Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy. Jenny Colgan
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‘Did you get it on tape?’
‘If it works, then yes.’
‘Well, I suppose there’s no reason to stay, then.’
‘Not really.’
I thought longingly of the dessert trolley.
‘There’s always pudding,’ said Fran.
I clapped her on the shoulder.
‘Will there always be pudding, Fran?’ I asked gravely.
‘There will always be pudding, Mel. I promise.’
I took a deep breath and walked out there. All the girls were huddled together, obviously talking about us, ignoring their spiky-looking salads. Our main courses were being kept on a hot plate by our faithful waiter.
I walked over and grabbed the back of my chair for support.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Amanda, as sincerely as I could.
‘Oof, don’t worry about it for a second,’ she said, waving me to sit down. I smiled gratefully.
‘You’ve been a little naïve, haven’t you, darling? I shouldn’t expect it to stop now, just because we’re supposed to be grown-up!’ She tinkled the patented Amanda laugh. Beside her, I watched Fran bare her teeth.
‘Now! More champers all round! I absolutely insist.’
‘Rah rah rah!’ shouted the other girls, all of one mind. A half-witted one.
The waiter brought main courses for Fran and I, and we tucked in, letting the girls get on with discussing their boyfriends’ cars. Suddenly, there was a near hush in the restaurant. Looking up from my trough, I turned round to see what the matter was. Weaving between the tables was one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen in real life. Almost six foot tall, her shiny, pure blonde hair glimmered in the lights. She was dressed in pale, slim-fitting, elegant flowing things, and appeared to float rather than walk. The ratio of her legs to the rest of her body was about 2:1.
‘That’s who I’m going to look like when I’m grown-up,’ I whispered to Fran, who nodded violently. Behind her was a gorgeous, gorgeous bloke, wearing an expensive – but not showy – suit. He looked vaguely familiar.
Amanda stood up, wearing an eager expression I didn’t often see her use.
‘Lili! Darling!’ she screeched in her ladylike fashion. It was the most emphatic ‘darling’ I’d ever heard from her. ‘Over here!’
Lili’s swan-like neck moved a fraction, and she swept her eyes over our measly group. The empty spaces had been taken up by latecomers, noisy City boys showing off. Her eyes passed over me without even looking; I had obviously fallen below some imaginary bar whereby one became actively invisible.
Her white teeth glistened for a second as she bestowed the merest hint of a radiant smile. Amanda, amazingly, was all nerves and practically pleading.
‘You’ve met Jacintha, of course, from Freud’s … Araminta from Carlton … Please, take a seat. I’ll pour you a glass – I see you’ve brought a friend, ha ha.’ I could almost hear her accent crack.
Lili bent down elegantly, her white hands long and tapered. ‘Oh, we can’t stay, we’re off to Philippa’s bash. We just popped in to see everyone’ – her deep voice sounded pointed – ‘and now we’re off.’ She bestowed fifteen alternate kisses on Amanda’s cheeks then turned and floated off in a cloud of rare and precious perfume. The broad shoulders of the man disappeared as he gently guided her elbow across the floor.
I stifled a sudden terrible urge to giggle. Well, just when you thought you were pretty far down in the food chain, you discovered a whole new layer you’d never even dreamt of.
‘Who the hell was that?’ demanded Fran, chewing the last of her lamb.
‘Oh, isn’t she great?’ said Amanda, her eyes wide.
‘Well, from that in-depth and emotional meeting, I’d say she’s a bit of a stuck-up cow, actually.’
Amazingly, one of the blondies – I think it was Mookie – giggled independently, then blushed bright red and stared at her carpaccio.
Amanda sniffed. ‘Well, you would say that about one of the most important fashion people in London. And she came to my hen night.’
Fran and I looked at each other. ‘She didn’t come to your hen night!’ said Fran in amazement. ‘She did a Red Arrows fly-past of your hen night.’
I kicked her on the ankle. But Amanda seemed unperturbed.
‘Darling, she showed. That’s all that matters.’
Fran looked at me, but I simply shrugged. Nothing Amanda did made any sense to me.
As the main excitement of the evening was clearly over, I saw Amanda beckon the waiter. Fran and I eyed the dessert trolley eagerly.
‘Nobody wants pudding –’ Amanda’s voice rang out clearly – ‘so, just the bill, please.’
I let my shoulders sag and drank a little more champagne.
‘Can we go now?’ whispered Fran. I nodded.
‘And can you order us a couple of limos?’ said Amanda.
Good God, I didn’t even know you could do that. And I’d never been in a limo …
My eyes cut to Fran. She sighed and looked upwards, then nodded her head.
‘OK, everyone?’ shouted Amanda brightly. ‘Are we ready to party?’
The girls giggled and shrieked, ‘Yars!’
‘I know the limos are naff, but, hey, it’s my hen night! We’re gonna go crazy!’
Seven reserved posh girls did their best to look crazy as Amanda signed her name with a flourish and flashed her gold card. Then we manoeuvred through the chairs. Outside, as if by magic, were two absolutely ludicrous jet black limousines.
‘Our carriages await! Yanna’s, please!’ Amanda ordered the drivers.
Yanna’s was some desperately exclusive club in Mayfair. Shrugging her shoulders, Fran squeezed into the first of the cars, and I followed her. There was a slight pause outside as we realized that the girls all wanted to go in the second limo with Amanda and not us, but that got sorted out somehow, and the one I’d identified as Mookie slid in gracefully.
I looked around the limo. It was done up in high seventies style, with lots of burgundy leather, and there was a white fur rug on the floor, as well as a phone on a string, a TV, and a little fridge in which – hooray – nestled even more champagne.
‘My God, this is a white trash fantasy dream,’ sighed Fran as I opened the champagne. ‘I wonder how many revolting old men have shagged teenage blonde girls in the back here?’
‘Shall we ask the driver?’ I said mischievously, pointing to the button that raised the screen.
‘Do you really want to know? Yuck!’
‘What, if Mick Jagger had fifteen young virgins on the floor? Sure.’
‘It probably does one hundred and fifty hen nights a year and two smart functions,’ said Fran gloomily. ‘Really, it’s a bit of a wanker’s mobile.’
As if in confirmation, as the car inched its way down Regent Street, some students came up to the blackened window, shook something at us and yelled, ‘Rich bastards!’
I looked at Fran in disbelief. ‘We’re rich bastards!’
‘Well, hooray!’ said Fran.
‘Gosh, how terribly amusing,’ said Mookie, looking at the students, although she wasn’t smiling. Up till now