with Steve.
But, she had been so furious with Steve by the end. He just hadn’t understood why she wanted to move to London and find a job in PR, when she could have stayed in Bolton watching him take a series of dead-end jobs.
‘It’s because I want to make something of my life,’ she had argued with him. ‘I don’t want to fester here forever.’
‘You mean you want to join the rat race,’ Steve had said. ‘At least if I don’t
tie myself to a job, I can be free to take off whenever I want.’
‘And how long can you go on doing that?’ Claire had demanded. ‘One day, you’re going to have to grow up.’
In the end, she had come to London anyway, and for a while they had limped along, with her going home or him coming to see her. But they had both known it was going nowhere. The final straw had been Steve driving down from Bolton on his motorbike and offering to take her on a cheap round the world trip. He had seriously expected her to get on the back of his deathtrap and follow him. Never mind the great job she had just landed, or the new flat she had just found herself. No, she was just supposed to up sticks and go with the flow.
So she had said no, and they had parted angrily. And apart from a couple of tortuous phone conversations, they hadn’t spoken since. Stubborn pride had prevented her contacting him again. That, and meeting Barry.
Three weeks after she split up with Steve, she bumped into Barry in the lift in the smart new offices on the edge of the City, where she’d just started temping as a PR assistant. The company Barry and Mel worked for was on the fifth floor, one floor above her office. Perhaps it was the fact that he was so different to Steve that first attracted her to him. But she couldn’t help admiring his clean-cut looks, his Armani suits, and hint of regular guyness. And because he was Mel’s new boss, she found herself running into him rather a lot.
At first it seemed accidental, the way she always seemed to meet him in the lift. Then it started to seem rather too coincidental. Till the day that they had found themselves in the lift alone. And the lift had broken down on the third floor. For a few moments they had tried to pretend they were ignoring each other, then it was as if a floodgate had opened, and they were all over each other like a rash. As Claire told Mel afterwards, it was the most passionate non-sex she had ever had. And from then it was just a short step to living together and getting engaged. Steve was history. And Claire told herself she had moved on.
‘No, I’m not just doing it on the rebound,’ she said firmly. ‘I love Barry, he loves me. End of story. Now which dress do you think it the nicest – the Donna Karan or the Katharine Hamnett?’
*
‘This is a bit posh for us, love,’ said Claire’s mum in awed tones, as Claire ushered them into her new home. Her parents didn’t like coming to London, and Claire’s romance had been so whirlwind, this was the first time they’d either met Barry or been to the flat. They’d come down for a pre-wedding get-together, but now they were here they looked out of place. Claire hoped they’d love Barry the way she did, but they seemed so startled by the open-plan design, and the huge glass frontage that overlooked the Thames; she wondered if it had been wise to meet here. So different from their dingy little terrace in Bolton.
‘Don’t you like it?’ said Claire, but her heart was sinking. Her parents looked so out of place here. They seemed to physically shrink as they walked through the door. And part of Claire was ashamed to admit it, but she almost wished they hadn’t come.
‘Well, I suppose it’s all right for you London folk,’ said her father in a disapproving manner, ‘but it’s a bit too fancy for the likes of us.’
Claire sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. Claire had worked hard to divorce her London life from her home life – the two were so different – but her parents had, not unnaturally, insisted on meeting Barry before the wedding. She’d have been cowardly happy to do the introductions on the day, even though she knew she was being unfair. So they were all booked into a posh new restaurant that had opened up by London Bridge. She had a feeling it was going to be a disaster.
‘Here, let me show you to your room,’ she said, and took them through to the far side of the enormous lounge, where a cunningly hidden atrium gave way to a spiral staircase which led to the next floor.
‘I thought you said you lived in a flat,’ said her mother. ‘You could fit three of our house in here.’
‘Well it’s a big flat,’ said Claire. ‘But we like it. We’d better get on. Our table’s booked for seven.’
*
A couple of hours later, Claire made her way into the plush surroundings of the Chimera Restaurant. She had just about got used to dining in these sorts of places now, but even she thought it was pretentious beyond belief. The entrance hall was adorned with a huge picture of a monster with a lion’s head – the owners of the restaurant were apparently artists, and fancied themselves mythologists, so the place was decorated with naked nymphs being chased by Dionysus and the like. A lot of the pictures were rather rude, and Claire could see her mother was shocked.
The waiter showed them to their table, where Barry’s parents, Moira and Stuart, were waiting to greet them. There was no sign of Barry. Damn, he had said he had a meeting, but promised Claire he wouldn’t be late. Claire rang his mobile, but it was switched off, so she sent him a text, and hoped he’d get there soon.
Greetings exchanged, everyone sat down to an awkward silence. Claire never knew what to say to her prospective in-laws at the best of times, but here without Barry, she felt completely stuck. Particularly as Dad humiliated her by asking for a pint of bitter, and Mum a glass of sherry, just like they were at home in the British Legion Club.
When offered lager as an alternative, Dad looked as if it were poison, and in the end settled for a glass of red wine. Mum plumped for the Chardonnay Moira was having.
‘Very Bridget Jones,’ Moira said smiling gaily.
‘Bridget who?’ asked Mum, puzzled, and Claire groaned inwardly at another demonstration of her parents’ lack of sophistication. She was about to text Barry again, when he bowled rather drunkenly across the long and echoing restaurant floor.
‘Sorry I’m late, everyone, unavoidably detained,’ he swayed over and kissed Claire full on the mouth. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, but couldn’t help the prickles of desire that made her want to kiss him back – hard. But they were coupled with, well, embarrassment. Her parents didn’t go in much for physical demonstrations of affection, and her mother was doing little to hide her disgust.
The evening was an utter failure. Dad refused to try any of the food – ‘foreign muck’ he called it, though most of it was English, while Mum was scandalised that they could charge so much for a basic meal like sausage and mash. Moira, meanwhile (whom Claire suspected was really nouveau riche; she seemed to try so hard to show off her superior social skills) was throwing into the conversation tidbits about visiting the Tate Modern and going to the Globe, which left Claire’s parents completely cold.
It was with huge relief that the meal finally ended, and they were all able to pile into a cab to get home. But even there, the torture wasn’t over. Barry cuddled up to Claire, and insisted on stroking her leg, which would have been nice at any other time, but was excruciating when she was squashed up next to her dad. Barry was also extremely drunk by now, and kept repeating over and over, ‘You know I’m a lucky man, Norman, Jean. Your daughter ish beautiful
