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62: Fliss
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Our Wedding Night 1: Lottie
Twenty days earlier... LOTTIE I’ve bought him an engagement ring. Was that a mistake? I mean, it’s not a girly ring. It’s a plain band with a tiny diamond in it, which the guy in the shop talked me into. If Richard doesn’t like the diamond, he can always turn it round. Or not wear it at all. Keep it on his nightstand or in a box or whatever. Or I could take it back and never mention it. Actually, I’m losing confidence in this ring by the minute, but I just felt bad that he wouldn’t have anything. Men don’t get the greatest deal out of a proposal. They have to set up the occasion, they have to get down on one knee, they have to ask the question, and they have to buy a ring. And what do we have to do? Say “yes.” Or “no,” obviously. I wonder what proportion of marriage proposals end in a “yes” and what proportion end in a “no”? I open my mouth automatically to share this thought with Richard—then hastily close it again. Idiot. “Sorry?” Richard glances up. “Nothing!” I beam. “Jus
Our Wedding Night 2
Oh God, I’m blinking.…“Lottie?” Richard has noticed my damp eyes. “Hey, Daisy-doo. Are you OK?What’s up?”Even though I’ve been more honest with Richard than I have with any other boyfriend, it’s probably not a good idea to reveal my entire thought process to him. Fliss, my big sister, says I think in Hollywood Technicolor and I have to remember that other people can’t hear the swooping violins.“Sorry!” I dab at my eyes. “Nothing. I just wish you didn’t have to go.”Richard is flying off tonight to an assignment in San Francisco. It’s three months—could be worse—but I’ll miss him terribly. In fact, it’s only the thought that I’ll have a wedding to plan which is distracting me.“Sweetheart, don’t cry. I can’t bear it.” He reaches out to take my hands. “We’ll Skype every day.”“I know.” I squeeze his hands back. “I’ll be ready.”“Although you might want to remember that, if I’m in my office, everyone can hear what you’re saying. Including my boss.”Only a tiny flicker of his eyes giv
Our Wedding Night 3
His fingers squeeze mine, and it’s as though we have our own private code. I almost feel sorry for other couples, who have to spell things out. They don’t have the connection we do.For a moment we’re just silent. I can feel a cloud of happiness surrounding us. I want that cloud to stay there forever. I can see us now in the future, painting a house, wheeling a pram, decorating a Christmas tree with our little toddlers.… His parents might want to come and stay for Christmas, and that’s fine, because I love his parents. In fact, the first thing I’ll do when this is all announced is go and see his mother in Sussex. She’ll adore helping with the wedding, and it’s not as though I’ve got a mother of my own to do it.So many possibilities. So many plans. So much glorious life to live together. “So,” I say at last, gently rubbing his fingers. “Pleased? Happy?”“Couldn’t be more happy.” He caresses my hand.“I’ve thought about this for ages.” I sigh contentedly. “But I never thought … You jus
Our Wedding Night 4: Fliss
FLISSOh God. I want to weep. It went wrong. I don’t know how, but it went wrong.Every time one of Lottie’s relationships ends, she immediately talks about doing a master’s degree. It’s like a Pavlovian reaction.“Maybe I could even go on to do a PhD, you know?” she’s saying, with only the tiniest shake in her voice. “Maybe do some research abroad?”She might fool the average person—but not me. Not her sister. She’s in a bad way.“Right,” I say. “Yes. A PhD abroad. Good idea!”There’s no point in pressing her for details or asking bluntly what happened. Lottie has her own distinct process for dealing with breakups. You can’t hurry her and you must not express any sympathy. I’ve learned this the hard way.There was the time she split up from Seamus. She arrived on my doorstep with a carton of Phish Food and bloodshot eyes and I made the elementary error of asking, “What happened?” Whereupon she exploded like a grenade: “Jesus, Fliss! Can’t I just come and share ice cream with my siste
Our Wedding Night 5
As I hurry back down the corridor, I see Gavin, our publisher, at the far end. He’s ushering an unmistakable forty-inch waist into the lift. As I’m watching, the Gruffalo turns and flashes a menacing anti-smile at me. He holds up four stubby fingers and is still doing so as the doors close.I know what that means, and I’m not going to be intimidated. So his new hotel got four stars from us instead of five. He should have created a better hotel. He should have invested in slightly more sand to lay on the concrete base of his “award-winning, man-created beach” and tried hiring slightly less pretentious staff.I head into the Ladies’, survey my reflection, and wince. Sometimes I’m genuinely shocked at the version of me in the mirror. Do I look so unlike Angelina Jolie? When did those shadows appear under my eyes? Everything about me is too dark, I abruptly decide. My hair, my brows, my sallow skin. I need to get something bleached. Or maybe everything, all at once. There must surely be a
Our Wedding Night 6
The thing about avoiding people at parties is, it’s quite easy if you’re hosting. You always have an excuse to move away from the conversation just as you see a forty-inch pink-striped shirt bearing down on you. (So sorry, I must greet the marketing manager of the Mandarin Oriental, back in a moment.…)The party has been going for half an hour and I’ve managed to avoid the Gruffalo completely. It helps that he’s so massive and the atrium is so crowded. I’ve made it appear totally natural that every time he gets within three feet I’m striding away in the opposite direction, or out of the room completely, or, in desperation, into the Ladies’….Damn. As I emerge from the Ladies’, he’s waiting for me. Gunter Bachmeier is actually standing in the corridor, staking out the door of the Ladies’.“Oh, hello, Gunter,” I say smoothly. “How delightful to see you. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you—”“You hef been avoiding me,” he says in severe guttural tones.“Nonsense! Are you enjoying the
Our Wedding Night 7
My ears twitch. Uh-oh. A “goal.” That’s one of my post-breakup alarm-bell terms. Along with “project,” “change of direction,” and “amazing new friend.”“Right,” I say cautiously. “Great! So … um … what’s your goal?”My mind is already scurrying around the possibilities. Please not another piercing. Or another crazy property purchase. I’ve talked her out of quitting her job so many times, it can’t be that again, surely?Please not move to Australia.Please not “lose a stone.” Because 1) she’s skinny already, and 2) last time she went on a diet, she made me be her “buddy” and instructed me to phone up every half hour and say, “Keep to the plan, you fat bitch,” then complained when I refused.“So, what is it?” I press her as lightly as I can, my entire body screwed up with dread.“I’m going to fly to San Francisco on the first flight I can get and surprise Richard and propose!”“What?” I nearly drop the phone. “No! Bad idea!”What’s she planning to do, burst into his office? Wait on his
Our Wedding Night 8
LOTTIEI didn’t sleep all night.People say that, and what they mean is: I woke up a few times, made a cup of tea, and went back to bed. But I really didn’t sleep all night. I counted every hour going past.By one A.M. I’d decided that Fliss is totally, utterly wrong. By one-thirty I’d found myself a flight to San Francisco. By two A.M. I’d written the perfect, loving, and passionate proposal speech, including lines by Shakespeare, Richard Curtis, and Take That. By three A.M. I’d filmed myself making it (eleven takes). By four A.M. I’d watched myself and realized the horrible truth: Fliss is right. Richard will never say yes. He’ll just get freaked out. Especially if I make that speech. By five A.M. I’d eaten all the Pralines & Cream. By six A.M. I’d eaten all the Phish Food. And now I’m slumped on a plastic chair, feeling nauseous and regretting the lot of it.A tiny part of me still wonders if by walking out on Richard I made the biggest mistake of my life. If I’d hung on, bitten my
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