Young Wives' Tales Part 29

Craig tuts and holds the water gla.s.s to my mouth so that I can gulp from it. I'm grateful, and too wasted to care that we must look like a couple of benders or a special care patient with hospital staff.

'Sorry.'

Then everything turns black.

When I come round I am sat on a chair in the bog. Craig is stood next to me; he has his hand on my shoulder, presumably to stop me slouching forward and knocking myself out as I fall on to the tiled floor. I wonder if I managed to crawl in here on my own or whether he had to drag me.

'Must be something I've eaten,'I mumble.

Craig tuts, it's a very articulate tut. It's rammed full of disapproval and despair.

'Drink this,'he instructs.

This time I successfully take hold of the gla.s.s and even manage to glug back the water without spilling too much of it down my suit. As soon as I finish Craig refills the gla.s.s from the faucet and hands me it once again.

'I'll be sick if I glug too much water too quickly.'Craig points to the floor. Both our shoes and trousers are splattered with puke. 'Mine, I presume?'

'You presume correctly.'

'Sorry, mate.'

'Yes. You should be.'

The chunder, although clearly a pity for our s.h.i.+ny shoes, has helped to make me feel considerably better. I stagger to my feet and while the room is swaying, it's not doing a breakneck speed spin, which was the case when I was sitting at the table in the reception room. It's a posh gig, so the bogs aren't gross, but there are always nicer places to hang than next to the urinals. I want out of here. I splash some cold water on my face, and Craig and I move on.

The bogs spill out on to a carpeted foyer. The carpet is red and heavily patterned; it's a little threadbare in places but you'd only notice if you were crippled with shame and insisting on staring at the floor rather than meeting your mate's eye. I force myself to look up and notice that the chandeliers are stunning. The echoes of elegance, a tribute to more graceful and sophisticated eras, mock me. I'm too shabby to be here. At least, I'm too shabby to be here like this. f.u.c.k, I'm Tom's best man. He's expecting me to do a speech.

'John, you are Tom's best man, he's expecting you to do a speech,'says Craig. He's scowling. Normally temperate, he doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's naffed off.

'I know that, mate.'

'I can't do it.'He sounds panicked. 'I haven't prepared anything.'

'I know that, mate. Don't worry, I'll be fine. I've been worse.'

Craig looks doubtful. 'How much have you had to drink?'

I don't know the exact answer. I started this morning. A couple of jars before the ceremony, with Tom, to calm his nerves and that. And he gave me a hip flask, with my initials on, by way of marking the occasion. Bit over if you ask me but Jen had read about it being the thing to do, in one of her girly wedding magazines, and she wanted him to give me a gift so give me a gift he did. Came in useful. We filled it with whisky and I had the odd nip while we were waiting for the photographer to wrap up the 'watch the birdie'bit. h.e.l.l, that seemed to take an age. Ended up draining the flask. Then on to the reception, where I've been steadily drinking ever since. Or maybe not so steadily. I think I've gone through a couple of bottles. Thing is, I don't normally do grape, I'm more of a grain man myself, so I switched again when the beef arrived. Big mistake mixing the two.

'You should have brought a date,'says Craig. 'Then you wouldn't have got so plastered.'

'Wouldn't have helped with my chances of pulling the bridesmaids though, would it?'I joke.

'One of the bridesmaids is married, another is a lesbian and the remaining four are pre-schoolers. You were never really in with a chance,'Craig points out, tetchily.

'I know, mate. Just jos.h.i.+ng.'

'I thought you'd bring a date. You've gone on at me for long enough to do so.'

'Yeah, well.'I don't want to comment on this so I distract him. 'She looks happy enough, your Rose. You're in there, mate.'

Craig smiles and nods. 'She is lovely. It's going really well.'

'Good on you.'I gently punch his arm. I can't help myself. I'm half cut and my old mate is in line for breaking his celibacy vows. It's an emotional moment. The pungent stench of puke wafts over me when I move my head. 'Oh, sorry, mate. You have a bit of' I point to the splatters 'on your lapel.'

Craig scowls at me and marches back into the bathroom. He can't return to his lady friend smelling of odour de puke it's a known pa.s.sion-killer. I find a seat and light up. I'm not in a rush to get back to the reception so I might as well wait for Craig, even if his reappearance with a damp suit will be accompanied by a b.o.l.l.o.c.king or at the very least, stern looks of censure.

'There you are, Hardie. I've been looking for you everywhere.'

'Oh, Tom. h.e.l.lo.'I'm pretty sure my demeanour suggests that I haven't been searching him out. Luckily, Tom is too hyped to pay me much attention. 'I'm just waiting for Craig.'I wave in the direction of the bogs. Tom doesn't sit down. He's almost on tiptoes, he's practically bouncing.

'Good do, isn't it, eh? Having a good time, are you?'he asks.

'f.u.c.king brilliant. Best wedding I've been to,'I declare.

'Really?'

'Really.'It would crucify him to answer in any other way. In truth, I'm having a b.l.o.o.d.y miserable time and even I can see that Jen has got a bit carried away. Jordan and Peter Andre's do was subtle in comparison to this.

'Except for your own, presumably,'he says. 'I mean, even though things didn't work out between you and Andrea, you must still have fond memories of, you know, the early days.'

As he makes this intimate observation Tom stops bouncing. He decelerates so much he seems to be doing a farcical impression of someone acting in slow motion. He doesn't know how to handle something so private and delicate. Who does?

I have to help him out. It's his day. I don't want to be responsible for putting a downer on it.

'Ah well, all turned out for the best, mate. Did I tell you she's up the duff?'

'No.'

'Yup, she rang me the other night to let me know the happy news. With her new bloke. So that's good for them, eh?'

'You all right with that, mate?'

'Too right, mate. Better man than me for the job. I'm not ready for all that c.r.a.p.'I think about what I've just said and I do mean it literally and metaphorically. Nappies, yuk. Tom looks nervous and I see that I have a responsibility to move the conversation back on to something we're both more comfortable with. 'You're right though, mate, my wedding day was a monumental occasion. Do you remember we watched the big game?'

'Jesus, yes!'Tom, a lifelong Liverpool supporter, can't resist reliving the moment; he's instantly buoyant again. 'We looked beaten as Freddie Ljungberg put a.r.s.enal ahead. I was beginning to think that Cardiff's Millennium Stadium was an unlucky place.'

'Yeah, but Owen's dramatic double in the closing minutes gave Liverpool vic-tor-eee.'I punch the air.

'Good thing, Hardie, it would have ruined the wedding if we'd lost, especially after you'd gone to all the trouble of hiring a flat screen TV for the reception.'

We sit in reverence for a moment and would perhaps have stayed like that all night except that Craig re-emerges from the loo.

'Is it time for the speeches?'he asks.

'Jesus. f.u.c.k. That's why Jen sent me to find you. Come on lads.'

39.

Sat.u.r.day 11 November

Rose

I turn to the guy on my left.

'h.e.l.lo, my name is Rose Phillips. How do you do?'

I hold out my hand. The guy looks at it lazily. He isn't focusing as he's clearly had quite a lot to drink but I can't be tetchy about that, I've ignored him for most of the day because I've only had eyes for Craig. After a pointed pause he takes my hand and shakes it, limply. His palm is clammy.

'Phillips, eh? Fancy that? I'm Joe Whitehead.'

'Bride or groom?'

'I'm neither, baby.'Joe Whitehead starts to laugh, clearly delighted with his own joke. 'I'm a cousin, once removed, of the bride. Haven't seen her since I was six. But not one to turn down a free drink.'He chuckles again and I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to take him seriously.

'Jenny seems a lovely girl,'I comment, resorting to approved wedding small talk.

'I can tell you about a lovely girl,'he says with a leer.

Inwardly I groan, as I realize that Joe Whitehead is about to launch into a story about his own romantic affairs. I really couldn't care less. My recent foray into dating has given me enough experience to nose out a rejected soul. Joe Whitehead is one. He's drinking too much, he doesn't appear to have a date with him and he wants to talk to a complete stranger about another girl. While I like to behave nicely on all occasions, the truth is, right now, I don't give a d.a.m.n about Joe Whitehead's tragic love affairs. I'm as high as a kite and I don't want to be brought down. I feel excited, ecstatic, appreciated, grateful and delightful. I wave to the waitress and ask for a refill of my coffee, and as I take a sip and nibble on a mint I think I'm eating food fit for the G.o.ds. My senses are zinging. Everything is suddenly sharper and brighter. I'm packed full of antic.i.p.ation. All of a sudden, my future (at least my immediate future) seems dazzling. The last thing I want is to hear a sad tale. Sorry, selfish I may be, but there it is.

'The speeches are expected to begin any moment,'I say, deflecting the opportunity for shared confidences. No doubt the off-the-blocks time depends on John's sobriety. I saw Craig practically carrying him out of the reception a few moments ago.

'Your bloke seems to have ditched you.'Joe seems to find his observation funny; he laughs like a jackal. I remain silent. 'You've just got it together too, haven't you?'

'We've known each other a long time but yes, this is our first date.'I hate myself for sharing this with this coa.r.s.e stranger, it wasn't my intention, but good manners dictate that I can't lie.

'You can tell. He's being very attentive. That never lasts.'

I tune out. Cynicism and spite are not what I want to choose from today's menu.

Jenny's mum and the bridesmaids look agitated, they are cl.u.s.tered around Jenny and are all talking at once. Clearly there is some small wedding crisis. Maybe it is to do with John's drunkenness or maybe it's something else. Yet Jen stands in the middle of the jabbering women and she looks unconcerned. Craig has been entertaining me with stories about how Jen has organized this wedding with military precision and dictatorial intolerance. According to Craig she has bossed, yelled, ripped and cried her way through the last six months normal bridal behaviour. Yet she is now standing in the vortex of the day and she is calm.

If there is a crisis, she accepts that in reality it will be minor and likely to pa.s.s unnoticed by all the guests other than the groom's mother. She's suddenly unconcerned about the fact that the priest wavered from the previously agreed order of service, and she's not fretful that Tom's dad insisted on wearing flas.h.i.+ng heart cufflinks.

She is serene. The full implication of her wedding day has occurred to her. Love, commitment and loyalty billow around her and she's cosseted and insulated from the world's irritations and mishaps, at least for a while.

I understand. I catch her eye and beam; she smiles back.

'She's called Mrs Phillips too. Isn't that the weirdest?'

This comment comes from Joe What's-his-name. He has been chatting on since I introduced myself but I haven't taken in a word that he has spoken. He hasn't noticed my lack of partic.i.p.ation. The man is a mix of morbidity and arrogance. I gleaned this much from the first couple of sentences we exchanged. But I realize I'm being horribly rude. After all, I was the one who spoke first. Besides, maybe I'm being overly judgemental. Daisy and Connie think that I always am. Maybe I should give this man a chance to improve, like a wine that's left to breathe. Having spent such a delightful day with Craig my tolerance stores are replete.

'I'm sorry, you were saying?'

'I was telling you about the most fabulous s.h.a.g on this planet.'

Stunned, I'm not sure how to respond. What is it that makes him think this is an acceptable conversation to have with a stranger?

'I was saying, funny coincidence. She has the same surname as you. She's a Mrs Phillips too. What do you make of that?'

Very little. I stare at the horrible Joe and downgrade my first impression (boorish) to a more d.a.m.ning condemnation (despicably uncouth).

'Not that she calls herself Mrs Phillips. She's too independent, a career girl.'

He grins at me and I feel an all too familiar sense of not coming up to scratch. I hate the other Mrs Phillips, without even knowing her. I take a deep breath and think about Craig. I don't want the fabulousness of our day so far to be smeared and tarnished by this man's sorry stories. I try to excuse myself.

'I'm sorry, I need to '

'You're nothing alike, physically,'says Joe, rudely cutting across me. 'She's a...'He looks me up and down and just manages to rein in the sneer that was playing on his lips. He has enough sense to shut the h.e.l.l up. Clearly, he was going to say that the other Mrs Phillips, the adulterous Mrs Phillips, does not have to wear reinforced tummy-tuck knickers. No doubt her knees are not bruised when she releases her b.o.o.bs from her bra; they do not shudder and scatter in an unwieldy fas.h.i.+on, they probably sit proudly pointing forwards. I scan the room and hope to spot Craig.

'She's b.l.o.o.d.y gorgeous. She's got a fierce intellect too. Although, you know, whatever. I don't need my women to be brilliant, just bendy.'He starts to snort with laughter and drains his gla.s.s of red. 'Really, it was the best night of my life. I think I showed her a trick or two as well. I honestly think she'll be banging on my door begging for more in the not too distant future.'

Life really is too short for me to have to put up with this. I begin to gather my thoughts and my bag and make to leave the table. I'll wait for Craig somewhere else. I don't care if I appear bad-mannered, the man is insufferable. I can't stay a moment longer.

'I'm sure you and the other Mrs Phillips will be very happy together, Mr Whitehouse.'I'm not sure if that's his name but he doesn't correct me. Frankly I couldn't care less. I push back my chair and stand up.

'Don't call her Mrs Phillips, she suits her maiden name best. That's what she prefers to be known as. Lucy Hewitt-Jones, it's got more cla.s.s.'

The room morphs. My legs, robust st.u.r.dy even under normal circ.u.mstances fail me. I collapse back into my chair.

'Lucy Hewitt-Jones? Blonde, leggy?'I wish I could add vacant.

'You know her?'Joe's face is flushed with excitement.

'Works for Gordon Webster Handle?'I need to be certain there's no mistake. But of course there isn't. Lucy Hewitt-Jones is a distinctive enough name.

'Yes,'Joe smiles. Or rather leers. 'I do too. That's how we met. So how do you know her?'

There's horrible buzzing in my ears. I watch Joe Thingy's mouth move but I can't hear the words he's stringing together. I'm suddenly icy cold and there's a boxing match being hosted in my gut.

'She's married to my husband, I mean my ex-husband.'He looks traumatized. The arrogance floods from him in an instant. I look down as I half expect to see his arrogance in a puddle on the floor. Shaming and smelly, like the urine of a small child unable to hold it till they get to the loo. But adult 'accidents'are never so easily detectable. Neither of us knows what to say next. 'If you'll excuse me.'

I lurch as I try to find my feet. I move incredibly slowly because I know to try to rush now would surely end in my tripping or fainting. The drama of which would be unforgivable. Very slowly I gather together my bag and my jacket. My fingers have turned to mush and fail me by not being able to smartly b.u.t.ton up the jacket. As I walk from the room the sound of wailing children and the screech of the mic being called into action pierce my body like arrows. Once out of sight I start to run. The corridors close in on me as I rush like a desperate criminal from a b.l.o.o.d.y scene.