Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction (27 page)

I heard Daisy arrive. I let myself out and went to the top of the stairs and looked down. She was surrounded by people. Brain-box Henderson helped her off with the long black coat she was wearing. She looked up and saw me. She held her gaze and I held mine. It was impossible to tell from her expression if (a) she still loved me and would keep quiet about our brief affair, or (b) she loved me, but was so eaten up with jealousy and rage that she
would denounce me in front of our families and friends, or (c) she no longer loved me and didn’t care if I married Marigold or not.

Netta bustled over and introduced Daisy to my parents. I watched Daisy compliment my mother on her hat. I stayed watching as my mother took off the hat and invited Daisy to try it on. I heard Daisy say, ‘I’ll go upstairs and look at myself in the bathroom mirror.’ When she was halfway up the stairs she said, ‘Hello, Adrian.’

I said, ‘Hello, Daisy.’

Marigold shouted from the bottom of the stairs, ‘There’s a perfectly good mirror in the hall.’

Daisy shouted back, over her shoulder, ‘I need to do my make-up.’

When she got to the top of the stairs, she said quietly, ‘I can’t believe you’re going through with this charade.’

I said, ‘Neither can I, Daisy, but Marigold’s having my baby. I’ve let down two children. I can’t let down another.’

She slashed red lipstick across her lips, then plunged a hand inside the neckline of her black cashmere sweater and adjusted her cleavage.

I said to her, ‘Aren’t you cold in that skirt? It’s little more than a belt.’

She said, ‘Yes, I am cold. But I’m so miserable and unhappy that I don’t care.’

She then advanced on me with the wand of her mascara, holding it like a small dagger. I backed out of the bathroom doorway and went downstairs.

When the company were assembled in what Michael Flowers called the ‘drawing room’, the gruesome proceedings began.

Michael Flowers introduced Margaret, the vicar, by saying, ‘Netta and I reared the girls to make their own minds up about religion. I embraced humanism. Daisy is a hedonist as far as one can tell...’

There was polite laughter. I looked at Daisy. She took a deep swig of champagne, followed by an even deeper drag on the cigarette she’d just cadged off my mother.

Flowers went on, ‘Poppy is a disciple of Ron Hubbard and is an active member of the Church of Scientology, but sweet, sweet Marigold has lately embraced the good old Church of England. Which is where Margaret comes in, so over to you, vicar.’

Margaret had a fresh, open face and a Shirley Williams hairstyle. She seemed a little too anxious to prove that she was one of us. She said, ‘I think marriage is a little like the buffet table over there. On it there are things I enjoy eating, such as the ratatouille casserole and the baked courgettes. However, there are some things there I loathe and despise. I cannot abide strawberry cheesecake and mushrooms make me sick to my stomach.’

My father whispered, ‘Ungrateful cow. I don’t like the food, but I’m not complaining.’

Margaret stretched the food/marriage analogy until it broke. The company exhibited bewilderment and incomprehension.

Netta then passed around what she called preliminary sketches of the bridal gown and the bridesmaids’ dresses. She coyly told me that I was not allowed to peek.

When the sketches got to Daisy, I saw her pull her mouth down in a sign of disgust and heard her say, ‘Mint green? I look foul in green.’

I was put on the spot by Netta when she asked me if I had chosen my best man. Nigel and Parvez turned to me expectantly, but I did some quick thinking and said to my father, ‘Dad, you have stuck by me in good times and in bad, will you help me out now please?’

My father took his baseball cap off and wiped his eyes with it, and my mother said, ‘Adrian, you’ve made an old man very happy.’

After the ushers had been sorted out – Nigel, Parvez and Brain-box Henderson and a bearded Flowers cousin – Michael Flowers said, ‘I would like to propose a toast to the happy couple. However, before I do, I want to say a few words about my own marriage. Netta and I have been married for over thirty years and we have been, I think, mostly happy, but now alas our marriage has finally come to an end. Netta has found somebody she loves more than she loves me, and so I must let her go.’ His voice started to break and the partygoers’ smiles froze on their faces. He turned to Netta and said, ‘Go to him, go to him soon, my love.’

Netta said, ‘What? Now? Don’t be ridiculous, Michael, I have a party to run.’

My mother saved the day by saying loudly, ‘A toast to Marigold and Adrian.’

There were a few feeble shouts of ‘Hip, hip, hooray.’

I overheard Daisy saying to my mother, ‘Every social occasion ever held in this house ends in tears and snot.’

Parvez and Fatima went up to Netta Flowers to say goodnight. Fatima said, ‘We have to get back for the dog.’

When I was seeing them to the front door, I said, ‘You haven’t got a dog, Fatima.’

She said, ‘I know, but it’s what English people say when they want to go home, innit?’

The next time I saw Daisy she was wearing her long black coat and had her bag over her shoulder. I asked her where she was going.

She said, ‘I’ve got to get out of here. I’m going to try to catch the last train back to London.’

I said, ‘The station is on the way to Rat Wharf. I’ll give you a lift.’

There were protests from various people, but I didn’t care. Within minutes of leaving the front drive, we were parked in a lay-by hidden from the road and in each other’s arms.

We started undressing as we were climbing the stairs at Rat Wharf. Within seconds of opening the front door, we were on the futon and I was enveloped in the musky softness of Daisy’s body.

Mia Fox banged on my ceiling several times, but for once I ignored her and carried on with what I was doing. Afterwards, when we were drying each other after showering, I asked Daisy if she had changed her mind about war with Iraq and admitted that I fully supported Mr Blair.

She said slowly, ‘My God. I’m glad you’ve told me, but it’s like being told that somebody you love secretly votes Tory. You could never look at them in the same way again.’ Then she said thoughtfully, ‘It’s going to be very difficult to fully commit myself to somebody who is in favour of invading Iraq.’

I said, ‘Daisy, Mr Blair is liberating Iraq from the tyrant, Michael Flowers.’

Daisy laughed and said, ‘I know my father is a megalomaniac, but he doesn’t rule Iraq.’

I apologized and said to her, ‘No, but it was an interesting Freudian slip. Do you think, Daisy, that you are against the war because you are subconsciously revolting against your father?’

Daisy said, ‘There’s nothing
subconscious
about it. I kicked my father in the balls once. It was when he was trying to force me into a minibus he was driving to Glastonbury. It was the first time I ran away to London. I hated festivals, the mud, the veggie burgers and having to listen to Dad and Netta in the next tent, grunting like farmyard animals. So no, I’m against the Iraq war because it’s illegal, immoral and stupid.’

We talked about Marigold endlessly. Daisy said, ‘Marigold always spoiled everything for me. On my eleventh birthday she sneezed all over my cake and blew out the candles. Netta didn’t even bother cutting it. Now it’s her who’s having your baby.’

I explained to Daisy that I had no memory of making love to Marigold on New Year’s Eve. I told her about the purple cocktail that some unknown person had handed to me and that the next thing I remember was waking up in bed with Marigold.

I asked Daisy if she felt guilty. She flicked her wet hair over her face and started to brush it. From behind this black curtain she said, ‘I don’t
do
guilt. It’s a totally negative emotion. It’s self-indulgent and corrosive.’

When the sky began to lighten I made coffee and, although it was cold, we put our coats on and sat out on
the balcony talking quietly. Gielgud and his wife were grooming each other on the far bank.

Daisy asked, ‘Are you going to marry Marigold?’

I said, ‘It’s the baby, Daisy.’

It wasn’t the answer she wanted. She got up and went inside and started to get dressed. She whirled round and said, ‘I’m going to ask you two questions. The first is, do you love her?’

I answered immediately, ‘No.’

The second is, ‘Do you love
me
?’

This time I answered, ‘Yes.’

She said, ‘So tell her the wedding is off before they hire the fucking marquee!’

I didn’t tell Daisy that I had already written a cheque to Celebration Marquees of Seagrave.

I asked Daisy for advice on how to tell Marigold.

She said, ‘I don’t care. Hire a billboard. Get the Red Arrows to write it in the sky. Announce it on the
Trisha Show
or write her a fucking letter. Now drive me to the station. I’ve got to be at Canary Wharf by 10.30. Chris Moyles is abseiling off the sixteenth floor to promote Radio One.’

On the station platform we clung together like long-separated identical twins, when I murmured, ‘I don’t know what you see in me.’

She said, ‘I’m not frightened of you and your voice is incredibly sexy.’

When the train pulled out, she got up from her seat and ran to the door, pulled the window down and shouted, ‘Write the fucking letter!’

Jack Straw wants Saddam Hussein to make a television broadcast admitting having Weapons of Mass Destruction. I hope Saddam complies. I could then get my deposit back and win a moral victory from Latesun Ltd. And Glenn will be safe.

I sat with a pad and pen in front of me for over an hour, trying to compose a letter breaking off my engagement to Marigold. All I managed to write was:

Dear Marigold

This is the most difficult letter I have ever had to write...

Then the members of the writers’ group started to turn up – Ken Blunt, followed by Gary Milksop and the two serious girls. The meeting was acrimonious. I inadvertently started a row when I said that I was glad to be able to stop thinking about the war for once and concentrate on writing.

Ken Blunt started shouting that it was a writer’s duty to write about war, and that he was not interested in the type of writing that goes on for three fucking pages, wanking on about the colour of a fucking autumn leaf.

Mia Fox banged on the ceiling and I asked Ken to keep the language down. Gary Milksop whined that he resented Ken’s personal attack and reminded Ken that he, Gary, had written a short story recently called ‘The Autumn Leaf’.

Ken said, ‘You should rewrite “The Autumn Leaf”, Gaz, and change the setting to Afghanistan or somewhere with a bit of edge to it.’

Gary said that he followed the advice of successful professional writers and always wrote about what he knew. And he knew autumn leaves.

One of the serious girls said, ‘And Gary has never been to Afghanistan, he is a literary writer. He’s Leicester’s Proust.’

Midnight

A text from Daisy:

Kipling, Have u told her yet. Love French Fancy.

Texted back:

Darling French Fancy, I am composing the letter. Love
Kipling.

Disaster. Gielgud broke Gary Milksop’s arm last night. At least, the swan was responsible for Gary slipping on the swan shit on the landing and falling down the stairs. He turned on the two weeping girls and said, ‘You’re both to blame! You know I can’t see in the dark.’ They drove him to A&E, where they waited with him for six and a half hours.

The next I heard of the incident was from Gary’s
solicitor, John Henry of John Henry, Broadway and Co., who rang to find out my postcode.

Between serving customers in the shop I composed a letter.

Ms Marigold Flowers

Unit 4

Chez Flowers

The Old Battery Factory

Beeby on the Wold

Rat Wharf

Leicestershire
LE
19

Grand Union Canal

Leicester
LE
1

Dear Marigold

This will be a very difficult letter to write, but I can no longer live a lie. The truth is, Marigold, that I am not nearly good enough for you. You outclass me in looks, intelligence and in your marvellous ability to construct doll’s houses from waste materials. I am not worthy of your love, dearest. Try to forget that you ever knew me.

I will, of course, provide for the baby and be as good a father to him/her as I can in the circumstances.

I will arrange to collect the engagement ring at a future date when you have had time to come to terms with this news.

Yours, with thanks for the good times,

Adrian

I put it in an envelope, I affixed a stamp to the top right-hand corner, I wrote the address on the front, I took it to the post box, but I could not deliver the final
coup de grâce
.

I put the envelope back in my pocket and walked home to Rat Wharf, passing two post boxes on the way.

Midnight

Daisy texted:

Kipling, Have you sent the letter? French Fancy.

I texted back a one-word reply:

No.

I was woken at 6.30 this morning by a violent ringing on my intercom buzzer. It was another foreign person with a Special Delivery letter from Mr John Henry’s firm of solicitors.

Mr Henry has asked for an interim payment upfront of £5,000 to allow his client, Mr Gary Milksop, to employ a typist to enable him to continue working on the manuscript of his novel.

I tried to ring Gary before going to work, but all I got was his feeble voice on his answer phone saying, ‘Hello, I’m not here. I’ve had my arm broken by a swan and I’m staying with my mother until further notice. Please leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m able to manipulate the buttons on my phone with my left hand.’

Marigold met me after work and we walked together along the towpath to Rat Wharf. She looked quite pretty and talked excitedly about our coming wedding. I still
had the letter in my pocket and thought how glad I was that Marigold did not have X-ray vision like Superman.