Still Thinking Of You Part 3

Mia rummaged around her bag for the small make-up mirror that she thought might be hiding in there. She sighed, briefly disappointed by her reflection. She ran her fingers through her hair it was too short. She hated it. However, she was almost thirty-four and had come to accept that hating her haircut was part of her hairdressing experience, as intrinsic as the ugly nylon gowns and the luxurious head ma.s.sage. She would hate it intensely for twenty-four hours, then she would forget it until she needed it cut again. She'd love it for the week between booking her next appointment and attending her next appointment. She used to think that this showed her insecurity, but she now chose to believe that it showed she was a perfectionist.

She fumbled for her mobile phone, and searched for Lloyd's number. She rang it and was surprised to find that it was out of use; it had been a while since they were in touch. Mia called his ex-wife, Sophie, to secure his new mobile number; she'd provided it, but not much else by way of conversation, and was barely civil in response to Mia's question about how little Joanna was faring 'Extremely well, thank you.' Sophie had never had any social graces, thought Mia.

Mia dialled Lloyd's new number, and he picked up after just two rings.

'Checkers, it's me.'

Lloyd knew immediately that it was Mia on the line, even though he hadn't heard her voice for nearly six months. No one else still used this nickname from uni. He wished Mia wouldn't. He'd never liked it. Checkers was the less cerebral little brother of chess and the nickname had never seemed like a compliment. Apparently Mia had chosen it because, as she said, 'Lloyd appeared very black and white, and you could guarantee he was always one move ahead.' He'd never been sure what she meant by that, although she had made her proclamation with a big smile, as though she were being nice. He supposed that she meant he was a great planner. And he was. Or at least had been. Nowadays it seemed hard enough to put one foot in front of another, let alone plan years ahead as he had always prided himself.

'Checkers, how the devil are you?' she screeched. 'You have been on my mind for so long now. I've been meaning to call. Meant to almost every day. Have you heard Action Man's news?'

'He called last week, actually, to say that he's finally taking the plunge. But he was rus.h.i.+ng to a meeting so we didn't get a chance to talk at any length. Great news. Tell me, what do you know about Natasha? I like her name.'

'Do you?'

'Is she Russian?'

'Hardly, she's from Manchester. I think her parents must be a bit pretentious.'

'What's she like?'

'I've only met her a couple of times.'

'And?' Lloyd knew Mia well enough to know that she always made her mind up about people instantly. She'd then declare a great fondness or, more often, a d.a.m.ning condemnation then she would hastily add that it was unfair to judge a book by its cover, and that she was reserving judgement until she got to know the subject better. In reality, no one got a second chance after a first impression.

'She's slim.'

'And?'

'Blonde.'

'And?'

'Tall.'

'As tall as you? Do you see eye to eye?' Lloyd chuckled at his own wit. Mia chose not to answer. 'Is she clever, funny, what? Give me details,' demanded Lloyd.

'It's always hard to say when someone is marrying one of your oldest friends, isn't it? I'm not sure I can be objective. I mean, who is good enough for your best friend? I don't know much about her. She went to a very ordinary university, one of those that's really a poly, so she's no genius.'

Lloyd wondered whether going to an ancient university was the best thing that had ever happened to Mia. It seemed to be the only thing she ever measured anyone by. Lloyd decided to move the conversation along.

'Rich told me that they are taking off to the Alps to get married. Just the two of them, and that they are planning to pull a couple of witnesses off the slopes. Sounds cool.' Lloyd was thinking about his own very big and very formal wedding, several years earlier. He hadn't thought it was possible to argue about the thickness of the card of an invitation, but apparently it was. 'I think they've made a wise move having a no-fuss wedding.'

'Do you?' Mia wasn't so sure. She'd hoped for a big bash, where everybody got drunk and sentimental. As it wasn't to be, she had concocted an alternative plan. 'Listen, it's just a quick call to run through the details of the stag weekend.' Mia hoped she sounded breezy and efficient, rather than tense and a little desperate.

'Rich never mentioned a stag weekend.'

'It's a surprise. I'm arranging a stag holiday for Action Man.'

'You are?'

'I am one of his best friends, even if I am a woman,' said Mia, hotly irritated. She'd met with the same surprise not only from Jase, but also Ted, so she was particularly alive to any implied criticism. 'I thought that you, Action Man, Scaley and Big Ted and I could all go away for a couple of days, just like old times. I'm planning something wild in Dublin.'

'You and four guys?'

'I suppose Kate might tag along, but we often did that at uni.'

'And you're thirty-three and still unmarried, I just don't understand it,' joked Lloyd.

'Ha-f.u.c.king-ha,' snapped Mia. She was stung because she'd had the same thought herself, a thousand times. 'So how does the second weekend of November sound?' Mia took a deep breath. She hoped she sounded nonchalant. She had been living on a knife edge for the past few months. She'd planned everything so carefully. The timing of the stag do had to coincide with her cycle and, of course, getting Scaley Jase on the trip was paramount, but she had to give the necessary attention to the demands of everyone's diaries.

Yes, she'd considered sperm banks; she'd investigated them quite thoroughly. Rationally, she knew that one could trust the medical notes that read '6 foot 2 inches, MENSA member, with blue eyes and no medical conditions', but how could you be 100 per cent sure? Mia constantly had visions of the Elephant Man, without the IQ and with more congenital deficiencies. Besides, the cost of artificial insemination was extraordinary, and she had to start watching the pennies now. She was unlikely to be flush after she had the baby and gave up work.

She had considered getting pregnant via a one-night stand, but there was always the danger of the unknown there, too. A guy might seem like a rational, intelligent, pleasant enough guy while he's eating pizza, but what's to say that in reality he's not an axe-wielding psycho? And if she took the time to get to know the one-night stand, then that, too, would lead to all sorts of complications. By definition it was no longer a one-night stand if she actually knew the guy. It would be a relations.h.i.+p. The donor might suddenly decide he was in love with her (men that she wasn't particularly attracted to were always doing that). Then he might decide that he wanted to help bring up the baby.

There was no chance of that with Jason.

Mia couldn't see a baby in Jason's flat. Imagine the sticky fingerprints on his vertical Bang and Olufsen hi-fi. He had the one with the option to play one of six CDs. He loved that hi-fi because when the phone rang he was able to change CD from Kylie Minogue to a moody lounge track, just in case it was a woman calling and he wanted to impress. He had no idea how entirely Austin Powers he appeared to the outside world. He usually picked something like Hotel Costes to play. Even though he lamented that it wasn't as hip as it had been in 2001 when he stayed at Costes and actually met Stephane Pompougnac, sat and drank with him, talked about what inspired his mixes. He'd confided in Mia that the Costes CDs 'had become ma.s.s market, a victim of their own success, but they were still good tunes'. She'd replied curtly that it was a shame that he'd have to abandon it now and find something more cutting edge as the likes of Ted and Kate played it as background music at their dinner parties.

Imagine the baby pressing all the b.u.t.tons on his Cosmo dual-band GSM phone and b.a.l.l.sing up the oh-so-considered (and contrived) message that Jason had recorded. Apparently the phone had an integral data-fax whatever that meant. Mia had no idea, however often Jason explained it. You could buy software to allow video conferencing; Jason intended to do so. Naturally there was no handset. The phone cost the average guy's month's salary, but he wasn't an average guy and he earned way more than an average salary. Anyway, the phone hadn't really cost him a penny as the advertising agency where he worked had paid for it. They deemed it a necessary accessory for their newly appointed Creative Director of Q&A. It was worth every penny because Jason was able to hold one woman as he talked to another if the occasion arose and it sometimes did.

Mia smiled to herself. She knew Jason well enough to know that he was genetically perfect father material in every way and a total vacuum emotionally. Exactly what she wanted.

Now all that was left for Mia to do was to tie up loose ends such as inviting Lloyd along to the stag do. She wanted to give all her old uni friends the impression that the only thing that concerned her was that Action Man had a great time. There were bound to be questions after the trip, when she conceived. It was essential that the pregnancy appeared absolutely accidental. No one must guess at how she'd schemed for the event. Arranging the trip had involved all her negotiation skills, her cunning, her discretion and her determination. Providing Checkers could make that weekend, however, she thought it was in the bag.

'Fantastic. Count me in,' said Lloyd, although he was thinking he ought to check with Greta first to see if she had anything in the diary that he needed to be involved with.

'Cool,' said Mia. 'I wondered if you'd have to check with Greta.'

'No, no, no problem there,' a.s.sured Lloyd. He hoped that he sounded like a man that successfully managed his relations.h.i.+p with his girlfriend. A man that had found balance and attained intimacy, while avoiding intrusion. 'There won't be any argument. Greta doesn't do arguments.' His ex-wife, Sophie, had been the queen there. Greta, on the other hand, sulked. Lloyd didn't think it was necessary to add these choice pieces of info.

This wedding was good news for Lloyd. He hadn't heard from the gang for such a long time. It would be good to catch up with all the guys and spend some real quality time with them. Sure, they texted one another reasonably regularly. Sure, they called occasionally, and they even made plans to meet for dinner or to go away together for a weekend from time to time. Invariably, though, those plans were cancelled at the last moment. Everyone worked so hard. People had come to expect a blowout because of a meeting running late or a sudden and urgent request to put a report together for 8 a.m. the following day. He was possibly the worst culprit of all for last-minute blowouts.

Sophie used to grumble about that all the time. She used to say that he ruined her social life. He never understood that. Why, if he had to work late, couldn't she go along to Kate and Ted's without him? When he used to ask her that she would reply that she'd rather spend an evening with her own friends, and then he'd ask, 'Well, why don't you?' She'd always argued that she never planned to see her own friends because they always had plans to see his, plans that he always cancelled at the last minute.

He could replay these rows word for word. She must have plenty of time to spend with her own friends now. She never understood just how demanding his work was. b.i.t.c.h. At least Greta got that about him. She knew that he, and what he did, was important.

Lloyd thought it was peculiarly poignant that the gang used to call him 'Checkers' because everything in his life was black and white, and he was always a step ahead of the crowd. Since he and Sophie split up, everything was a blurred, indistinguishable ma.s.s of greys. He felt he was way off-track. If life was a race, he was falling behind.

Sophie had kicked Lloyd out of his home one year, one month, two weeks ago. She'd shouted that he was useless, neglectful and hurtful. She'd yelled that she was sick of trying to win his attention, let alone his approval. She'd cried she was exhausted, sick of doing everything for the baby on her own, while still trying to keep her own career afloat. He'd pointed out that things were easier for her in her career than they were for him in his because she worked at home and for herself. She argued that this just made things scarier; there was no such thing as a coasting day. She'd also argued that she was the biggest breadwinner and therefore what she did was important. She never actually said more important, but she thought it. He knew she thought it.

For f.u.c.k's sake, she organized parties.

It was supposed to be a little part-time something-to-do job that would fit around their future family. Who would have thought that the vol-au-vent eating population was so greedy? There seemed to be a party every night, which left Sophie little time to support Lloyd in his career. She knew that was what he expected of her. They'd talked about it at the beginning of their relations.h.i.+p, way back when. A civil servant needed a wife that supported him, not one with her own career. When he'd argued this, Sophie had said, 'I have two words for you, Lloyd: "Cherie Blair".' Very funny. The last two words she'd flung at him were not as considered.

Soon, it wasn't just the staff and catering that Sophie organized, but the flowers and photographers. In some cases she helped the hostess to find the perfect outfit. The company grew so fast and efficiently that she was able to franchise the name and take a cut of four more companies doing the same thing in different areas of London. In her third year, Sophie made a profit of over 170,000. Just for throwing parties. It didn't seem right.

There was no way that Lloyd would ever earn that much in his field. Civil servants earned next to nothing. While he missed the money that Sophie had earned, he didn't miss the fact that Sophie earned it. Greta didn't earn much, but she worked as a research a.s.sistant in his department, so she saw that what Lloyd did was important. He was involved in real issues management of funding in retirement homes for the elderly, the overhaul in the nursery voucher system, for example. Sometimes, he paper-shuffled and argued about a change in the days that the bin men collected the rubbish, but everyone had to start somewhere. Greta saw he was powerful, authoritative and significant. Greta knew that she didn't buy a big share of voice in their relations.h.i.+p, and it suited them both.

Lloyd didn't regret his affair with Greta. He didn't even regret Sophie finding out. Most of the time, he thought he was much better off without Sophie. Greta was younger, better groomed, more accommodating. Bigger b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She came from a wealthy Austrian family. As she was foreign, any miscommunication could easily be dismissed as a language barrier.

Rather than a heart barrier.

He preferred the sulking to the rows. Greta was less work than Sophie. Lloyd constantly reminded himself that he was in a better position now that he was a man with a girlfriend, rather than a man with a wife. So why did he continue to make these constant comparisons?

Lloyd sighed. Why did he feel perpetually tired? He wondered if he should be taking a vitamin supplement. He'd have to ask Sophie... No, he meant Greta.

'Well, I just wanted to touch base. I have to go now. My taxi is just pulling in at the Indian Emba.s.sy. I have a meeting there. I'll be in touch. I have your e-mail address. I can't wait. It's going to be so exciting,' said Mia, interrupting Lloyd's thoughts. 'All the old gang back together. My oldest and bestest friends.' Mia liked to give all her friends the t.i.tle 'best', or 'old', or both. She hoped that it gave the impression that she was a nice person, even though she, and even her oldest and bestest friends, often had occasion to doubt that this was the case. She was a clever, funny, s.e.xy, extremely b.i.t.c.hy person, but, then, that was often better than being nice in the circles in which she mixed.

'Absolutely,' agreed Lloyd, but he wasn't sure if Mia heard, as she'd already rung off.

9. Tash's Reaction to the Dublin Trip.

'No. Absolutely not.'

'Why not?' asked Rich, somewhat surprised by Tash's response.

Tash hesitated. She wasn't sure why she did not like the idea of Rich and his friends going away for a stag weekend to Dublin, but she didn't, not one bit.

'Don't you trust me?' asked Rich. After all, he had told her about that time he'd done a stripper, for a bet, at some debauched stag weekend or other. It was a complicated male ego thing that Tash didn't get, but she hadn't seemed at all concerned about the incident either. In fact, she'd been pleasantly curious. Her questions had been agreeably erotic. She'd just commented that no one should be defined by their work and had been a bit bra-burning brigade about Rich going on about bedding a stripper, rather than noticing the woman for herself.

'Of course I do,' said Tash, raising an eyebrow and a grin.

'So, what is it?'

Tash wasn't sure she could articulate her objections to the trip. Was it that Mia was going along? Was it that the gang would be building more memories, memories from which she would be excluded? Was it that her hen party was destined to be a much lower key affair? Her friends didn't earn the type of salaries that made rus.h.i.+ng off for party weekends a viable option. They'd be opening a few (admittedly, quite a few) bottles at someone's flat and, by way of celebration, to distinguish the evening from numerous other Friday nights, they'd order pizza and garlic bread.

'It will cost a fortune. Do we have that type of money to squander just before the wedding?' Tash's speciality was squandering money that was why she didn't have any form of savings. Rich knew this and consequently looked baffled. 'The boarding trip to the Alps isn't going to be cheap,' she added.

'd.a.m.n right, it isn't,' said Rich. 'It's our wedding, and I'm not planning on cutting any corners. It may be a small wedding, but it's still the biggest day of my life.' Rich put his arms around Tash and drew her towards him. 'We can afford it, baby,' he a.s.sured her.

'My brother's girlfriend, Celia, is expecting her baby that weekend.' Tash knew she was now grasping at straws.

Rich looked stunned. 'I'm not birthing partner material,' he pointed out. 'I'm sure that event can go ahead with or without me. I'll wet the baby's head in Dublin.'

Tash searched around for another objection. 'But it seems silly if more people go to the stag party than the actual wedding,' she insisted. Tash didn't actually believe this either. She'd never placed too much importance on etiquette, conventions, customs or rules. These traditional measures which kept most people motivated, law abiding and supported were unimportant to Tash. She followed her gut, worked with her instincts and, while she had little interest in deliberately shocking or rebelling, she had never seen a need to conform either. She wasn't intending to be wilfully dishonest, she was just finding it surprisingly difficult to be entirely honest with herself.

'Maybe that's the answer,' said Rich. He beamed at Tash. 'You genius. You've just given me a great idea.' He kissed her forehead.

'What?'

'I'll invite the gang along to the boarding trip, and you can invite some of your friends, too. It will be great fun. Mia talked about all the cool stuff we used to do.'

'The good old days,' interrupted Tash.

'Exactly,' grinned Rich, not catching the sarcasm in his fiancee's voice. 'And I have to admit that she did paint an irresistible picture.'

'I bet she did,' deadpanned Tash.

'She reminded me about how close we all used to be. Work and stuff gets in the way as you get older. We don't catch up as often as we ought, but she pointed out that my wedding had to be marked somehow.'

'Our wedding,' said Tash tetchily.

'Of course, of course,' a.s.sured Rich. He looked at Tash, and tried to gauge her reaction. Tash tried to hold her face in a neutral expression. Tash definitely wanted to stick to the original plan of stealing away alone. But weddings did funny things to people. Normally, she was an intelligent, independent woman who pretty much did her own thing, and she was more than comfortable with that. She had not thought it necessary to marry in a white dress, in a church, in front of all her friends and family. The wedding, and more importantly the marriage that followed the wedding, was just about Tash and Rich. It was all about Tash and Rich.

She also accepted, however, that weddings came loaded with expectation, tradition and a probability that you'd never get away with doing exactly what you wanted.

'But if you really want to stick to the original plan, I'll do whatever you want, whatever makes you happy. We could still keep it to the two of us and a couple of witnesses, if that's really what you want,' said Rich.

Tash wished that she could hide from the excitement in Rich's eyes at the prospect of his friends joining them, but she couldn't. She couldn't be so selfish as to deprive him of his big day, standing up in front of his friends who all meant so much to him.

And next to nothing to her.

'OK,' she said. And she must have said it with more enthusiasm than she felt because Rich looked delighted.

10. NFI and RSVP.

Tash felt miserable as she crossed the final name off her list of friends and family that she'd invited to the wedding. Really, thoroughly, inconsolably miserable. No one could make it. Not a soul. Tash couldn't understand her disappointment. She'd wanted a very tiny wedding and had not been worried whether her friends and family would see her become Mrs Tyler. But now now when she'd invited nearly a dozen people, now when they had turned down her kind invitation now she desperately wanted someone from her side to be at the ceremony.

Tash caught her breath and felt instantly guilty for thinking in terms of 'sides'. It wasn't a battle; it wasn't even a football match. There were no sides. It was just that all of the guests Rich had invited had said yes, that they would love to come to the wedding, and none of the guests Tash had invited had been able to.

Her parents had been gutted that she and Rich had chosen to marry on the slopes. Neither of them had ever been on skis in their lives. The most adventurous holiday they'd ever had was taking the caravan to France, on a ferry. They were insisting on throwing a party on their return. Rich and Tash had agreed because they realized it wouldn't have made any difference if they'd disagreed; Mrs Richardson had already invited about forty close friends, family and neighbours. Few of whom Tash would recognize in an ident.i.ty parade. Tash had given in to the inevitable. Her brother and Celia were extremely regretful that they couldn't join Tash and Rich on the slopes. They both enjoyed boarding, but Tash could see that it was impossible so soon after the birth of baby number three. Celia magnanimously suggested that Tash's brother go without her, and he magnanimously turned down the opportunity. He couldn't leave Celia behind to manage three kids under the age of four.

Her pal George was a single parent and also had to say no because she couldn't find childcare for a week. Mandy, David, Eliza and Greg all apologized, but pointed out that January was not a good month to try to go on holiday because their plastic was pushed to the limit after Christmas. They promised, however, to show up at the party. And her best friend in the whole wide world, Emma her dead cert, her final hope, who had sworn that nothing would keep her away from Tash's wedding had just called to say that she'd broken her leg and wouldn't be able to make it after all.

Tash had found it extremely difficult to be sympathetic. She put the phone back in the cradle just as Rich opened the door to the flat.

'h.e.l.lo, gorgeous. How has your day been?' Rich asked the question, but didn't give Tash time to answer before he bore down on her. His lips pushed against hers, and his hand was already weaving its way up under her fleece, searching for her nipples. Tash impatiently pushed him away. 'What's wrong?' he asked. He knew it wasn't his greeting. Normally Tash liked him coming in and jumping her bones. In fact, generally she defied stereotype and insisted on being just as randy as he was. 'Are my hands cold?' Rich rubbed his hands together.

'No,' sighed Tash. 'Well, yes, it's December; you're freezing. But that's not a problem. Emma has just been on the phone and she's had an accident at work, fallen off a ladder and broken her leg.'

'Oh, poor thing,' said Rich. 'Is she a window cleaner?'

'No,' Tash snapped impatiently. 'She's a PA. She was fixing a blind in her boss's office.'

'I bet that's not in her job description. She'll be able to claim compensation.'

'You are missing the point, Rich,' said Tash crossly. 'She won't be able to make it to the wedding. That means no one is coming from my side.' Tash corrected herself, 'None of the guests I've invited can make it. Not one.'

'Oh, I am sorry, Tash. That's a b.u.mmer.' Rich walked through to the kitchen to put the kettle on to make Tash a cup of tea, then he thought better of it and opened the fridge to hunt out a bottle of wine. Tash was clearly very disappointed.