Wedding Night
Page 20
I have a sudden vision of Lottie dragging Richard up the aisle by his hair, and I wince. I know exactly where that story ends up. It ends up in the office of Barnaby Rees, Family Lawyer, at five hundred quid for the first consultation.
“Lottie, listen,” I say severely. “And listen hard. You don’t want to go into a marriage anything less than two hundred percent sure it’s going to work out. No, make that six hundred percent.” I eye Daniel’s latest divorce demands morosely. “Believe me. It’s not worth it. I’ve been there and it’s … Well, it’s hideous.”
There’s silence at the other end of the phone. I know Lottie so well. I can practically see her hearts-and-flowers image of proposing to Richard on the Golden Gate Bridge melting away.
“Think about it first, at least,” I say. “Don’t jump in. A few weeks won’t make any difference.”
I’m holding my breath, crossing my fingers.
“OK,” says Lottie at last, sounding forlorn. “I’ll think about it.”
I blink in astonishment. I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it! For the first time in my life, I’ve headed off one of Lottie’s Unfortunate Choices before it even happened. I’ve stamped out the infection before it could take hold.
Maybe she’s getting more rational in her old age.
“Let’s go out to lunch,” I suggest, to cheer her up. “My treat. As soon as I get back from holiday.”
“Yes, that would be nice,” says Lottie in a small voice. “Thanks, Fliss.”
“Take care. Talk soon.”
She rings off and I exhale my frustration in a groan—although I’m not sure who I’m most frustrated with. Richard? Daniel? Gavin? Gunter? All men? No, not all men. Maybe all men except various honorable exceptions, viz: Barnaby; my lovely milkman, Neville; the Dalai Lama, obviously—
My eyes suddenly focus on my reflection in my computer screen and I lean forward in horror. I have a Nerf bullet stuck in my hair.
Great.
3
LOTTIE
I 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 tongue and never mentioned marriage, might our relationship have worked out? Somehow?
But the rest of me is more rational. People say that women work on intuition and men on logic, but they’re talking rubbish. I studied logic at university, thank you very much. I know how it goes. A=B, B=C, therefore A=C. And what could be more logical than the following detached and succinct argument?
Premise one: Richard has no intention of proposing to me; he made that fairly clear.
Premise two: I want marriage and commitment and, hopefully, one day, a baby.
Conclusion: Therefore I am not destined to be with Richard. Therefore I need to be with someone else.
Other conclusion: Therefore I did the right thing, breaking up with him.
Further conclusion: Therefore I need to find another man, who does want to make a life with me and doesn’t get that wide-eyed, starey look at the very mention of marriage, like it’s such a terrifying idea. Someone who realizes that if someone spends three years with you, maybe they are thinking of commitment and kids and a dog, and … and … decorating a Christmas tree together … and why is that such a bad thing? Why is it so totally and utterly off the agenda and unmentionable? When everyone says we’re such a great couple and we’ve been so happy together, and even your own mother was hinting that we might end up living near them, Richard?
OK, so maybe not that succinct. Or detached.
I take a sip of coffee, trying to soothe my nerves. Let’s say I’m being as calm and logical as one could expect in the circumstances, which are that I had to catch the 7:09 to Birmingham on no sleep and all the Metros had already gone. And I’m about to give a recruitment talk to a hundred students in an auditorium that smells of cauliflower cheese.
“Lottie, listen,” I say severely. “And listen hard. You don’t want to go into a marriage anything less than two hundred percent sure it’s going to work out. No, make that six hundred percent.” I eye Daniel’s latest divorce demands morosely. “Believe me. It’s not worth it. I’ve been there and it’s … Well, it’s hideous.”
There’s silence at the other end of the phone. I know Lottie so well. I can practically see her hearts-and-flowers image of proposing to Richard on the Golden Gate Bridge melting away.
“Think about it first, at least,” I say. “Don’t jump in. A few weeks won’t make any difference.”
I’m holding my breath, crossing my fingers.
“OK,” says Lottie at last, sounding forlorn. “I’ll think about it.”
I blink in astonishment. I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it! For the first time in my life, I’ve headed off one of Lottie’s Unfortunate Choices before it even happened. I’ve stamped out the infection before it could take hold.
Maybe she’s getting more rational in her old age.
“Let’s go out to lunch,” I suggest, to cheer her up. “My treat. As soon as I get back from holiday.”
“Yes, that would be nice,” says Lottie in a small voice. “Thanks, Fliss.”
“Take care. Talk soon.”
She rings off and I exhale my frustration in a groan—although I’m not sure who I’m most frustrated with. Richard? Daniel? Gavin? Gunter? All men? No, not all men. Maybe all men except various honorable exceptions, viz: Barnaby; my lovely milkman, Neville; the Dalai Lama, obviously—
My eyes suddenly focus on my reflection in my computer screen and I lean forward in horror. I have a Nerf bullet stuck in my hair.
Great.
3
LOTTIE
I 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 tongue and never mentioned marriage, might our relationship have worked out? Somehow?
But the rest of me is more rational. People say that women work on intuition and men on logic, but they’re talking rubbish. I studied logic at university, thank you very much. I know how it goes. A=B, B=C, therefore A=C. And what could be more logical than the following detached and succinct argument?
Premise one: Richard has no intention of proposing to me; he made that fairly clear.
Premise two: I want marriage and commitment and, hopefully, one day, a baby.
Conclusion: Therefore I am not destined to be with Richard. Therefore I need to be with someone else.
Other conclusion: Therefore I did the right thing, breaking up with him.
Further conclusion: Therefore I need to find another man, who does want to make a life with me and doesn’t get that wide-eyed, starey look at the very mention of marriage, like it’s such a terrifying idea. Someone who realizes that if someone spends three years with you, maybe they are thinking of commitment and kids and a dog, and … and … decorating a Christmas tree together … and why is that such a bad thing? Why is it so totally and utterly off the agenda and unmentionable? When everyone says we’re such a great couple and we’ve been so happy together, and even your own mother was hinting that we might end up living near them, Richard?
OK, so maybe not that succinct. Or detached.
I take a sip of coffee, trying to soothe my nerves. Let’s say I’m being as calm and logical as one could expect in the circumstances, which are that I had to catch the 7:09 to Birmingham on no sleep and all the Metros had already gone. And I’m about to give a recruitment talk to a hundred students in an auditorium that smells of cauliflower cheese.
