Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy. Jenny Colgan
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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 restaurant. 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