be.’
‘Do you think so? It’s not going to take over my life,’ said Ian.
Kate sighed. ‘I feel like it’s already taking over mine. I don’t know why I let Tess persuade me to go. Can you believe there was some woman charging seven pounds fifty for a cupcake?’
‘Is that good?’ Ian asked.
‘Of course it’s not good,’ said Kate.
‘I could eat a cupcake now,’ said Ian. ‘Is there anything in the fridge?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kate. ‘It doesn’t have a see-through door. Why don’t you have a look?’
‘Can’t be bothered,’ he said.
Kate frowned. She knew he would have eaten something had she put it right in front of him. He was just too lazy to fix something for himself.
‘Shall we watch some telly?’ Ian asked. ‘I’ll even let you watch a fascinating documentary about Prince Charles’s “other mistress” if you’re good.’
‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ said Kate.
‘Football highlights it is.’
Kate sat beside Ian on the sofa, but her mind wasn’t on the football. Instead, she carried on a text conversation with Helen, bringing her up to speed with Elaine’s treatment plan and telling her all about the horrors of the bridal fair. Helen responded in kind with the horrors of a Saturday spent ferrying small children to swimming class and ballet practice. Her youngest child had vomited in the pool. These texts were what Helen called her ‘mummy moans’.
One day, when you’ve got a house full of screaming toddlers, you’ll look back on that bridal fair and long for those simpler times, Helen assured her.
Stop it, Kate responded. You’re making me want to get unengaged.
Don’t you dare, said Helen. I haven’t been to a decent wedding since 1998.
That was the year Helen, their mutual friend Anne and Kate’s sister got hitched. Kate had been bridesmaid three times.
That night, Kate had a dream about the last flat-share she lived in before she could afford to rent a place on her own. The dream did not bring back happy memories and when she woke up, she found herself thinking about the end of that particular period of her life and it filled her with fresh sadness.
It had all come to a head over the August bank-holiday weekend of 1997.
Kate was used to being woken in the middle of the night. The grotty Lavender Hill flat she shared with two Italian language students and an Australian beautician had a bus-stop situated right outside it. When the 345 to South Kensington via Clapham Junction stopped there, as it did several times an hour, the rumble of the ancient Routemaster’s diesel engine shook the entire building like a six on the Richter scale. When Kate took the single room in the flat, which was all she could afford on a trainee lawyer’s wages, she told herself she could live with it. And most of the time she could. But after a year, she was aware that she hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since she moved in. It wasn’t just the rumble of the buses; drunken revellers tumbling off at the stop showed no consideration as they shouted their goodnights.
So when she heard someone scream at five o’clock in the morning that Sunday of the August bank-holiday weekend, Kate was not unduly disturbed. She rolled over to face her sleeping partner for the night. He was snoring lightly. His name was Jake, or Jack; she wasn’t entirely sure. She did know that she’d met him at the Sofa Bar, a funky wine bar further up Lavender Hill towards the Junction, furnished with old sofas that left you itching. Jack or Jake had been drinking there with someone she vaguely knew from law school. The connection made it seem safe to bring him home.
Why had she done that? Was he so good-looking? She couldn’t really tell in the soft orange glow of the streetlight through the cheap window blinds. Had he kept her in stitches all night? She couldn’t remember him having been particularly funny. Was it just that he had shown some sign of wanting her? That, Kate was
‘Do you think so? It’s not going to take over my life,’ said Ian.
Kate sighed. ‘I feel like it’s already taking over mine. I don’t know why I let Tess persuade me to go. Can you believe there was some woman charging seven pounds fifty for a cupcake?’
‘Is that good?’ Ian asked.
‘Of course it’s not good,’ said Kate.
‘I could eat a cupcake now,’ said Ian. ‘Is there anything in the fridge?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kate. ‘It doesn’t have a see-through door. Why don’t you have a look?’
‘Can’t be bothered,’ he said.
Kate frowned. She knew he would have eaten something had she put it right in front of him. He was just too lazy to fix something for himself.
‘Shall we watch some telly?’ Ian asked. ‘I’ll even let you watch a fascinating documentary about Prince Charles’s “other mistress” if you’re good.’
‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ said Kate.
‘Football highlights it is.’
Kate sat beside Ian on the sofa, but her mind wasn’t on the football. Instead, she carried on a text conversation with Helen, bringing her up to speed with Elaine’s treatment plan and telling her all about the horrors of the bridal fair. Helen responded in kind with the horrors of a Saturday spent ferrying small children to swimming class and ballet practice. Her youngest child had vomited in the pool. These texts were what Helen called her ‘mummy moans’.
One day, when you’ve got a house full of screaming toddlers, you’ll look back on that bridal fair and long for those simpler times, Helen assured her.
Stop it, Kate responded. You’re making me want to get unengaged.
Don’t you dare, said Helen. I haven’t been to a decent wedding since 1998.
That was the year Helen, their mutual friend Anne and Kate’s sister got hitched. Kate had been bridesmaid three times.
That night, Kate had a dream about the last flat-share she lived in before she could afford to rent a place on her own. The dream did not bring back happy memories and when she woke up, she found herself thinking about the end of that particular period of her life and it filled her with fresh sadness.
It had all come to a head over the August bank-holiday weekend of 1997.
Kate was used to being woken in the middle of the night. The grotty Lavender Hill flat she shared with two Italian language students and an Australian beautician had a bus-stop situated right outside it. When the 345 to South Kensington via Clapham Junction stopped there, as it did several times an hour, the rumble of the ancient Routemaster’s diesel engine shook the entire building like a six on the Richter scale. When Kate took the single room in the flat, which was all she could afford on a trainee lawyer’s wages, she told herself she could live with it. And most of the time she could. But after a year, she was aware that she hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since she moved in. It wasn’t just the rumble of the buses; drunken revellers tumbling off at the stop showed no consideration as they shouted their goodnights.
So when she heard someone scream at five o’clock in the morning that Sunday of the August bank-holiday weekend, Kate was not unduly disturbed. She rolled over to face her sleeping partner for the night. He was snoring lightly. His name was Jake, or Jack; she wasn’t entirely sure. She did know that she’d met him at the Sofa Bar, a funky wine bar further up Lavender Hill towards the Junction, furnished with old sofas that left you itching. Jack or Jake had been drinking there with someone she vaguely knew from law school. The connection made it seem safe to bring him home.
Why had she done that? Was he so good-looking? She couldn’t really tell in the soft orange glow of the streetlight through the cheap window blinds. Had he kept her in stitches all night? She couldn’t remember him having been particularly funny. Was it just that he had shown some sign of wanting her? That, Kate was
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