To my surprise, Izzy accepts. ‘That would be wonderful,’ she says. ‘Plus that way you can make sure you like all the stuff we serve.’
I want to say that I’ve never met a glass of wine I didn’t like – and that I don’t really want an engagement party – but Ed’s nodding.
Izzy grabs his arm. ‘Come on. It looks like it’s about to rain. We can talk about it on the way back. Guest list, band, that kind of thing. I need to head off now if I’m going to make this Beef Wellington in time.’
‘I said I’d do that.’ Rich flips Tilly’s scooter over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. ‘I’ve only got a few pages to finish.’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Izzy dismisses him. ‘There was something else I wanted to talk to Ed about anyway.’
Ed hands me Missy’s lead. ‘I’m all ears. Bec, do you mind taking her round the bandstand one more time to make sure she’s ready to go? I don’t want her crapping in my car again.’
‘She’s only done that once,’ I say, but they’ve already started walking off. A slight sourness creeps over me as I pack up the remnants of the picnic. Ed and Izzy are laughing, heads thrown back, teeth flashing as they walk. Perfect father Rich is bringing up the rear, his whole body inclined towards Tilly so he doesn’t miss a syllable of what she’s saying. And I’m back here, crumpling pastry wrappers into an old Waitrose bag. It doesn’t feel much like an engagement celebration. Then I hear my name being called.
‘Bec.’ Izzy’s cupped her hands over her mouth and is hollering at the top of her voice. ‘Hurry up. Ed’s making all the decisions. And some of them are terrible. We need you!’
Just like that it’s as though the sun’s come out. I stuff the carrier bag in the nearest bin and set off at full pace after them, my resentment fluttering out onto the common behind me.
Three
Saturday 15 December
6.47 p.m.
I jiggle my leg on the bed while I wait for Ed to finish getting ready. For a man with relatively little to do (shower, shit, shave), he seems to be taking an awfully long time. Izzy says Rich is the same; in the mornings she has to use the bathroom down the hall because he hogs the en-suite. Not a problem Ed and I need to solve. I look through the open bedroom door across the hall at the door to our sole bathroom. The paint at the edge of the panels is starting to flake. It’s still the bland magnolia colour it was when we bought the flat. I keep suggesting we repaint but somehow we never get round to it. Maybe now we’re engaged, we’ll move somewhere bigger. With Ed being a partner I’m sure we could do better than a cramped two-bed. Before I can start fantasizing about Clapham townhouses, Ed opens the door and steps out in a cloud of steam. With the towel tight around his waist like a mini-skirt, he looks like a modern-day Roman gladiator.
‘You know that’s the hand towel, right?’
He takes it off and whirls it around his head. He’s trying to make me laugh but my mind’s already flying ahead to tonight. I wait for him to start getting dressed then stand up and give myself a final onceover in the full-length mirror opposite the bed before it fogs up. I liked the way the navy Reiss dress hugged my hips when I bought it. Now I’m wondering if it’s too tight. Or too short. I always underestimate how smart these things tend to be. I tug at the back and wonder whether there’s time to change into something else. Not that I really have anything suitable.
‘You look gorgeous.’ It’s as if Ed read my mind. Either that or my insecurity is written across my face.
‘Really?’ My mum always used to tell me off for fishing for compliments but I could use a boost.
‘Really. You’ll be the belle of the ball.’ He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. Then he finishes buttoning up his shirt and pushes his glasses back up his nose in a way that reminds me a bit of Clark Kent. ‘Now, are you ready?’
‘I think so.’ I take a last look in the mirror. With the help of YouTube, I’ve managed to sweep my shoulder-length brown hair into a chignon and for once my make-up looks okay. My eyeliner’s a bit wonky but I’m hoping Izzy will fix it.
I spot him tuck a piece of paper into the pocket of his jacket as he puts it on. ‘You’re not planning on making a speech, are you?’ My stomach twists at the thought. ‘Please tell me you’re not making a speech.’
‘Don’t worry. I know you hate being the centre of attention. Relax.’ Ed grabs me by the shoulders. ‘I promise I’m not making a speech about you.’
I fiddle with my handbag. Ed’s been acting ‘surprise birthday party’ funny all week. Tapping away on his phone constantly and going out of the room to answer when it rings. But if he tells me he’s not going to make a speech, I believe him.
7.18 p.m.
Like most men, the Uber driver’s idea of three minutes differs vastly from mine and he takes two wrong turnings while he’s trying to find the South Circular. I’m drumming my fingers on the dirty window by the time we finally turn onto Izzy and Rich’s road. Their house is lit up like Christmas. Izzy’s studded the tall hedges at the front with fairy lights and hung enormous red bows in every window. It might be set back from the hustle and bustle of Northcote Road, on one of Clapham’s more exclusive streets, but its festive embellishments could compete with any of the area’s bars and restaurants. As we pull up outside, the first strains of Michael Bublé’s ‘Holly Jolly Christmas’ waft down the front steps. Nobody throws a party like Izzy.
The front path is frosted with ice and I’m conscious of my heels so I totter up the front steps, gripping Ed’s arm like he’s a life raft and I’m drowning. I only let go to knock. The brass doorknocker is barely out of my hand when Izzy whips open the door. She’s wearing a pale gold, floor-length dress that can really only be described as a gown. Rich fills the doorframe behind her, looking like James Bond. He’s wearing a dinner jacket, for heaven’s sake. I tug at the material around my hips. I knew I should have gone full-length. It’s not until Ed coughs that I realize I’m standing on the doorstep with my mouth open. And it’s freezing.
‘Sorry, I was so taken aback by your gorgeousness that I forgot myself.’ I reach forward to kiss Izzy. ‘You should hire yourself out for weddings and bar mitzvahs.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Izzy air-kisses me on both cheeks. ‘You look pretty gorgeous yourself. I wish I were brave enough to get my legs out in this weather. And who is this silver fox you’ve brought with you? George Clooney, eat your heart out.’
I shoot Ed a sympathetic look. I know he’s conscious about the grey hairs peppering his sideburns. But he’s laughing along.
‘You guys are among the first to arrive, which works perfectly,’ Izzy carries on. ‘Ed, come with me and choose what we should be drinking. There’s champagne already open but I bet you can come up with something more imaginative.’
Izzy practically scoops Ed into the hall, leaving me standing on the threshold with Rich.
‘You look lovely, Bec. I’m so glad we can celebrate this with you.’ He leans down and I breathe in a waft of his aftershave. I hold the bunch of white flowers I’ve brought in front of me like a shield before he can hug me. I wonder if I’ll stop needing a minute to regulate myself around him after I’m married. I hope so.