Wedding Night
Page 10
Then there was the time Jamie dumped her and I made the mistake of saying, “Oh God, Lottie, poor you.”
She eviscerated me. “Poor me? What do you mean, poor me? What, Fliss, you’re pitying me because I don’t have a man? I thought you were a feminist.” She vented all her hurt on me in one long tirade, and by the end I practically needed an ear transplant.
So now I listen in silence as she talks about how she’s been meaning to explore the more academic side of herself for ages, and a lot of people don’t appreciate how cerebral she is, and her tutor entered her for a university prize, did I know that? (Yes, I did: she mentioned it straight after she broke up with Jamie.)
At last she tapers off into silence. I don’t breathe. I think we might be getting to the nub of things.
“So, by the way, Richard and I aren’t together anymore,” she says in a careless, dropping-something-from-the-tips-of-her-fingers manner.
“Oh, really?” I match her tone. We could be talking about a minor subplot in EastEnders.
“Yeah, we split up.”
“I see.”
“Wasn’t right.”
“Ah. Well. That’s a real …” I’m running out of anodyne one-syllable words. “I mean, that’s …”
“Yes. It’s a shame.” She pauses. “In one way.”
“Right. So, was he …” I’m treading on eggshells here. “I mean, weren’t you …”
What the fuck went wrong when an hour ago he was in the middle of a bloody proposal? is what I want to demand.
I don’t always trust Lottie’s version of events. She can be a little starry-eyed. She can see what she wants to see. But, hand on heart, I believed as firmly as she did that Richard was planning to propose to her.
And now not only are they not engaged but they’re over? I can’t help feeling profoundly shocked. I’ve got to know Richard pretty well, and he’s a good’un. The best she’s ever dated, if you ask me. (Which she has, many times, often at midnight when she’s drunk and interrupts before I’ve finished to announce she loves him whatever I think.) He’s sturdy, kind, successful. No chippiness, no baggage. Handsome but not vain. And in love with her. That’s the main point. In fact, the only point. They’ve got that vibe of successful couples. They’ve got that connection. The way they talk, the way they joke, the way they sit together, always with his arm hooked gently around her shoulders, his fingers playing with her hair. The way they seem to be heading for the same things—whether it’s take-out sushi or a holiday in Canada. They have togetherness. You can just see it. At least, I can.
Correction: I could. So why couldn’t he?
Bastard, stupid man. What exactly is he hoping to find in a partner? What exactly is wrong with my sister? Does he think she’s holding him back from some great romance with a six-foot supermodel?
I let off steam by chucking a balled-up piece of paper aggressively into my bin. A moment later I realize I actually need that paper. Bugger.
The phone is still silent. I can feel Lottie’s misery emanating down the line. Oh God, I can’t bear this. I don’t care how prickly she is, I have to know a bit more. It’s insane. One minute they’re getting married, the next we’re on Stage One of Lottie’s Breakup Process, do not pass Go.
“I thought you said he had a ‘big question’?” I say as tactfully as I can.
“Yes. Well. He changed his story,” she says in a determinedly nonchalant voice. “He said it wasn’t a ‘big question.’ It was a ‘question.’ ”
I wince. That’s bad. A “big question” isn’t a variety of “question.” It’s not even a subset.
“So what was the question?”
“It was about air miles, as it happens,” she says, her voice flat.
Air miles? Ouch. I can imagine how that went down. Ian Aylward is at my office window, I suddenly notice. He’s gesticulating energetically. I know what he wants. It’s the speech for the awards ceremony tonight.
“Done,” I mouth, in a blatant lie, and point at my computer, trying to imply that mere technology is holding up its arrival. “I’ll email it. Email. It.”
At last he walks away. I glance at my watch, and my heart ups its pace a little. I have precisely ten minutes to listen supportively to Lottie, write the rest of my speech, and touch up my makeup.
No, nine and a half minutes.
I feel yet another stab of resentment, directed straight at Richard. If he really had to break my sister’s heart, could he have chosen a day which wasn’t my most insanely busy of the whole year? I hurriedly pull up the speech document on my screen and start typing.
She eviscerated me. “Poor me? What do you mean, poor me? What, Fliss, you’re pitying me because I don’t have a man? I thought you were a feminist.” She vented all her hurt on me in one long tirade, and by the end I practically needed an ear transplant.
So now I listen in silence as she talks about how she’s been meaning to explore the more academic side of herself for ages, and a lot of people don’t appreciate how cerebral she is, and her tutor entered her for a university prize, did I know that? (Yes, I did: she mentioned it straight after she broke up with Jamie.)
At last she tapers off into silence. I don’t breathe. I think we might be getting to the nub of things.
“So, by the way, Richard and I aren’t together anymore,” she says in a careless, dropping-something-from-the-tips-of-her-fingers manner.
“Oh, really?” I match her tone. We could be talking about a minor subplot in EastEnders.
“Yeah, we split up.”
“I see.”
“Wasn’t right.”
“Ah. Well. That’s a real …” I’m running out of anodyne one-syllable words. “I mean, that’s …”
“Yes. It’s a shame.” She pauses. “In one way.”
“Right. So, was he …” I’m treading on eggshells here. “I mean, weren’t you …”
What the fuck went wrong when an hour ago he was in the middle of a bloody proposal? is what I want to demand.
I don’t always trust Lottie’s version of events. She can be a little starry-eyed. She can see what she wants to see. But, hand on heart, I believed as firmly as she did that Richard was planning to propose to her.
And now not only are they not engaged but they’re over? I can’t help feeling profoundly shocked. I’ve got to know Richard pretty well, and he’s a good’un. The best she’s ever dated, if you ask me. (Which she has, many times, often at midnight when she’s drunk and interrupts before I’ve finished to announce she loves him whatever I think.) He’s sturdy, kind, successful. No chippiness, no baggage. Handsome but not vain. And in love with her. That’s the main point. In fact, the only point. They’ve got that vibe of successful couples. They’ve got that connection. The way they talk, the way they joke, the way they sit together, always with his arm hooked gently around her shoulders, his fingers playing with her hair. The way they seem to be heading for the same things—whether it’s take-out sushi or a holiday in Canada. They have togetherness. You can just see it. At least, I can.
Correction: I could. So why couldn’t he?
Bastard, stupid man. What exactly is he hoping to find in a partner? What exactly is wrong with my sister? Does he think she’s holding him back from some great romance with a six-foot supermodel?
I let off steam by chucking a balled-up piece of paper aggressively into my bin. A moment later I realize I actually need that paper. Bugger.
The phone is still silent. I can feel Lottie’s misery emanating down the line. Oh God, I can’t bear this. I don’t care how prickly she is, I have to know a bit more. It’s insane. One minute they’re getting married, the next we’re on Stage One of Lottie’s Breakup Process, do not pass Go.
“I thought you said he had a ‘big question’?” I say as tactfully as I can.
“Yes. Well. He changed his story,” she says in a determinedly nonchalant voice. “He said it wasn’t a ‘big question.’ It was a ‘question.’ ”
I wince. That’s bad. A “big question” isn’t a variety of “question.” It’s not even a subset.
“So what was the question?”
“It was about air miles, as it happens,” she says, her voice flat.
Air miles? Ouch. I can imagine how that went down. Ian Aylward is at my office window, I suddenly notice. He’s gesticulating energetically. I know what he wants. It’s the speech for the awards ceremony tonight.
“Done,” I mouth, in a blatant lie, and point at my computer, trying to imply that mere technology is holding up its arrival. “I’ll email it. Email. It.”
At last he walks away. I glance at my watch, and my heart ups its pace a little. I have precisely ten minutes to listen supportively to Lottie, write the rest of my speech, and touch up my makeup.
No, nine and a half minutes.
I feel yet another stab of resentment, directed straight at Richard. If he really had to break my sister’s heart, could he have chosen a day which wasn’t my most insanely busy of the whole year? I hurriedly pull up the speech document on my screen and start typing.
