Happy Endings (37 page)
Authors: Jon Rance
The biggest thank you has to go to Harriet. Without you I wouldn’t be doing any of this. You’re the best editor, support and friend a writer could wish for. I have loved working with you and you’ve made this book infinitely better. Thank you.
Poppy, for being a brilliant publicist and a lovely girl who knows where to find fabulous cakes.
I’d also love to thank everyone else at Hodder: the designer who has done a wonderful job with the covers, the rights team who continue to get the word out there one country at a time, and all the other lovely people who have done so much. I’m sure I owe you all a drink.
To Ariella, my fabulous agent, thank you for giving me a shot. I won’t let you down.
A whopping thank you to Fleur and Kath, two lovely women who read and helped me with early versions of
Happy Endings
. I hope you like the finished book.
To my usual crew of best friends and family. You know who you are. I love you all.
Lastly, a massive thank you to everyone who bought, read and reviewed
This Thirtysomething Life
. I received so many lovely emails and tweets, and it sounds a bit clichéd – though it is actually true – but if you didn’t buy my book, I couldn’t do this for a living. So thank you. Until next time. Cheers X
Exclusive to this digital edition of HAPPY ENDINGS
A warm and wonderful, witty and wise short story about two twentysomethings on the brink of marriage.
You may never look at your father-in-law in quite the same way again . . .
This Twentysomething Life
A sort-of prequel to This Thirtysomething Life
Jon Rance
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Jon Rance 2013
The right of Jon Rance to be identified as the Author of the Work
has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 78073 4
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
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London NW1 3BH
Saturday, July 29th, 6.00 a.m.
In bed. Can’t sleep. Emily in the land of nod. Two weeks until our wedding day. First week of the school summer holidays.
Why am I writing a diary? I’ve never written one before. I always thought they were for women, mainly, and people with lots of problems and ‘emotional issues’. I don’t really have lots of problems or ‘emotional issues’ to work through and I’m definitely a man (morning glory confirms this to be so) Then why the diary, Harry? No wait. If I’m going to do this diary business, I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to refer to myself as Harry. Writing a diary is sad enough, but referring to myself in the third person is stepping over a line. Maybe I’ll call it a blog, but just not show it to anyone. A blog just for me.
Back to the why. First off there’s Emily. My fiancée. The woman I’m marrying in two weeks. Shit, two weeks, that’s pretty soon. I still need to talk to Ben about the stag. He says it’s all organised, but I’m worried because, well, it’s Ben. He’s probably going to have us bungee jumping in the morning, followed by a Guinness in Dublin for lunch and then a quick helicopter ride to Edinburgh for a night out on the piss and then a parachute jump back into London for a hair of the dog in the morning, despite my requests for something chilled-out and more Harry-like. I still have to pay the final installments on the suits, talk to Granddad about the car – he’s arranged the car because he knows a man who knows a man who can get a Rolls Royce on the cheap; anyway, Emily is concerned he isn’t going to come through with an actual car or if he does it will be a Ford Escort. But besides all of that. Why am I worried? I love Emily more than life itself. I know she’s my soul mate, but still, I’m nervous about getting hitched. It’s so final. Married. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health – do I?
Looking across at Emily lying there now, a small strand of spittle dangling from her mouth and onto the pillow, it isn’t even a question. I do.
There is the other thing though. That feeling that has slowly crept into my life over the last few months. That feeling of finality. I’m an adult with a house, a career and now a soon-to-be husband. Am I ready? I’m only twenty-six. Have I travelled enough? Have I done enough crazy stuff? Do I have enough stories? Have I slept with enough women? I’ve never even bought a record on vinyl. Admittedly, I don’t have a record player, but I could get one.
11.00 a.m.
‘What are you doing?’ said Emily.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re typing, Harry. On your laptop. You never type.’
‘It’s just a blog thingy.’
‘A blog thingy, you? What’s it about? Oh, let me read it.’
‘It’s nothing. Just something for school. The life of a history teacher. Really boring stuff, actually. Something Miss Simpson gave me as a summer holiday project. Blah, it’s even boring me,’ I said and I think she bought it. I yawned for effect.
‘Don’t forget we’re meeting my parents for lunch at Café Rouge.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
How could I? Her Dad hates me. And he scares the crap out of me. Why am I marrying a girl whose dad is a copper? If anything happens and I ever hurt Emily, I know he’ll come after me. He definitely seems like the eye-for-an-eye type. He’ll probably frame me for a crime I didn’t commit and then I’ll have to escape from prison and become a fugitive. Like that film with Harrison Ford. I can’t remember the title, but he was a fugitive on the run from the police for a crime he didn’t commit. That will be me.
‘Just make sure you’re ready. We have to leave in half-an-hour.’
‘Roger that,’ I said and then she left to get ready.
I must say I quite like this diary business. It feels strangely empowering. Oh God, it’s already happened. I’m turning into one of those emotionally needy people. Before long I’ll be on
Trisha
talking about my feelings of inadequacy in the bedroom. Not that I’m inadequate in the bedroom. At least I don’t think I am. Make a mental note to ask Emily about my performance in the bedroom without actually asking her about it. Is that too needy?
8.00 p.m.
Emily in the shower. Last diary entry of the day.
Lunch was a disaster. Every time I opened my mouth Derek pounced like the alpha-male lion he is.
‘Where are we going on the stag?’ said Derek.
‘Not sure. Ben’s organising it.’
‘You don’t know where you’re going on your own stag? Dear oh dear, Harry. How about the car? Is the car sorted? Emily mentioned your Granddad was organising it.’
‘He is.’
‘But is it done? Will there be a car on the day?’
‘Yeah, I think so,’ I said.
‘Think so! It doesn’t fill me with confidence. You do know that this is a wedding, Harry and not a school fete. My daughter’s wedding. My only daughter, Harry.’
‘Granddad usually comes through.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, as long as he usually comes through, I won’t worry then!’
And so it went on until it was time to say goodbye.
‘See you next week,’ I said
I wish he wasn’t coming on the stag, but Emily said I had to invite him. ‘He is paying for the wedding,’ she said playing the emotional blackmail card. Not the stag though, I thought, but it seemed a tad churlish to argue about it.
‘If I know where we’re going,’ said Derek, squeezing my hand until I whimpered.
Here comes Emily. Night, night, diary. I mean blog. Actually, forget the night, night too. It sounds a bit naff. Harry, over and out.
Sunday, July 30th, 9.00 a.m.
Cloudy. I think it might rain. Emily having breakfast. There’s a new weatherman on the BBC. He looks awfully young to be a weatherman. I don’t think he’s ever had a shave.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ said Emily.
‘We’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Just have a nice time with Stella and leave the men to build the shed.’
‘That’s the problem. I wouldn’t mind if it was men, but it’s you, Ben and Steve.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ I replied.
Today is the day we finally build the shed. Since we moved into our lovely, new, well the place we bought on the cheap because it belonged to Emily’s great-aunt Beatrice, may she rest in peace, Wimbledon house six months ago, the one thing I’ve been dying to do is build a proper shed. A garden needs a shed and for some reason, Great-Aunt Beatrice left us sans shed. It will be the place where I can get away from it all. It will be a man’s place. A place where we’ll smoke cigars, drink beer and discuss football and other important man things. Emily said we can’t smoke cigars in the shed because it’s a fire hazard. She also said we had far more important things to do inside the house, but I convinced her that having a shed is integral.
‘Just don’t fill it full of shit,’ she said.
As if I would.
11.00 a.m.
Emily with Stella in Kingston-upon-Thames. Just waiting for Ben and Steve to turn up. Sunny. Good shed building weather.