drink. She was getting more worked up. ‘And while we’re on the subject of honesty, Mum, how’s Liam doing? Still feeling good about dating a boy two years older than your daughter? Bet you’re head of the PTA, right?’
Claudia cleared her throat awkwardly.
Instead of thinking she may have finally won an argument, Tabby realised that something terrible was going to happen.
‘Actually, Liam and I are getting married.’
Tabby’s jaw dropped, and she let a ‘Fuck right off!’ escape before she could control herself.
‘Language, Tabitha! You clearly got your mouth from your father’s side of the family. His mother sounded like she was born on a building site. Anyway, it will be a beautiful wedding, we were thinking of spring, lots of flowers everywhere, a big ceremony, but tasteful.’
Tabby let her mother drone on about her monstrosity of a wedding. She’d never imagined Liam was going to be a permanent part of her mother’s life. She’d assumed it was more of a mid-life crisis relationship.
Liam had moved from Essex to North London, been at school two years above Tabby, and had slept with half of year ten by the time he had left. Liam got spray tans, and sold expensive houses, and had nothing to say except what the football scores were, and what the pros and cons of ale and lager were. That Liam was marrying her mother. He was going to be her stepfather. A twenty-eight-year-old stepfather. Sweet Jesus.
She tuned back in to hear her mother saying, ‘Look, I know you’re not very good at being happy for other people, especially when your own love life isn’t going anywhere, but – ’
‘Congratulations, Mum. I’m glad you’re happy,’ Tabby said in monotone. ‘Bye.’ She hung up, knowing she’d pay for it later. Her mother always remembered. She took a deep breath.
‘Mum’s marrying Liam,’ she said to Chandra, watching as her eyes bulged in horror. And while she almost wanted to cry or scream about it, watching her usually very dignified friend spit a mouthful of Cosmopolitan onto the shirt of the cute barman fixed the whole situation. She got a case of the giggles so continuous that she thought she might never stop.
So this is what hysteria feels like, she thought, as Chandra went bright red and asked for the bill.
‘We should get to that pub. I think multiple bottles of wine and portions of chips are the only thing that will solve this,’ Chandra said in a measured voice.
‘My mother’s nuptials from hell or your gag reflex?’ Tabby squealed and collapsed into a fit of giggles again.
Chandra tried to look irritated, but couldn’t hide a smile. Tabby knew she was playing it cool, but as soon as they left the bar, her friend was going to fall apart with embarrassment and insist they could never EVER go back there.
After a ten-minute walk across Covent Garden, with Chandra ranting about how the world should just open a hole in the ground and swallow her up, she was so mortified, they reached the pub.
Rhi’s choices were usually old man pubs, ones with sticky floors, the smell of beer in the upholstery, and a darts board in the corner. Luckily, the one they entered wasn’t too bad, and even Chandra didn’t make a comment.
As they sat down with a bottle of wine and bags of crisps, explaining the wedding debacle to Rhi, Tabby realised she was starting to have a good time. Because, really, it was hilarious. And they could laugh about it. It might not even go ahead, knowing her mother’s flighty tendencies. Yes, Tabby was starting to feel quite cheerful. Then her phone buzzed. Text message: Don’t eat too much tonight. Must start strict diet and fitness regime for your bridesmaid’s dress. Mum.
Tabby blinked a couple of times, then threw the phone on the table for her friends to see, focusing instead on her glass of wine.
‘There is not enough wine and weed in the world to deal with that woman!’ Rhi exclaimed.
Chandra put her arm around Tabby. ‘Time to start on the vodka, love.’
***
Tabby supposed her mother had done her a favour, really. She had spent so much time alternately fuming and laughing about the farce of a wedding – ignoring that brief drunken moment at about three in the morning where she’d got a bit weepy that her mother had better luck with men than she did – that she didn’t even have time to worry about Monday.
And then Sunday was taken up with hangovers and big important tasks, like walking all the way to the corner shop for more milk for tea, or deciding whether to have a bacon sandwich or a full fry-up.
It wasn’t until Sunday evening, after Chandy left to go home and Rhi had finally stopped blaming Claudia for being so ridiculous that they’d all had to drink so much, that Tabby had time to worry about her meeting with Harry. But really, all she could do was set out an outfit that was most certainly different to the last one he’d seen her in, set her alarm, and crawl into bed, hoping that he looked an absolute mess tomorrow.
Of course, Harry did not look anything other than fantastic. In fact, Tabby realised she was probably never going to see Harry Shulman without getting a dull twitch in her stomach at the sight of him, that wouldn’t abate until he opened his mouth and said something vile.
King of Smart Casual Harry had decided they would meet at JuJu, the latest ‘Pan-Asian haute cuisine monstrosity’ as Chandra had dubbed it. Tabby felt a little too nervous to point out that a Bella Italia lunch deal was more her style. Rhi had offered the best advice of all and told her to approach it like she would a story: it was research.
Sitting in a glass building at a glass table where the atmosphere was chilled to freezing point and the waiters all looked at her like she’d drunkenly wandered in from a barn dance, she felt so awkward, sipping San Pellegrino and trying to decipher the menu, that seeing Harry approach felt a little like being rescued.
‘Sorry I’m late, darling, have you ordered?’ His smile was so boyish and seemingly sincere that Tabby felt unable to feel irritated, even though strangers being unnecessarily affectionate pissed her off usually.
As soon as he sat down, the waitress appeared, simpering and smiling as Harry called her ‘sweetheart’, before rushing off to fetch his vodka tonic. Tabby refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. And then he turned that smile back to her, and she suddenly pitied the poor waitress, who had actually held up with far more grace under Harry’s scrutiny that she did. She could feel herself blushing, and clicked her fingers to try and get a grip, angry with herself. She was a grown woman. This was a professional meeting.
It wasn’t like Harry was oblivious to the effect he had, the carefully chosen white shirt, the undone collar, the rolled-up sleeves. His glasses resting in the shirt pocket to suggest that, yes, he did have flaws, yes, he was vulnerable. His hair had clearly been coiffed to within an inch of its life in order to get it looking that natural. Tabby wondered if Harry had written any hair care articles, he was clearly an expert.
‘So, how are you, Tabby? Good weekend?’
Tabby thought back to the five a.m. trip back on the night bus, and how she’d narrowly avoided throwing up in a rubbish bin on the side of the road. ‘I’d call it a success. You?’
‘Oh,
