huh. So, what are we going to wear?’
Amanda flounced into the bar on time. She was a three Ps girl – pert, pretty and petite.
‘Darlings, hi!’ she crowed across the bar. I forgot: when she got posh, she also got loud.
‘White wine OK?’
‘Special Brew for us, Amanda,’ shouted Fran. ‘But in a glass.’
Amanda finally wandered over with the drinks, after checking to see if she knew anyone, perched down on her perfect arse and turned to us with a smile like a morning weathergirl.
‘What’s your news, then?’ I asked helpfully.
‘You’ll never guess what, girls!’
‘Ehm, you’ve won the lottery, for double world fairness? You’re actually a man? You’re pregnant by forty sailors?’ Fran said the last bit under her breath.
‘I’m ENGAGED!!!’
‘Oh my God! Who to?’ we yelled simultaneously.
‘You know him, Mel. You remember – Fraser McConnald, from Durham.’
‘Fraser who?’ said Fran.
But I remembered. Sweet big gentle Fraser, with the scraggy hair and old clothes. I fancied him madly, he ignored it, so I followed him around pretending to be his mate instead. Not one of my proudest moments. God, did this girl have to win all the time?
‘You and Fraser! Arse Bastards!’ I said. ‘And also, I mean, wow, you’re getting married! Congratulations, that’s wonderful! God, and quick!’
Fraser never did anything quickly, I seemed to remember. I had a flash of him mooching about the college, trying to find somewhere to sit down and stretch out his incredibly long legs.
‘Oh, I know.’ She displayed the ring on her perfectly manicured finger. ‘He says I just swept him off his feet! Hee hee hee!’
Swept him off his feet? Or ran him over with a steamroller? Fraser didn’t even like being swept off his feet, I thought mutinously. Fraser liked striding about in the hills and reading Viz magazine and failing his engineering exams.
‘I remember him,’ said Fran, ‘… a couple of times when I came up. Lanky bloke. Lank. He didn’t seem like your type …’
‘Yes, well,’ simpered Amanda.
‘How did you meet him? Chess club?’
‘No, actually, it was the funniest thing … I was purring …’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Oh, my job, darling, you know.’
Grrrrr.
‘I was working for these clients from Edinburgh who are launching some ancient castles guide. Anyway, who should I see in the portfolio brochure but my old friend from university, Fraser.’
I didn’t point out that she can’t have said two words to him the whole time, as he blushed a lot, and wore the same pair of Converse trainers every day for three years.
‘Anyway, so I thought I’d go see him for a drink –’
‘Hang on,’ interrupted Fran, ‘what the hell was he doing in a brochure? Was it a brochure for Converse trainers?’
Amanda tinkled her tinkly laugh. ‘No, actually – and you’ll think this is just mad: me, little Amanda Phillips from Portmount Comprehensive …’
Uh-oh.
‘What?’ demanded Fran.
‘Well, actually … he’s a laird!’
‘A what?!’
I knew, though.
‘Oh, I know, isn’t it cute? Well, it’s like a lord – only Scotch!’
‘Is this true?’ Fran looked at me.
‘Ehm, I knew his uncle was. Maybe if his dad died, I suppose …’
Amanda looked at me in shock. ‘Melanie, you knew all that time and you didn’t tell me!’
‘Amanda, you met him once at a party, and you said he smelled funny.’
‘No-o, that can’t have been me.’ She laughed again. ‘Anyway –’
‘Did he smell funny?’ Fran asked me.
‘Only when it rained.’
‘Darlings!’ said Amanda, with an edge in her voice. ‘This is my BIG NEWS!’
We settled down, and her coy smile came back.
‘Anyway, by sheer coincidence I spoke to the castles people and they gave me his mother’s number, and she had his home number and it was just across London, so we got together and we had so much in common; we laughed and laughed … Then we went off to look at his land deeds, then one thing led to another at the Caledonian Ball …’
‘What a coincidence!’ said Fran.
‘… and now I am going to be Lairdess Amanda Phillips-McConnald!’ finished Amanda, all in one breath.
There was a silence.
‘Hey, his name’s Phillips too?’ said Fran.
‘No, no! You see, I’m keeping my name and taking his name. It’s a feminist statement really. Didn’t you see me in Tatler?’
Fran said later my eyes were like saucers. So she asked, ‘Is he rich?’
‘Don’t be silly, darling. What’s in Scotland?’
‘History? Great natural beauty? Mel Gibson?’
‘Sheep and alcoholics, darling. No, he hasn’t a bean … and there’s a “castle” to do up – he couldn’t pay for that looking at bridges all day long.’
Then Amanda went completely off on one about her interior design plans for the castle. I’d been there. (Fraser had asked a bunch of us along, but I’d tried to pretend it was a private outing for me alone.) It was really just an impressive exterior, two habitable rooms, and a Calor Gas heater, but she clearly didn’t know that yet, given the lengths she was prepared to go to to put metal walls in it.
‘I thought we’d go for a cutting-edge, post-industrialist look,’ she was saying.
I knew I had to say something – anything – at this point. So I followed my time-honoured rule of saying the first thing that comes into my head:
‘Wow, so really it’s like a class-weds-money type of thing! That’s practically …’
