Chapter Twenty-Eight A Fine Romance
‘We don’t have to go,’ Michael says. ‘I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.’
‘There’s not a lot more I can do. The police are investigating the fraud, Charlie is telling the investors next week and we’ve helped as many people as we can. The shop is now closed for the August bank holiday. Besides which, Jack’s changed a shift to be able to come. We can’t let them down. Life has to get back to normal at some point.’
I continue to pack for what is predicted to be a gorgeous weekend weather-wise. I do need to get away. I really need to have something to take my mind off recent events and although I doubt the cricket will do that, I imagine Patty will.
Once we’re in London, we head to a real ale pub just outside the ground. I walk in and look around. I can’t help but laugh — the place is full of men with shiny brown foreheads and noses. Everyone looks like a little gnome. They all have the same cricket-lovers tan that Michael sports.
Michael is glowing: this is his territory. He heads up to the bar with Jack and they assess the ale on offer. Patty and I tell Michael we’ll stick to gin and tonic and he calls us cowards. Michael spots someone he knows in the crowd and they have a man hug. He introduces his friend to Jack. Seeing him so happy makes me think we’ll get through this. Maybe I should try and take an interest in his hobbies, too. Michael loves all sport and is really looking forward to the game. I know as much about cricket as Patty does (and that consists of knowing the men are often rather gorgeous and by the end of the game they have nasty red streaks down their trousers), but I always think that if you’re with friends, it doesn’t really matter what you’re doing. I bet I could do the commentary, though. I’ve heard it on the radio and it seems to consist of saying, ‘what a shot’ and something about ‘overs’.
Come the hour, we finish off our drinks and follow the stream of people out of the pub and into the ground. We’re soon squeezing our way along the terraces to get to our places.
‘Fabulous seats,’ says Jack, congratulating Michael.
‘Not much cushioning in them though,’ complains Patty of the moulded plastic seats. Much to our collective amusement, she adds, ‘Good job I brought my own.’
The teams run out onto the pitch and Patty takes out her binoculars. I’m sure what she’s doing could be classified as harassment.
I’ve watched cricket on TV with Michael, or rather I’ve sat in the same room while it’s been on. I know they throw the ball and hit it — a bit like rounders at school — then they run but sometimes they don’t and I think they only get so many throws each. On TV things are much closer and it’s easier to see what’s going on. If it weren’t for the cheers and groans of the crowd, I wouldn’t have a clue who is winning.
‘That one over there is my man of the match,’ declares Patty.
‘Why? What’s he done?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I have no idea but you should see his stubbly jawline. Here, take a look.’
I might as well and yes, he’s a handsome chap. I decide to join Patty in checking them out.
‘Who’s the equivalent of Freddie Flintstone here?’ I ask the boys, as I recall the only cricket player I’ve heard of.
Jack bursts out laughing and Michael shakes his head.
‘It’s Freddie Flintoff. His equivalent would be that guy there,’ he tells me, pointing him out.
‘He was very handsome,’ I tell Patty, ‘so big and muscular.’
She grabs the binoculars back and takes a look. The current Mr Flintoff is just as handsome. Patty nods and murmurs with approval.
A break is announced and the crowd starts shuffling about, heading to the bar.
‘Are we getting up?’ I ask Michael.
‘You sit here,’ says Jack. ‘We’ll get some drinks.’ He nods to Michael who gets up to follow him out.
‘Now those men know how to treat a lady,’ says Patty. ‘Get some snacks too.’
The guys are still not back as an announcement sounds that play will resume in ten minutes.
‘I imagine the queues are pretty long,’ I say.
‘Well, here’s hoping they’ve bought two drinks then. The first won’t touch the sides.’
Finally I spot Michael but no Jack.
‘Patty,’ Michael says, ‘can you take a look at the screen up there.’
We look up at the screen that has been showing shots of the match and the crowd. Jack is up there.
‘What’s he doing up there?’ Patty asks.
‘We now have a special broadcast,’ the tannoy announces and everyone starts looking up at the screen.
‘Patty,’ starts Jack, ‘you are the loudest, funniest, naughtiest woman I have ever met. How on earth I fell in love with someone who dressed up as Cyndi Lauper for a living I will never know, but I did. I fell head over heels in love.’
There’s an ‘aah’ from the crowd.
‘Every day I spend with you I spend laughing and I want to laugh for the rest of my life. Patty, my darling, will you marry me?’
The camera is obviously somewhere in the air as it pans onto Patty who has tears streaming down her face. She starts nodding frantically.
‘Yes, yes of course I will.’
The crowd erupts into a huge cheer and the camera pans up to a row behind Patty. Jack had been standing there all along and he’s now holding out a ring, which he puts on Patty’s finger. They kiss and Patty waves the ring at the camera. There’s a collective ‘Ooooh’ from the crowd this time. They sit down and a waiter appears with four glasses of champagne. We each take one and clink glasses. What a glorious afternoon.
And it just gets better. Our hotel for the night is a fabulously decadent place overlooking Hyde Park. We jump into a cab and head around Marble Arch to the grand entrance of the Mandarin Oriental. A doorman greets us and our luggage is taken from us as we stand marvelling at the sheer opulence of the atrium. I have stayed in many beautiful hotels over the years but this is really something special. Our rooms are beautiful, too. A king-sized bed graces the elegant décor without dwarfing it ― tasteful peony wallpaper that would only work in a room of this size reaches up to the mouldings, which in turn frame a glorious contemporary chandelier. A bottle of champagne sits chilling, so we forget about unpacking and take a seat absorbing the luxury and peace.
‘This is stunning,’ I tell Michael. ‘What made you choose it?’
‘I’ve a confession,’ he says. ‘I could have chosen somewhere closer to the cricket ground or the river but I just love the gardens in Hyde Park and thought we might get the chance to take a stroll.’
I shake my head, smiling — this is so typically Michael.
‘So do you fancy a stroll before dinner?’ he pleads.
‘Nah, not really.’ I prod him as his face drops. ‘Only kidding, come on then.’
The colours are glorious and I wonder what Charlie is doing right now and whether he’s forgiven me. I must stop thinking about it and just enjoy the moment. I link arms with Michael as we walk through the gardens and I imagine myself in an elegant costume drama. I look up at my Mr Darcy and smile. He suddenly yanks me to one side. ‘Watch it,’ he yells pointing at the ground.
I look down and see a horrible brown slug, which would have been a brown smudge if my wedges had landed on it.
‘Arion vulgaris,’ says Michael.
‘What?’
‘The slug. It’s an Arion vulgaris.’ He then points at a shiny black one. ‘And that’s an Arion circumscriptus.’
OK, so he loves his gardens but this isn’t the romantic stroll I was expecting.
‘Some men would be telling me the names of the flowers not the slugs,’ I say.
‘I could do that too if you like. That one over there — it’s an Agapanthus “Black Pantha”.’
So much for Mr Darcy. ‘Not quite what I was hoping for,’ I say. ‘Aren’t they called things like Wonderful Lady? You know something that might sound vaguely romantic.’
‘OK, Miss Needy—’ Michael laughs — ‘that rose at the back — it’s a “Carefree Beauty”, which is how you look now you’ve relaxed a little.’
‘Is it really called that?’ I ask, snuggling in a little closer.
‘Honestly? I have no idea but it does the job doesn’t it.’
I give him a little punch. ‘OK, we’ll stick with slug spotting you crazy romantic fool.’
‘Extra points if you see a Limacus flavus.’ He smiles.
It’s a tough life, all this strolling around beautiful parks in the late summer sun, and I’m soon ready to avail myself of the luxurious bathtub and the exotic smellies provided. Michael leaves me to it, opting to sit in our lounge reading the news from a real paper. That seems as much an old-fashioned luxury as the linen napkins or cups and saucers.
He picks up a broadsheet and the simple rustle of the pages transports me back in time to a slower pace of life when you couldn’t just right-swipe through the headlines. Although it’s been a long time since I ever bought a newspaper, it used to be one of the simplest of pleasures. I remember the weighty tome of the Sunday papers and dividing out the supplements. Zoe would take the book reviews first while I always read the travel section. We’d be listening to the radio, enjoying pots of coffee, sometimes with a croissant, and we’d take hours over this. A full morning taking in the news and views of the world. Does anyone take an hour perusing a newspaper on their tablet or phone? I barely skim the headlines now.
I fill the tub and pour in the entire bottle of bubble bath. I want the sort of soak you see in films where the heroine’s modesty is entirely protected by a foamy barricade. Should Michael walk in, he’ll see a playful bathing beauty not a middle-aged woman tackling the forest on her legs with a disposable Bic. That’s if he can see anything through all this steam, which is another tactic, as I figure it’s the equivalent of a soft focus filter. When everything is just as it should be, I take my glass of champagne and step into the tub carefully. I lower myself into the water and as I do so, each vertebrae of my spine relaxes with the heat. Bliss.
I think back through this evening’s stroll and smile to myself. In his own way, he’s as nutty as everyone else I know. Given my collection of friends and relatives, is it any wonder I get the guy who thinks slug-talk is romantic? He knew this weekend would be difficult for me but he’s made it as lovely as possible. And who’d have thought we’d be celebrating Patty’s engagement this weekend, too.
There’ll be photos tonight, so I better make sure I look gorgeous. The stress of Lorenzo has added years to me and it might be Patty’s night but I don’t want to look like her mother. More steam is required. I soak the hotel cotton facecloth in very hot water (trying not to recall what Patty did with mine) and lay it across my forehead and crows’ feet, willing it to plump out the lines and take years off me.
Bathing complete, I sit in my fluffy white robe at the dressing table, perfecting the hair and the make-up while Michael comes in to get ready. Shower, shave, quick squirt of aftershave, then he’s dressed and out before I’ve even finished with the hot brush.
‘Shall I wait for you?’ he asks.
‘No, you go to the bar and I’ll be down soon. Let me make an entrance,’ I tell him.
‘That means I have to notice the dress is new, doesn’t it?’ He grins.
‘You’re learning.’
He heads out and I slip into the new sapphire blue (yep, another one of my winter colours) cocktail dress I’ve bought specifically for tonight. Elegant drop earrings, my pashmina and I’m ready. I do a quick swirl for myself and I have to say, I’m quite pleased with the results. I step into the classic nude courts, which I’m told will make my legs longer, and I’m ready. The hotel has a movie-style staircase, which enables me to make the entrance that I’d planned and as Michael looks up to see me he smiles broadly and gives me a sexy wink. I think every woman kind of hopes that one day, she’ll enter a room and the entire crowd will turn to look — mesmerized by her beauty. I don’t like to kid myself but I think it’s happening now. Certainly more people than Michael have turned to look at me. I smile at them and notice a young, handsome guy waving. I start to raise my hand to wave back, stopping just in time when I realize he’s waving at someone behind me. I turn and see the most beautiful young woman in a scarlet prom dress, the kind only youth can get away with. So it wasn’t me they were staring at but it doesn’t matter: she is beautiful and if I were in the room I’d be staring at this lovely young thing, too. At least Michael still has his eyes on me.
We meet Patty and Jack in the bar. She is glowing, positively lighting up the room with her smile. For as long as I’ve known her, Patty has managed to raise the spirits in any situation. She makes people laugh and has always been a half-full kind of girl. This is different. This isn’t a performance. I’m seeing true joy and adoration dancing across her smile. I can’t help but hug her.
‘You look absolutely stunning,’ I tell her.
We head into the Michelin-starred French bistro and read through the menu. It all sounds fabulous and I wish I could have a little taste of everything.
‘Why don’t we each pick something different and we’ll have a taste of each,’ I suggest.
‘Good idea,’ Patty says. ‘Just one rule: no snails.’
‘So have you had any thoughts about the wedding?’ I ask Patty and Jack when we’ve ordered. ‘When will it be?’
‘Pretty soon,’ she says. ‘Neither of us have huge families. Well, I have no family at all, not blood anyway. So it’ll be a pretty small affair.’
She looks at Jack and he nods.
‘Actually, I wanted to ask you whether you’d be my maid of honour.’
‘I would be absolutely delighted. Who’s going to give you away?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t hold with all that nonsense even if I knew where my dad was. I’ll probably give myself away.’
Her smile fades slightly before perking up again.
‘But the biggest question I have to ask is this. Can we be the first to get married in your gorgeous new resort?’
It’s my turn for the smile to fade. ‘Oh, Patty. I would have loved that but the whole thing has fallen through.’
I tell her everything about the visit to the bank manager and Charlie asking me to remortgage the apartment. ‘But I just couldn’t.’ I sigh. ‘So come Tuesday morning, we’re formally withdrawing our bid.’
‘Wow,’ says Patty. ‘I am so sorry. I know how much that meant to you both.’ She looks pensive and I imagine she had her heart set on the island. She starts smiling again when we’re interrupted by the arrival of the waiter bearing a dessert menu.
‘Are we sharing again?’ asks Michael.
‘After news like that?’ says Patty. ‘You’ve got to be joking. Ange is getting the chocolatiest thing on the menu and no one else is getting a look in.’
The mood is re-established and we order puddings. I get no say at all. Le Rêve Chocolat, which promises chocolate mousse and chocolate ganache, is on its way to me. My very best friends are easing my pain with pudding — well there are worse things they could do. Just then I turn to see the waiters coming in with a bucket of champagne and a violinist following them. I panic.
They go straight past us to the young couple’s table where, on cue, the guy gets down on one knee and holds out a ring box with a sparkle refracted into a rainbow of colours by the dazzle of the chandelier. She looks quite overwhelmed then deliriously happy as she says yes and kisses him passionately. The violinist strikes up and the champagne is poured. A glass is given to everyone in the restaurant and we toast love’s young dream.
‘There must be something in the air today,’ says Michael.
‘Bit public for me,’ I say. ‘What if she wanted to say no?’
I know I snapped out those words. I don’t know why I panicked. Did I think Michael was going to follow Jack’s lead? Would it have been so bad if he had? I hope he didn’t notice. Fortunately, Patty moves the conversation on to wedding music and the worst song you could possibly have to walk down the aisle to.
‘“Fat Bottomed Girls” wouldn’t be a great choice,’ says Jack.
‘I can’t believe that’s the first one you thought of.’ Patty thumps him. ‘I hope it isn’t a reflection of your feelings.’
‘Never, ma chère.’ Jack is channelling his inner Gomez Addams.
‘“I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”,’ suggests Michael, continuing the game.
‘“I Want to Break Free”,’ I add.
‘That’ll be my divorce tune if you don’t all say something nice,’ Patty scolds.
‘OK then, “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World”,’ I tell her.
‘That’s better, you’re still invited.’
At the end of the evening we say our goodnights and head back to our rooms. Michael links my arm as we walk up the staircase.
‘Did you think I was going to propose back there?’
‘No, I mean not really. Well, I suppose I didn’t know.’
‘Did you want me to?’
At the top of the staircase I turn to face him and holding both his hands I say, ‘Despite everything that happened with the divorce, I do still believe in marriage. But I don’t think I’d be ready to do it again yet.’
‘Phew,’ he says. ‘I feel exactly the same but I was terrified for a moment that if I didn’t I’d lose you.’
‘Never,’ I say, kissing him. ‘Where on earth would I find another man who knew the Latin for slug?’
‘It’d be tough.’ He opens the door to our room.