Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy. Jenny Colgan
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felt almost like a conversation, but not quite.
‘OK. Are you having a good time?’
‘Why, erm … yars, of course.’ She looked a bit mystified by the question. ‘I mean, the restaurant was in Vogue this month, it’s almost impossible to get bookings.’
‘Really?’ said Fran. ‘God, we were lucky.’
‘How long have you known Amanda?’ I was persevering with the small talk, while making my usual subtle nudges to Fran to put the tape on. She glowered at me.
‘Well, Jacintha and I are cousins, and we were at school together with Philippa – she’s having another party tonight; she doesn’t like Amanda …’ – my eyebrows raised – ‘I think she had her eye on Fraser herself. Well, most of the Right Hons are spoken for, or will only go out with models, or are complete poofters, so there’s not that many left, rally,’ she finished sadly.
Oh.
‘Anyway, the Vryker-Lyons are old neighbours of ours from the village, so when Araminta went up, she met Amanda, and that’s how it all fits together, rally.’
‘Right. I see.’
‘So,’ said Fran, ‘are you and Amanda really good friends?’
‘Well, I’m going to be one of the bridesmaids.’ Mookie was blushing more and more at being bombarded with these questions. I wondered if, underneath it all, she might be rather nice.
‘That’s lovely,’ I said, reassuringly. ‘And … what do you think of Fraser?’
I expected her to get stroppy, remembering my little outburst earlier, or silent and defensive.
Instead she looked mildly uncomfortable, and blushed again.
‘Well,’ she said. Fran helpfully refilled her glass.
‘Go on, you can tell us,’ I said. ‘We won’t tell anyone.’
Except, you know, Fraser, I thought.
‘Scout’s honour,’ said Fran. With one hand behind her back.
She smiled. ‘You won’t tell Amanda?’
‘Oooh no.’
Slightly drunk, she burped and said, ‘You know, rally, I kind of agreed with what you said earlier.’
I nodded encouragement.
‘Well, when Fraser first came on the scene, he was rally innocent, you know? He kept getting invited to these parties, and he thought it was because some people he knew from university rally liked him, you know?’
‘How stupid can you get?’ I said, smiling through gritted teeth.
‘Rally! So at first we took the piss a bit, especially with Amanda rally coming on to him like that … I mean, she was still seeing that guy from Les Mis at the time.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Rally – I think she finished it, though. For the wedding and stuff.’
‘Well, that was good of her.’
‘Anyway, then I got to know him a bit more. And now I think he’s rally nice.’
‘Oh, he is.’
‘And Amanda bosses him about rally horribly. I mean, I know she’s dead lovey-dovey in public, but honestly’ – she lowered her voice – ‘I’ve heard her be rally nasty to him.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ I said.
Fran tutted. ‘For God’s sake, let’s just kill her,’ she said.
Mookie looked down suddenly and giggled. ‘Oh, it must be the champagne,’ she groaned. ‘Please, promise me you won’t tell anybody.’
‘Ehm … we promise.’
‘Then, kind of, I agree with you. Rally, I don’t think they should get married.’
I was touched.
We stepped out of the ridiculous car. There was a crowd of people queuing on the pavement, but Amanda knew where she was going, and she waved us ahead fiercely. Evidently a lot of people who hadn’t quite been able to drag themselves out for dinner were there, and Amanda passed up the line kissing and squealing with laughter. Yet again everyone was about eight foot taller than me, with designer clothes and loud voices. Mookie disappeared into a crowd of flowing blonde hair. The night was full of peacocks and screeching, and more exotic birds than us, and out of the club came the ghastly thumping of mid-eighties rock. All this detective work had made me extremely tired. I looked for Amanda. She was at the front of the queue, and I just overheard her say, ‘Well, of course, Lili came.’
‘Shall we go?’ I said to Fran.
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ she said, and we finally collapsed into a cab and made our way home.
Neither of us spoke until we were nearly at my house. One after another, we let out huge sighs, for quite different reasons.
‘Are you coming in?’ I said as I paid the driver. However, she was already halfway up the mildewed stairs.
We sat in my sitting room giggling and trying to play the tape. I was terrified about noise, as Linda had put a big sign up on my door that said, ‘Please don’t make nois!!’ [sic], so I felt a bit in the last-chance saloon.
The tape crackled and spat through a lot of rustling – and a fair bit of chewing on Fran’s part – and eventually cut into the conversation:
‘You know, I’m only telling you this for your own good, but you can be incredibly naïve, Melanie.’
The familiar tinkle. I cringed.
‘Why do I let her say this stuff?’
‘Because you have no self-esteem,’ observed Fran. ‘If she said anything nice, you’d think she wasn’t good enough for you, and you’d never see her.’
I tried to work this out as the tape ran on, but the tape took over. It was unbearable. By the time it got to my famous ‘I do believe in all that crap’ speech, I was rolling on the floor in embarrassment – first, at my Estuary tones, and second, at the whole ghastly situation of hearing yourself talk bollocks when pissed, which in most of life is fortunately never repeated.
I leaned over and switched the tape recorder off.
‘Well, that’s it then,’ I said.
‘What?’ Fran grabbed the recorder back fiercely.
‘You’re not playing that to Angus. Or Fraser. Or anyone. I’m throwing it out right now.’
‘But, Mel,’ said Fran innocently, ‘I believe!’
‘Shut up!’
‘No! No, I do now truly believe in the power of love, thanks to your moving words.’
‘Fuck off!’ I leapt at her to try and grab the tape. She grabbed my arms and we rolled about on the carpet, knocking over a frilly lamp with a paisley shade. It crashed off the coffee table.
‘Oh God.’ I sat up, while Fran held the tape out of my reach. ‘SHH!’ From next door there came the almost imperceptible sound of a long sigh. Come on, I beckoned Fran quietly, and we went into my bedroom, which was the other side of the flat at least, and you could shut the door properly.
‘You definitely can’t play that bit,’ I hissed. ‘It makes me sound like fucking Barbara Cartland. Fraser will think I’m in love with him.’
Fran wasn’t listening, instead gently crooning ‘The