Jane waves me across to an alcove underneath the trophy cabinet. It’s the first time I’ve visited the rugby club since I was a teenager and this was one of the few places that would serve underage. It also helped that it was largely frequented by beefy men. It’s probably the only time in my life that I’ve ever remotely noticed men’s thighs. Sometimes it feels like I was a completely different person then. As if I woke up one day and the person I used to be had gone to be replaced by whoever I am now.
With a bottle of wine in one hand and an empty glass in the other, Jane is already a large part of the way towards sleeping while slumped over a toilet seat tonight. We’ve both been there before. She takes a swig from the bottle and then fills the glass and has a mouthful from that, too, before nodding across to where my mum is sitting at David’s side. They’re close to the bar, but it feels like he has eyes only for her tonight.
‘Your mum loves him,’ Jane says.
‘More than me.’
Jane looks between us but doesn’t deny it. The great love of my mother’s life was my dad. When he went there was nobody else. I was a square peg who had no chance of getting through the round hole. A part of her died with him.
Jane has another mouthful of wine, though I know her well enough to realise that this is to stop her from having to reply. She doesn’t understand why I said ‘yes’ to David’s proposal. She’s been with Ben for such a long time that she’s never had that fear of growing old alone.
David waves across to someone behind the bar and the waiter scuttles across with a small glass of sherry for Mum. If there’s no one around to hold her up, she’ll be down like a pensioner on a winter’s day within the hour.
What Jane doesn’t understand is that a marriage proposal is a line in the sand. A ‘no’ is the end. It’s not as if the couple carry on as they did before, waiting for the subject to come up again at a later date. A no is a no is a no.
I love that David believed in me.
He was the only one. Not Jane and definitely not Mum.
Since we met, my life has got better. It’s like his faith in me forced things to happen. I got personal training clients; I was offered more classes. I had my first chance to talk in front of an audience, when the local college wanted me to address a group of young women. My career was going nowhere and now, ten months after meeting David, it’s finally heading in the direction I want.
A no is a no is a no – and so I said yes.
Across the room, Mum has her sip of her sherry and, almost as if it’s some sort of potion that has transformed her, she starts to giggle. It’s often hard enough to get anything from her other than a frown – but then this is, perhaps, where David’s true talents lie. It’s not in the buying and selling; it’s in the way he makes people feel about themselves.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ Jane says with a nervousness to her tone, ‘but it’s only been ten months…’
‘I know.’
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, or anything like that. It’s just…’
I could make her squirm, but the truth is that I know what she’s saying.
‘I know it’s quick,’ I say, ‘but if he’d asked me in a year, I’d have said yes then. All it’s doing is bringing things forward.’
A no is a no is a no.
‘I’m thirty years old,’ I add.
‘That’s still young.’
I can’t help but glance across to the group of young women who are hanging around near the rugby players on the other side of the bar. The room is split in two, with this side for our engagement party and the other for a regular night in the rugby club. The women are either late-teens or early twenties; all slim and wearing short dresses and too-high heels. Their backs will hurt in the morning, or maybe they won’t because they’re young. Youth is everything.
I want to say that I don’t think any other men will get down on one knee for me. It took me this long to find someone who will.
A no is a no is a no.
David insisted on having an engagement party, saying that he wanted to show me off. I put down the deposit on my credit card because they don’t take cash. It’s strange, largely because there’s almost nobody he knows here. It’s mainly my friends from school. He didn’t invite Yasmine, even though I said he should. There are a handful of people that went to university with Ben, Jane and David – but he’s not speaking to any of them anyway. He’s giving all his time to my mother. Over the past ten months, I’ve often wondered how many friends he really has – but the same is true of me. There’s Jane, possibly Ben, and then… I’m not sure.
Mum rests a hand on David’s knee and then rocks back laughing. The last time I saw her cackling like this was at the repeat of the Morecambe and Wise Christmas special. She insisted it was new, even though one of them had been dead for a good thirty years at the time.
‘I better go and help him out,’ I say.
Jane raises her glass and says she’s not planning on going anywhere soon. ‘Ben’s busy with his football mates from uni,’ she adds.
As I cross the floor, I glance across to Ben, who is in the middle of a circle of sporty-looking thirty-somethings. They each have pints of lager and I can imagine them reminiscing about the glory days of when they spent semesters playing football and getting pissed.
When I get to David, I stand over him and touch his shoulder. It’s hard not to notice that my mother’s features instantly sour.
‘Why don’t you go and spend some time with your friends…’ I say, not making it a question.
He takes the hint and stands, squeezing my hand almost imperceptibly. I expect him to head off to be with Ben and his old football mates, but, instead, he crosses to the other corner of the room and disappears behind a group of people.
I take the seat he was in next to my mother, although she is seemingly now interested in an unremarkable patch of wall.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I say.
‘What else was I going to do?’
‘I don’t know – but it’s nice you’re here.’
She clears her throat and I’m not sure if it’s genuine, or if she’s annoyed about something.
‘What music is this?’ she asks.
I stop to listen: ‘I’m not sure,’ I reply.
‘It’s terrible. Music was so much better in my day.’
‘I think everyone believes the same thing.’
‘Yes, but I’m right.’
She finishes her sherry and passes me the empty glass.
‘Do you want more?’ I ask.
Nobody rolls their eyes quite like my mother. It’s always been able to make me feel a couple of inches high. As if not reading her mind is some sort of crime. ‘What do you think?’ she replies.
‘I don’t know – that’s why I’m asking.’
She stretches for the glass: ‘I’ll get it myself if it’s too much trouble.’
I stand abruptly, saying that I’ll go and then crossing quickly to the bar. There’s nobody else after a drink, so I get another sherry for Mum, as well as a glass of red for myself. It’s only when the barman returns that I ask for a double whisky and neck it when nobody’s watching. I’m going to need it to get through the evening.
After that, I load a paper plate with food from the buffet and then head back to Mum, who is still sitting by herself. She takes her drink and then points at the food.
‘What’s that?’ she says, her top lip curled.
‘That’s a samosa,’ I say, pointing to one side of the plate, before motioning to the other, ‘and that’s a yam roll.’
Mum wafts a hand across the plate. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with a plain ham sandwich. Never killed anyone, did it?’
‘Not everyone eats meat, Mum.’
‘Pfft. People weren’t so fussy in my day.’
I open my mouth to reply, but then close it. Nothing is going to be worth turning this into a full-on argument. I should have left her with David. He’s more or less the only person around whom she turns into a pleasant person. If he was anywhere in sight, I’d nod David across and hand over the reins once more – but he seems to have disappeared.
‘I’ve got to mingle,’ I say, wanting a way out.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ Mum replies. It’s hard to tell whether she’s being sarcastic, or if she actually wants to be left alone.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I say, although she’s back to staring at the wall. I can imagine her saying that nobody needed phones in her day because they had perfectly good walls to stare at.
There’s still no sign of David and I assume he’s gone to the toilet, so I head back to Jane, who is still in her alcove. There’s a slim hint of a smile on her face that makes it clear she knows exactly what’s happened between my mother and me. She’s known us too long.
She’s also tipsier – and holds up the half-empty wine bottle. ‘This is my last one,’ she says.
‘It’s a long night,’ I reply, though she shakes her head.
‘Not only tonight: for a long while. Ben and me are going to start trying for children. This is my last weekend of drinking.’
It takes me a couple of seconds and then I reply with the only thing I can: ‘You’ll be a great Mum,’ I say – although I’m looking at my own mother as I say it. Maybe I believe it; maybe I don’t.
David is back in the room. He walks gingerly across the floor, like an old man who’s forgotten his stick, and then turns in a circle, seemingly not knowing where to plant himself. He said he pulled a muscle when he decided to go running on a whim. I was taking a spin session at the time. I’ve never known him do that before, but I suppose that’s why he pulled a muscle.
Jane is watching him, too and I can feel the tension from her. ‘I should’ve told you this a long time ago,’ she says, somewhat abruptly.
‘Told me what?’
‘Ben and David were never really friends at university. We didn’t really know him. After my birthday party, we spent a good hour trying to figure out why he came and who invited him.’
I turn to her, wondering if this is some sort of joke. Her face is serious as she switches her attention from David back to me.
‘I should’ve said something ages ago,’ she repeats.
‘I don’t know what you mean. Weren’t Ben and David on the same football team?’
‘Ben says they were in the same squad. Ben was in the first team and David would come along to training sessions. That was about it. He couldn’t get in the team.’
I watch David float around the room and, now I’m looking for it, it’s suddenly obvious that he’s studiously avoiding the corner where Ben and the rest of the university football team are congregating. It wasn’t David’s idea to invite the members of the football team still living in the area; it was mine. I insisted on it. He even tried to talk me out of it, but I said there had to be some people he knew at the party. I know Jane’s telling the truth and yet I can’t quite take it in.
‘I don’t get what you’re telling me,’ I say.
‘Maybe I’m talking out of turn,’ Jane says, ‘but that’s what happened. If he’d been a proper member of the football team, I’d know him. I hung around with all the players because I was seeing Ben. I honestly don’t think I’d ever met him until you introduced us. When he and Ben were arguing outside your flat on the day he moved in, it was because Ben was asking him why he’d turned up to my birthday party.’
‘Why had he?’
‘We’re still not sure. We think he’d seen the invite via a friend of a friend on Facebook, something like that, and tagged along. We didn’t know if we should say something… You seemed so into one another and I didn’t want to spoil things…’
Neither of us speak for a while. David takes out his phone and rests on a table at the furthest end of the room. He’s by himself, making no attempt to mix with anyone.
‘Haven’t you noticed how all his stories make him out to be either a hero, or wronged in some way…?’ There’s a wobble in Jane’s voice. The wine taking hold, though there’s truth in what she has said.
I had noticed before and put it to one side. Most people are like that, aren’t they? We’re all the heroes of our own stories. Except that so many of David’s tales do end up with him being wronged. Whether it’s by his sister or unscrupulous buyers or sellers, he’s almost always the victim.
‘That’s untrue,’ I say, not wanting it to be the case. It’s not just about him – it’s about being wrong in front of Jane.
‘I just want you to be sure. Marriage is so… final.’
Jane is trying to help and I know it’s partly the booze talking. It’s partly her, too. The jealousy that I’ll be getting married first. I could probably get pregnant first if I tried. When she talks of a ‘career gap’, what she really means is to stay home, spread her legs, and pop out a series of babies. She wants to be a stay-at-home mother. I think she always has.
David may not be a hero, he may not be popular or even always truthful, but he wants to marry me and who said marriages were ever perfect. They take work and effort, and at least I’m going in with my eyes wide open. We both know what we’re getting into and we both know the alternative.
‘David supported me,’ I say. ‘You didn’t. You said I should get a job at a bank. He pushed me into visiting gyms and leisure centres a bit further out. That got me more serious jobs closer to home.’
Jane shrugs and finishes her glass. ‘I’m not saying—’
‘What are you saying?’
She sighs and glances away. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s not my fault your boyfriend is stuck for life shuffling papers around a bank and won’t marry you. Talk about living the dream.’
I can feel her staring sideways at me, her mouth open. I’m watching Ben, who’s busy laughing with his old football friends. For so long, I’ve thought that Jane and Ben were the perfect couple. I’ve wanted to live up to everything they are – and, now that David and I are close, I see how jealous Jane can be.
‘I think I’m going to go,’ Jane says – and, as she pushes herself up, I know that I’m never going to say sorry for this.