissa, and Mookie.’

‘Hello, everyone!’ said Fran gracefully.

‘Umm … hello, Mookie,’ I said.

There was an embarrassed silence.

‘Right,’ said Amanda. ‘Din-dins!’

Fran and I shot each other a nervous glance as we picked up the menu. Sure enough, everything inside looked exceptionally complicated and extremely expensive. I found something that looked just about do-able, then realized it was the side vegetables. I hated thinking of all the cool stuff I could have bought instead.

Amanda waved over the waiter professionally.

‘Four bottles of Bollinger,’ she said crisply. ‘For starters. And a bottle of Perrier for me.’

Fran and I shot each other a glance of pure terror at this latest development. Amanda caught it. ‘Don’t worry, girls, it’s all on me,’ she announced. ‘It’s so good to see my real friends.’

Her tone was tinged with disappointment, and I almost felt sorry for her, especially if she was including Fran and I in that analysis. Plus, the other five were so bland and identical-looking they only really counted as one person. So, quite a sad state of affairs really. I looked at the menu with renewed vigour and sampled my newly poured glass of Bollinger. What the heck, I thought. Friends were friends wherever you found them. And champagne was champagne and posh nosh was posh nosh, so I was bloody well about to enjoy myself.

‘To Amanda!’ I proposed, almost despite myself. ‘And her gorgeous hubby-to-be.’

‘Lady Amanda Phillips-McConnald,’ squawked one of the blondies – Jacintha, I think. ‘How absolutely glamorous!’

‘Shame about the hubby!’ squealed another one, and they all burst out laughing, and tinkled their glasses.

I ordered expensive pâté for starters and some very complex beef thing for the main course. I could also see the pudding trolley and was looking forward to it. Fran went for some extremely rare fish – unique, by the price of it – and young lamb. The other six ordered plain salads with lemon juice.

‘Come on, girls!’ I said jovially. ‘I thought we were celebrating! What are you having to eat?’

They looked at me and giggled like I’d just made the most enormous joke.

‘God, you wouldn’t believe the size of my thighs in the mirror last week!’ said one of them.

‘Jesus, I know. I thought I was going to break eight stone!’

They all gasped in unison.

‘I’m not eating more than five milligrams of fat a week until the wedding,’ insisted Amanda.

‘Five milligrams? You’ll die!’ I said in horror. ‘Or you’ll look like you’re about to. Between you and Frase, you’re practically two-dimensional anyway.’

She smiled gracefully at this mention of her life partner and went back to the juicy details of who was and who wasn’t throwing their guts up daily in the cause of national celebrity.

‘Well, you know she’s on TV every day; she has to look thin all the time. I’ve heard she lives on Diet Coke, Dexedrine and dipsomania!’

The blonde brigade laughed themselves stupid as the waiter put down our starters. Suddenly, I was extremely conscious of my thighs rubbing together, and didn’t feel hungry at all. I drank some more champagne. Fran looked at me enquiringly, then plunged in. She had one cooking ring in her bedsit, so didn’t get around to cordon bleu that often.

The girls were now looking expectantly at my foie gras; salivating, I was sure of it. Even the cold toast would have been enough for them. To distract myself, I turned to the nearest blonde.

‘So, what do you do?’

‘Oh, telly, you know.’

I didn’t, actually.

‘Really, who for?’

‘Oh, documentary programming. Terribly dull, really.’

‘It doesn’t sound dull. What have you worked on?’

‘Ectually, I … it’s more research ectually.’

Amanda nudged me from the other side.

‘Araminta finds guests for Trisha,’ she said, in a stage whisper. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it.’

‘Ohh. OK.’

Araminta was dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, although she hadn’t eaten anything. I think I’d upset her. Still, the distraction was enough to get stuck into my food, which was absolutely glorious.

I obviously had upset her, as she immediately lit up a Marlboro Light and drew on it deeply. As if on cue, the other five did the same. I saw my pâté disappear below a wreath of anxious smoke.

‘So,’ she shrugged, ‘what about you?’

‘Oh, I lead Arctic biochemical expeditions.’

‘Rally?’

Conversation over, she turned back to the blonde on our other side, and I said ‘Fuck!’ several times under my breath.

‘So, anyway, I was in Gucci,’ started one, ‘and I told him; I said, “If Meg Matthews is wearing it, I want nothing to do with it, OK?” That told him.’

‘Yah!’ nodded all the heads around the table. In amazement I noticed Fran nodding vigorously too. What on earth was she on about?

‘I mean, she’s like the Antichrist, yah? Just do the opposite of what she does and you’ll be all right?’

‘And Kate hates her, apparently,’ joined in another.

‘I think she’s fat,’ said one.

‘Are you kidding? She looks like she’s been flayed!’ I said.

Silence reigned. However, they were well brought up girls, and tried to be deliberately polite to us shitkickers.

‘Oh, you know, I am going to be in a film after all!’ yelled one suddenly. Fran’s ears pricked up. ‘Yah, Daddy stumped up a major stake. He’ll never see it again, of course, but the director’s so hunky, and apparently Rufus is interested.’

‘Put the fork down,’ I tried to psychically send to Fran, ‘just put it down and no one will get hurt.’

She was coping well, even if she did look a bit strained. I still hadn’t had a chance to ask her if she was going to see Angus again. Not that I should care. But she normally told me everything, and she’d hardly talked about this at all. Maybe it was only a drunken fumble that had passed.

Amanda was talking about the floral arrangements for the service, and I could see the caged look in Fran’s eyes. Fearing for Amanda’s safety, I distracted her.

‘So, what’s Fraser wearing for the big day then?’

‘Oh God, he can’t dress himself at all.’

‘I like Converse trainers,’ Fran interjected.

‘Yes, well, some people like lager and some people like champagne, Francesca.’

Fran made clawing motions behind her back.

‘Daddy took him to his tailor, so at least he’ll look semi-decent.’

‘Is he excited?’

‘About what? Going to a tailor?’

‘About the wedding, stupid.’

Amanda looked contemplatively at her glass.

‘I suppose so.’

I shot a completely overt look at Fran, who raised her eyes to heaven and nodded her head. Yes, the tape was on.

I gushed on: ‘Gosh, you two are going to be so happy together.’

She fixed me with a stare.

‘You know, I’m only telling you this for your own good, but you can be incredibly naïve, Melanie.’

Huh, tell me something I didn’t know.

‘This … I mean, hell, it’s a great excuse to have a party, but it’s also a bloody practical affair. That castle needs sorting out, and Daddy’s happy to put up the loot to do it with.’

My eyes widened. That was proof all right – I assumed. Then something struck me; she was so matter-of-fact about it. Maybe Fraser felt the same way? Maybe this was how tons of people got married. After all, the aristocracy had been doing it for generations. I supposed this was how it all worked. Not helped by the copious champagne, I suddenly felt sad.

‘Don’t you love him?’

She sniffed. ‘He’s a nice chap. It’s a good situation. It’ll be a fabulous wedding.’

‘Hyear hyear!’ said one of the Sloane clones.

Amanda took a drink and continued: ‘You don’t believe in all that Hollywood crap, do you? I mean, God, how many times do you have to find out, Melanie? Men are complete bastards. Look at what Alex did to you. That wasn’t a terribly Tom Hanks way to behave, was it, darling? This way, everyone wins. We’ll have a beautiful home and a beautiful life, and we’ll be as happy as any marriage is these days, because we went into it with our eyes open. Fraser is a nice boy and he’ll have no objection to us both living our lives.’ She turned to the waiter. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know why you waste your time bringing us anything at all if you can’t get the lemon juice right.’

I looked at Fran for support, but she was nodding in agreement – presumably to keep Amanda talking, but it didn’t feel that way. Suddenly the situation felt dangerous. The blood rushed to my head a bit. I stood up, unsteadily.

‘I don’t care,’ I announced in a trembly voice. The waiter thought I was talking to him and stepped forward, then hopped back again. ‘I do believe in all that crap. Well, not all of it. But some of it. The actually being in love with someone stuff. Ehm, yeah. And … and I think you lose. Because you’ve got a lovely bloke like Fraser and you take the piss out of him and you just think of that bloody castle – which I have seen, by the way, and it’s a complete heap of shit – and that bloody title and you’ve absolutely no idea what you’ve got and how happy he could make you. So, I think you lose.’

I turned and made to walk out of the restaurant. Realizing I didn’t have my bag, I made a dignified right turn into the toilets, then leaned over and looked at myself in the low-lit mirror, breathing heavily. My throat felt tight.

What on earth was I doing? If I wanted to start a fight with Amanda, I should have done it a long time ago. And who, exactly, was I defending? But then, if Fraser did have his eyes open – which I doubted – Angus certainly didn’t. He had a blind spot for Fraser the size of the chip on his shoulder. Oh God.

Fran came crashing into the bathroom after me with two fresh glasses of champagne. She was absolutely delighted.

‘Ohmigod, the look on her face! What on earth were you talking about?’

I sunk my head into my hands.

‘Really, I don’t know.’

‘You went for her.’

‘I know. And I don’t even know why!’

‘Well, she was asking for it,’ Fran reflected.

‘No she wasn’t! She might even be right, for all we know. That probably is the best way to get married: find a nice bloke that you get on with all right and then ignore each other for the next fifty years.’

‘Well, I’ve heard stupider reasons.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, you know my brother Brendan?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He got married because he kept losing his socks.’

‘Fuck off!’ I looked up briefly.

‘It’s true. He kept losing his socks, and one day he said, “That’s it, I’m fed up of losing all my fucking socks. The next woman I meet I’m going to marry, as long as she can count socks.” And he did.’

‘How are his socks now?’

‘Dreadful. She divorced him for being a sexist pig who talked about socks all day long.’

I giggled. ‘Complete socks maniac.’

‘Completely.’

We both smiled and sipped our champagne, and I felt better. It helped that the toilets were nicer than my entire flat.

‘So, ehm …’ I toyed with my glass.

‘What am I going to do about Angus?’

‘Psychic, you!’

She smiled. ‘I thought he might come up sooner or later.’

‘I thought he already did.’

‘Have you got a soft spot for him?’

‘No.’

‘Lying cow.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Well, to set your mind at rest – although, if you will let me be so bold, if you would dump Mr Trevelyan and go out with the dumpy yet delightful Mr McConnald I would be the happiest best friend alive – he phoned me to apologize.’

‘To apologize? Why?’

‘Because he wasn’t going to phone me. To which I said it was quite all right, I didn’t mind a bit.’

‘No, no, hang on. I don’t understand. He phoned you to say he wasn’t going to phone you?’

‘Yes. So if I was hanging around the phone, I could stop and get on with my life. Which of course I wasn’t. So we had a nice little chat and said our goodbyes. An extremely civilized end to a one-night stand, I have to say.’

‘That is too weird. I don’t know whether it’s extremely polite or a damning indictment of today’s decadent society.’

Fran checked her make-up in the mirror and I joined her, still wondering.

‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked.

I winced. ‘Oh God. Apologize to Amanda, I suppose. I must be off my head. They’re probably all pissing themselves laughing at me.’

‘The only way you could make those girls laugh would be to tell them Anthea Turner’s put on three stone. Do you want to stay?’

I weighed it up.

‘Did you get it on tape?’

‘If it works, then yes.’

‘Well, I suppose there’s no reason to stay, then.’

‘Not really.’

I thought longingly of the dessert trolley.

‘There’s always pudding,’ said Fran.

I clapped her on the shoulder.

‘Will there always be pudding, Fran?’ I asked gravely.

‘There will always be pudding, Mel. I promise.’

I took a deep breath and walked out there. All the girls were huddled together, obviously talking about us, ignoring their spiky-looking salads. Our main courses were being kept on a hot plate by our faithful waiter.

I walked over and grabbed the back of my chair for support.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Amanda, as sincerely as I could.

‘Oof, don’t worry about it for a second,’ she said, waving me to sit down. I smiled gratefully.

‘You’ve been a little naïve, haven’t you, darling? I shouldn’t expect it to stop now, just because we’re supposed to be grown-up!’ She tinkled the patented Amanda laugh. Beside her, I watched Fran bare her teeth.

‘Now! More champers all round! I absolutely insist.’

‘Rah rah rah!’ shouted the other girls, all of one mind. A half-witted one.

The waiter brought main courses for Fran and I, and we tucked in, letting the girls get on with discussing their boyfriends’ cars. Suddenly, there was a near hush in the restaurant. Looking up from my trough, I turned round to see what the matter was. Weaving between the tables was one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen in real life. Almost six foot tall, her shiny, pure blonde hair glimmered in the lights. She was dressed in pale, slim-fitting, elegant flowing things, and appeared to float rather than walk. The ratio of her legs to the rest of her body was about 2:1.

‘That’s who I’m going to look like when I’m grown-up,’ I whispered to Fran, who nodded violently. Behind her was a gorgeous, gorgeous bloke, wearing an expensive – but not showy – suit. He looked vaguely familiar.

Amanda stood up, wearing an eager expression I didn’t often see her use.

‘Lili! Darling!’ she screeched in her ladylike fashion. It was the most emphatic ‘darling’ I’d ever heard from her. ‘Over here!’

Lili’s swan-like neck moved a fraction, and she swept her eyes over our measly group. The empty spaces had been taken up by latecomers, noisy City boys showing off. Her eyes passed over me without even looking; I had obviously fallen below some imaginary bar whereby one became actively invisible.

Her white teeth glistened for a second as she bestowed the merest hint of a radiant smile. Amanda, amazingly, was all nerves and practically pleading.

‘You’ve met Jacintha, of course, from Freud’s … Araminta from Carlton … Please, take a seat. I’ll pour you a glass – I see you’ve brought a friend, ha ha.’ I could almost hear her accent crack.

Lili bent down elegantly, her white hands long and tapered. ‘Oh, we can’t stay, we’re off to Philippa’s bash. We just popped in to see everyone’ – her deep voice sounded pointed – ‘and now we’re off.’ She bestowed fifteen alternate kisses on Amanda’s cheeks then turned and floated off in a cloud of rare and precious perfume. The broad shoulders of the man disappeared as he gently guided her elbow across the floor.

I stifled a sudden terrible urge to giggle. Well, just when you thought you were pretty far down in the food chain, you discovered a whole new layer you’d never even dreamt of.

‘Who the hell was that?’ demanded Fran, chewing the last of her lamb.

‘Oh, isn’t she great?’ said Amanda, her eyes wide.

‘Well, from that in-depth and emotional meeting, I’d say she’s a bit of a stuck-up cow, actually.’

Amazingly, one of the blondies – I think it was Mookie – giggled independently, then blushed bright red and stared at her carpaccio.

Amanda sniffed. ‘Well, you would say that about one of the most important fashion people in London. And she came to my hen night.’

Fran and I looked at each other. ‘She didn’t come to your hen night!’ said Fran in amazement. ‘She did a Red Arrows fly-past of your hen night.’

I kicked her on the ankle. But Amanda seemed unperturbed.

‘Darling, she showed. That’s all that matters.’

Fran looked at me, but I simply shrugged. Nothing Amanda did made any sense to me.

As the main excitement of the evening was clearly over, I saw Amanda beckon the waiter. Fran and I eyed the dessert trolley eagerly.

‘Nobody wants pudding –’ Amanda’s voice rang out clearly – ‘so, just the bill, please.’

I let my shoulders sag and drank a little more champagne.

‘Can we go now?’ whispered Fran. I nodded.

‘And can you order us a couple of limos?’ said Amanda.

Good God, I didn’t even know you could do that. And I’d never been in a limo …

My eyes cut to Fran. She sighed and looked upwards, then nodded her head.

‘OK, everyone?’ shouted Amanda brightly. ‘Are we ready to party?’

The girls giggled and shrieked, ‘Yars!’

‘I know the limos are naff, but, hey, it’s my hen night! We’re gonna go crazy!’

Seven reserved posh girls did their best to look crazy as Amanda signed her name with a flourish and flashed her gold card. Then we manoeuvred through the chairs. Outside, as if by magic, were two absolutely ludicrous jet black limousines.

‘Our carriages await! Yanna’s, please!’ Amanda ordered the drivers.

Yanna’s was some desperately exclusive club in Mayfair. Shrugging her shoulders, Fran squeezed into the first of the cars, and I followed her. There was a slight pause outside as we realized that the girls all wanted to go in the second limo with Amanda and not us, but that got sorted out somehow, and the one I’d identified as Mookie slid in gracefully.

I looked around the limo. It was done up in high seventies style, with lots of burgundy leather, and there was a white fur rug on the floor, as well as a phone on a string, a TV, and a little fridge in which – hooray – nestled even more champagne.

‘My God, this is a white trash fantasy dream,’ sighed Fran as I opened the champagne. ‘I wonder how many revolting old men have shagged teenage blonde girls in the back here?’

‘Shall we ask the driver?’ I said mischievously, pointing to the button that raised the screen.

‘Do you really want to know? Yuck!’

‘What, if Mick Jagger had fifteen young virgins on the floor? Sure.’

‘It probably does one hundred and fifty hen nights a year and two smart functions,’ said Fran gloomily. ‘Really, it’s a bit of a wanker’s mobile.’

As if in confirmation, as the car inched its way down Regent Street, some students came up to the blackened window, shook something at us and yelled, ‘Rich bastards!’

I looked at Fran in disbelief. ‘We’re rich bastards!’

‘Well, hooray!’ said Fran.

‘Gosh, how terribly amusing,’ said Mookie, looking at the students, although she wasn’t smiling. Up till now she’d been sitting silently, and I’d assumed she was disgruntled at not getting into the Princess’s limo. ‘Did you know those chaps?’

I looked at her. ‘Ehm, no. Why, did you?’

She giggled at this. ‘No! Me neither!’

This felt almost like a conversation, but not quite.

‘OK. Are you having a good time?’

‘Why, erm … yars, of course.’ She looked a bit mystified by the question. ‘I mean, the restaurant was in Vogue this month, it’s almost impossible to get bookings.’

‘Really?’ said Fran. ‘God, we were lucky.’

‘How long have you known Amanda?’ I was persevering with the small talk, while making my usual subtle nudges to Fran to put the tape on. She glowered at me.

‘Well, Jacintha and I are cousins, and we were at school together with Philippa – she’s having another party tonight; she doesn’t like Amanda …’ – my eyebrows raised – ‘I think she had her eye on Fraser herself. Well, most of the Right Hons are spoken for, or will only go out with models, or are complete poofters, so there’s not that many left, rally,’ she finished sadly.

Oh.

‘Anyway, the Vryker-Lyons are old neighbours of ours from the village, so when Araminta went up, she met Amanda, and that’s how it all fits together, rally.’

‘Right. I see.’

‘So,’ said Fran, ‘are you and Amanda really good friends?’

‘Well, I’m going to be one of the bridesmaids.’ Mookie was blushing more and more at being bombarded with these questions. I wondered if, underneath it all, she might be rather nice.

‘That’s lovely,’ I said, reassuringly. ‘And … what do you think of Fraser?’

I expected her to get stroppy, remembering my little outburst earlier, or silent and defensive.

Instead she looked mildly uncomfortable, and blushed again.

‘Well,’ she said. Fran helpfully refilled her glass.

‘Go on, you can tell us,’ I said. ‘We won’t tell anyone.’

Except, you know, Fraser, I thought.

‘Scout’s honour,’ said Fran. With one hand behind her back.

She smiled. ‘You won’t tell Amanda?’

‘Oooh no.’

Slightly drunk, she burped and said, ‘You know, rally, I kind of agreed with what you said earlier.’

I nodded encouragement.

‘Well, when Fraser first came on the scene, he was rally innocent, you know? He kept getting invited to these parties, and he thought it was because some people he knew from university rally liked him, you know?’

‘How stupid can you get?’ I said, smiling through gritted teeth.

‘Rally! So at first we took the piss a bit, especially with Amanda rally coming on to him like that … I mean, she was still seeing that guy from Les Mis at the time.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Rally – I think she finished it, though. For the wedding and stuff.’

‘Well, that was good of her.’

‘Anyway, then I got to know him a bit more. And now I think he’s rally nice.’

‘Oh, he is.’

‘And Amanda bosses him about rally horribly. I mean, I know she’s dead lovey-dovey in public, but honestly’ – she lowered her voice – ‘I’ve heard her be rally nasty to him.’

‘There’s a surprise,’ I said.

Fran tutted. ‘For God’s sake, let’s just kill her,’ she said.

Mookie looked down suddenly and giggled. ‘Oh, it must be the champagne,’ she groaned. ‘Please, promise me you won’t tell anybody.’

‘Ehm … we promise.’

‘Then, kind of, I agree with you. Rally, I don’t think they should get married.’

I was touched.

We stepped out of the ridiculous car. There was a crowd of people queuing on the pavement, but Amanda knew where she was going, and she waved us ahead fiercely. Evidently a lot of people who hadn’t quite been able to drag themselves out for dinner were there, and Amanda passed up the line kissing and squealing with laughter. Yet again everyone was about eight foot taller than me, with designer clothes and loud voices. Mookie disappeared into a crowd of flowing blonde hair. The night was full of peacocks and screeching, and more exotic birds than us, and out of the club came the ghastly thumping of mid-eighties rock. All this detective work had made me extremely tired. I looked for Amanda. She was at the front of the queue, and I just overheard her say, ‘Well, of course, Lili came.’

‘Shall we go?’ I said to Fran.

‘Thought you’d never ask,’ she said, and we finally collapsed into a cab and made our way home.

Neither of us spoke until we were nearly at my house. One after another, we let out huge sighs, for quite different reasons.

‘Are you coming in?’ I said as I paid the driver. However, she was already halfway up the mildewed stairs.