Page 24 of The Woman Who Said Yes

It’s like Eva’s wedding, I realise as Trudy lifts down my painting and dumps it unceremoniously on the floor. The nuptials are going ahead whether I like it or not, and now the morbid object is up on the wall – a fait accompli.

‘There,’ Trudy announces, stepping back to admire it. ‘Doesn’t he look great?’ She turns to me and, because I am entirely without spine or gumption, I nod and say yes, he really does.

It feels like something – probably my horribly fibrous chicken – has lodged itself in my throat. Perhaps Dad has picked up on this because he smiles hesitantly and pats my arm. ‘Sure it’s not too much, love?’

I look at my father who’s gone all posh with his National Trust card and Maltese holidays and a new-found love of antique shops. Underneath it all, he’s still my same old adorable dad. And next morning, before it’s even light, my heart squeezes as I see them off into the Uber that Trudy insisted on to take them to the airport (‘Shame you don’t have a car, Andie’).

‘Have a lovely time,’ I call out as it pulls away. Moments later, expecting lightning to strike me dead, I hurry back upstairs to my flat and lift the pike down off the wall. Then I rehang my painting and carry the spiky-toothed artefact to my bedroom where I slide it under the bed.

13

WEDDING COUNTDOWN: 44 DAYS

I’m still encrusted in glitter as I tear open the package. It’s been Craft Club today – one of the many after-school activities our charity runs. Recently, my volunteer coordinator role has further expanded to include the coordinating of paint, glue, some evil stuff called puffy paint and all manner of sparkles, plus the children we hope to thrill with our activities. Today’s project was to construct model fish ponds and it went well, I think (I tried to push Gideon out of my mind). Everyone clattered out, seemingly happy and with no eyes having been lost during the high-spirited fishing game.

The Vinted dress appears to be another success – at least on first impression. It’s a lush, deep green and feels expensive, a definite step up from the cheaper end of the high street. I’m thinking this will be my new approach to dressing as a mature woman. Not quantity – no more cheap tats ordered after a couple of wines on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday night – but quality. This, I decide, fondling the slippery fabric, is an investment piece.

Although I’m due round at Eva’s again tonight, I can’t resist a quick try-on. Sleeveless is fine, I tell myself as I twirl about before my bedroom mirror. Mum wore strappy tops and dresses her entire life and was never reprimanded for doing so. However, as I pause to cast a more critical eye, my confidence wavers.

It’s not a body-hugging dress. It’s generously bias cut and, I’d imagine, is designed to be kind of flowy. Yet it isn’t flowing on me. Weirdly, it’s clinging to my every bump and curve as if my naked form has been sprayed with green high-gloss paint.

I twist round to inspect my rear view, noting with dismay that you can virtually see up my bum hole, so firmly has the fabric suckered itself to my body. And my hair has gone weirdly fly-away as if trying to float away from my scalp. I remember Phil droning on about this particular phenomenon – ‘educating’ me as he so loved to do. As if I’d been a thick Northerner with a cabbage for a brain until he came along. ‘No, Andie. Static electricity isn’t like actual electricity. Not like the kind that powers the toaster. It’s an imbalance of electrical charge that happens when two materials rub against each other and transfer electrons, blah-blah-blah…’

I’d shut off my ears at that point. I didn’t want to hear about materials rubbing against each other because this was during the onion-bag-lingerie period when Phil seemed to have entirely gone off sex. Why did he flinch every time I touched him? Was that due to transferring electrons too? Was static electricity causing his penis to spring up into new, hitherto unknown directions?

I glare down at the dress, wondering if the electrons will tire of all this frantic transferring in time for Eva’s wedding. Then, hoping that being partially swathed in a different fabric might help, I try layering on the velvet cape. That’s what it’s about now, isn’t it? You layer pieces. You don’t just throw another thing on top. But can I really become a confident cape-wearer at fifty-eight? I feel too old to figure out how to wear an entirely new category of clothing. It’s as if someone has thrown a tabard on me, or an Elizabethan gown involving a bustle. I don’t know how to work with the thing.

I strip off and shower quickly, sanding glitter off my forearms with the loofah and gouging out fluorescent paint from under my fingernails. Then I dry off, wondering why all of my towels have the texture of a Ryvita when Marnie and Jake’s are soft and fragrant (what kind of world is this, where your offspring have better facilities than you do?). At least my favourite angora sweater won’t let me down – nor my old faithful pink satin skirt from which I have managed to iron out around 67 per cent of the puckers (its replacement having yet to arrive).

Will that do? I hope so as tonight is something of a special event.

I was a little taken aback when Eva invited me and Sam over to her place for Dom’s birthday drinks, especially as it was short notice. ‘Surely he’d rather do something with just the two of you?’ I suggested with a note of hope. ‘Or with his own friends?’ Why does he want to spend it with us? is what I meant. Really, I was digging because so far, none of his friends have been mentioned by name. Not during that night at Niko’s, nor by Eva since then. On top of not having been invited to his house, it seems she hasn’t met any of them yet. It’s just the two of them, in their loved-up little bubble.

‘No, this is what he wants,’ Eva insisted.

‘Cocktails on a Thursday night!’ I joked, feigning primness.

‘Tell me about it. He’s out of control.’

At least Sam will be there and that’s always a good thing, in a way that I can’t quite articulate, even to myself. I’m also intrigued to see Dom again, after spotting him marching along with those flowers. Perhaps that was just a blip, and someone in his mysterious social sphere had agitated him that day? Or he was having an altercation with a colleague, who was pissed off that he hasn’t been more hands-on lately? Well, of course he hasn’t! He fell in love on a cruise and since then, Eva has dominated his every waking thought.

Whatever’s going on, I’m determined to show up tonight with a sunny and positive attitude. Plus, after scraping puffy paint off the floor of our allocated classroom – we all live in fear of the caretaker there – I could murder a drink.

* * *

By the time I arrive, Eva’s little gathering is in full flow and her living room looks extremely jolly, festooned with paper lanterns and fairy lights. ‘So what’s it to be?’ Dom asks, as eager as a child playing a game called ‘Running a Bar’.

‘Oh, wow! What can you make?’ I scan the array of spirit bottles set out on the table. Eva’s cocktail accoutrements are out in full force: the vintage chrome shaker, the yellow pineapple ice bucket and the variously shaped glasses she’s gleaned from charity shops. On the fold-out part of her cocktail cabinet are dishes of olives and slices of lemon and lime, plump blackberries and raspberries. Various herbal snippings are laid out on a chopping-board.

‘Anything,’ Dom announces. ‘Anything you like, within reason!’

I catch Sam’s eye and smile. Having arrived before me, he is already clutching a vivid red cocktail excessively garnished with greenery – virtually a nature table in a glass. ‘Is that tasty?’ I ask.

‘Delicious,’ he declares. I pick up on the vibe that, like me, he’s determined to throw himself into the proceedings tonight.

‘Is it your actual birthday today, Dom?’ I ask.

‘Yep, that’s right. Not that I like to make a big thing of it.’ He gives the ice-laden shaker a flamboyant rattle and Sam and I laugh obligingly.