Twenty
The day of the barbecue comes around far too quickly. I spend an eternity going back and forth on my outfit choice and modelling things for Mrs Jenkins, and I still haven’t completely decided. Mrs Jenkins, who seemed flattered to be asked, has immediately adopted a hybrid mother-best-friend persona and is eagerly advising me. We’ve narrowed it down to a chic navy shift dress, which I love but Mrs Jenkins thinks might be a bit much for a casual summer barbecue in the garden, or my lemon-yellow dress, which Mrs Jenkins favours but I worry might be too twee.
The problem, I explain to Sir John while holding court at the breakfast table, is that I can’t choose a bag or shoes until I’ve decided on a dress. He looks distinctly uninterested, but I persevere with my theme until I wear him down to offer an opinion. He finally mutters, “I’ve always liked yellow… sunny colour,” and returns to his paper. I can’t help but notice he pulls it up a bit higher in front of his face, like people on the Tube who want to avoid any eye contact / having to give up their seats.
I might be overthinking this outfit choice.
Two hours later, clad in yellow and nude flats, I’m finally off. I’ve arranged to meet Adam at our old Clapham flat at 11am and travel to Ryan’s house together, mainly so I can reinforce the fact that today my name is Anastasia, but also because I quite like the idea of arriving with an escort for moral support. I text him before I leave to make sure that he is a) awake and b) alone, and he replies to confirm that while only 50% of my questions are currently true, 100% will be by the time I arrive.
When he opens the door, I do a slight double take.
“Adam…” I say cautiously. “Where are you going?”
“To the barbecue?”
“Well, why then are you dressed in your ‘attending a wedding’ outfit?”
He’s wearing an Oxford shirt with cufflinks, shiny black shoes, and suit trousers. Thank God I decided to meet him here so I could put a stop to this.
“It’s in an old chapel. I’m being respectful,” he answers, crossing his arms in a rather defiant fashion.
“You look like a used car salesman.”
Adam looks sulky, so I try another tack. “Why don’t you keep that lovely shirt but go a little more casual with the trousers and the shoes and lose the cufflinks?” I say in what I hope is a winning tone.
“I think I look great.”
“You do look great! You look absolutely amazing. Very handsome. But maybe a little too formal for a casual afternoon barbecue?”
“Well, I only ever dress for personal training or dates…”
“Hmm. Imagine a date by the river on a sunny Sunday afternoon. That’s the bit of the wardrobe to go for…”
After several minutes of gentle persuasion (on my part), met with stubborn resistance (on his), we agree to compromise, and he re-emerges wearing the Oxford shirt, minus the cufflinks, and wearing chinos and boat shoes. He still looks like he’s attending a garden party at Buckingham Palace. Still, by this point, we’re in danger of showing up unfashionably late, so each grabbing a couple of lobsters from my impulse purchase, along with a bottle of prosecco, we head for the Tube.
Twelve minutes later, we emerge at South Wimbledon.
“Right,” I say, taking out my phone and opening CityMapper. “This way.” Marching confidently ahead, the lobsters tucked under one arm and the prosecco under the other, I navigate us towards Ryan’s flat.
“Is that it?” Adam says, sotto voce , as we approach.
“I think so!” I say excitedly. The place looks incredible. It’s small, but even from here, I can see that it has beautiful little window arches and stained-glass windows set into the red brick. I’ve leapt ahead and am imagining an intimate wedding ceremony followed by a small reception for Ryan and my closest friends and family, the sun setting majestically in a smorgasbord of violet and honey-coloured sky, him kissing me gently as our loved ones cheer and my well cut diamond glitters in the fading light…In this fantasy I’ve obviously changed my name by deed poll to Anastasia Edwards, and all my friends and family have become willing conspirators.
“Alex! Alex!” Adam is rudely waving his hand right in front of my face, interrupting my reverie. “Good. You’re back with us. Let’s go in.”
I’ve been so focused on getting Adam to dress less ridiculously and then transporting us and the lobsters safely and (relatively) on time to Wimbledon that I haven’t had time to consider the enormity of the situation. I’m going to be a) introducing Adam and Ryan, b) maintaining the Anastasia lie in an alcohol-fuelled environment, and c) meeting Ryan’s friends.
This is basically an announcement that we are on our way to becoming a couple. This is huge.
“Have I lost you again?” Adam’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I realise that we’re standing on the doorstep, his finger poised on the doorbell.
“Sorry. Nervous. Remember, it’s Anastasia,” I hiss as he presses an index finger on the bell. I can hear the chimes echoing down the hallway and then the sound of footsteps on the approach. To my relief, it’s Ryan himself who opens the door, casually clad in khaki shorts and a red polo shirt and clutching a beer. I glance pointedly at Adam’s outfit, and he, in turn, stares pointedly at a spot on the wall.
“Anastasia… you look beautiful,” he glances nervously at Adam as if checking it’s OK to kiss me hello, the butterflies swooping back into residence as he releases me and turns to Adam. “You must be Anastasia’s cousin, Adam. I’ve heard so much about you,” he says slightly stiffly.
“All bad, I’m sure,” Adam laughs in his ‘charming’ way and holds out his hand. “We brought lobster!”
“Oh yeah, wow,” Ryan eyes the defrosted crustaceans slightly dubiously. “You shouldn’t have, guys; really, most people just go for the Asda burgers.”
Ryan relieves us of our lobsters, and we make our way down the hallway. There are two doors at the end, “One to each flat,” Ryan explains, turning to Adam. “My university friends Jackson, his girlfriend Cecille and I bought this place about six years ago as a pet project and split it into two flats. They live in one, and I’m in the smaller one.”
“Is it haunted?” asks Adam, whose interest in Ghostbusters long outlasted childhood.
“Er, not that I know of,” laughs Ryan, Adam’s charm seemingly melting Ryan’s natural shyness. “But it was a complete disaster when we bought it. It had been disused since the 1980s. A fairly eccentric property developer used to own it. He bought it with the intention of renovating it and then selling it on, but he died before he could get started.”
“And his spirit still roams the corridors today?” finishes Adam, sounding hopeful.
“Maybe. His daughter just never got around to doing anything with it. But she did want it to be something interesting like her dad had planned. It’s just that architects are expensive, and she wasn’t planning to stay in London. So she put it up for sale when she got some quotations about how much it would cost. It was on the market for quite some time before we bought it…an old chapel’s not the easiest thing to shift. You get lots of people who are interested in having a nose around because of the novelty factor, but not many who want to do the work.”
Adam looks as if he’s about to drift off, but I am captivated. God, he’s so handsome when he gets passionate about architecture stuff.
Awkwardly tucking one of the lobsters under his arm, he turns the key and leads us into his flat. It’s stunningly beautiful, with little columns framing all the rooms and the light shining through the stained-glass window at the far end of the living room, casting everything in cobalt and red hues. He gives us the tour and starts gesturing to various architectural pieces left over from the building’s original use before leaving us temporarily. At the same time, he goes to deposit our coats in his room and our marine life in the kitchen.
“Adam!” I hiss. “Stop looking like you’re about to fall asleep.”
“It’s a bit bloody boring.” He hisses back. “All this stained glass window, 1826, columns, shafts of light bollocks. It’s a bit pretentious. He needs to throw a few more ghosts into his spiel.”
“You’re just jealous!” I mutter, turning my glare into an angelic smile as Ryan returns.
“Right! Let’s go through to the courtyard and get started with the barbecue!”
“Would that be a traditional Tudor courtyard with hand-painted periwinkles?” Adam asks, with a slightly petulant glance in my direction. Sometimes, he really is a twelve-year-old. I elbow him in the ribs, and he dutifully falls into line and manages to muster some sincere-sounding admiring noises as we pass the old chapel font by the door to the garden.
The courtyard is sunny and warm after the cool of the chapel, and we are met by the sounds of frustrated swearing and four people gathered around a barbecue, seemingly struggling to get it started. Adam, in his manly element, leaps into action, barreling across to the stricken wannabe barbecuers and proclaiming something about briquettes and lighting fluid. I feel a small flush of pride at the brilliance of my contribution to the barbecue, i.e. Adam’s pyromania, when it suddenly springs to life, and a regal-looking woman (wearing the most beautiful green summer dress) takes command of the tongs and throws on a round of sausages.
I can see Adam staring at her, and my stomach clenches. He absolutely cannot try and seduce Ryan’s friends. Especially his coupled-up ones.
Ryan steers me over to the elegant barbecue queen and introduces me to her and the man standing next to her. “Anastasia, this is Cecille, and this is Jackson.” He’s like a whole new confident person around his friends, and I just stare at him for a bit until Adam rudely bounces over and waves a hand in front of my face.
Jackson is tall and quite well-built, with strawberry-blond hair and intense blue eyes. I offer my hand, but he pulls me into a friendly hug. “Anastasia! The Russian émigré! So pleased to finally meet you.”
He has a warm, slow Canadian drawl. I remember Ryan telling me he moved from Vancouver ten years ago for university, fell for Cecille (and English architecture) and never left.
I offer my hand to Cecille, and she leans in to give me the most delicate of kisses on each cheek. “Lovely to meet you,” she says in a beautiful French accent.
Ryan said she was Parisian, from one of those aristocratic French families who kept their heads and that she is a pretty big deal in conservation architecture. I feel immediately intimidated. No one would describe me as a big deal in anything, not even in the rarefied circles of reptile-keeping publications. I have a picture in my head that all Parisian women are stick thin, incredibly graceful, and sophisticated. That is pretty much the exact opposite of me. All of this is true of Cecille; she is breathtakingly beautiful. She has perfect olive skin and long dark hair that bounces perfectly off her shoulders in a way that I could never in a million years convince mine to behave. Her dark brown eyes are framed by the most Bambi-esque eyelashes imaginable, and I really, really want to hate her, except she seems so incredibly nice and self-assured that I can’t. Damn her.
We talk for ages about London, the chapel, and Ryan. They are both genuinely lovely. As much as possible, I try to avoid the topics of Russian émigrés and my family. I glance nervously over to see how Adam is doing. He seems to be contentedly holding court with two women and working his way through the beers at quite a pace. Ryan ushers me in the direction of two other girls, who are standing at the food table, nibbling on Haribo and popcorn. These seem like more my kind of people. One has long brown hair and is wearing a slightly odd dress that looks like it’s made of a grandmother’s old curtains… all browns and yellows with a thick, somewhat woollen look, which she’s paired with giant feathered earrings. The other one, with black hair, is dressed in slightly more standard barbecue attire – a short, flowery spaghetti strap dress and flip flops.
“Emma! You’ll ruin your appetite,” Ryan says chidingly to the non-curtain wearing one.
Did he say, Emma? Surely, she can’t be Emma, as in his ‘sister Emma’?
“Anastasia, this is my sister Emma, and this is her girlfriend, Mabel.”
Oh my God. I am meeting his sister. He could have bloody well warned me.
“Emma! Hi! So lovely to meet you!” I say over-enthusiastically. “Mabel! Ryan’s told me all about you both.”
Mabel greets me warmly, but I can’t help thinking Emma is a little more reserved. I was sure Ryan described her as bubbly and super friendly, but that could just be a slightly distorted sibling-esque view of the situation.
Ryan wanders off to oversee the barbecue, and I’m left making small talk with Emma and Mabel. “So, how did you guys meet?” I try.
There’s a slight pause until it becomes clear to Mabel that she is pointlessly deferring to Emma and had better jump in. “Oh, we met at Emma’s work, didn’t we, Em?”
Emma nods, almost imperceptibly, so Mabel awkwardly continues, “I’m doing a postgrad in fashion, and Em runs menswear at Selfridges. I had to do some research for a paper I was writing on suits, power and the differences in men’s fashion from baby boomers to millennial men. And Emma was just so helpful. I emailed her, telling her I got a First for my paper and offering to buy her a celebratory drink. The rest is history!”
Mabel is beaming, and I smile back at the cute story. Emma is still looking oddly poker-faced, and although the paranoid part of me wonders if it’s me, my rational self tells me that maybe she’s just in a bad mood, or she’s less enthusiastic about Mabel than Mabel is about her or something. Just then, Adam bounds over, another almost empty bottle of Cobra in one hand and a sausage in a bun in the other.
“Ladies! A pleasure to meet you! I’m Adam. I used to live with this one. She’s my cousin.” He gestures, slightly tipsily, towards me, and I smile indulgently. Mabel and Emma both turn a million-watt smile in his direction, and my Emma-related paranoia comes clawing back.
“Very glad you could come. Thanks for the lobsters. This’ll be the poshest barbecue I’ve been to,” Emma says charmingly, and paranoia crawls up my spine. My lobsters, too. The absolute cheek.
“Hell, yeah. You can’t have a barbecue without lobster.” Adam replies casually. This from the man whose knowledge of seafood dining has never previously extended beyond Captain Birdseye’s frozen fish fingers.
“So, are you also a Russian descendant, Adam?” Emma asks, the beginning of a less-than-friendly smile curling.
For once, thank God, Adam thinks quickly and comes up with the right response, “Oh God no, that’s her dad’s side. Anastasia’s mum and my mum are sisters.”
“Adam’s a personal trainer – sometimes to the stars!” I say quickly, attempting to divert the conversation from Russia and to throw him a flattery bone by way of thanks.
Emma looks satisfied and suddenly more animated than she’s been the whole time. She starts talking about healthy eating and peppering Adam with questions about personal training. Suddenly, they’re off, all back-and-forth banter and tinkling laughs and cheering.
“I’m going to get another drink. Anyone want anything?” I ask, desperate to edge into the conversation.
“I’m good, thanks,” Emma says shortly.
“No thanks! I’m still working on this Pimms!” Mabel adds.
“Another Cobra would be great!” chimes in Adam.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t slow down a bit? You’re on like your fifth beer already!” I say, half-jokingly.
“Alex, Alex, Alex… you’re so judgy!” Adam slurs.
Emma looks at him strangely, and it takes me a moment to realise what he’s said.
“Ha! He calls me Alex when he’s drunk; Anastasia is a bit of a mouthful for him at the best of times!”
Emma is still looking at me with deep suspicion, and it doesn’t help when Adam throws his arms around me and hiccoughs, “Yep! My lovely little flatmate Anasta-hic-lex. The flat’s not the same without her. It’s soooo much tidier.” He cackles, and Mabel sportingly joins in.
I glare, disentangle myself and take my leave, deliberately not bringing Adam another beer.
Ryan spots me and puts his arm around me. I enjoy the heat from his sun-warmed skin over my shoulders as he pulls me closer.
“So, you’re enjoying yourself?” he murmurs.
“Even more so now,” I answer honestly.
“Did you get the chance to speak to my sister?”
“Oh yes, she seems lovely!” I say, a bit too perkily.
Ryan smiles. “Liar. It’s OK. She’s protective of all of the family, but especially me. I’m a bit accident-prone when it comes to relationships. Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting her here, but I think she wanted to do a bit of a recce on you.”
“Oh, great. Well, I hope I’m making a good impression.” I try to sound nonchalant, but inwardly, I am cursing Adam’s Alex slip-up. Of course, it would be in front of the protective sister during a reconnaissance mission.
“Don’t worry about that. You’ve already made a pretty decent impression on me,” he whispers into my ear. Despite the afternoon warmth, I get the nicest goosebumps as I lean closer to his chest.
I’m enjoying the moment when Adam launches over to melodramatically whisper: “HAVE YOU REALISED WE ARE WALKING ON DEAD PEOPLE?! WE ARE LITERALLY BARBECUEING BANGERS OVER A LOAD OF DEAD PEOPLE?!”
I groan. “Excuse me. I need to check on the toddler.” Ryan laughs and releases me. I park a tipsy Adam on a perch by the wall.
“Do you think we should start to go a bit easier on the beers?” I ask in my sweetest, most indulgent babysitter voice.
Adam squints and studies me closely. “I reckon you’re probably borderline now, so probs best to…”
“NOT me,” I say slightly less sweetly through gritted teeth.
“Anyway, enough of your drinking habits. This place is seriously creepy. I’ve just realised. If that’s a church, this must be a freaking graveyard. Dead people! All around!” he adds, still in a pitch several octaves higher than usual.
Jackson comes to the rescue. “Did I hear talk of graveyards?”
“Oh, nothing to worry about,” I say dismissively, wishing, not for the first time, that I had normal friends to take to social functions. “Adam’s got the idea in his head that because this is a chapel, he’s partying in a cemetery. It doesn’t bother me!” I add quickly, in case he thinks I am also liable to start shrieking uncontrollably.
Worried that’s not quite enough of an explanation for my six-foot-one scaredy cat, I continue, “Adam had a… traumatic experience… in a church in Paris when he was five. He went on a tour of some catacombs and got lost for forty minutes. He’s been terrified of that kind of thing ever since.”
I pat Adam’s arm reassuringly.
“I’ve never been to Paris,” Adam hiccoughs unhelpfully.
“He’s blocked it out,” I explain, slightly digging my nails into his upper arm.
“Ah,” Jackson smiles uncertainly. “Oh well, Adam – if it helps. This is a chapel, not a church. The land’s not consecrated.”
“Not consecrated! Unblessed graves?!” chirps Adam in alarm.
“Not blessed. No graves. No bodies,” Jackson smiles and wanders off in search of burgers and, presumably, grown-up company.
I glare at Adam. “So much for good impressions,” I whisper angrily.
“What! It was a legitimate concern. And, anyway, don’t worry, I sorted out the whole Anastasia/Alex thing with Emma.”
My heart shifts gears again. “I’d already sorted it… What did you say?”
“Well. She asked again.”
“And…”
“And I said I call you Alex after Alex Ferguson. ’Cos you’re so fricking bossy,” Adam beams at his own cleverness. “It’s all sorted.”
Across the not-a-graveyard, Emma is studying me closely, and I know it’s definitely not.