Mhairi McFarlane 3-Book Collection: You Had Me at Hello, Here’s Looking at You and It’s Not Me, It’s You. Mhairi McFarlane
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sitting on the floor, legs outstretched, one arm similarly outstretched, pointing a remote at something lozenge-shaped that’s apparently a stereo. ‘Have you really got The Eagles on here, Caroline, or is it a sick joke?’
‘Thirty-one is like grieving,’ Mindy continues. ‘Because getting on with it is much worse, but no one expects you to complain any more.’
‘Oh, we expect you to complain, Mind,’ I say, carefully passing her a shallow glass that looks like a saucer on a stem.
‘The fashion magazines make me feel so old and irrelevant, it’s like the only thing I should bother buying is TENA Lady. Can I eat this?’ Mindy removes the lime slice from the side of her glass and examines it.
She is, in general, a baffling mixture of extreme aptitude and total daftness. Mindy did a business degree and insisted throughout she was useless at it and definitely wasn’t going to take on the family firm, which sold fabrics in Rusholme. Then she got a first and picked the business up for one summer, created mail order and online sales, quadrupled the turnover and grudgingly accepted she might have a knack, and a career. Yet on holiday in California recently, when a tour guide announced, ‘On a clear day, with binoculars, you can see whales from here’, Mindy said, ‘Oh my God, all the way to Cardigan Bay?’
‘Lime? Er … not usually,’ I say.
‘Oh. I thought you might’ve infused it with something.’
I collect another glass and deliver it to Ivor, then Caroline and I carry ours to our seats.
‘Cheers,’ I say. ‘To my broken engagement and loveless future.’
‘To your future,’ Caroline chides.
We raise glasses, slurp, wince a bit – the tequila is quite loud in the mix. It makes my lips numb and stomach warm.
Single. It’s been so long since the word applied to me and I don’t feel it yet. I’m something else, in limbo: tip-toeing round my own house, sleeping in the spare room, avoiding my ex-fiancé and his furious, seething disappointment. He’s right: this is what I want, I have less reason than him to be upset.
‘How’s it going, you two living together?’ Caroline asks, carefully, as if she can hear me think.
‘We’re not putting piano wire at neck level across doorways yet. We stay out of each other’s way. I need to step up the house hunt. I’m finding excuses to be out every evening as it is.’
‘How did your mum take it?’ Mindy bites her lip.
Mindy understands that, as one of the two slated bridesmaids, she was the only other person as excited as my mum.
‘Not well,’ I say, with my skill for understatement.
It was awful. The phone call went in phases. The ‘stop playing a practical joke’ section. The ‘you’re having cold feet, it’s natural’ parry. The ‘give it a few weeks, see how you feel’ suggestion. Anger, denial, bargaining, and then – I hope – some sort of acceptance. Dad came on and asked me if it was because I was worrying about the cost, as they’d cover it all if need be. It was then that I cried.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, it’s just, you never said …’ Mindy asks. ‘What actually caused the row that made you and Rhys finish?’
‘Oh …’ I say. ‘It was Macclesfield Elvis.’
There’s a pause. Our default setting is pissing about. As the demise of my epically long relationship only happened a week previous, no one knows quite what’s appropriate yet. It’s like after any major tragedy: when’s it OK to start forwarding the email jokes?
‘You shagged Macclesfield Elvis?’ Ivor says. ‘How did it feel to be nailed by The King?’
‘Ivor!’ Mindy wails.
I laugh.
‘Oooh!’ Caroline suddenly exclaims, in a very un-Caroline-like way.
‘Have you sat on something?’ Mindy says.
‘I forgot to say. Guess who I saw this week?’
I’m trying to think which famous person is meant to be my top spot. Unless it’s someone I’ve done a story on, but I spend all day looking at people who are only ever celebrities for the wrong reasons. I doubt a sex attacker on the lam would provoke this delight.
‘Coronation Street or Man U?’ Mindy asks. These are the two main sources of famous people in the city, it’s true.
‘Neither,’ Caroline says. ‘And this is a quiz for Rachel.’
I shrug, crunching on some ice with my back teeth.
‘Uh … Darren Day?’
‘No.’
‘Lembit Opik?’
‘No.’
‘My dad?’
‘Why would I see your dad?’
‘He could be over from Sheffield, having a clandestine affair behind my mum’s back.’
‘In which case I’d announce it in the form of a fun quiz?’
‘OK, I give up.’
Caroline sits back with a triumphant look on her face.
‘English Ben.’
I go hot and cold at the same time, like I’ve suddenly caught the flu. Slight nausea is right behind the temperature fluctuation. Yep, the analogy holds.
Ivor twists round to look at Caroline.
‘English Ben? What kind of nickname is that? As opposed to what?’
‘Is he any relation to Big Ben?’ Mindy asks.
‘English Ben,’ Caroline repeats. ‘Rachel knows who I mean.’
I feel like Alec Guinness in Star Wars when Luke Skywalker turns up at his cave and starts asking for Obi Wan Kenobi. Now there’s a name I’ve not heard in a long, long time …
‘Where was he?’ I say.
‘Going into Central Library.’
‘How about telling old “Two Legs Ivor” who you’re on about?’ Ivor asks.
‘I could be “Hindi Mindy”,’ Mindy offers, and Ivor looks like he’s going to explain something to her, then changes his mind.
‘He was a friend at uni, remember,’ I say, covering my mouth with my glass in case my face is betraying more than I want. ‘Off my course. Hence, English. Ben.’
‘If he was a friend of yours, why is Caroline all … wriggly?’ Mindy asks.
‘Caroline always fancied him,’ I say, glad this is the truth, if nothing like the whole truth, so help me God.
‘Ah.’ Mindy gives me an appraising look. ‘You can’t have fancied him then, because you and Caroline and taste in men – never the twain shall meet.’
I could kiss Mindy for this.
‘True,’ I agree, emphatically.
‘He still looks fine,’ Caroline says, and my stomach starts flopping around like a live crustacean heading for the pot in the Yang Sing kitchen. ‘He was in a gorgeous suit and tie.’
‘A suit, you say? This man is fascinating,’ Ivor says. ‘What a character. I’m compelled to know more. Oh. No, hang on – I’m not.’
‘Did you and he ever …?’ Mindy asks Caroline. ‘I’m trying to place him …’
‘God, no, I wasn’t glamorous enough for him, I don’t think any of us were, were we, Rach? Bit of a womaniser. But somehow nice with it.’
‘Yep,’