Jenny Colgan 3-Book Collection: Amanda’s Wedding, Do You Remember the First Time?, Looking For Andrew McCarthy. Jenny Colgan
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dumping the flowers in the bin.
‘I thought they were for me.’
‘Do you want them?’ I looked at them in the bin, now covered in banana skin and old plastic coffee cups.
‘No. Aren’t you even going to read the card?’
‘I can predict the card.’ Nonetheless, I took a quick peek.
‘Sorry about your ankle, pumpkin. Can I see you tonight? I’ll pick you up,’ it said.
‘Fuck off,’ I said sourly, and plumped myself down on the stool. The phone rang.
‘Fuck off,’ I said again, and picked up all the unopened post that was spilling over my in-tray.
The phone rang fourteen times that morning. Each time I swore at it and concentrated on what I was doing instead. Finally, Janie leaned over and said quietly, ‘You know, you could put that on voice mail, then you wouldn’t even have to hear it ring.’
It pissed me off that that was such an eminently reasonable suggestion, so I just said ‘huh,’ and went back to being in a big sulk.
At lunch time the receptionist put her head round the open-plan office door.
‘Melanie Pepper!’ she shrieked.
I tentatively put my hand up.
‘You’re not answering your phone!’
Stop shrieking at me! I stood up carefully.
‘There’s someone here to see you in reception.’
Jesus. ‘Is it a man?’
‘It sure is.’
‘Can you … tell him I’m on a business trip?’
‘You ain’t on no business trip!’
‘No, but could you tell him that?’
‘You can come right upstairs and tell him yourself.’
‘How can I …? Oh, forget it, never mind.’
The receptionist had already retreated up the stairs. I followed slowly, trying to figure out a strategy. The bastard. He was going to pay, the selfish bastard.
Fraser stood nervously at the top of the stairs, pretending to admire our annual report. He looked tense. If it were an earlier age, he’d have been playing with his top hat and gloves.
I stood looking at him for a second, then crept up behind him.
‘Don’t tell me: you’re a masochist,’ I said suddenly. Startled, he turned round, then smiled shyly.
‘Hullo.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Well, Angus gave me your work address …’
‘You spoke to Angus? What did he say?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute. Would you like to go to lunch? I work quite near here. Anyway, there’s a little Italian around the corner …’
‘I know it,’ I said. ‘Yes, please.’
Steve was crossing the reception area.
‘Hey, Steve, can you tell Flavi I’ve gone out for lunch?’
‘Blow it out your arse.’
‘Thanks.’
Fraser looked quizzical. ‘One of those informal offices?’
‘Something like that.’
The Italian was busy and smelled wonderful. I remembered that I hadn’t had any dinner the night before, and the scrambled eggs were a few hours away, so I ordered spaghetti carbonara. And some garlic bread. With cheese. And minestrone soup. And a glass of wine.
‘How’s the ankle? Angus told me.’
‘Much better, thanks. So, what happened between you two? Tell me everything.’
Fraser eyed me munching my way through the garlic bread. ‘Well, you seem in good shape.’
I grimaced. ‘Did you come over to see if I was still a snivelling wretch or not?’
‘Something like that. Angus asked me to pop in and see if you were OK. He was worried about you, and he knew I worked nearby – you know the Xyler building?’
‘The big pinky-coloured one? Yes, I know it, that’s just across the road. Huh! And I thought you’d flown in to whisk me off to some glamorous lunch.’
‘This isn’t glamorous?’
We heard two of the waiters having a loud disagreement in Italian through the multicoloured plastic strips of door covering.
‘Well, you know, for those of us more used to the delights of Quagli’s …’
‘Ha ha.’
He took some bread and mopped up the remnants of my soup with it.
‘So, tell me,’ I said, agog to know how they’d managed to make it up.
‘Really, it was nothing. The Gustard and I fight all the time.’
‘That’s not what he said.’
‘Oh yes, sure, Star Wars figures and, you know, all the usual stuff.’
‘Girls?’ I asked him mischievously.
He grinned.
‘You’re feeling better, all right. No, we don’t usually fight about girls.’
‘Except this one.’
He misunderstood.
‘Who, you?’
‘Ehm, no … Amanda.’
‘Oh, right, I see what you mean.’
Momentarily embarrassed, we looked around in a flurry for our waiter.
A steaming plate of pasta was put in front of me, and I inhaled greedily.
‘So, what did you say?’ I urged.
‘We made up. You’re never going to eat all that.’
‘Watch me, skinny boy.’
‘He came round late last night after you’d gone, and apologized. Actually, I think he was more worried about you than me.’
‘That was just a cover. Boy thing.’
‘Hmm. Anyway, he took it all back, blah blah blah, promised not to mention the wedding any more, etcetera, etcetera.’
‘Right.’ I felt perversely disappointed.
‘You’re pissed off with him, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘It’s OK, you know.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t want me to get married.’
‘It’s not that,’ I protested, lying. ‘I just don’t want you to get married to her.’
‘Ah, so you admit it.’
‘Of course I admit it. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you. I told you already. And, anyway, I listened to the rest of the tape.’
‘Oh shit, did you?’
‘Don’t worry, I forgive you for what you said about my castle.’
‘Your big pile of rocks.’
‘Whatever.’
I toyed with my pasta.
‘Don’t marry her, Frase. It’s only money.’
I