Wedding Night
Page 9
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“Well, these things aren’t as simple as they appear, Kayla.” I riffle the papers more quickly.
“He must have been devastated.”
“Pretty much,” I say after a pause. “Yup. Pretty crushed. In fact … he cried.”
I can say what I like. She’ll never see Richard again. I’ll probably never see him again. And like a bludgeon to the stomach, the enormity of the truth hits me again. It’s all over. Gone. All of it. I’ll never have sex with him again. I’ll never wake up with him again. I’ll never hug him again. Somehow that fact, above all others, makes me want to bawl.
“God, Lottie, you’re so inspiring.” Kayla’s eyes are shining. “To know that something is wrong for your career, and to have the courage to make that stand, to say, ‘No! I won’t do what everyone expects.’ ”
“Exactly.” I nod desperately. “I was making a stand for women everywhere.”
My jaw is trembling. I have to conclude this conversation right now, before things go horribly wrong in the bursting-into-tears-in-front-of-your-intern department.
“So, any vital messages?” I scan the Post-its without seeing them.
“One from Steve about the presentation tomorrow, and some guy named Ben called.”
“Ben who?”
“Just Ben. He said you’d know.”
No one calls himself “Just Ben.” It’ll be some cheeky student I met at a recruiting seminar, trying to get a foot in the door. I’m really not in the mood for it.
“OK. Well. I’m going to go over my presentation. So.” I click busily and randomly at my mouse till she leaves. Deep breath. Firm jaw. Move on. Move on, move on, move on.
The phone rings and I pick it up with a sweeping, authoritative gesture.
“Charlotte Graveney.”
“Lottie! It’s me!”
I fight an instinct to put the receiver straight back down again.
“Oh, hi, Fliss.” I swallow. “Hi.”
“So … how are you?”
I can hear the teasing note in her voice and curse myself bitterly. I should never have texted her from the restaurant.
It’s pressure. All hideous pressure. Why did I ever share my love life with my sister? Why did I ever even tell her I was dating Richard? Let alone introduce them. Let alone start talking about proposals.
Next time I meet a man, I’m saying nothing to anybody. Nada. Zip. Not until we’ve been blissfully married for a decade and have three kids and have just renewed our wedding vows. Then, and only then, will I send a text to Fliss saying: Guess what? I met someone! He seems nice!
“Oh, I’m fine.” I muster a breezy, matter-of-fact tone. “How about you?”
“All good this end. So …?”
She leaves the question dangling. I know exactly what she means. She means, So, are you wearing a massive diamond ring and toasting yourself with Bollinger as Richard sucks your toes in some amazing hotel suite?
I feel a fresh, raw pang. I can’t bear to talk about it. I can’t bear her sympathy gushing over me. Find another topic. Any topic. Quick.
“So. Anyway.” I try to sound bright and nonchalant. “Anyway. Um. I was just thinking, actually. I really should get round to doing that master’s on business theory. You know I’ve always meant to do it. I mean, what am I waiting for? I could apply to Birkbeck, do it in my spare time.… What do you think?”
2
FLISS
Oh God. I want to weep. It went wrong. I don’t know how, but it went wrong.
Every time one of Lottie’s relationships ends, she immediately talks about doing a master’s degree. It’s like a Pavlovian reaction.
“Maybe I could even go on to do a PhD, you know?” she’s saying, with only the tiniest shake in her voice. “Maybe do some research abroad?”
She might fool the average person—but not me. Not her sister. She’s in a bad way.
“Right,” I say. “Yes. A PhD abroad. Good idea!”
There’s no point in pressing her for details or asking bluntly what happened. Lottie has her own distinct process for dealing with breakups. You can’t hurry her and you must not express any sympathy. I’ve learned this the hard way.
There was the time she split up from Seamus. She arrived on my doorstep with a carton of Phish Food and bloodshot eyes and I made the elementary error of asking, “What happened?” Whereupon she exploded like a grenade: “Jesus, Fliss! Can’t I just come and share ice cream with my sister without getting the third bloody degree? Maybe I just want to hang out with my own sister. Maybe life isn’t just about boyfriends. Maybe I just want to … reassess my life. Do a master’s degree.”
“He must have been devastated.”
“Pretty much,” I say after a pause. “Yup. Pretty crushed. In fact … he cried.”
I can say what I like. She’ll never see Richard again. I’ll probably never see him again. And like a bludgeon to the stomach, the enormity of the truth hits me again. It’s all over. Gone. All of it. I’ll never have sex with him again. I’ll never wake up with him again. I’ll never hug him again. Somehow that fact, above all others, makes me want to bawl.
“God, Lottie, you’re so inspiring.” Kayla’s eyes are shining. “To know that something is wrong for your career, and to have the courage to make that stand, to say, ‘No! I won’t do what everyone expects.’ ”
“Exactly.” I nod desperately. “I was making a stand for women everywhere.”
My jaw is trembling. I have to conclude this conversation right now, before things go horribly wrong in the bursting-into-tears-in-front-of-your-intern department.
“So, any vital messages?” I scan the Post-its without seeing them.
“One from Steve about the presentation tomorrow, and some guy named Ben called.”
“Ben who?”
“Just Ben. He said you’d know.”
No one calls himself “Just Ben.” It’ll be some cheeky student I met at a recruiting seminar, trying to get a foot in the door. I’m really not in the mood for it.
“OK. Well. I’m going to go over my presentation. So.” I click busily and randomly at my mouse till she leaves. Deep breath. Firm jaw. Move on. Move on, move on, move on.
The phone rings and I pick it up with a sweeping, authoritative gesture.
“Charlotte Graveney.”
“Lottie! It’s me!”
I fight an instinct to put the receiver straight back down again.
“Oh, hi, Fliss.” I swallow. “Hi.”
“So … how are you?”
I can hear the teasing note in her voice and curse myself bitterly. I should never have texted her from the restaurant.
It’s pressure. All hideous pressure. Why did I ever share my love life with my sister? Why did I ever even tell her I was dating Richard? Let alone introduce them. Let alone start talking about proposals.
Next time I meet a man, I’m saying nothing to anybody. Nada. Zip. Not until we’ve been blissfully married for a decade and have three kids and have just renewed our wedding vows. Then, and only then, will I send a text to Fliss saying: Guess what? I met someone! He seems nice!
“Oh, I’m fine.” I muster a breezy, matter-of-fact tone. “How about you?”
“All good this end. So …?”
She leaves the question dangling. I know exactly what she means. She means, So, are you wearing a massive diamond ring and toasting yourself with Bollinger as Richard sucks your toes in some amazing hotel suite?
I feel a fresh, raw pang. I can’t bear to talk about it. I can’t bear her sympathy gushing over me. Find another topic. Any topic. Quick.
“So. Anyway.” I try to sound bright and nonchalant. “Anyway. Um. I was just thinking, actually. I really should get round to doing that master’s on business theory. You know I’ve always meant to do it. I mean, what am I waiting for? I could apply to Birkbeck, do it in my spare time.… What do you think?”
2
FLISS
Oh God. I want to weep. It went wrong. I don’t know how, but it went wrong.
Every time one of Lottie’s relationships ends, she immediately talks about doing a master’s degree. It’s like a Pavlovian reaction.
“Maybe I could even go on to do a PhD, you know?” she’s saying, with only the tiniest shake in her voice. “Maybe do some research abroad?”
She might fool the average person—but not me. Not her sister. She’s in a bad way.
“Right,” I say. “Yes. A PhD abroad. Good idea!”
There’s no point in pressing her for details or asking bluntly what happened. Lottie has her own distinct process for dealing with breakups. You can’t hurry her and you must not express any sympathy. I’ve learned this the hard way.
There was the time she split up from Seamus. She arrived on my doorstep with a carton of Phish Food and bloodshot eyes and I made the elementary error of asking, “What happened?” Whereupon she exploded like a grenade: “Jesus, Fliss! Can’t I just come and share ice cream with my sister without getting the third bloody degree? Maybe I just want to hang out with my own sister. Maybe life isn’t just about boyfriends. Maybe I just want to … reassess my life. Do a master’s degree.”
