Don't Marry Thomas Clark (10 page)

‘What a nightmare morning!' Frank moans, walking back to the office. ‘Sandy, I'm really sorry, but the printer doesn't seem to be working. Would you mind waiting a few days for your copy?'

‘No,' I snap. ‘We have all the time in the world.'

‘And so that's it,' I grumble as I conclude the summary of my sad situation to my mother. We're speaking on the phone and I'm explaining to her why I'm not going to be in London for the next six months.

‘Well that's great, Sansy!' she exclaims enthusiastically. ‘I always thought you two made a marvellous couple. I just don't understand why you waited for so long before telling us everything.'

‘It was a big surprise for me too. And to be honest, I didn't even know where to start. I didn't want you to worry. Trust me, I've got it all under control.'

‘Worry? Why would I worry? You're about to get married, the only thing that counts is that you're happy!'

‘Mum, it's not what you're thinking. It's not a real wedding,' I explain for the hundredth time, but it's like talking to a brick wall – she's already gone off on a tangent. ‘It's not… Oh, never mind, whatever!' I give up.

‘Thomas, is such a nice boy. And his grandfather was a truly wonderful person. It's such a shame he couldn't have seen you two together. He would have been so happy. Have you told your father the news yet?'

‘More or less…'

‘Wait, I'll tell him'

‘No, really there's no need…'

‘Darling!' she shouts, completely ignoring my words.

‘Mum, it's not that important, really.'

‘Honey!' she shouts even louder. ‘Sansy's getting married! I said she's getting
married
! To who? To Thomas! Yes, Roger's nephew,' she screams, almost bursting my eardrum.

‘Mum…' I beg, imagining my father's face.

‘Sansy, I think your father almost choked on his martini olive.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘He can't stop coughing.'

‘Maybe you should get over there and administer the Heimlich manoeuvre,‘ I suggest.

‘No, don't worry, he's all right now,' she reassures me, before starting up again. ‘What splendid, splendid news, you must be in seventh heaven – and who wouldn't be, with a catch as wonderful as that. Ah! You have a great life ahead of you. You'll travel, drive luxurious cars, wear expensive clothes… You should have told me before, though. I wasn't really expecting anything like this,' she says, suddenly growing serious. ‘I don't really have time to organize a wedding right now, not so close to the elections for the new club president. I won't be able to help you for the next two or three months, and you'll have to have everything ready by then. How will you manage all by yourself? You'll have to make a guest list,' she says, sounding crestfallen, ‘organize the reception…'

‘Don't worry too much. A couple of canapés and a warm handshake will be fine,' I suggest.

‘Let's not think about it just now. Tell me how you two ended up meeting again. I want all the details! Tell me, where were you when he proposed?'

‘Oh, it was so romantic, mum! I'd just knocked back a bottle of whisky and a handful of barbiturates, and the ambulance was taking me to casualty, sirens wailing, when another car crashed into us and we both ended up smashing through the window of a well-known local coke dealer. And guess who was driving the car? Thomas! What a coincidence, right? We've been inseparable ever since and that's why I agreed to marry him without a moment's hesitation after that ridiculously short engagement. But I just couldn't resist him. And in memory of the day we were reunited, he came to to pick me up dressed as a paramedic and asked me to make an honest man out of him – and he'd even hidden the ring in a packet of Sodium Pentothal.'

‘A packet of what? Hold on, Sansy, my mobile's ringing.' And she puts the receiver down, demonstrating that she hadn't listened to a single word. ‘Lord, it's already four o'clock!' she exclaims when she comes back on the line. ‘Where's my head? Sansy, love, you'll have to tell me the rest of the story another time. I need to get over to Katerina's for my manicure now. What time does your train leave?'

‘At…;

‘Oh, but you're late! You'd better get a move on! I'll let you go, we'll have a chat when you get there. No, wait. I'll be at Mrs Taylor's for dinner by then. Let's talk tomorrow around ten, how would you like that? Oh damnation, I can't at ten, I forgot – I have my tennis lesson. I'll call you when I can, OK, Sansy? Yes? I'll talk to you soon then, dear – bye!'

Click… beep… beep… beep. Why I can't have a normal family?

*

‘The train now standing at platform 15 is the 16:12 train for Canterbury. The 16:12 for Canterbury, now standing at platform 15,' announces an adenoidal voice from the loudspeakers.

‘I knew it! I knew it!' I shout, as I grab my bag from Rufus' shoulder. He was kind enough to give me a lift to the station.

‘Relax, you've got ten minutes before it sets off,' he says, passing me my trolley.

‘Knowing my luck, it'll be the first train to leave early.'

I check one last time to see if I've got everything: handbag, shoes, dress, bags, plastic bags. Yes, I think I've got everything. Anyway, it's too late now.

‘OK, I think I'm ready to go,' I say, looking at him sadly as I realize that the moment for goodbyes has arrived. It might sound ridiculous, but I'm feeling like an unarmed soldier heading off into enemy territory. Rufus keeps making jokes, but he looks just as downcast as I do.

‘Be a good girl,' he says, mussing my hair.

‘And you remember to call me,' I remind him. ‘Here are the keys to the flat,' I add, handing him a keyring with a mushroom-shaped key fob. Once things with the bistro were sorted out, Kelly moved back to her dad's, so I need someone to check on my flat every once in a while until I get back, just to make sure there hasn't been a fire or that my living room hasn't been taken over by cockroaches or God knows what. ‘Please keep an eye on my post and let me know if anything important arrives.'

‘Such as?'

‘Oh, I don't know – a letter from George Clooney asking me to run away to Barbados with him, for example.'

‘Are you planning on getting your hands on
all
the available millionaires?'

‘I'd settle for one who would actually keep me in shoes for the rest of my life.'

‘The train now standing at platform 15…' comes the voice from the speaker's again.

‘Rufus…'

‘Sandy, you'd better get a move on or you're gonna miss your train,' he says, giving me a push towards the ticket office.

‘OK, OK, I'm going!' I say, and make my way into the crowd of passengers.

‘Ticket for Canterbury, please,' I ask the man at the ticket booth.

‘Just you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Return ticket?'

‘Yes, of course!' I say, and the man raises one of his eyebrows.

‘Have you got a Railcard?'

‘Er, yeah – somewhere.'

‘Could I just have a look at it, please?'

‘God. Do you absolutely
have
to?' He gives me a look. OK, got it – he absolutely has to. ‘Bloody hell…' I moan as I start rooting through my bag.

I must look awful. Panting, sweating, out of breath, trying to keep my balance with my purse between my teeth, my beauty-case clamped between my knees and a trolley propped up with one leg while I try to keep my bag on my shoulder. I do have a Railcard, but it's somewhere among all the useless junk I keep in here. And as if things weren't already complicated enough, the phone in my jacket pocket starts ringing loudly. I don't know if it's because I'm in a rush, or because of the stress and tension, but I start to panic. My fingers go weak and half the stuff in my bag falls out onto the floor. The passengers behind me in the queue let out a groan of protest.

‘Oh God, I'm so sorry…' I mumble in humiliation.

‘Hello?' I answer distractedly, as I bend down to pick up all my stuff.

‘Miss, I need your Railcard…' the ticket agent reminds me.

‘Coming, just a second. Hello?' I repeat once more.

‘Will you get a move on?! My train's about to leave!'

‘What is she playing at?'

‘Can you hurry up?'

‘What? Can you say that again?' I ask more loudly, over the chaos behind me.

‘Miss, there are other clients waiting!'

‘Please, just a moment,' I whisper to the stern ticket agent behind the counter, the old lady who's tapping her foot indignantly, the angry man standing behind her who makes no attempt to help me pick up my stuff, and, last but not least, the good Lord himself who watches from above but has somehow forgotten to send an army of angels to destroy the station, the city and the whole bloody country!

‘Hello? Hello?' I shout, covering my ear with my other hand in the hope of actually being able to hear something.

‘Sandy? Sandy, is this a bad time?'

Panic. Total, blind panic.

‘Mike?'

‘Yes, hi!' he says happily. ‘What's going on?'

Now? He has to pick
now
to ring me?

‘Miss!' snaps the ticket agent.

Not now, for God's sake!

‘Please, you don't understand,' I whisper in despair as I stand up.

‘So, what's going on?' asks Mike.

‘Nothing much… what about you?'

‘I was thinking about you,' he says, completely flooring me.

‘Were you?'

‘Do you mind?' he asks, sounding hurt.

‘No,' I answer, too quickly. ‘No, I… Why?'

‘No reason.'

He's obviously pretty laid-back, since he waits ages before answering. I, on the contrary, am surrounded by angry eyes and clacking dentures which are threatening to do away with me at any second. ‘Mike, I'm about to go into the hairdresser's,' I say, hoping this little white lie will encourage him to get to the point a bit faster.

‘Ah… Do you want me to call you back later?'

No, I don't want him to call me later. I want to know why he called. I need to know. Right now.

‘Listen, unfortunatel, like I said, I'm just about to go into the hairdresser's, and I think I'll be in there for the next two hours or so. I've got a moment now, though. So, how come you called?' And I start praying.

‘Well, I've got two tickets for the Nightwish gig. I know you're a fan, so I was wondering if you fancied coming.'

No! No! No! No! No!

Five months. I've been waiting for
five months
. Five months for this
exact
moment. Five months hoping. And he finally decides to ask me out just when I'm about to leave town and move in with another guy. What is this, a curse?

‘Mike, I'm so sorry,' I say in an agonized moan. ‘I have to go to Canterbury. And unfortunately I'm going to be there for the next six months,' supposing that I survive that long. ‘It's for work…' I lie.

‘Hadn't you decided to open a bistro?'

‘Yes, but I need to take care of a few things first. Believe me, I would have absolutely
loved
to,' I continue, though I ask myself why I'm even telling him all this. I've just lost any chance of seeing him again. Of course he'll never wait for me to come back.

‘Really?' he asks.

‘What?'

‘Would you really have liked to come?' he asks again in a peculiar, almost doubtful tone.

‘Sure, I…'

‘Miss!' the agent bursts out. ‘You're holding everybody up, and your bags are blocking the way. I'm going to have to ask you either to move aside or to hang up immediately and show me your Railcard, otherwise you'll have to pay the full price of £29.10 pounds for the ticket.'

‘But I…'

‘Now!' the agent orders, his face red. I nod in defeat.

‘Mike, I really have to go.'

‘Don't worry – we'll speak soon, OK?' but from his tone I can tell that this is the last time I'll see his name appear on the screen of my phone.

‘Sure,' I just about manage to murmur before I hang up. ‘I hope you're happy now,' I hiss at the slimeball sitting there behind the inch of bulletproof glass, which is the only thing stopping me from strangling him, ‘because you've just cost me the man of my dreams!'

‘Next!' he snorts, totally indifferent to my accusation. ‘Nightwish! Pah! I could've understood if it was Slayer!'

It's already late evening by the time I arrive at Garden House in my small rented car with the assistance of the navigator on my phone, so I drive along the brick path that cuts the garden in two and approach the main building with the headlights off. Once I've parked, I pull on a sweater and start unloading my bags, and a man of about forty appears at the front door and walks over to give me a hand. I've never seen him before and he's not wearing a uniform, but it's immediately obvious that he's part of the staff.

‘Leave it to me, Miss Price, I'll take that for you,' he says with a friendly smile.

‘Oh, thanks a lot.'

‘You're welcome,' he says, taking my shoulder bag and setting off towards the house, ‘let me show you the way. My name is Joe, I'm the head gardener here. Thomas told me you'd be arriving, so I stayed up to welcome you. You won't find anyone else in the house,' he informs me. ‘There's never usually anybody here on Fridays. It's the staff's day off, but don't worry – Clementine left some dinner for you. It's in a tray in your room, and if you need anything else, you can always call me.'

‘This is very kind of you, but I really don't want to be a bother. I'm sure I can manage on my own, so if you want to get off home…' I say, feeling a little embarrassed.