Chapter 12

Jess could see it now. There was a huge marquee on a lawn, and a lot of smartly dressed people were milling about under some massive oak trees. Fred, dressed in a black suit and wearing a cute little bow tie, was pouring out champagne . . .

‘Can I top you up?’ he asked a ravishing young woman in a powder-blue two piece and a massive hat adorned with ostrich feathers.

‘Well, hello!’ said the young woman in a swoopy sort of voice. She was called, er – Jemima. Jemima Featherstone-FFyffe. ‘I wasn’t thinking of having any more champagne, but since it’s you – why not? Tell me, what do you do when you’re not being a waiter?’

‘Oh, I write screenplays,’ said Fred airily. ‘I’m working on one about a rabbit who saves the world.’

‘Wow! That sounds fabulous!’ exclaimed Jemima F-FF. She seemed to have got rid of her powder-blue suit and was wearing a glittering swimsuit and moonstone earrings which looked like two divine dewdrops hanging from her perfect ears. ‘You must meet my father, he’s a film director. Come with me . . .’ And she clasped Fred’s elbow and steered him away through the crowds.

‘Tell me,’ Jemima whispered to Fred, ‘please don’t think I’m being too forward, but – do you have a girlfriend? Are you going out with one of those waitresses?’

She cast a glance at Charlie, Selina and Grace, who were handing out exquisite little pastries while also glaring in Fred’s direction, because each of them had been secretly planning to seduce him herself.

‘Oh no,’ said Fred. ‘I did have a sort of girlfriend, but it wasn’t really a big thing, you know, and besides . . . She’s gone off for the whole summer with her tiresome family.’

‘How could she leave you unattended for a split second?’ enquired Jemima, who had turned into a kind of South Sea Island Goddess, wearing only high-heeled shoes and a bikini made of fig leaves.

‘I’m afraid she is rather careless that way,’ shrugged Fred. And they dissolved into a kind of swamp of snogging behind a potted palm.

All the wedding guests peeped discreetly at them, murmuring to one another, ‘Isn’t it fabulous? Jemima seems to be getting off with that cute waiter. Poor girl, she really deserves cheering up after that awful incident with Don and the white-water-rafting.’

Back in the real world, Jess was in the Lawrence of Arabia bookshop. There were lots of books about him. They all had photos of him on their dust jackets. His face was long and fair and handsome, but somehow haunted and a bit weird. You just knew he was the sort of guy who would never smile for photographs.

‘I tell you what,’ said Granny. ‘He’s the spitting image of your father, dear.’

Jess looked closely at the photos and thought for a bit.

‘Well, I suppose he does look a bit like Dad, in a way,’ she said. Lawrence of Arabia had the same kind of long floppy hair. It fell down on each side of his brow.

‘Dad is a lot taller than Lawrence was,’ said Jess’s mum. She made it sound as if this was a mistake on Dad’s part. If he had any tact he wouldn’t have done all that growing, but remained glamorously short.

‘When are we going to get to Dad’s, Mum?’ asked Jess. ‘I can’t wait to see him again!’ And just at the very moment when, for a split second, Jess had got excited about something on this history tour, she felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket. A message from Fred!

‘Early next week,’ said her mum. ‘We’ll be down in St Ives by then.’

‘Great! Cool! Well, I’m going to get some fresh air – excuse me,’ said Jess, desperate to be alone with her text. She strolled outdoors and whipped out her mobile. She had been so longing to hear from Fred. But she hadn’t wanted to text him all the time, all needy and nerdy.

DISASTER, it said, MANAGED TO DROP A BIG DISH OF CREME CARAMEL ALL DOWN CHARLOTTE’S CLEAVAGE.

Oh no! It was even worse than Jess’s tortured fantasy. She didn’t even know who Charlotte was, but whether she was one of the cheerleader waitresses, or a seductive wedding guest like Jemima, Fred had already got on such close terms with her cleavage that lurve and marriage must surely follow.

Jess didn’t answer Fred’s text right away, as she usually did. She was too horrified. She didn’t trust herself. She was afraid she might say something really ferocious. On the other hand, boy, did she want to say something ferocious!

Instead she resorted to prayer. Sometimes things got so feverish you just had to hope there was some lovable old guy in the sky with a long white beard and twinkly, compassionate eyes, like Gandalf.

Dear Lord, thought Jess fervently, I know you disapprove of cleavages, and I’m sorry that, at certain moments in the past, I have tried to improve mine with the aid of minestrone soup bra inserts. Forgive me, Lord, and – this is just a suggestion – why don’t we make it Anti-Cleavage Week? You could start by removing Charlotte’s during the night and replacing it with an endless dreary flatness, covered with matted red fur.