Chapter 18
At midday, Tig sends a panicked message to the sibling WhatsApp group.
What sort of wedding prep can we do at Bar Salsa? I ask.
On my way out for lunch, I bump into Charles.
‘Have you got a moment?’ he asks.
‘Not really, I’m just popping out to buy a sandwich.’
‘Will you let me buy it for you, my dear?’
I meet his eye. ‘Guilty conscience?’
He looks up and down the corridor, then leans forward to speak in a low voice. ‘He came to me for advice afterwards.’
‘After it happened, or after I found out?’
‘After you found out. I had no idea what he’d done. And if I did, I would have told you.’
Charles’s blue eyes meet mine, and I can tell he’s telling the truth.
I suggest he buys me a Pret club sandwich, and we head out together.
‘I’ve got lots of questions,’ I tell him, as we walk towards Marylebone High Street. I take a deep breath and start with the one I most want answered. ‘Did anyone know?’
‘No one at work if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘So it wasn’t a quick dash to the pub toilet while everyone was toasting her farewell?’
‘You haven’t asked him yourself?’
‘I’d like to know what he told you.’
‘In case he told us two different versions?’
I shrug, but he’s busted me.
‘The party continued in her flat after the pub. She’d invited some other friends. It was barely ten, and he thought another couple of hours would be fine.’
I nod. So far, the stories stack up.
‘He was in pieces on Friday night. I was out with a delightful young lady, but he kept calling, so in the end, I had to make my excuses and leave so I could talk to him. I’d never heard him sound so distraught.’
‘Gosh, the poor thing – distraught to have accidentally inserted his penis into another woman and his girlfriend found out.’
‘I think there was quite a lot of eagerness on her part.’
I shake my head. ‘We’re not pinning the blame on her.’
‘What I mean is, she was eager to continue the liaison afterwards. But Rich was clear with her that it was a one-off, regrettable, mistake.’
‘She came to our flat, Charles. I saw her on Friday when he was supposed to be helping Snot with his fridge.’
‘Yes, I know. She wasn’t happy Rich wanted nothing more to do with her so she ambushed him.’
‘She’s what, twenty-three? And Rich will be thirty-seven on his next birthday. Chasing younger women seems to be a family trait. What was it – an early mid-life crisis? He should have bought himself a bloody Porsche.’
‘I’m not excusing him. I just want you to know how much he regrets it and how he’ll do anything to make it up to you. Being unfaithful – it just isn’t Rich. He hated seeing what his father’s affairs did to his mother.’
‘But she stayed, Charles. It’s a powerful message to a young man – women will put up with cheating.’
Pen and I get to Bar Salsa just before eight and find Tig sitting in a booth by herself, glumly sipping a fishbowl of a cocktail through a straw.
‘You okay, Tig?’
When she doesn’t answer, Pen and I exchange worried glances. Maybe I should have taken her cry for help a little more seriously.
‘Where’s Theo?’ asks Pen.
This only makes Tig sigh.
‘Talk to us,’ I tell her.
‘He’s over there.’
She points to where two dozen people are taking a beginners’ salsa lesson.
‘That’s great that he wants to learn,’ I say.
Tig runs her fingers through her hair. ‘I know, I know, but he’s just …’
‘Really rather shit?’ supplies Pen, who’s peering at the lines of dancers struggling to keep time with Celia Cruz.
Theo’s easy to spot because he’s the one who goes forwards when everyone else goes backwards.
‘Ouch,’ I say when he collides with the woman in front of him for the third time in thirty seconds.
‘He’s gonna need his first aid kit to patch up that girl when he’s done,’ says Pen and I’m honestly not sure if she’s joking.
I make Tig shove over so we can sit down. ‘Is it really such a problem he’s not a great dancer?’
‘I wanted to do a salsa as our first dance.’
‘Which song?’ asks Pen.
‘“Thinking of You”, the salsa version of that Lenny Kravitz song.’
Pen nods in approval. ‘Niche, but nice.’
‘Maybe you could meet halfway and do something easier, like a waltz?’
‘Salsa is already the compromise. My first choice was a tango, I even chose a dress that I could dance in, but after three lessons we decided it wasn’t going to work.’
‘Well, if this is his first attempt at a salsa, he’s doing okay.’
Tig’s lip wobbles. ‘It’s his fifth.’
Pen is trying hard not to laugh, but a giggle slips out. Tig elbows her. ‘It’s not funny!’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Pen, not looking particularly sorry. ‘You’ll laugh about it one day.’
I squeeze Tig’s knee. ‘You know what’s amazing about all this? He’s putting himself through this because he knows it will make you happy. Love isn’t doing the easy thing. It’s doing the hard thing.’
I wait for her to tell me to stop sounding like a therapist, but surprisingly, she stays quiet.
Blimey, things must be bad.
‘We’re here to help, Tig,’ I tell her. ‘So, how can we help?’
‘I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,’ she wails. ‘I thought it would be fun organising a wedding, but I’m so stressed, I’m getting bacne.’
‘We can deal with a few spots. A BHA cream and concealer, and you’ll be sorted.’
She sucks her straw for an alarmingly long time and drains half her cocktail.
‘Slow down,’ I warn her. ‘A fuzzy head tomorrow isn’t going to help.’ She pushes her glass across the table, out of reach. ‘Why don’t you tell us the top three things that need doing,’ I ask.
She thinks for a moment. ‘Chair skirts.’
‘What the hell’s a chair skirt?’ I ask.
‘Oh, you know,’ says Pen. ‘It’s the fabric they put over the chair, so it looks nicer.’
‘And people do that at weddings?’
‘Of course,’ says Tig like I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself for not knowing. ‘Every wedding you’ve been to. It’s the reason you can’t slide your handbag under your chair.’
Now she’s said it, I realise I’ve come across dozens of chair skirts without noticing.
‘Can’t the venue supply them?’ I ask.
‘Normally, yes, but that’s the downside of the hotel we booked.
The reason they had availability at short notice is because they’ve just refurbed after a fire and they’re not fully up and running yet.
They’re throwing in freebies to make up for it – they’re comping us rooms, for example, so if you guys want to stay over you can.
The problem is, they haven’t got a full kitchen staff.
’ She suddenly stops. ‘Shit. That should be the priority. We can’t just feed everyone M&S sandwiches, and if Theo suggests it one more time, I’ll knock his block off. ’
‘I agree food should be the priority,’ I say. ‘Way more than chair coverings. I’ve been to some lovely rustic weddings where they’ve served finger food, so maybe Theo’s on to …’
The look on her face stops me. I know Tig better than this. Rustic finger food would never feature in her dream wedding.
‘They’ve got a proper working kitchen, you said?’ She nods. ‘If only we knew someone who’s spent the last fifteen years in catering, was about to open his own restaurant, and who happens to be a brilliant chef.’
‘I can’t ask Yan to cook at my wedding.’
‘I don’t mean Yan. We ask him to find us an outside caterer. He’s bound to know someone who’d do him a favour at short notice.’
‘I didn’t think of that.’ A smile spreads across her face. ‘Oh God, Nelly, you’re a flipping genius.’ She lands a sloppy kiss on my cheek.
I smile. ‘What are the other priorities? Invitations?’
‘That’s all being done by email or phone. Mum suggests we print off a few simple cards to give addresses and maps, but we can do that ourselves.’
‘I can design something for you on Canva if you like,’ says Pen. ‘I love playing around with it.’
‘Only if you can spare the time,’ says Tig. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate.’
‘It will be fun.’
‘Flowers?’ I ask.
‘Got the florist already.’
‘Church all sorted? You’ve done the banns?’
‘Yes and yes. I need to drop off copies of our birth certificates and a declaration that we’re not already married, but I’m on top of that.’
‘You said your dress is sorted – I’m assuming Theo is renting – and you’re okay with me and Pen wearing smart cocktail dresses. Non-identical?’
‘Oh God, yes. I’ve never understood the idea of grown women wearing matching bridesmaids’ outfits. Matching outfits are for toddlers.’
‘Hen and stag parties?’ asks Pen.
‘Theo and I were thinking a few of us could go to Cyprus so the relatives over there feel included. His gran’s in a wheelchair, and he feels terrible that she’s never met me. Would you guys be up for coming?’
‘When are you thinking of going? There’s not much time.’
Tig looks sheepish. ‘Sunday.’
‘That’s in four days.’
‘I’m know, I’m sorry, but Mark knows someone who’s offered us their villa for free – it has five bedrooms – so you’d just need to book flights.’
It’s July, which tends to be slow for me anyway. Could I rearrange my schedule and get away next week?
‘Is there reliable internet?’ I ask, because worst case scenario I could do Zoom sessions. A few of my patients prefer them, anyway.
‘It’s got everything she says.’
By the time Theo finishes his lesson and comes to sit with us, Tig is in a much better mood.
She leans over to kiss him on the cheek. ‘You’re doing great, babe.’
‘Yeah, I think it’s finally clicked.’ He takes a sip of Tig’s cocktail and winces. ‘That’s like drinking syrup. I’m going to develop diabetes just looking at it.’
‘Would you like me to get you a glass of sherry, Granddad?’
He smiles at her patiently, then turns to me. ‘So, you girls all did a lot of dancing when you were younger?’
‘We went to Anthi’s after-school dance club twice a week for years,’ I reply.
It takes Theo a couple of seconds to join the dots. ‘Anthi? You mean Mark’s mum?’
Tig frowns. ‘I’m sure you knew that.’
‘So, does that mean Mark can dance, too? Did he take classes?’ Theo is finding this new titbit fascinating.
‘Only until he realised how uncool it was,’ I reply. ‘Anthi moaned to Mum for years after he stopped. She said he was a natural.’
‘I should have guessed there was dancing in his background,’ says Theo. ‘We had a Greek night at uni once, and everyone was very impressed with his zeibekiko. He kept quiet about the ballroom stuff, though.’
‘Of course he did,’ I say, enjoying imparting this naff factoid about Mark. ‘Zeibekiko is a dance for alpha males – a samba is not.’