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Chapter 8

EIGHT

21st December

There is something gorgeous about London in the winter. The streets glow with a certain low light all day long. You can feel Christmas in the city's very bones; there's a wonderful buzz to see all the shops decorated, children wrapped up in toasty coats and mittens, and lights and festive regalia draped from lampposts and houses.

That said, by god, it is bloody cold. This year, we've experienced a frozen snap like no other, the sort of cold that slaps you in the face when you exit a house, that sits in your toes and bounces off your chest. It's great, but today, when I'm in a red slinky dress and open-toed shoes, it's less fun. I should have re-thought this black wool overcoat and simply worn a duvet. I'd be giving Christmas-slash-football-manager chic.

As I'm efficient with both money and time, I got the Tube to the wedding today because London is at its most Christmassy on the Underground, but also because I knew it would stop right at the end of this street, down by the Barbican and Smithfield Market, should I want to take in a leisurely coffee beforehand. I pull my tartan scarf closer into my neck, padding carefully across cobbled streets in my heels, and squint to look down at the phone in my hands. St Bartholomew, St Bartholomew, St…OK. Crikey. That's the wonderful thing about London. One minute you're walking down a street, past a Starbucks, low-lying flats, pubs and skyscrapers, then suddenly beautiful pieces of architecture appear, hidden in the shadows. I peer over a black railing at the rather grand church, tucked behind trees with a team of florists still at work carrying in large arrangements of red flowers. This must be the place and I'm here with the florists so I am officially super early. I look around and see a small café overlooking all the action. I don't want to be some sad eager beaver sat alone in a pew so this is the perfect place to station myself, grab some caffeine and spy on the proceedings from their misted windows. I get out my phone and text Frank.

I'm here!! Super early so waiting in Il Caffe Stella across the road. Excited!!

I maybe shouldn't have put so many exclamation marks, it might scare him. I push on the old dark wooden door to the place, and walk in, immediately grateful for the waves of warmth that hit me, and the gorgeous scents of caramel and ginger. The tones of some Christmas folk song float in the background. The café owner looks me up and down, the place empty and quiet as it's a Saturday.

‘You've come overdressed for coffee,' she says, smiling.

‘I'm here for the wedding, across the way. I'm early,' I tell her.

‘I did wonder what the commotion was. What can I get you?' she asks, adjusting the ties on her apron. A name badge tells me this is the eponymous Stella who owns this place.

‘Could I get a cappuccino? And…' I look across the counter te mpting me with its cakes. ‘One of those cupcakes that look like a reindeer.'

She nods and smiles. I am not sure why I need more sugar as last night, in a fit of guilt, anger and confusion, I ate four Krispy Kremes in a row. Jan's words and the sheer weight of the decision I'll soon have to make, are weighing heavily on me. I briefly wonder whether to bring it up with Frank today but now's definitely not the time. It's a special day and he has old ladies to charm and orders of service to distribute. I stand there and unbutton my coat, loosening my scarf.

‘Of course. You look gorgeous, by the way. I only ever get weekday work people and commuters in here so it's nice to see someone looking festive.'

I blush a little at the compliment, smoothing out the dress with my hands. It looks better without jeans underneath it but I'm starting to wish I'd worn some fluffy leggings at least for the warmth. I look at my reflection in a mirror of the café to check the cross-winds of the Tube haven't killed my hair. It's still half-pinned back, minimal frizz, my gold dangly earrings are still attached to me. That's the problem when you're not a going-out kind of person. You worry about these little details, scared you're exuding awkwardness.

The coffee machine grumbles to a start and the lady behind the counter catches me tidying myself up. ‘Who's getting married?' she asks.

‘Their names are Adele and Vincent.'

‘Friends of yours? Family?'

‘Oh no, I've never even met them.' She smiles politely. That sounded weird, didn't it? She now thinks I'm here to stake the thing out and run down the aisle to tell Vincent I love him. Or maybe I'm a wedding crasher. ‘I'll rephrase that. I know the usher who is Adele's brother. He had a plus-one invite and asked me to come along.'

I see her shoulders relax. This makes far more sense. The milk steamer shrieks in the background. ‘And you and Adele's brother…?'

I put a hand to the air to calm down that chat. ‘Just friends. We work together.'

‘Gotcha. And where's the reception?' she asks, seemingly grateful for the conversation.

‘Some big London hotel. I believe we're being transported by double-decker buses after the ceremony too.'

‘Very nice. Chocolate on the top?' she asks. I nod and she gets out a snowflake stencil.

‘I will be sure to direct any stray wedding traffic this way today too.'

‘Angel. Oh, look…here comes said traffic now. You work your magic very quickly,' she says smiling.

I turn and see a figure in a tuxedo headed towards the door, push at it and peek their head through. ‘You're here,' a familiar voice says.

‘I am. Come in, don't let all the warm air out of the place.'

Frank steps through the door. I am not quite sure what to say. Yes, he's in a tuxedo and it's been tailored exceptionally well with a fetching red bow tie, but he accessorises it with a big puffer coat that I know he wears for work, big padded gloves and a backpack. I see Stella behind the counter bite her lip trying not to laugh.

‘You look like James Bond when he has to go to the mountains. Straight from the casino to the slopes, all the secret documents in your backpack.'

He doesn't laugh. ‘My sister is furious I didn't get a proper coat for this. No one told me I had to buy a special coat.'

‘On the other hand, you will be the warmest person in the room. It's practical,' I argue. ‘Stella, could I get a latte for my friend, Frank here?'

Frank shakes his head. ‘No caffeine. Or I'll need to pee.'

‘There are toilets here,' Stella explains.

‘Maybe a hot chocolate?'

‘With marshmallows? Cream?' she asks.

I nod. Give him the works and it might calm him down. Frank is often operating at quite a skittish level but today it feels even worse. He keeps his eyes focused on the outside of the church while I study his face, urging him to take a stool overlooking the window so he can relax a little. There are things to say but maybe I won't bring them up.

He takes off his gloves and bag and looks at me. ‘Go on, say it. Ask me about my eyebrows.'

I pout, trying to find the words. He brought them up, not me. There's no other way of saying it, but the area around his eyebrows looks particularly angry.

‘The haircut is very good. Is that a fade? A bit of product? I don't think I've ever seen your hair looking so sleek,' I say, trying to divert attention away from his face. It also looks like he's had a good shave, not that Frank grows facial hair particularly well but he definitely looks better than most days in the office.

‘No one told me that waxing hurt. Like really hurt,' Frank tells me.

‘Well, it's ripping hairs out at the follicle, Frank. It was always going to sting,' I explain. Stella comes over with our coffees including a hot chocolate creation I've only ever seen given to children in what looks like a sundae bowl, candy canes sticking out the top. ‘What happened then?'

‘So it was this big Turkish man who did my hair and he had hot towels like on airplanes and it was lovely. But then he got this wax stuff and put it up my nose, it was on the end of sticks and he was layering this stuff around my eyes, and then he just started ripping.'

I sit there, flaring my nostrils, trying not to laugh as he tells this story with such pain in his eyes. ‘And where was Leo in all of this? '

‘He started filming after the first scream when he realised I was crying.'

I try to act shocked but know I probably would have done the same.

He frowns. ‘Your nose needs hair, you know. It's the body's natural filter to catch dirt and help with your senses. I can't smell anything now. London could be on fucking fire and I wouldn't be able to smell a thing,' he says.

I wince to hear him swearing because he rarely does. ‘So the eyebrows…?' I ask him.

‘By the time they got to the eyebrows, I was beginning to show resistance and the big Turkish man started shouting at me, telling me I was scaring the customers and that I was weak, so Leo had to come and hold me down.'

‘Oh, Frank,' I say, trying to be sympathetic but underneath it all, imagining that situation and trying not to cackle with laughter.

‘And basically, I think my skin is still angry about it all. Does it look awful? My mother hasn't stopped going on about it. She's already asked the photographer if he can Photoshop my face.'

I don't know what the word is for the situation between Frank's eyebrows but the best description is raw, raw like sashimi. I look at it closely, wincing on his behalf. ‘Good date night, then?'

‘We ended up eating our pizza in silence. I say silence, Jasper joined us and then pointed and laughed. Leo did redeem himself though. He went to Boots and bought me some balm stuff. It has calendula in it,' he tells me, pulling the tube out of his pocket to show me.

‘Nappy rash cream,' I tell him. ‘That also helps.'

‘Is that a joke?' he asks me, putting his teaspoon into the big pile of chocolate flakes and whipped cream in front of him.

‘No, it isn't.' I put a reassuring hand to his back and then start to rifle through my handbag. ‘Look, maybe I can help you save it too. I have some good concealer and powder in here, I could try and cover the irritation.'

‘You want me to wear make-up? I don't see how that will help.' Frank looks horrified.

‘It's not lipstick and mascara, it'll blend in your skin tones, no one will notice it,' I tell him, rubbing a bit of concealer on to the back of my hand to show him. ‘I mean, we have some time before the wedding, yes? What else do you need to do? Can I help with anything? Are you the only one here?'

He nods, retrieving a laminated list out of his pocket. ‘They sent me ahead. We had to rent some space heaters last minute so I had to accept the delivery. Orders of service are in my backpack, I have sweets to give out to kids and I need to also put out tissues because apparently, people may cry today.'

Not Frank though, obviously. Only when he has to have body hair removed.

‘Also…' he says, looking thoughtfully out of the window. ‘And don't hate me because of this.'

I side-eye him when he says this. These are the words Frank uses to preface something bad happening at work. Like the time he blew up a monitor trying to pimp it out with LEDs.

‘I should have said something before. But I may have told my family a few white lies about you.'

‘Lies?' I say, cocking my head to one side, trying to quell the panic.

‘So I told them the bare facts. You went to Cambridge and got a first in computer science.'

‘Information I always lead with when introducing myself, but yes, go on,' I say sarcastically.

He cringes nervously. ‘I may have said we're going out, that you're my girlfriend.'

‘FRANK!' I shriek, hoping he's not too offended by my response. ‘ I'm not a good liar or actor, I'm not sure this is a good idea.' I say, a little too much horror showing in my face.

‘God no, please don't do that. Just do stuff that girlfriends do,' he says, moving his hands around.

‘Like what? Kiss you?' I ask him. He recoils in horror. I try not to take offence. ‘What's our back story? I can't believe you've given me an hour and a half to prepare for this.'

‘I told everyone we work in the same office. We've been going out for about three months. You can speak four different languages, like playing tennis and are an excellent cook. Do you have a cat?'

‘No! Tennis and cooking? Seriously? I can just about boil pasta!'

‘Well, my mother likes people with cats so I told her you have a cat. His name is Archimedes.'

I sit there open-mouthed in shock, taking in the details of my fake personality. ‘What if they ask about this cat?'

‘Then say he's tabby and fluffy and likes tuna. Download a random cat picture off the internet? It's fine, it's not like you'll have to whip up a cake or show off your backhand at the wedding,' Frank says, trying to placate me.

‘But what if someone starts talking to me in random languages? I have an A Level in French and can order a beer in Spanish.'

He shrugs his shoulders. ‘The main language base of the room is English, Mandarin, Malay and Punjabi, you'll be fine. I did my research,' he says confidently.

‘Except inform the test subject of your plans,' I chastise him. ‘What languages do I speak then?'

‘English, of course…And French, German and Icelandic.'

‘Icelandic?'

‘I panicked when asked. Your grandmother on your mother's side is Icelandic. Her name is Johanna.'

I pull a face to hear my rather improved back story. Frank starts to look at me, clearly a little worried that this information might scare me off. I only came along to be a good mate, to attend a fancy Christmas party and enjoy a good meal. Now this day will involve a strange charade of having to play girlfriend and remembering I have a cat.

‘I am sorry. Everyone was asking questions last night at a family dinner. They were mean and I don't know what came over me. I couldn't hack the judgement so I reinvented our relationship. I really am sorry.'

I break off a bit of cupcake and place it in my mouth. ‘I guess it could have been worse. Maybe. You've not given me a new name or anything?'

He shakes his head.

‘And no kissing but I want to put some boundaries in place. Maybe we could hold hands, link arms and stuff. Will we have to dance?'

‘I can't dance,' he tells me.

‘Well that solves that problem. You'll owe me after this though, yes? Whatever you bought me for Christmas, make it bigger,' I inform him.

‘As in get you a bigger cat?' he says, laughing.

‘You are not allowed to make jokes now. Plus, I am a dog person through and through.'

‘So you're in? I haven't scared you off?' he asks me, worry still framing his eyes.

The problem in the back of my mind is that I have to make a difficult decision when it comes to Frank and, deep down, I'm racked with guilt. I know how hard his family criticise him at times and I don't want to make things worse for him. He still needs to know that he has people on his side too. I put my hand out so he can shake it. ‘I'm in.'

He takes that hand, his shoulders relaxing and he takes a deep cleansing breath to hear it. ‘Thank you, Maggie. You're a good friend. '

I try. The moment is suddenly interrupted by Stella who appears behind us with a cookie in one hand and a coat tucked under her arm. ‘I couldn't help but eavesdrop,' she explains. ‘The cookie's a gift but people leave stuff in here all the time and so I dug through lost property and found you a coat. I think it will fit,' she says, holding it out to Frank.

Frank looks at her in confusion. I don't think he has a lot of this in his life – pure goodwill – and he doesn't quite know how to handle it.

‘Oh my god, Frank…Stella, that's very kind. Thank you,' I say, putting an arm around her.

‘I'll take an excellent rating for the café on Google, please,' she jokes.

‘Come on then, Frank. Stand up, try it on,' I instruct him.

He stands in the middle of that coffee shop, shifting the black wool overcoat over his shoulders. It's a little Mafioso but an improvement. Dare I say it, he looks very grown up for a change. I get up off my seat to help him dust off the shoulders. Once I put some concealer on this man, this might very well work. I take a step back and clap excitedly. It's only then that I see it. Frank's eyes dropping down to my dress, almost with confusion. The dress was too much, wasn't it? I should have gone for a hint of red, maybe some red floral print, red handbag. It's too in your face. Either that or he thinks I look terrible which doesn't fill me with confidence.

‘What are you wearing?' he asks me.

‘A dress,' I tell him. ‘Does this not fit in with your backstory?'

‘No, it's just…it looks just like the bridesmaid's dresses.'

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