The Importance of Being Married: A Novel Page 10

  “Business?” Max asked.

  “Jessica said that you were very busy and couldn’t make it. I just wanted to say how good of you it was to come.”

  My face drained of blood; Max looked at him curiously. “She did?”

  “Yes, but you’re here now, which is all that matters.” He smiled again and sat back, as the vicar told everyone to kneel. Gulping, I pulled out a prayer cushion from in front of me and Max followed suit.

  “What was all that about?” he whispered, as everyone started saying the Lord’s Prayer.

  “That?” I asked, weakly. “Oh, that was just Grace’s solicitor. I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s just a bit…batty, I’m afraid. He must have thought you were someone else.”

  “Someone else? Who?”

  “Who?” I repeated vaguely. “Um, well, I’m not exactly sure. I mean…”

  “He said you thought I was too busy to come. He can’t have just made that up.”

  I smiled weakly. “He…he probably thought…” I said, racking my brains, “he probably thought you were my…boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “That’s right,” I whispered uncertainly. “He was going to come, you see. But then he couldn’t. And I told Mr. Taylor, so I guess he just thought…”

  “You’ve got a boyfriend?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s right.” I nodded, then looked away, willing my face to lose its beet-root hue.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry, didn’t know.”

  “No, well, there you are.”

  The prayers ended and we sat back down as the vicar introduced one of the readings.

  “Well, look, I’d better go really,” Max said, leaning forward to pick up his umbrella.

  “Right,” I said, trying not to feel disappointed, telling myself it was a good thing.

  “Yes. I mean, work to do, preparation for this meeting, you know…”

  “Of course.” I nodded. “You go. I’ll be fine here.”

  “Good. Well, I’ll…see you later. Or tomorrow. Whenever.”

  He got up and shuffled out; I forced myself not to watch him go. After all, I told myself, the empty feeling in my stomach had nothing to do with Max; it had to do with Grace. I was at a funeral, for heaven’s sake—I was supposed to be feeling empty.

  “That’s a shame.” said Mr. Taylor, shaking his head. “Your husband had to go, did he? I was rather hoping to meet him properly.”

  “Yes,” I said weakly, “it is a shame.” Then I turned around quickly. “But that’s my husband,” I said, forcing a big smile onto my face. “Busy, busy, busy.”

  I didn’t stay for the drinks and nibbles that Mr. Taylor had organized—partly because I couldn’t risk him bringing over the paperwork for Grace’s will and partly because I needed some time alone. So instead I walked around the churchyard, then around the surrounding streets, looking around at everything and seeing very little.

  I kept thinking about the promise I’d made Grace, thinking about all the stories I’d made up for her about me and Anthony. Wondering what advice she’d give me now, if she were still alive. Would she tell me to come clean? Or would she want me to make good my lies? Maybe this was my penance for engaging in deceit. That’s what Grandma would have said. She’d have shaken her head and told me that I’d gotten exactly what I deserved.

  Grace, though…she hadn’t believed in penance. She’d believed in people, in romance, in love. She’d believed in me. Whenever I’d doubted I could do something, whenever I’d been tempted to throw in the towel, she’d looked at me with those glistening eyes of hers and told me that I could do anything I set my heart on, so long as I stayed focused and didn’t doubt myself. And she was always right. At Grandma’s funeral I didn’t think I’d be able to make a speech—not one that would do her justice, not one that wasn’t tinged with anger, with recrimination, with the desperate need to shout out, “It wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t my fault”—but I did. When I got landed with her debts, I was convinced I’d never be able to pay them off, that my life was for all intents and purposes over, but again Grace disagreed. She took my hand and squeezed it, and she said, “You know, your grandma was a proud woman. She wouldn’t have wanted you to know about the debts. But she was proud of you, too.” And I raised my eyebrows because if anything I was a disappointment to Grandma—though until I turned up on her doorstep she didn’t even know I existed. But Grace just smiled and said, “She didn’t know how to tell you. But she told me. She told me all about you. You got Grade Five piano when you were just thirteen. She kept the certificate, you know. She kept everything.” And just like that I stopped worrying about the debts. Because I was proud, too. Proud to finally be able to help Grandma, like she’d helped me all those years.

  And now…now I wanted to help Grace. Wanted to pay her back for being a friend, for making the world a bit brighter. Slowly, I dug out my mobile phone and dialed home. “Helen? It’s me. So, tell me what to do next.”

  Chapter 10

  “OKAY, SO WE NEED to up the ante.”

  It was Friday night, and Helen and I were sitting in a smoky bar. I wrinkled my nose. Despite my following Helen’s advice to the letter for the next two days, wearing lipstick, flicking my hair, and generally behaving like the sort of person I loathed, I had gotten no further in securing a date, let alone a marriage proposal, from Anthony.

  “Okay,” I said carefully. “But remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  “I’m not expecting you to marry Anthony in a day, either. But you had fifty, and I’m sorry to say it but you seem to be frittering them.”

  “I’m not frittering them,” I said defensively. “But Anthony’s barely been there…”

  “Barely? So he has been there a bit?”

  “I guess, but he’s been in meetings.”

  “Meetings? Who with?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. Clients. Marcia. People.”

  “So then set up a meeting of your own.”

  “Me?” I frowned.

  “Yes! Set up a meeting to talk about that handbag thing. Or to complain about the fax machine. Anything.”

  “The fax machine,” I said uncertainly.

  “It doesn’t matter what the meeting is about,” Helen said patiently. “The point is, you want some one-on-one time with him.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I see.”

  Helen shook her head. “God, for someone who’s meant to be clever, you are a total moron when it comes to men.”

  “I’m not a…,” I started to say, then shrugged. “It just seems like wasted effort when there are so many other things to do.”

  “You mean Max?”

  I looked up with a start. “Max?” I asked, reddening. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that you had the hots for Max, didn’t you? You used to talk about him all the time. And he never asked you out.”

  “That was ages ago,” I said defensively. “And I didn’t have the hots for him. I just…I just respect him, that’s all. I think he’s really good at what he does, and…”

  “And you fancy him?”

  “No!” I protested, shaking my head vigorously.

  “Just a little bit?”

  My blush deepened; I said nothing. I didn’t fancy Max. And even if I did, it wasn’t important.

  “Fine, deny it. But just imagine if he liked you back. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “Nice?” I rolled my eyes, trying to push the image of Max kissing me from my head. “Look, Hel, trust me, I don’t like Max. Really I don’t. Not at all.”

  “So you keep saying,” Helen said with a sigh. “I’m just trying to make you see that having a boyfriend isn’t such a terrible thing. It’s not a sign of weakness.”

  I looked down at my drink. I remembered the funeral, remembered the little smile on my face when Max had turned up unexpectedly, the crashing disappointment I’d hidden when I realized he was only there to get a style sheet. Of course love was a sign of weakne
ss. Wasn’t it weak to feel the prick of tears just because someone didn’t like you back? It was pathetic. And I wasn’t having any of it.

  “Helen, if I’m going to do this ridiculous Project Marriage thing, I want you to understand that it has nothing to do with love, romance, or the desire for a boyfriend. Or husband. Got it?”

  “Got it.” Helen shrugged. “So, let’s get on with it, shall we? Because we’re losing time every day. There’s no time for coyness or a gradual buildup. You have to swoop in. You have to figure out the competition, make your move. Now is the time to really get in there and seal the deal, so to speak.”

  “Seal the deal?” I raised one eyebrow. “Helen, do you watch anything other than Deal or No Deal these days? What happened to Murder, She Wrote?”

  “You have to get him to ask you out,” Helen continued, unabashed. “Come on, that’s the baseline requirement here if you’re going to get him to marry you. Am I right?”

  “I suppose,” I said, squirming slightly. “But it’s not that easy. I mean, you can’t just get someone to ask you out, can you? He has to want to.”

  Now it was Helen’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

  “You could ask him,” she suggested.

  “No. No way.” I shook my head for added emphasis.

  “I guess you’re right,” Helen said thoughtfully. “You want him to chase you. Okay, so you have to get him to ask you, then.”

  “Brilliant!” I said archly. “Well, that’s all sorted then.”

  Helen sighed. “God, you’re annoying sometimes. Okay, watch this.”

  She stood up and walked over to the bar, shaking back her long dark hair that was absolutely gorgeous, in a slightly messy, boho way. Helen was only five foot two, but you’d never know it, because she always wore shoes with heels so high the city could use them to build bridges.

  She stood at the bar for a few moments, turned around and winked at me, then let her gaze revert to the bar, slowly. Before it got there, though, she seemed distracted by something to her right. She looked at it kind of curiously, smiled, looked down, then looked back at it. Next, she kind of lifted her head so she was looking down at it, and, finally, she turned back to the bar. Two minutes later there was a guy next to her, offering to buy her a drink. Evidently the it had been a him. I saw her shake her head and point me out, then I saw him call over the barman, giving him a ten-pound note, before handing Helen a business card, giving her a meaningful look, and then walking away, stopping at least twice to turn back and stare at her some more. I had to admit, it was impressive.

  Five minutes after that she was back at our table, carrying two drinks.

  “See?” she said triumphantly.

  “You got a number, not a date.”

  “I could have gotten a date.” Helen shot me a withering look. “So, now it’s your turn.”

  I laughed. “You have to be kidding. There is no way I’m walking up to the bar and asking some guy to buy me a drink.”

  “You don’t ask someone. You just wait for him to offer.”

  “Helen, I am not going up to the bar to get some stranger’s number. It’s indecent. It’s…”

  “It’s what you have to do if Anthony’s going to give you a second glance,” Helen said. “Come on, if you can’t flirt with a total stranger who you’re never going to see again, what hope do you have with Anthony?”

  “But…” I said, searching for a good reason why I couldn’t do it—a good reason that Helen would buy.

  I looked at her imploringly, but she wasn’t in a sympathetic mood.

  “Jess, you do realize what’s at stake here, don’t you?” she said before I could come up with anything. “This is about changing your life. But if you can’t be bothered, then I guess we may as well go home…”

  She picked her bag up and started to stand up, looking all fiery and mad.

  “Helen, don’t,” I said quickly, tugging at her arm. “Helen, it’s not that I can’t…I mean…look, I will if you want me to…”

  “Good, because I do.”

  “Fine,” I said resignedly. “Fine, I’ll do it. But if you ever tell a single soul, then I am moving out of our flat and will never talk go you again. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Helen shot me a thumbs-up, and I started walking to the bar. Then I turned back.

  “On second thought, you can move out of the flat.”

  “Whatever.”

  I started walking again. Then I hesitated and nipped back to Helen.

  “You don’t think I should start with something easier? I mean, like baby steps, leading up to the bar? Maybe I could just smile at people to start with, get used to that and then—”

  “Go,” Helen ordered.

  I made my way over to the bar, then stood there for a few seconds, gripping the wood with my hands. This was crazy. I just wasn’t the sort of person who flirted with strangers. Or with anyone. It was such a waste of time. So humiliating. And dangerous. Potentially, at least. For all I knew these people could be ax-wielding homicidal maniacs. Still, I had to at least pretend to try, for Helen’s benefit, to get her off my case. It was all right for her—she loved this stuff. Getting her to stop flirting was the tricky part. Taking a deep breath, I edged around until I was facing the room. There was a group of men to my left, several groups of men and women dotted around, a couple of small groups of men to my right, and in the far corner a man on his own, drinking a pint, looking very uncomfortable and out of place. He was in his forties, I guessed, wore glasses, and looked like he’d have been happier in his local pub than a trendy wine bar. Immediately I smiled at him. He looked at me suspiciously, then looked around to check whether I was looking at someone else close to him, before looking back at me. Nervously, I raised my chin, trying to remember whether I was meant to keep eye contact or not while I did it, but by the time I decided that eye contact probably was a good thing, he was gone.

  Well, I told myself, at least I’d tried.

  I caught Helen’s eye and shot her an I-told-you-so look, when I felt something on my shoulder. I turned around to see the man from the corner, still clutching his pint.

  “Hello!” he said.

  I gulped. “Hello.”

  “Are you…I mean…I didn’t think you’d be…Well, your description didn’t do you justice. Didn’t do you justice at all.”

  “My…my description?”

  “On the website. You know, I was worried that you’d stood me up. I’ve been over there an hour, you see. Not that I mind your being late. Not at all. Woman’s prerogative, my wife used to say. Oh, probably shouldn’t mention her, should I?”

  “Shouldn’t you?” Now I was thoroughly confused. “And what website?”

  “SecondTimeAround dot com. That is…I mean, you are…Oh God. Oh, you’re not, are you? Oh I should have known. Beautiful young woman like you, and I think that you’re here to meet me? Look, I’m sorry. Really sorry. I…”

  He looked even more upset and humiliated than I’d felt just a few moments ago, and somehow it seemed to diffuse my embarrassment.

  “I’m not from the website, no,” I said gently. “But there’s no need to apologize. You…think you’ve been stood up?”

  He shrugged. “Of course I have. I mean, look at me. I don’t fit in here. Don’t know what I was thinking, really. It was my mate Jon who put me up to it. Said it would be good for me—meeting new people. The divorce…it was a year ago now, you see. She’s shacked up with someone called Keith in South London, and I’m just here like a sad git, trying to be something I’m not…”

  He trailed off, helplessly, and I felt a stab of recognition.

  “You know, I don’t think you’re a sad git at all. I think you’re very brave,” I said firmly, holding out my hand. “I’m Jess, by the way. Jessica Wild.”

  “Jessica Wild? That’s really your name?”

  He looked surprised. Everyone always looked surprised by my name, like I was somehow traversing the trade description act. And I guess I was. I wasn�
�t wild at all—didn’t want to be. I was sensible. Disciplined. At least I always used to be…

  “Really,” I confirmed.

  “Suits you,” he said.

  “No it doesn’t,” I said on reflex. “I mean, look at me. I’m not wild. Not one bit.”

  “I think it suits you really well. Jessica Wild. Very glamorous. Tiny bit dangerous. You’re lucky.”

  I looked at him incredulously. My name had always struck me as entirely inappropriate. My grandma blamed the surname for my mother’s waywardness; I’d spent my life doing my best to make sure I didn’t go that way as well. “I am?”

  “My name’s Frank,” he said. “Frank Werr.”

  “Frank Verr?”

  “That’s right. Only with a hard W, not a V like it sounds. I got called Wanker a lot growing up,” he said. “People said it was just rhyming slang.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling suddenly very sorry for him. “Yeah, that’s not great, is it. So, look, can I…can I get you a drink?”

  Frank shook his head. “I think I’ll probably just go home, actually. I mean, my date’s not coming, is she? And you’re a million miles out of my league, plus there’s a match on the telly that I might get home for if I leave now.”

  “A million miles out of your league? I am not,” I said indignantly. “Not even one.”

  Frank looked at me uncertainly. “You’re so out of my league. You’re gorgeous. You’re, like, a nine. I’m probably a five. Maybe five point five. I mean, everyone likes to think they’re just above average, don’t they? I’m not in bad shape. No beer belly or anything. I think that gives me point five, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re a seven,” I said firmly.

  Frank shook his head. “No. Not a seven. Six tops.”

  “Six, then,” I relented. Then I looked at him curiously. “So you really think I’m a nine?”

  “Nine point five. I was trying to be cool before.”

  I grinned. “You’re mad. But look, don’t go. Come and join me and my friend for a drink.”

  “Really?” he asked, smiling nervously. “You mean it?”