Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy. Jenny Colgan
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so special – I keep telling you that, but you don’t believe in yourself. Look, hey, I came all the way back for you, right? You know how messed up my head is. But here I am!’
I looked him in the eye again. He seemed so sincere, so desperate to make it all right. He was nearly in tears himself.
‘Please, Mel.’
We stared at each other for a long time.
‘It’s all right,’ I said finally. ‘It’s all right. It was a long time ago.’
‘Do you mean that? Fantastic you?’
‘Yes,’ I said quietly.
‘I thought about you all the time,’ he said.
‘Really? I didn’t think about you at all.’ I forced a laugh.
‘All that crap is over now, I promise. From now on, it’s just you and me. In fact, if you could only dump that Fran character, it would be absolutely perfect.’
‘Lex, she’s my best friend.’
‘And I’m not?’
‘You’re my soul mate, remember?’
‘Oh, yes.’
I had to ask.
‘Do you love me, Alex?’
He smiled and kissed me full on the mouth.
‘Ah shags you, don’t Ah?’ he said in exaggerated Cockney.
‘Just tell me.’
‘Pet, as much as I love anyone, I love you.’
He left after that. I stood by the door, not wanting to return to the sitting room quite yet. There was a stack of post on a ghastly occasional table. I never bother looking at it usually; bills I let Linda take care of, and everything else she usually flicks under my door. But I leafed through it listlessly, wondering how many animal charities there are in the world. Suddenly I drew out an envelope addressed to Alex, care of me. It was stiff, white card. How bizarre. Underneath, there was one for me too.
It occurred to me immediately what these were – the wedding invites! After all, how many stiff card envelopes did I normally get? (This was my first.) I could put it on the mantelpiece! Except Linda had already covered it with miniature glass kittens.
I walked back into the living room. Angus and Fran were watching me with obvious concern.
‘I’m sorry!’ Fran yelled immediately, to get it in.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, sitting down to pour another glass of wine.
‘I was only guessing, Mel. I didn’t even think …’ Fran looked absolutely stricken. I patted her on the hand.
‘Come on outside. I need to tell you something.’
She followed me.
‘Fran, don’t worry. If anything, it did more good than harm. He …’ I felt a bit shy and crap. ‘I didn’t want to say this in front of Angus, but … he said he loves me. For the first time.’
‘That weasel?’ Fran was immediately scornful again. ‘He doesn’t love anyone but himself.’
I shot her a look that said she wasn’t forgiven.
‘OK, OK, I’ll stop. I’m pleased for you. I really am.’
‘Look, Fran, I mean it: are you going to stop being so horrid whenever he’s around?’
Fran groaned.
‘Are you? I mean, it’s driving him crazy – and me.’
‘OK. OK. If that’s what you really want, I’ll curb my natural instincts towards that creep.’
I gave her a friendly squeeze. ‘Fran, I’d love your natural instincts – if only they weren’t those of a cornered cougar.’
She snarled at me affectionately. We headed back in.
‘Do you two always live in such pitched drama?’ asked Angus, who was quietly toying with his wine.
‘Hang on – which one of us is trying to sabotage an entire wedding again? Oh, it’s you, isn’t it?’ I reminded him. ‘Ooh, which reminds me – look!’
I drew out the envelopes.
‘Invitations?’ Fran made a grab for them. ‘How come you got two separate ones?’
‘They can afford it, I suppose,’ I said airily, opening mine.
I gazed at the gold-rimmed card in shock.
‘That bitch!’
‘What?’
‘Look!’
Fran took it from me.
‘Twenty fucking years! That BITCH!’
Joan and Derek Phillips, the card said, invite you to the post-reception of the wedding of their daughter Amanda Serena Phillips to Fraser Alasdair McConnald at Pyrford Manor on December 21st. A coach will be available to pick up guests from Central London at 4.30 p.m. Formal dress will not be required.
Fran and I stared at each other. Then she tore into Alex’s. Sure enough, it said: Joan and Derek Phillips invite you to the wedding of their daughter Amanda Serena Phillips to Fraser Alasdair McConnald at Pyrford village church, noon on December 21st, after which lunch at Le Coq Fantastique, followed by dancing at Pyrford Manor. Morning Dress.
Enclosed with both of them was a wedding list, placed at Heal’s. The cheapest thing on it was three hundred quid.
Fran and I stared at each other.
‘OK,’ I said to Angus. ‘What do we have to do to fuck this wedding up the bum?’
‘It’s only fair,’ added Fran. ‘For years and years of all that shit she used to pull at school.’
I winced in remembrance. ‘For that time she got the boys to hold us still while she pulled our hair.’
‘For that time she insisted on taking our dinner money and giving it to charity,’ hissed Fran.
‘For that time she wouldn’t own up to stealing the teacher’s ruler and I took the blame.’
‘For that time she told Stacey Norton I wanted to fight with her.’
Angus was watching us, agape.
‘For that time she told on you for stealing lipstick from Woolworths!’
‘Oh yes!’ Fran remembered. ‘For that time we were meant to be going to the pictures and she didn’t want to go and pretended to be sick until it was too late and we missed it.’
‘Aargh!’ I said. ‘That time she got into that nightclub and I didn’t, and she didn’t come back for me!’
‘That time she got off with Legsy Forters just because you liked him!’
I buried my head under the cushion. ‘Legsy! Legsy!’ We were getting hysterical.
‘Let’s do it!’ shouted Fran. ‘For every mean little thing that bitch has ever done, let’s do it.’
I was fired up. ‘Yeah!’
We turned to look at Angus, who was backing away with a scared look on his face.
‘You know, girruls, we only have to reason with them, not blow them up or anything.’
I opened the third bottle of wine.
‘OK, we need a plan.’
‘Well, we’re going to the hen night,’ said Fran.
‘No we are not.’ I shot her a dangerous