Page 48 of Mad About You

Scott had given an A+ performance of the perfect pal, the dream hire best man. Richard Curtis himself would cast him. It was as if the collective crush that had developed was tangible.Swoon, he’s so caring, so funny, and hey – quite gorgeous, which never hurts? There was a maiden blush on the cheeks of Fergus’s trio of beautiful Celtic teenage nieces.

If Harriet didn’t know Scott, no doubt she’d be as enamoured of him as everyone else.

‘When myself and Marianne tie the knot next month,’ – Scott paused to squeeze the shoulder of his intended, who glanced up and gave him a quick, tight smile – ‘Danny is returning the favour and being my best man. I can’t wait. Just don’t get your own back in grand style, eh?’

Laughter.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to charge your glasses to the wonderful Danny and his incredible husband, Fergus!’

Thunderous applause. Harriet’s Nikon crosshairs zeroed in on Marianne, whose smile while clapping looked … strained. If Harriet didn’t fear projecting, she’d even say anguished. Marrying Scott Dyer. Becoming Mrs Dyer. Did she know what she had let herself in for yet? Had he changed? Was that possible? Was Harriet a very bad chemical reaction?

The light was fading, and Harriet’s job would now be handed over to the vagaries of iPhones wielded in candlelight by amateur enthusiasts, cross-eyed on Taittinger Rosé.

After suitable promises to Danny and Fergus that the album would be sensational and she had everything she needed –apart from the number of a reliable and affordable hitman – Harriet fled the building like it was on fire.

Outside in the city, she took deep gulps of fresh air, flagged a taxi and repeated the mantra:I’m free. He is history.He’s Marianne the Blonde’s problem now.

He’s someone else’s problem.

And even as she thought the thought, she knew that was why he was stillherproblem.

22

‘What looks good?’ Roxy said, scanning the menu, and added: ‘That’s my new line on dates, by the way. They always say it on American dramas. It’s sophisticated, like you care what the catch of the day is and aren’t going to have the burger like you always do.’

Harriet laughed and filled their water glasses.

‘Not to sound like Chris de Burgh but I’ve never seen you looking as lovely as you do tonight, and you look lovely a lot,’ she said, enveloped in the bosky aroma of the expensive tobacco perfume that Roxy favoured.

Harriet was in a chambray pinafore dress and red lipstick. She’d imagined she’d made a special effort, until Roxy arrived in something silky-strappy, bosoms pointing aloft without any identifiable means of support. Harriet felt like the plain, lowborn companion employed to carry Roxy’s bags on a trip to Monte Carlo.

Roxy snorted and patted her chignon.

‘Ta. Just a hun with a messy bun, getting things done. I don’t look like that one from the Peru Two, do I?

‘No! Haha.’

‘I can’t do the lock-in, by the way. I’ve got two viewings tomorrow morning and I don’t want to repeat the puking-in-a-planter PreggoGate hangover.’

This had been Roxy’s worst event of the previous year and Lorna and Harriet’s favourite. She’d got to a house she was showing, a £1.2 million mansion at that, early. Rough as arseholes thanks to a night in her local and unable to keep her breakfast down, she treated herself to a healing vomit in an empty pot on the terrace. Unfortunately the interested buyers, with their young kids, turned up while Roxy was crouched down on her knees, stilettos up, barking into the bowl making animalisticnnnnhhhunnnnghnoises.

Always enterprising when in a fix, Roxy said she was pregnant and had morning sickness, in a single stroke transforming their judgemental disgust into warm sympathy. Naturally, they bought the house, and throughout the purchase process Roxy had to work out how far along she was meant to be when they asked after her and the baby’s health.

‘For Roxanne, a son: Gregg Bean-Melt,’ Lorna had said, and she and Harriet had been rendered incapable of speech for several minutes.

Tonight, getting a meal at The Dive was a tremendous novelty and Harriet was determined to make the most of it.

It wasn’t that Lorna disliked them being there, more that it never made sense to socialise in a situation where Lorna was by necessity, mostly absent. She had a head chef but as she’d said: ‘Leaving your restaurant to look after itself is a bit like leaving builders to work in your house. You can do it, but chances are you’re going to wish you’d overseen it.’

She and Roxy waved at Gethin’s table, which Lorna had cannily placed on the far side of the room, making their joint presence look less like the set-up it was.

Lorna breezed past from time to time in a halterneck Pucci dress and snakeskin heels, and Harriet reminded herself to tell her later what a great outfit it was. She liked that Lorna’s mate-attractant outfits were even more Lorna-ish, and not chosen for the male gaze.

‘Have the heirloom tomatoes with whipped feta,’ she said, scribbling their order down. ‘Roxy, we’ve been over the fact that is not code for old tomatoes.’

The food was great as per, the cocktails were great as per, but as for the company, Harriet felt Roxy was distracted.

Eventually she started talking about work, and it became clear why – her colleague Marsha was leaving to start her own firm and wanted Roxy to come on board as partner. The hour to become a self-employed entrepreneur seemed to have arrived, and Roxy was in the quandary: go with her, it tanks, and she’d have lost a handsome salary. Stay where she was, and if Marsha’s agency took off, she’d be laden with regret.

---