For various reasons, involving Amy’s girlfriends’ flakiness and the unavailability of a white stretch limo on any other date, both the hen and the stag night ended up taking place not a sensible four months prior to the wedding, but the night before.
‘This is a terrible idea,’ Amy said. ‘Everyone knows you’ll wake up tomorrow a thousand miles away, chained to a lamp post, tarred and feathered.’
‘I will not,’ Doug said. ‘I’ll just have a few drinks, like any Friday night. Frankly, what else am I supposed to do on my last night of freedom? Sit at home wetting my pants?’
Amy had hoped for a quiet dinner involving the Gubbinses and the Frasers, but she knew a lost battle when she saw one. She couldn’t control Doug, but she determined she’d only have one cocktail, then stick to water and be home by midnight. In the end, of course, accompanied by giggling, L-plates and chocolate willies in an Italian restaurant in Soho, she had three cocktails and half a bottle of wine. At 11.45 p.m. she found herself in a club a few streets down, where in seconds Madhura was dancing on a table. Amy watched indulgently.
‘I’m only staying another fifteen minutes,’ she shouted in Gaby’s ear.
‘Fair enough. Me too. This bloody baby is knackering me.’
‘I’ll just pop to the loo, then shall we see if we can find cabs?’
She pushed through the fire doors into the hallway slam into a tall, serious-looking man in cords and a blue shirt unbuttoned to his waist.
‘Amy!’
‘Danny! What are you doing here?’
The last time they’d been face to face had been the day he cried and begged her not to go. Now he was red in the face and glowing with cheeriness.
‘It’s my stag night.’
‘No! It’s my hen night.’
They looked at each other. Amy, who had chewed over her decision so much in the past few months, now knew without any doubt she’d done the right thing. Danny held about as much interest for her as the long-term weather forecast for Calgary, Canada. Though she still hoped her mascara hadn’t run and he noticed how much weight she’d lost.
‘So, yeah,’ Danny was saying in his slow, deep voice that used to grate on Amy’s soul. ‘Getting married in three weeks. But we thought it would be sensible to have the stag and hen a bit early. Not that Alison’s having much of a hen. She’s five months pregnant, you see.’
‘Oh,’ Amy said, shocked at the feelings this engendered. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘Congratulations.’
‘And congratulations to you too, Amy. So when’s your big day?’
‘Tomorrow. Five p.m.’
‘Bloody hell! Cutting it fine, aren’t you? But that’s typical, isn’t it? Well, good luck. I hope it all goes with a swing.’
‘And you too.’ She’d been considering staying another hour and relying on Guerlain’s Midnight Secret to get her through tomorrow, but now she decided she would get that taxi after all.
She was in bed by one and fast asleep, dreaming of canapés and speeches, when the door slammed. Doug crawled into bed beside her, reeking of booze, spliff and cigarettes. His cheek bore a big red mark in Pinny’s unmistakable pillarbox-red Chanel lipstick. Pinny, naturally, had opted for the stag over the hen.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’ She yawned. ‘Was it fun?’
‘It was a laugh.’ Doug sighed, burping faintly. ‘I’m quite getting into this getting married malarkey. I wish you’d tell me where the honeymoon’s gonna be.’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘Can’t you just give me a clue?’
‘No.’ Amy rolled over. ‘Goodnight, Doug. See you in the morning.’
‘We will be back by the fifth of September, won’t we?’
Amy was amazed to hear such a specific question from Doug’s lips. ‘Yes. Just. Why?’
‘Because we’re going on tour on the sixth.’
Suddenly Amy was wide awake. ‘On tour?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But you never told me. Where are you going? For how long?’
Doug gave a huge yawn. ‘I’m sure I did. Belgium, Holland and France for three weeks.’
‘Three weeks?’
‘Yeah. It’s not far, doll. I could pop back to see you for the odd weekend.’
Sun was starting to peek through the blinds. Amy’s throat felt as if it had been blocked by a stone. ‘But that isn’t the point. You never told me you were going. And I thought we agreed that after the wedding, if the band wasn’t going anywhere, you were going to wind it up.’
Silence.
‘Doug? That’s what we agreed.’
Doug sat up. ‘Ames, what else am I going to do? I can’t go back to working in an office. You’re going to have to give us a little bit more time.’
‘But I keep giving you time. And what about time for me? What happens when I have a baby, Doug? I’ll want to go part time then. Unless you want to stay at home and bring it up.’
There. They’d been together three years and they’d never addressed the subject. But all of a sudden, here it was, as exposed as a hiker in the middle of moorland. And the look on Doug’s face said it all.
‘Doug, you do want babies, don’t you?’
He lay very still.
‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually, in a small voice.
She felt eerily calm. ‘You don’t know? Or no?’
‘No,’ he said, his voice even fainter. ‘I don’t want children. They’re noisy and smelly and messy; they interfere with your life too much. The band’ll never make it if I’m distracted by kids. And I want to travel round Australia. You can’t do that with children.’
What could be noisier and smellier and messier than the band? Amy thought, but she said. ‘You’d rather travel round Australia than create a new life?’
‘Yes, I would,’ Doug said. ‘Sorry, Amy, but any moron can create new life. Not anyone can be in a band. Anyway, there are far too many kids in the world already.’
It was like the lid of a grand piano crashing shut. Amy felt numb. Deep down, she’d always known it just as she’d always known Doug would never give up the band. He didn’t want children. He was far too much of a baby himself. Of course there were things she could do. She could wait for years in the hope she could change his mind. Or she could ‘accidentally’ forget her diaphragm. But such dishonesty repulsed her. She’d seen far too many unhappy children at the clinic – not just from the surrounding estates but from the big Islington houses that cost more than a million pounds – whose mothers or fathers hated them, or each other. And she’d also seen far too many single mothers struggling to make a go of things whatever their income bracket, to contemplate that idea.
It was one thing to go into a marriage knowing that not everything would be perfect. That there would be rocky moments along the way that could not be predicted but that would be dealt with as and when. It was quite another to stand in front of your family and friends making vows, when you disagreed about the most fundamental thing of all, knowing that the only way to fulfil your deepest yearning would be by a deception that would probably lead to disaster.
They should have had this conversation a long, long time ago. They had, sort of, the morning after they got engaged. But Amy had hoped, ridiculously, that if she just shut her eyes and ignored it, Doug’s lack of interest in children would somehow disappear, a bit like the scratching from the cupboard under the sink, which – realistically – she knew had to be mice.
‘Doug,’ she said, ‘if you really don’t want kids then we can’t get married.’
He looked at her in astonishment.
‘But you’ve always known I felt this way.’
‘I kind of did, but you never spelt it out so clearly. It’s my fault. I should have asked you straight. Years ago.’ She was amazed how clear-headed she felt, and how strong. ‘But it does mean the wedding’s off.’
‘But the wedding’s tomorrow. Today. You don’t mean this, Amy.’
‘I think I do.’
‘It’s just nerves. You’ll change your mind.’
‘I don’t think I will.’
Doug got out of bed and stood there in his boxer shorts. He was a very handsome man. Amy had adored him.
‘Fine,’ he shouted, in his petulant way. ‘In that case, I’m off.’
‘Where to?’ Amy said, panicking as the enormity of what she’d just done hit home.
‘To Pinny’s, of course. She’ll understand.’ He was throwing things in his tatty black overnight bag. Amy watched paralysed with shock, as the man she’d invested everything in for the past three years was ready to leave in three minutes.
‘Can’t we talk about this?’ she tried.
He shook his head. ‘No, Amy. I’m sick of you trying to turn me into something I don’t want to be. A PJ clone. I thought you were different from other girls but you’re not. You all want the same bloody boring thing.’
‘Maybe I don’t. I don’t know …’
Doug softened. ‘You do, Amy. That’s been obvious for ages.’ He reached for the door handle, then stopped. ‘We need some time apart, Amy. Time to cool off.’
Amy started to sob.
‘Is it all over?’
‘Maybe,’ Doug said and the door shut behind him.