Behaving Like Adults (44 page)

Once upon a time, I would have shaved my head
and
my eyebrows to hear such a speech from Nick. But hearing it now, I felt an unexpected sweep of sadness. It was like hearing your child swear for the first time. I replied in a small voice, ‘I
like
that elephant costume.'

Nick smiled, tensely.

I sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, you can have a job. We do need someone to expand the website, we've neglected it out of fear. You need to take romance seriously, though, you can't have a sneery attitude. Nige is cynical but he was, believe it or not, devoted to the cause. We do need someone good to replace him. And it's not as easy as you might think.'

Nick leapt up and kissed me across the table. ‘I'll work like you wouldn't believe, Hol, you won't regret it. And how could you
doubt
that I take romance seriously? I read the second half of
Captain Corelli's Mandarin
. I take it very seriously indeed!'

I huffed, in reluctant amusement, through my nose. ‘Mandolin. Shall we order?' I said.

Under cover of my crispy smoked chicken starter, I engaged in silent discussion with myself. Nick chatted on about his mother, only requiring the occasional nod from me. Real romantic relationships, I decided, were a world away from imagined ones. Years back, when I heard from Nige that he and Marylou
knew
they'd marry before he even asked her, I'd been appalled. I hadn't met Nick then, and still assumed that a proposal came out of the blue, causing the woman to choke on her drink and/or burst into tears. I didn't think you discussed it prior to the event, as you'd discusss what you were having for supper.

But now, with five years' experience, I knew better. In a truly great relationship, hardly any subject was out of bounds. You were confident of the other person's love, of
course
you'd discuss marriage before the proposal, you trusted each other so you didn't have to play games. Games were for insecure people unable to distinguish between a
lover and an opponent. Why should I play games with Nick? He knew me as well as I knew myself, and vice versa. So what if he'd asked me for a job instead of marriage? I
knew
he loved me, and that he hadn't proposed changed nothing. And, indeed, why should he ask? He'd asked the last time.

If anyone should be proposing, it was
me
.

‘Nick,' I said, cutting short a ramble about Russell and Malcolm. ‘Can I ask
you
a question?'

He nodded.

I rose from my seat, then knelt by the side of his. ‘Nick. Will you marry me?'

He didn't burst into tears or choke on his drink. He slid off his chair and knelt on the floor beside me. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Why the hell not?'

‘“
YEAH,
WHY THE
hell not
”?' repeated Rachel. She exhaled smoke from her nostrils in a grey stream. ‘Hardly the stuff of fairy tales, is it, babes?'

I itched and wriggled in my burgundy silk. Not my choice – Sam and Bernard had asked me to be bridesmaid. Rach had organised the wedding party, as no one else would do it at such short notice. I was touched at the honour conferred on me by the happy couple, but still reeling from ‘Yeah, why the hell not?' It didn't make me want to
tell
people. Also, Nick was wandering around with a face like a wet dishcloth, which didn't create the desired impression.

‘No,' I said. ‘This is, though. Doesn't Sam look gorgeous?'

Rachel brushed a crumb off a white tablecloth. ‘In a pearls and Prozac kind of way.'

‘Rach! Be nice for one second. If you'd only seen the ceremony. They looked about to blister with joy. He swung her around afterwards and one of her shoes flew off and hit the registrar in the chest. Don't you look at them and think ‘aaaaaah!'?'

I adjusted my puffy lace sleeve. It pinched the skin, cutting off the circulation and leaving a deep purple ring on my upper arm. Secretly, I suspected I was twenty years too old to be dressing as Alice in Wonderland, but Sam – a vision in sleek cream designer satin – had apparently, ‘fallen in love' with this burgundy eighties meringue, and I didn't wish to spoil her special day by whining.

‘Haven't heard you say that in a while,' said Rachel. ‘But no. I look at them and think, “how jolly fortunate for both of you”.'

I wasn't entirely sure what she was implying and chose not to ask. This was a happy occasion and I didn't want Rachel's cynicism clouding my enjoyment of it. I had other background worries to ignore. We were clustered in the garden of Bernard's famed cottage in ‘rural Devon', pretending not to feel the cold. The bride and groom were posing for photographs in front of the brook that bubbled through their picturesque grounds. The sky was a crisp blue and, despite the chill, it was a beautiful afternoon.

A pity, then, that I didn't feel too well. I had the sort of stomach ache that drags down into your legs, pulling the life out of your whole body. I'd checked my pregnancy book, and it reassured me that it was normal to feel ‘period like pains' in the early months. I'd gained ten pounds in the last six weeks but couldn't tell if this was baby or blubber. I'd finally made it to my doctor, who had taken my word for it and referred me to my local hospital for a first scan but the appointment wasn't until the following week. I was eager to swell up so that Nick would stop trying to have sex with me.

Not that he'd pestered me recently. Since my proposal, the only physical affection he'd attempted was a brief kiss on the cheek. I knew why. His biological mother had rung him, a leisurely
three days
after their grand reunion, to say that she did want him to meet his half-brother and stepfather, but Malcolm was snowed under at work and couldn't fix on a date for at least a fortnight. So she'd be in touch nearer the time, okay? Nick had suggested that she ‘didn't want to overwhelm' him, but it seemed to require all his willpower to believe this. I didn't think it sensible to argue.

I hadn't mentioned our engagement to him again. Nor had I told anyone except Rachel. I suspected Claudia might
disapprove. And no doubt Issy would fix on some dubious subconscious motivation highly unflattering to both of us. My parents would be delighted, though, but I didn't want to waste this trump card. When I finally gained the courage to tell them about the rape, breaking the news of my engagement five seconds later would be a useful distraction tool. I was also dizzy with trying to remember who knew what about me. I was keen to trumpet around that I was pregnant (then everyone would
have
to be nice), but wanted to wait until the three-month scan confirmed that the foetus was healthy. This, I'd gleaned from Issy, was protocol.

Talking of Issy, the scowl on her face seemed to be permanent. She and Frank were, to the casual observer, a well-heeled couple sipping champagne and having a chat. To the non-casual observer – me – they were at war. Issy wore a cold smile and when she spoke to her husband it was through clenched teeth. When Frank lurched to snatch a raw carrot from the tray, Issy placed a beautifully manicured hand on the pale grey sleeve of his expensive suit. Only I noticed how tightly she clutched his arm. As if to say, ‘You
dare
move one inch away from me. We
will
present a united front'.

I glanced at Rachel. Then back to Frank. He caught my eye, and gave me a nervous wave. Rachel saw, and waved back. Frank glared. It was, as Issy might say, a micro-emotion, barely visible to the naked eye, gone so fast you might have imagined it. But I hadn't. My fist tightened round the stem of my wine glass.

‘Is there something going on between you and Frank?'

The accusation had escaped. Rachel flicked her shiny hair. ‘What?'

I picked irritably at my sleeve. It was awkward but I had to continue. ‘Rach. You and Frank have been behaving
very
oddly, and I'm not the only one who suspects.'

Rach turned her imperious bulk towards me. She was wearing a purple wool dress with (I hoped) fake ermine
edging at the wrists and neck, which added to an already regal aura. ‘Holly,' she replied, in a soft tone. ‘When a person undergoes what you have, their trust in human nature is irreparably damaged, and rightly so. But that person then faces a crucial challenge. To learn to distinguish between friend and foe.' She paused, and drained her champagne. ‘I am your friend, Holly, and if that isn't apparent, I am exquisitely sad for both of us.'

She swept off, treating me to a lavish back view of her purple UFO of a hat and leaving me open-mouthed. I lifted my heels, which were sinking into the lawn, and checked that Sam didn't need me to fluff out her veil or help her go to the toilet. She gave me the ‘Okay' sign – surely the only person in the western world still using this gesture without irony – so I blew her a kiss and turned back to Issy and Frank. I felt I should go over there, but I didn't want to. If Issy was in the mood I guessed she was, I'd be employed as Pig in the Middle of Feuding Couple. This is when an unwitting third party is dragged into the fray as an ally.

I've done it myself and it's shameful. You're filled with temporary (or otherwise) loathing for your partner, but as it's socially unacceptable to smack him round the chops in public, you employ a helpless friend to assist you in a verbal attack.

Such as, ‘What do you think of Nick's vile acquamarine suit, I did tell him it was a bit
Top Man
, but you know how stubborn he is . . .' A crime against friendship – not to mention against love – but some couples commit an even worse offence. Roping an innocent party into their
foreplay
. This is horrible. The hapless victim is forced to witness no end of drooling and pawing and to agree that yes, Nickety-Nick does have ‘the juiciest butt' in those jeans. (Note. I never ever did this. I merely provide the example.)

Who knew? Maybe they were weathering a rough patch and any woman in the same room as Frank was a target for Issy's rage. Rach
was
a flirt, and that couldn't help. At least
I'd confronted her. And been put in my place. And offended a friend. What more could I do?

‘You alright, Hol? Want to sit down? After all, a lady in
your
condition.'

Claudia had the grace to whisper this last bit, and rubbed my back as she spoke. Camille hovered close by, beaming, in a navy smock. I resented that she was obviously party to every single piece of personal information I'd shared with my younger sister over the past three months. If Claw confided in me, I'd never run home and blab it all to Nick. For a start, he wasn't always interested in the brand of minutiae that I panted over, and also, Claw had never said, ‘I'm going to tell you and Nick a secret,' she'd said, ‘I'm going to tell
you
a secret.'

It was a matter of honour.

‘I'm fine. Hasn't it been perfect?'

Claw and Camille nodded. ‘Tabitha from
Glamour
seems happy,' said Claw. ‘She's been “interviewing” Xak for ages. So sweet of Bernard and Sam to invite him. And great for us. Their photographer has taken about forty million snaps. He took a nice one of you, from the back.'

I tried to look haughty – impossible in puffy burgundy. ‘A contradiction in terms, surely. How are you, Camille?'

Camille smiled and sank her chin into her neck, which I understood to mean ‘fine'.

‘I was hoping,' she began in her soft voice, ‘that your friend Nige would be here. Claudia says he couldn't make it. This is going to sound ever so Murder Mystery, but I wanted to ask him a favour.'

My mind boggled.

Camille looked uncomfortable. ‘You know that I found that information about your grandmother's Paris apartment in an unmarked file. The thing is. The unfortunate thing is, I snuck a look in the same drawer yesterday, and it's
gone
. I kept meaning to photocopy it, but Stuart is constantly in and out. I need to find it, and I know I will. Men never think of good hiding places. But I have to get
him out of the office, and, this is going to sound stupid, but Claw says that Nige is a great mimic, and I thought he might be able to entice Stuart out of the office for an entire afternoon.'

Camille was looking increasingly sheepish, as well she might. Her idea was ridiculous. She'd ring Stuart's grandest client for a bogus query, tape the conversation, play it to Nige, he'd imitate the client, ring Stuart and demand an urgent meeting somewhere far off, Stuart would rush out and Camille could search his office for incriminating evidence.

I stifled a sigh. Camille and Claudia had been reading too much
Famous Five
. ‘Are you
sure
this is all necessary? Won't Stuart suspect?' I didn't want to be sued twice. ‘Maybe we should just leave it. I don't want you to get into trouble.'

Claudia started jumping up and down on the spot, a habit she'd favoured aged six when urging our father to buy her ice cream. ‘Holleeeee! Come
on
, it'll be fine. We need the proof of that document. Look, we'll ask Nige, I know he'd love to do it. Tell you what, we won't mention it again till it's done, so you don't have to worry, how's that?'

‘Too late,' I replied, looking at the muddy patch she'd created in Bernard's lawn. ‘I know. And I'm worried.'

Ting! Ting! Ting!

Bernard's best man – with the aid of a spoon and a glass – was requesting our attention. Glad for the distraction, I sank into a chair. I could barely see the bride and groom over the wedding cake, an austere white marzipan tower bang in the middle of the top table. Nick, who'd disappeared to make a phone call, dropped into a seat beside me. I smiled and he squeezed my hand. ‘They're a handsome couple,' he whispered. ‘Great for the agency profile. And it's a classy wedding. Very
Glamour
-worthy.' I could tell that he was trying to be cheerful and to say the right thing.