Something Blue Page 12

  Anna read the rest of the article; ‘elegant’ and ‘toned’ were adjectives that recurred. She took a last look at the pleats. Maybe they weren’t so bad after all, once you got used to them. And you could always take the shoulder pads out of the mushroom thing, or trim the collar down a bit on the navy affair – she’d worry about the white gloves and clutch bags later. Riffling through the bowl of odds and ends on the coffee table beside her empty glass she found the red pen she always used to edit poems, circled the article heavily, underlining the title twice. She laid the magazine carefully in the centre of the coffee table, resisting the urge to shove it out of sight under the sofa. If she kept it in view, sheer terror would make her stick to her new regime – and she was going to have her work cut out if she was going to Make Sam Proud of Her. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and jumped to her feet. Better get a move on – she hadn’t even started getting ready for Jack yet. Still, no time like the present; before he arrived, she was going to put step one of the Total Skin Care programme into operation.

  ‘So I said to them, one more peep out of you, you little bastards, and I will personally wring your collective necks. Well, that showed them. Still had to read the whole thing aloud myself, of course – every time I tried to get one of the kids to do it they’d put on a silly voice, you know: the Queen, some rubbish foreign football star or what have you.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t tell you how weird the beginning of Henry the Fifth’s speech sounds done in the style of Julian Clary – “Once more unto the breach …” Mmm, you smell good. Ylang ylang, would that be?’ Jack nuzzled the back of Anna’s neck.

  Anna pulled away. ‘Don’t, Jack, I need to check the recipe for the salad dressing.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘But you said on the phone this morning we were having spaghetti carbonara?’

  ‘I know. That was then.’ Before she’d rushed upstairs and taken a long hard look at herself in the harsh light of the bathroom mirror, as the article in Bride suggested. Before she realised she possessed in abundance the three major no-nos listed: freckles on her nose, ragged cuticles and most heinous of all – an hourglass shape. ‘I changed my mind. I thought I’d just do a simple salad.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. Tomato and herbs with a balsamic vinegar dressing.’

  ‘But what about –’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jack, do you have to criticise every little thing I do?’ She pushed past him irritably. ‘Now I’ve forgotten to add the black pepper.’

  Christ, women. He tried to remember where she was in her cycle, and failed – that sort of thing was always impossible to keep track of when you had really important stuff to think about. Still, had to be hormones of some sort – Anna was normally so easygoing. Perhaps he should have brought her flowers, but he’d pushed the boat out on tulips from the garage for Ruth at the weekend, hoping he’d soften her up enough to get her to let him talk. No joy, though – she’d gone on about the scandal of flower-picking gangs of immigrant labourers paid a mere pittance, and when he’d tried to raise the topic of his impending departure she’d shushed him because some bloody programme about the Euro was coming on. He backed away from Anna, holding his hands up in mock defeat. ‘Sorry, darling, you’re the boss. It’s just that carbonara’s my favourite.’

  ‘I know.’ She sighed, and turned to face him. ‘I can’t say I’m entirely averse to it myself. It’s just that I think it’s time I – we – started to go a bit easy on the butter and cream, and this salad has practically no calories.’

  Definitely not the time to argue. Damn. He’d been looking forward to supper all day. ‘Whatever you say, angel. And I’m sure it’ll be delicious.’ Oh well. At least there was always sex. He held out his arms. ‘Come here, angel.’

  She gave the dressing a final stir, and turned into his embrace. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I just –’

  He held her close. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, I understand.’ He rubbed his face against hers, then held her away from him slightly. There was a sharp odour coming from somewhere, and his cheek felt unpleasantly sticky. ‘Anna? There seems to be something odd about your …’ He rubbed his hand surreptitiously against his trouser leg.

  She stared at him for a minute, then clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh no! Bugger, now I’ll have to start all over again.’

  ‘But what on earth …?’

  She was rummaging in the fridge. ‘Lemon juice.’

  He must have misheard. He smiled fondly as she hurried to the sink. ‘For a moment there, angel, I thought you said lemon juice.’

  ‘I did.’ Tilting her head back, she started to rub something on her nose. It was half a lemon.

  ‘Anna, what on earth …?’

  ‘Freckles. Gets rid of them.’

  ‘But what on earth’s wrong with your freckles? I love your freckles, they’re sweet –’

  ‘Sweet?’ She whirled round. ‘I don’t want to look sweet, Jack. In fact, sweet is precisely what I do not want to look. Soignée is the look I’m going for. Plus elegant and toned.’

  Toned? What the hell was she on about?

  Suddenly she was at his side, adding the dressing to the salad and irritably tossing the whole revolting mess together. Christ, she was in a mood. It was nearly as bad as being at home. No, cancel that. Of course he didn’t mean that. It was just … Maybe he should get her some evening primrose oil or whatever that stuff was Ruth kept on the bathroom shelf. Not that it seemed to improve Ruth much … He’d open the wine, yes, that should help things along a bit. He started to hunt in the drawer for the corkscrew.

  ‘I’m only having one glass, OK?’

  ‘No problemo. Tell you what – music, that’s what you need, angel. I know a quick burst of Rach Two – especially that lovely quiet smoochy bit in the middle – works wonders for me when I’m a bit down. Soothes the savage breast, and all that. You serve up and light the candle. Back in a jiff.’

  He headed for the living room. Phew. Full marks, Teale … Now, let’s see. If only Anna kept her CDs in some sort of order instead of lying about all over the place, several of them not even in their boxes, it would be easier to find what he was looking for. Chuck Berry’s Greatest Hits and Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell lay on the coffee table; somehow he didn’t think they were going to fit the bill. What was that magazine beside them? Curious, he picked it up – and dropped it again as he saw the title, Bride.

  Christ on a rusty unicycle!

  Panic gripped him, turning the contents of his bowels to molten lava as if he’d just forced down one of Ruth’s lamb curries.

  Surely Anna didn’t … wasn’t …

  He sat down heavily on the sofa. Could he persuade her he had suddenly developed a killer headache and had to get home and lie in a darkened room for a couple of hours? Or should he just make a run for it? As he tried to decide between the options, he caught sight of the page at which Bride had fallen open when it fell from his nerveless grasp. Dear God! She’d already started annotating the articles – tips on where to buy the dress, and have the reception! Feverishly snatching up the magazine, he started to read.

  Anna set the bowl of salad on the table, wishing she could at least sprinkle it with croutons. Damn, she wasn’t allowed sodding croutons. Croutons were the devil’s work, along with cream and butter and chocolate and ice cream – best not go on with the list. Still, there was no gain without pain, and she’d feel fantastic once she began to see the results. She lit the candle in the middle of the table, alongside the bottle of burgundy, and resolved to pull herself together. After all, it wasn’t Jack’s fault she had a bum the size of a house, hideous cuticles and a nose so revoltingly freckled she had probably been frightening small children all her life without knowing it. And anyway, the poor love was stressed enough already, what with trying to find a way to tell sodding Ruth he was leaving, and the fourth year taking the piss about Henry’s speech. Though actually, come to think of it she’d rather enjoy hearing it declaimed à la Julian Clary … She set
her favourite red gingham napkins beside their plates, and sat down to wait. It was lovely of him to go and find some soothing music – he’d looked so sweet when he ambled out. She hoped he wouldn’t be long, the salad was already looking less than inviting. Ah, she could hear him coming now …

  ‘Mother of the Groom?’ Jack practically fell into the kitchen, he was laughing so hard. He dropped Bride on the table, and collapsed into his chair, weak with relief. ‘Make Him Proud?’ He felt like a condemned man who’d been reprieved at the eleventh hour. He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. ‘Make Him Wet Himself with Fright, I should think, if his mum turned up looking like one of these old bags.’ He gurgled with delight. ‘Got to hand it to you, angel – beats Private Eye any day.’ He began to pour the wine.

  Anna burst into tears.

  Jack got clumsily to his feet, gazing at her in consternation. ‘Anna? Anna, sweetheart … angel …’

  She cried harder. After a moment Jack came round the table and knelt beside her. ‘Darling, come on, now …’ An awful thought struck him. Surely she wasn’t taking the bloody article seriously?

  Anna seized a napkin and buried her face in it. Her voice came out in muffled snatches; he had to strain to hear her. ‘… Elegant … never get thin enough in time … Toned … cellulite … sleek … hips… French manicure … elegant… strengthening polish …toned … freckles … bleach … juice …’

  Jack’s stomach rumbled; he cast a furtive look at the salad bowl. Christ, the things he had to put up with … Gritting his teeth, he put his arms round Anna. She clung on to him as if he was a life raft.

  ‘I can’t do it on my own Jack – it’s too hard!’ She started to sob again. ‘Even if I do manage to lose a couple of stone …’

  Lose a couple of stone?

  ‘… get rid of my boobs and bum and things …’

  Get rid of her …?

  ‘… bleach out my bloody freckles …’

  But he loved her bloody –

  ‘Buy one of those sodding awful frocks …’

  She couldn’t be serious. He’d never seen her in anything as ordinary – or let’s call a spade a spade here, so bloody hideous, so unremittingly sexless, as those …

  ‘Everyone will be staring at me! Pointing and laughing! Saying that’s the Mother of the Groom, and can’t you tell she’s simply not up to the job? Her poor son, he must be so ashamed of her!’ The tears became wrenching sobs. ‘I can’t do it on my own, Jack – I can’t!’ She clutched at his jacket. ‘Please, please say you’ll come with me …’

  For a moment, he thought she meant she wanted him to go with her to buy one of those hideous frocks the crones in the article were sporting. Why were they wearing headgear that would send rhinoceroses stampeding in terror? Why were they carrying those damn silly gloves instead of wearing them? And what did they keep in those ridiculous purses? Suicide pills? If that was the form and Anna was hell bent on combing the department stores until she found such a repugnant garment and wanted him along for moral support he supposed he was going to have to do the decent thing – though obviously they’d have to go further afield than Brighton, for heaven’s sake, anyone might see them – somewhere like Shoreham, say, no one in their right mind ever went there, and there was bound to be some sort of women’s shop. He wiped his forehead. It couldn’t be any worse than last year when Ruth dragged him along to find a suitable dress to wear to her niece’s christening. At least that little episode had taught him never to tell the truth when a female asked if yellow made her skin look sallow, or if the frill things on the hem of the skirt were too young for her. The get-up had made her look like a superannuated mermaid with a bad case of jaundice, but it turned out that hadn’t been the right thing to say.

  He ran a finger round the inside of his collar as he recalled the scene that had followed, then pushed it firmly from his mind and squared his shoulders in a manly sort of way. Of course he’d be there if Anna needed him. However badly things went he was pretty sure he could count on her not to punch him in the teeth or set about him with the chair from the cubicle. He was just opening his mouth to say of course he would, angel, and they could go and have a nice lunch in a nice café afterwards, when his mouth went dry and a chill slithered through his gut. It wasn’t a shopping trip she wanted him to accompany her on – it was the bloody wedding!

  He went rigid. It was impossible. Totally and utterly, nuke-me-now-lord-if-I-tell-a-word-of-a-lie completely im-fucking-possible. He nuzzled into Anna’s neck.

  ‘Angel, that’s a wonderful idea.’ He patted her back. ‘Brilliant. And honestly, there’s absolutely nothing I’d like better …’ She was pulling away from him, gazing up at him, eyes alight with hope. Christ. ‘The thing is …’ The spark flickered. ‘I mean the trouble is …’ And went out. ‘It’s just that …’ Suddenly she was pulling away from him, struggling to get to her feet. Tears trickled down her cheeks, her nose was running, her curls clung damply to her neck. ‘Look, angel, you know I’d love to come. Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more than to go with you to see young Dan get spliced, it’s just –’

  ‘It’s Sam.’

  ‘Course it is. Sam.’ He hit his forehead in what seemed to him to be a rather comical fashion. Anna looked away and blew her nose sadly on her napkin. His eye fell on the bottle of wine. Thank God; a glass of that was sure to lift her spirits. He ripped the cork from the bottle and filled their glasses. Handed Anna hers and touched his own to it. ‘To … er …’

  She waited.

  ‘The happy couple, Sam and …’

  Anna looked at him. After a moment she said very quietly, ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Exactly. Sam and Lucy.’ He took a huge gulp of wine. Anna sipped hers and stood looking at him. ‘So. You were saying; it’s just …?’

  Oh God, she wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Sweetheart, it’s a marvellous idea, me coming with you. You know there’s nothing in the world I want more than –’

  ‘Then why don’t you come? It’s to be in Ireland –’

  Ireland? Why didn’t he…? Was she mad? Ireland? Was he going to have to spell it out? He swallowed down the rest of his wine and gazed at her incredulously. ‘Anna, darling. It’s impossible – it would mean two days away! Two and a half, quite possibly, with all the travelling. What on earth would I tell Ruth?’

  She went white. ‘What would you tell Ruth?’ She took a step towards him. ‘What would you tell bloody Ruth?’ The fingers on the hand holding her glass tightened. ‘Why don’t you just once, Jack, just fucking, sodding once, worry about what you’re going to say to me? Doesn’t how I feel, what I want, matter to you at all?’

  She threw her glass of wine in his face.

  Jack’s expression of surprise gave way to one of horror as he stared down and saw the enormous dark red stain spreading over the front of his shirt. Bright splashes of scarlet were soaking into the lapels of his jacket and, further down, tracing a delicate pattern over his flies. He gave a gasp as he took in the damage. Red wine stained, didn’t it? ‘Jesus Christ, Anna – help me.’ He began to tear off his clothes. ‘Salt, that’s what we need, lots of salt, quick –’

  ‘Salt? What the hell for?’

  ‘Please, Anna.’ He seized the salt cellar, upended it over the biggest stain on his shirt and frantically rubbed it in. ‘Great.’ He thrust it towards her. ‘Now you sponge it with cold water while I fix my jacket.’

  He rushed over to the cupboard, found a packet of salt, galloped back and threw the contents over the rest of the stains. Glancing up, he saw that Anna was staring at him, shaking with rage.

  ‘You utter bastard, Jack. You care more about what that silly bitch of a wife of yours is going to say about a couple of wine stains than you do about me.’ Reaching across him, she picked up the bottle and refilled her glass. No! No! Please God, no! If she threw any more it would never come out. He hurried round the table and grabbed her arms. ‘Anna – angel – you couldn’t be more wrong. I want to come with you so m
uch it hurts …’

  She stood quite still.

  He hurried on. ‘The mere thought of you trotting off with your little suitcase all on your ownio with your little ticket and your little map of Dublin –’

  ‘Fergustown.’

  ‘– Fergustown – is simply more than I can bear.’

  She softened slightly. ‘Oh, Jack – honestly?’

  ‘Honestly, darling.’

  She leant against him. He held her tightly, murmuring endearments until he felt her begin to relax; after a while he took the glass from her hand and set it down safely on the table. ‘As for the wine stains, hell, I don’t give a monkey’s cuss what bloody Ruth says about them …’

  Over Anna’s shoulder he could see that the livid red patches were already drying in the warmth of the kitchen, the salt crystallizing into crusty rimes. Damn and blast, no point in bothering with cold water now; the damage was done. He closed his eyes briefly, picturing the storm that would break over his head when Ruth saw the state of his clothes; he was going to have his work cut out to come up with anything like an acceptable excuse. Still, one thing at a time; first he had to deal with the present emergency. God, his head ached. Why did women have to make everything so difficult? He nuzzled his chin against the top of Anna’s head. Mmm, her hair smelled wonderful, like warm honey. He thought about spending two nights at a hotel with her. OK, so Ireland was the pits as far as he was concerned – his parents had forced him to go on holiday with them once to Cork when he was a child and he’d been sick twice each way on the ferry – but there was bound to be loads of free food and champagne flowing.