‘Sure you won’t let me treat you?’ says Rachel.
‘It’s not that I wouldn’t,’ I say. ‘It’s just that I don’t think it’s possible.’
‘Show me,’ says the nail technician, an aggressive Thai lady who summons memories of intimidating schoolteachers.
‘Really,’ I tell her, ‘I’ll just watch.’
The woman’s name badge identifies her as Molly. ‘Hand,’ demands Molly, extending her own to receive mine. Molly squinches her mouth to one side and tuts disapproval. ‘Biter.’
‘Blimey,’ says Rachel, ‘they are quite . . .’
‘Non-existent, I know. They’d look even worse painted – like child’s hands.’
‘Pedicure,’ says Molly, indicating a leatherette chair beside the table.
‘Great idea,’ says Rachel.
‘No, really, thanks.’
‘Not bite feet?’ says Molly.
‘No. I not.’
Molly pats the chair firmly, and then clicks her fingers at another technician who scampers over.
‘So,’ says Rachel, as the nail techs set to work, ‘how’s my hairdresser?’
‘You don’t hang about, do you?’
Rachel taps her watch. ‘I’m a busy lady. I’ve got meetings all afternoon, and I still need to sort out flowers, a band, a photographer and your bridesmaids’ dresses. So . . . come on.’
‘He’s . . . whoo! What’s that?’
‘Chair,’ says my tech, a surly girl with tight top-knotted hair. ‘Vibrates.’
‘Oo er!’ says Rachel. ‘Might get one of those for the house, get rid of Steve. Anyway, Henry – you were saying?’
‘He’s good,’ I say, a slight tremolo to my voice now.
Rachel pouts at me in a way that communicates this answer is in no way close to acceptable.
‘He’s nice.’
Rachel dials up the pout to maximum.
‘He comes to the pub on Saturdays, we talk, play Scrabble . . .’ Rachel’s pout has not softened, ‘. . . we have a little . . . in-joke, I suppose.’
‘In-jokes are good.’
‘“My place or mine,” he says, then we go back to his flat.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Well, it’s weird; it’s a shabby old guesthouse really. Feels kind of . . . I dunno, temporary. Henry has a big room on the top floor. Got his own kitchen and shower, like a bedsit. Neat, but very basic. Maybe he’s saving up for a place of his own. It would explain why he works so hard, I suppose. And he does jigsaws, which is weird, but . . . I find it kind of sexy for some reason. His brow crinkles when he’s concentrating.’
‘Fascinating,’ says Rachel. ‘I meant what’s it like? You know . . .’ and she waggles her eyebrows for emphasis.
‘It’s . . .’ Rachel is already pouting; making it clear she will accept no prevarication. I smile. ‘Definitely in my top two.’
‘Blimey,’ says Rachel. ‘Not quite a’ – snapping her fingers – ‘Ken, Ken Wood! Ha!’
‘Not quite,’ I say. ‘But Ken was a freak of nature.’
‘Colour?’ This from the surly top-knot.
‘Excuse me?’
The girl juts her chin at the colour chart in my lap.
‘Oh, right, er . . . red?’
‘Cherry Red, Ruby Red, Red Apple, Red Devil, R—’
‘She’ll go Devil,’ says Rachel. ‘So, you like him?’
I nod.
‘He knows you’re travelling, though?’
Another nod.
‘Tricky.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘Did you tell him about . . . Alex?’
‘No.’
‘Zoe!’
‘I know. I should have told him straight away, but it’s hardly . . . I mean, how do you drop that into conversation?’
‘Very very tricky,’ says Rachel. ‘I’ll go Midnight Satsuma,’ she says to Molly.
‘He wants to go on a date,’ I say. ‘Like a proper couple.’
‘Awkward.’
‘I know. But if I don’t, then it’s just a bit . . .’
‘Cheap?’
‘Sad. But if I do, then it gets a bit . . .’
‘Fucked up?’
‘Yeah . . . fucked up.’
‘Talking of which,’ says Rachel.
‘What?’
‘Well, when we get back off honeymoon, me and Steve were going to start trying for a baby.’
‘Okay.’
‘So, I’ve been on the pill since I was fifteen. A long time. And they say you should come off it a few months before you start trying. Give your bits and bobs a chance to settle down and get ready.’
‘Rachel?’
‘Yeah, well, turns out I’m ready. Very ready.’
‘As in . . .’
‘As in ten weeks yesterday, twenty big fat weeks when I walk up the aisle.’
‘Holy shit, Rachel. Holy . . . shit.’
‘Yeah, that was me for about an entire week after I found out.’
‘Are you . . . happy?’
‘Well, the honeymoon’s kind of ruined. Not sure I’ll be scuba diving or bungee jumping, and I certainly won’t be drinking any piña coladas, but . . . yeah, I’m happy. Very happy, actually. Are you crying, babes?’
‘Only a little. Good crying, though. So’ – I indicate a growing bump – ‘twenty weeks?’
‘Well, I’ve had a look online, and it could be anywhere from a bit bloated to the massive “oh my God the bride’s up the duff” look. Probably that, knowing my luck.’
‘Dress?’
‘Well, the good news is I should have a decent pair of boobs by then. So, plenty of cleavage, and then’ – Rachel indicates a wide A-line starting just below her boobs – ‘away she goes.’
‘Holy shit.’
‘You like cake, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘I need to ask a favour.’
‘Okay.’
‘Great. And then you can explain all that nonsense about jigsaws.’