bathrooms had begun to run with tequila sick.
This was much better. The DJ was playing the perfect music. They were with the perfect friends (also Andy’s, she realized, but they were good party companions. Not too drunk, nor too sober. Happy. Festive.).
And she was wearing the perfect dress.
Lisa stood, resplendent—and only slightly wobbly, in her heels—in Barbara’s green silk Ben de Lisi dress, at the top of the Cinderella stair-case, and surveyed the scene. This wasn’t her grand entrance—she was on her way back from the bathroom. And this wasn’t the beginning of the night—dinner had long been cleared away, and she had drunk enough champagne to feel giddy and sentimental. The event space had been transformed as only light and flowers could manage: the ballroom had been made magical—dressed with sparkling white fairy lights, and flickering gold candles and about a million white poinsettias. Christmas, the classy way. Not an inflated Santa or a sprig of plastic mistletoe in sight.
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Lisa didn’t normally love big parties like this. Smaller things where she knew everyone were more her style. She was that noisy kind of shy.
The worst kind, because no one knew that noisy could be shy. But it could, and she was. Places where she knew everyone were much easier for her. Plus, she was firmly in the “getting ready is the best part of the night” camp when it came to big “dos.” Luxuriating in a deep, fragrant bath; taking the time to paint on a smoother, prettier, more colorful version of your face; that first glass of decent wine, drunk alone—that was all much better than getting hoarse, shouting to make yourself and your inanity heard above a crowd of noisy strangers, drinking cheap alcohol and feeling the balls of your feet throb with each step you took in the high heels the dress demanded but your feet rejected wholesale.
Tonight was different. When she was dressed, earlier, before she left home, Lisa had sprayed perfume into the air in front of her and walked through its mist. Mum had taught her to do it that way. Only she called it scent. She’d walked through that fragrant piece of air, in Mum’s dress, and in some weird way, that action had been like walking through the portal in some science-fiction/fantasy book—she’d wafted into a different mood entirely. The perfume felt more than a little like armor—a shield against . . . who knew . . . whatever stopped her from liking parties like this one. Or maybe it wasn’t the perfume at all; maybe it was the dress itself.
Mum’s dress. Mum loved big parties. She loved dressing up, and champagne bubbles tickling her nose, and dancing with her arms above her head, shoes thrown to the edge of the dance floor, and shouting inane happy things at people. Lisa remembered, when she was very small, the smell of Fracas on Mum’s good night kiss. Perhaps when the dry cleaner removed the small sweat patches from the armholes, and the dots of mud on the hem, after the last big party she wore it to, he didn’t quite get the essence of her out of it. Lisa loved that idea.
And now she wondered whether her drink had been spiked with some happy party drug. Or maybe it was just spirit—Christmas or oth-T h i n g s I W a n t M y D a u g h t e r s t o K n o w 47
erwise. This was a great, great party. Below her, across the floor, she could see Andy. Her gaze went straight to him, as though he were standing under some beam of ownership. He looked handsome and happy. He was wearing a dinner jacket, but with a normal black silk tie, not a bow—he always said he felt ridiculous in one. He said the only people who should ever wear one were the people who were born to it, whose dad had worn one. And he wasn’t one of those people. He looked like one of the Reservoir Dogs. He was talking animatedly with a friend, gesticulating expansively with one hand. The friend was laughing. He’d been like that all night. The proverbial heart and soul. Funny and popular and . . . special. Why was it that, sometimes, you needed to see the people closest to you as others saw them to remember how fantastic they were? Why couldn’t you always remember that? When it was just the two of you . . .
Behind him people were dancing. The music was a skillful mix of the songs that reminded them of their youth—in all its abandoned, gilded freedom—while convincing them they still had it. Not so loud it forbade conversation, or so quiet that it permitted abstinence. Like everything else, it was perfect.
She felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. She was so lucky.
Andy looked up and saw her in the dress. And something in him shifted. He’d wanted to ask her . . . for God knows how long. Sometimes he thought he’d known he would end up here from that first night, when he watched her sitting in the fountain. Known, or hoped. He knew it was more complicated for her. He knew she was certain of so much less—that for her life was shades, not stripes. But tonight . . . tonight she was different. How did the song have it go? Had it given him the girl and the music and the moonlight? Was it leaving the rest to him?
Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other. One of those smiles with history and memory and knowing in it. Andy put up one hand to stop her descent and pointed to the top of the stairs, indicating that he would come up to her. He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a 48 e l i z a b e t h
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waiter’s silver tray and weaved his way through the crowd toward her.
As if he had ordered it himself, the song suddenly changed to something Motown slow—rhythmic and romantic. His heart was racing. He’d only done this once before—asked a woman to marry him—and everything had been different then. He was different. He always thought he would never do it again, unless he was 100 percent sure—of the woman and of the answer. Why the hell would you, right? Masochists are us. But right now he wouldn’t give you more than 60/40. And yet he knew that he was going to ask her anyway.
When he got to her, she took one glass from him and sipped from it, her eyes never leaving his. She looked about twenty. Tendrils of hair escaped from the pleat she wore, curling across her ear and down her slender neck. She put her arm around his neck and pulled him toward her, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Have I told you lately that I love you?” He heard the emotion in her voice, and it gave him the courage he needed. Andy inhaled deeply, and whispered back, “Marry me.” An instruction, not a question. She pulled back and her eyes searched his face. He nodded, smiling, and answered her unspoken request that he repeat what he had said. “Marry me, Lisa. I mean to say, will you marry me?” Then, “Please?!”
Maybe it was Smokey Robinson. Maybe it was Moët and Chandon.
Maybe it was the spirit of her mother, woven into the fibers of her dress.
And maybe, just maybe, it was because, for a second, the clouds of doubt parted and she saw a future where she suddenly, shockingly, could not conceive of not having him beside her. Lisa laughed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
She awoke the next morning with the beginnings of a creeping headache stirring behind her ears. She knew that by lunchtime it would have taken up residence in her temple and would be throbbing there through the afternoon, not really leaving until the next morning.
Not so perfect. Her heart was beating fast, which, again, was due to champagne and not to romance. For the first two minutes, as she laid
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her head back against the pillow, and closed her eyes again, she forgot the romance. Then she heard Andy, whistling in the kitchen. He was whistling the song from last night. She remembered. Oh God. Oh no.
She listened to the whistle come through the hall and into the bedroom. It came with a tray bearing tea and toast. And a beaming Andy.
“Morning, gorgeous.”
“What time is it?”
“About eight thirty.”
She groaned. “Too early. No wonder I feel like death. What woke you up?”
He shrugged, setting the tray down on the chest of drawers, and pulling pillows from the warm tangle behind her head, propping her up as though she were a patient.
“Sit up like a nice girl and drink some tea. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“If the tea doesn’t do it, the toast will. I put extra marmalade on it.”
She smiled at him grudgingly. “Thank you. I don’t deserve you.”
“Quite right. You must have been great in another life.”
She nodded, self-pity momentarily overtaking her, and sipped at the hot tea. It helped a little. “I think I was Mother Teresa.”
“You can’t have been her. She would have had to have died before you were born.”
“Okay, pedant. I was Florence Nightingale. Or Marie Curie.” He laughed.
“Okay, Flo. Eat your toast. I’m going to get the papers.”
The green dress was on the back of the chair. She vaguely remembered putting it there, before she and Andy made love last night. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered; they were both pretty wound up, as she remembered, by the time they got back. But it was
the dress
. She suddenly remembered a guy—a guy she hadn’t thought about in years—
who’d carefully folded his suit trousers along the crease and laid them 50 e l i z a b e t h
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reverently over a chair before climbing into bed with her. For the first and last time, given what a passion killer that was. Lisa shot the dress a spiteful look. It was all its fault. Andy had asked her, and she had said yes, and now everything that was so clear last night was all cloudy again, and, between that and the headache, she felt utterly lousy. She pushed the tray aside, lay back, and pulled a pillow across her face.
She was asleep again when she felt Andy slide into bed beside her.
Despite herself, she leaned back into his solid warmth. He put his arms around her and laid his head against her neck.
“Did the tea help, my lovely?”
“Bit.”
He squeezed her tight. “Brr. It’s freezing out. You’re all toasty. Mmm.”
He laid one of his legs between hers, forcing her to turn toward him, and began to kiss her, his hands on her face. She pulled away, a little irritably.
“Blimey. Haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. Can’t imagine why you’d want to kiss me.”
“Can’t imagine why I wouldn’t.” But he brought her head down to his chest, stroking her hair. “Aren’t you the woman who agreed to marry me last night? Then brought me back here and did unspeakable things to me?
Because if you aren’t, I was drunker than I thought!” He ran his hands down her flanks, onto her bottom. “No . . . no . . . I’m sure it was you. . . .”
Now. Now was the time. If she just explained . . . she was carried away. She wasn’t sure, she wasn’t ready, it wasn’t the right time . . . she’d had too much champagne, it was the fairy lights and the song and the bloody dress. . . . Now was the time. Maybe, just maybe, if she did it now, she could salvage this—she could make it okay. Maybe he’d laugh it off. And they could go back to what they’d been before last night.
So why wasn’t she saying anything? Why was she letting him kiss her?
Letting him press himself against her, stroking so gently, so insistently up and down her back, letting the mood change to something more serious and intense and sexy again. It felt good, of course—it always did.
But that wasn’t it. This was . . . easier.
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And so she didn’t say anything. As he moved on top of her, his breath hot and coffee-flavored against her ear, she stared, wide-eyed, at the ceiling, fighting a ripple of panic, or was it nausea, and the moment for honesty passed.
She pushed him away, playfully at first, then seriously, with urgency.
“I’m serious, Andy. Get off me.” He rolled off, and she ran, naked, to the bathroom, tea and bile and champagne rising in her throat. She threw up violently in the toilet, then sank to the tiles, and laid her head back against the wall.
“You okay?”
“Fine. Don’t come in.”
He was already in, handing her a hand towel to wipe her mouth. “I don’t care about a bit of mess. I’m good with bodily fluids of all types.
Here . . .” He reached down and helped her to her feet. “Get back into bed. If you’re finished?”
She nodded weakly. “Think so.”
“I’ll get you some water. And let you sleep a bit more. You’ll be fine in a bit. Pisshead.” He pulled the duvet over her, tucking it back, then kissed the top of her head.
She felt less queasy now. But her head still hurt. And that was before she remembered that Andy’s daughter was coming for the day. . . .
Amanda
“Bloody hell, it’s cold!” Amanda opened the door to Starbucks and held it as her flatmate Bex walked through, following her gratefully. There was a long line, but at least it was warm in here. In theory, Amanda objected completely to Starbucks. Today, though, she objected more to being frozen.
She pulled off her hat and shook out her hair. “Remind me again why I’m here and not on some beach somewhere like Goa?”
“For love of temping?”
Amanda made a TV game show
nah nah
noise.
“For the love of living with me and Josh?”
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“Are you having a laugh?” Amanda made balance scales with her hands. “Beach hut in Goa, squalor in Earlsfield, beach hut in Goa, squalor in Earlsfield. Mmm, close . . .”
“Oy! I object to ‘squalor’! It’s not
that
bad!”
Amanda threw her arms theatrically around Bex. “Okay, I take back squalor. Mmm, you’re warm!” She rubbed her face against Bex’s.
Bex released herself, laughing. “Get off!”
“Coffee is on me—to make up for being so rude about the home I should be grateful to have . . . what you having?”
Bex looked at the board behind the till. “Ew! Eggnog latte! Ginger-bread latte! Ew! Are they still doing a plain latte, or is it mandatory to have some sort of seasonal ‘ew’ syrup in it?”
“Oh, bah humbug, Ebenezer . . . don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.
Go and get us a seat, as far away from the door as possible. I don’t have to be at work for twenty minutes. Should be able to get some feeling back in my feet by then.”