Amanda's Wedding Read online

  ‘You heard. Wire me up. I’ll tape what she talks about and, if it’s suitably evil, we’ll play it back to Fraser. Painful, but effective.’

  There was a further pause.

  ‘That is absolutely brilliant!’ said Angus.

  ‘Well, I’d better come too then,’ I volunteered. ‘Um … you’d never get in otherwise.’

  ‘Bet I could.’

  ‘Stoap it, youse two. I’ve already got one partnership headache on my hands. OK, Francesca, that’s an excellent idea.’

  I was watching them closely for some hint of sexual tension, but it was as if nothing had ever happened.

  ‘You’ll need to wear something baggy, so it doesn’t show.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything baggy. How do those tarty TV babes do it?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll sort something out.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘What if they aren’t sitting together? There’s going to be hundreds of people at this bash.’

  ‘Well, you’re both just going to have to be really friendly.’

  Fran sneered. ‘Yeah, given that she didn’t even ask us in the first place, that’s going to be easy.’

  I had a flash of inspiration. ‘I know! You could pretend you’re completely pished and pass out underneath the table at her feet! Then you’ll catch everything.’

  Both of them looked at me with surprised faces.

  ‘Maybe you could do that bit,’ said Fran. ‘Then we wouldn’t have to pretend.’

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ I said sulkily.

  ‘OK, right, just try and stay close to her and make sure she does a speech,’ said Angus excitedly. ‘Then we’ll play it to Frase and he’ll come to his senses!’

  ‘How will he know we haven’t taped the Queen’s Christmas message? That’s what she sounds like,’ I said.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.’

  I was pretty excited all week after that. Well, we had a mission now. The following night, Alex and I went out for a very cosy romantic dinner. He thought the plan was on the childish side, but I didn’t mind so much about that. And he had an interview for a job, at a record company, which meant things were looking up. He lived rent-free at Charlie’s gaffe, though, and got regular influxes of guilt money from both parents, so he was never going to starve. I toyed with my mussels and gazed out the window of Café Rouge – OK, not exactly the Ritz, but it would do for now.

  Late-night opening, Fran and I went to find a microphone, which was easier said than done, especially in the high street electrical outlets.

  ‘Have you got a small mike?’ I asked the glazed-eyed brat standing next to the door. He looked blankly at the CD shelves and nervously pretended to look for something that clearly wasn’t there.

  ‘Eh, um, naow.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Fran, smiling sweetly and picking up a microphone.

  ‘Yeah, it’s a mike, yeah.’ The boy scratched himself nervously. Where did they grow these morons?

  ‘Have you got any small ones?’ Fran continued to encourage him.

  ‘That’s, uh, as small as they go, like.’ I noticed the damp patches under his arms.

  ‘So … what’s this, then?’ said Fran, picking up a smaller mike. I grimaced at her to stop.

  The boy stood there, staring straight ahead in a catatonic state to avoid answering the question. I wondered if he ever got punched.

  ‘Look,’ I said to the boy, ‘it’s simple: we just want a tiny microphone, like they have on TV – you know, TV? – that we can attach to a Walkman to tape something with.’

  He focused again, and came out of about-to-be-punched mode. ‘I’ll … I’ll check out the back.’

  And he disappeared. For ever. Finally, Fran growled at an assistant manager long enough for him to sell us one.

  She tried it on in the nearest wine bar, slotting the tape machine inside her jeans and the mike tucked inside her shirt. Then we disappeared into a toilet cubicle together to check whether it was working or not.

  ‘God, you’ve got noisy tits,’ I told her, rather too loudly.

  ‘Shh! For God’s sake. Now, hang on.’ She wound the tape back and switched it on. And sure enough, there it was, slightly muffled: the boring conversation between two old bankers who’d been sitting next to us. Every word of their interminable discussion about insurance rates was clearly distinguishable. We grinned at each other over the seedy loo.

  ‘Partying again?’ said Cockney Boy on Friday morning, clocking my little glittery bag and spare pair of tights. ‘You’ll be turning into a right alcoholic at this rate.’

  ‘What, you mean I’ll feel ill in the mornings? I thought that was just the effect of seeing you.’

  ‘You think you’re well funny, don’t you?’

  ‘Actually, no. But as long as I’m annoying you, I don’t care.’

  He went and got himself and Janie a cup of coffee and didn’t get me one. Bastard.

  I was very worried about the night ahead. What if Amanda hadn’t booked for us? What if she wouldn’t let us in? What if everything cost £100 and we couldn’t afford it? – Fran was permanently skint anyway.

  And what on earth did we think we were doing? I mean, she deserved it in principle, but surely our interference wasn’t going to make much difference: people would do what they were always going to do, except they’d hate me into the bargain.

  I sighed deeply over my copy. Really, I wanted to stop my life for a moment, get off and catch my breath, then start again, instead of dashing on headlong. I tried to do some deep breathing exercises, but after thirty seconds I realized I was bored rigid, and if I stopped to think about everything that was going on I’d probably end up in a catatonic state listening to people pity me as they loaded me into an ambulance. So I phoned Fran and arranged what time I’d meet her.

  Ten

  Despite the cold, there was a buzz about the West End at eight o’clock on a Friday night. People had a set look on their faces, as if Fun was in serious trouble if they didn’t find it. Students on some ghastly rag week spectacular were irritating passers-by, running around with buckets and pints and their legs tied together.

  Fran was uncharacteristically nervous. ‘This is going to be a laugh, isn’t it?’

  I didn’t want to share my own misgivings. Going into a roomful of strangers predisposed to hating you, trying to ingratiate yourself, then taping the conversation – not my idea of a great night out.

  ‘Course it is,’ I said. ‘Think of it as a great acting role. Your début in the West End.’

  She grinned. ‘If anything goes wrong, we leg it, OK?’

  ‘Let’s go, Mulder.’

  ‘OK, Scully.’

  We pushed open the heavy doors of the restaurant. Stiff napery and mirrors stretched for miles. The light was expensively dim and golden.

  ‘God, not McDonald’s again!’ I whispered to Fran. She smiled, tilted her head, and with cut-glass drama school English and an imperious gait, walked over to the maître d’, and smiled.

  ‘The Phillips party, please.’

  ‘Certainly, madame. Follow me.’

  He led us through tables of elegant women and corpulent old gents. Everything tinkled and glistened, and heads turned to look at Fran, who kept her head high and looked as if she owned the place.

  Tucked in a banquette in the corner were several manes of straight blonde hair. I stiffened.

  ‘Amanda, darling!’ Fran went over and gave her a kiss, careful not to get too close in case Amanda felt the wire, while also trying to avoid Amanda’s very elaborate lip gloss.

  I studied the pert little face intently. If she was annoyed to see us, she certainly wasn’t showing it.

  ‘Hello there, darlings!’ Actually, there were some signs of strain. Looking round, I soon realized why.

  We were half an hour late – we couldn’t bear to walk in on our own – and all along the banquette there were places laid. There must have been thirty, stretching a quarter of the way up the restaur
ant. However, surrounding Amanda there were five people, all identikit blonde types.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ I asked, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  Amanda smiled sharply. ‘Oh, they’ll be joining us later on – most people have so much on in London at the weekend!’

  ‘Oh, well, yes, of course.’ I sat down and bit into a breadstick to stop myself biting her.

  Fran sat next to Amanda, her brown hair bobbing in a sea of blonde.

  ‘Introduce us to everyone, then.’ She was plainly making the effort.

  ‘Well, this is Jacintha, Araminta, Veronica, Larissa, and Mookie.’

  ‘Hello, everyone!’ said Fran gracefully.

  ‘Umm … hello, Mookie,’ I said.

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  ‘Right,’ said Amanda. ‘Din-dins!’

  Fran and I shot each other a nervous glance as we picked up the menu. Sure enough, everything inside looked exceptionally complicated and extremely expensive. I found something that looked just about do-able, then realized it was the side vegetables. I hated thinking of all the cool stuff I could have bought instead.

  Amanda waved over the waiter professionally.

  ‘Four bottles of Bollinger,’ she said crisply. ‘For starters. And a bottle of Perrier for me.’

  Fran and I shot each other a glance of pure terror at this latest development. Amanda caught it. ‘Don’t worry, girls, it’s all on me,’ she announced. ‘It’s so good to see my real friends.’

  Her tone was tinged with disappointment, and I almost felt sorry for her, especially if she was including Fran and I in that analysis. Plus, the other five were so bland and identical-looking they only really counted as one person. So, quite a sad state of affairs really. I looked at the menu with renewed vigour and sampled my newly poured glass of Bollinger. What the heck, I thought. Friends were friends wherever you found them. And champagne was champagne and posh nosh was posh nosh, so I was bloody well about to enjoy myself.

  ‘To Amanda!’ I proposed, almost despite myself. ‘And her gorgeous hubby-to-be.’

  ‘Lady Amanda Phillips-McConnald,’ squawked one of the blondies – Jacintha, I think. ‘How absolutely glamorous!’

  ‘Shame about the hubby!’ squealed another one, and they all burst out laughing, and tinkled their glasses.

  I ordered expensive pâté for starters and some very complex beef thing for the main course. I could also see the pudding trolley and was looking forward to it. Fran went for some extremely rare fish – unique, by the price of it – and young lamb. The other six ordered plain salads with lemon juice.

  ‘Come on, girls!’ I said jovially. ‘I thought we were celebrating! What are you having to eat?’

  They looked at me and giggled like I’d just made the most enormous joke.

  ‘God, you wouldn’t believe the size of my thighs in the mirror last week!’ said one of them.

  ‘Jesus, I know. I thought I was going to break eight stone!’

  They all gasped in unison.

  ‘I’m not eating more than five milligrams of fat a week until the wedding,’ insisted Amanda.

  ‘Five milligrams? You’ll die!’ I said in horror. ‘Or you’ll look like you’re about to. Between you and Frase, you’re practically two-dimensional anyway.’

  She smiled gracefully at this mention of her life partner and went back to the juicy details of who was and who wasn’t throwing their guts up daily in the cause of national celebrity.

  ‘Well, you know she’s on TV every day; she has to look thin all the time. I’ve heard she lives on Diet Coke, Dexedrine and dipsomania!’

  The blonde brigade laughed themselves stupid as the waiter put down our starters. Suddenly, I was extremely conscious of my thighs rubbing together, and didn’t feel hungry at all. I drank some more champagne. Fran looked at me enquiringly, then plunged in. She had one cooking ring in her bedsit, so didn’t get around to cordon bleu that often.

  The girls were now looking expectantly at my foie gras; salivating, I was sure of it. Even the cold toast would have been enough for them. To distract myself, I turned to the nearest blonde.

  ‘So, what do you do?’

  ‘Oh, telly, you know.’

  I didn’t, actually.

  ‘Really, who for?’

  ‘Oh, documentary programming. Terribly dull, really.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound dull. What have you worked on?’

  ‘Ectually, I … it’s more research ectually.’

  Amanda nudged me from the other side.

  ‘Araminta finds guests for Trisha,’ she said, in a stage whisper. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it.’

  ‘Ohh. OK.’

  Araminta was dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, although she hadn’t eaten anything. I think I’d upset her. Still, the distraction was enough to get stuck into my food, which was absolutely glorious.

  I obviously had upset her, as she immediately lit up a Marlboro Light and drew on it deeply. As if on cue, the other five did the same. I saw my pâté disappear below a wreath of anxious smoke.

  ‘So,’ she shrugged, ‘what about you?’

  ‘Oh, I lead Arctic biochemical expeditions.’

  ‘Rally?’

  Conversation over, she turned back to the blonde on our other side, and I said ‘Fuck!’ several times under my breath.

  ‘So, anyway, I was in Gucci,’ started one, ‘and I told him; I said, “If Meg Matthews is wearing it, I want nothing to do with it, OK?” That told him.’

  ‘Yah!’ nodded all the heads around the table. In amazement I noticed Fran nodding vigorously too. What on earth was she on about?

  ‘I mean, she’s like the Antichrist, yah? Just do the opposite of what she does and you’ll be all right?’

  ‘And Kate hates her, apparently,’ joined in another.

  ‘I think she’s fat,’ said one.

  ‘Are you kidding? She looks like she’s been flayed!’ I said.

  Silence reigned. However, they were well brought up girls, and tried to be deliberately polite to us shitkickers.

  ‘Oh, you know, I am going to be in a film after all!’ yelled one suddenly. Fran’s ears pricked up. ‘Yah, Daddy stumped up a major stake. He’ll never see it again, of course, but the director’s so hunky, and apparently Rufus is interested.’

  ‘Put the fork down,’ I tried to psychically send to Fran, ‘just put it down and no one will get hurt.’

  She was coping well, even if she did look a bit strained. I still hadn’t had a chance to ask her if she was going to see Angus again. Not that I should care. But she normally told me everything, and she’d hardly talked about this at all. Maybe it was only a drunken fumble that had passed.

  Amanda was talking about the floral arrangements for the service, and I could see the caged look in Fran’s eyes. Fearing for Amanda’s safety, I distracted her.

  ‘So, what’s Fraser wearing for the big day then?’

  ‘Oh God, he can’t dress himself at all.’

  ‘I like Converse trainers,’ Fran interjected.

  ‘Yes, well, some people like lager and some people like champagne, Francesca.’

  Fran made clawing motions behind her back.

  ‘Daddy took him to his tailor, so at least he’ll look semi-decent.’

  ‘Is he excited?’

  ‘About what? Going to a tailor?’

  ‘About the wedding, stupid.’

  Amanda looked contemplatively at her glass.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  I shot a completely overt look at Fran, who raised her eyes to heaven and nodded her head. Yes, the tape was on.

  I gushed on: ‘Gosh, you two are going to be so happy together.’

  She fixed me with a stare.

  ‘You know, I’m only telling you this for your own good, but you can be incredibly naïve, Melanie.’

  Huh, tell me something I didn’t know.

  ‘This … I mean, hell, it’s a great excuse to have a party, but it’s also
a bloody practical affair. That castle needs sorting out, and Daddy’s happy to put up the loot to do it with.’

  My eyes widened. That was proof all right – I assumed. Then something struck me; she was so matter-of-fact about it. Maybe Fraser felt the same way? Maybe this was how tons of people got married. After all, the aristocracy had been doing it for generations. I supposed this was how it all worked. Not helped by the copious champagne, I suddenly felt sad.

  ‘Don’t you love him?’

  She sniffed. ‘He’s a nice chap. It’s a good situation. It’ll be a fabulous wedding.’

  ‘Hyear hyear!’ said one of the Sloane clones.

  Amanda took a drink and continued: ‘You don’t believe in all that Hollywood crap, do you? I mean, God, how many times do you have to find out, Melanie? Men are complete bastards. Look at what Alex did to you. That wasn’t a terribly Tom Hanks way to behave, was it, darling? This way, everyone wins. We’ll have a beautiful home and a beautiful life, and we’ll be as happy as any marriage is these days, because we went into it with our eyes open. Fraser is a nice boy and he’ll have no objection to us both living our lives.’ She turned to the waiter. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know why you waste your time bringing us anything at all if you can’t get the lemon juice right.’

  I looked at Fran for support, but she was nodding in agreement – presumably to keep Amanda talking, but it didn’t feel that way. Suddenly the situation felt dangerous. The blood rushed to my head a bit. I stood up, unsteadily.

  ‘I don’t care,’ I announced in a trembly voice. The waiter thought I was talking to him and stepped forward, then hopped back again. ‘I do believe in all that crap. Well, not all of it. But some of it. The actually being in love with someone stuff. Ehm, yeah. And … and I think you lose. Because you’ve got a lovely bloke like Fraser and you take the piss out of him and you just think of that bloody castle – which I have seen, by the way, and it’s a complete heap of shit – and that bloody title and you’ve absolutely no idea what you’ve got and how happy he could make you. So, I think you lose.’

  I turned and made to walk out of the restaurant. Realizing I didn’t have my bag, I made a dignified right turn into the toilets, then leaned over and looked at myself in the low-lit mirror, breathing heavily. My throat felt tight.