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