Sophie Kinsella: Wedding Night

My jaw is trembling. I have to conclude this conversation right now, before things go horribly wrong in the bursting-into-tears-in-front-of-your-intern department.

“So, any vital messages?” I scan the Post-its without seeing them.

“One from Steve about the presentation tomorrow, and some guy named Ben called.”

“Ben who?”

“Just Ben. He said you’d know.”

No one calls himself “Just Ben.” It’ll be some cheeky student I met at a recruiting seminar, trying to get a foot in the door. I’m really not in the mood for it.

“OK. Well. I’m going to go over my presentation. So.” I click busily and randomly at my mouse till she leaves. Deep breath. Firm jaw. Move on. Move on, move on, move on.

The phone rings and I pick it up with a sweeping, authoritative gesture.

“Charlotte Graveney.”

“Lottie! It’s me!”

I fight an instinct to put the receiver straight back down again.

“Oh, hi, Fliss.” I swallow. “Hi.”

“So … how are you?”

I can hear the teasing note in her voice and curse myself bitterly. I should never have texted her from the restaurant.

It’s pressure. All hideous pressure. Why did I ever share my love life with my sister? Why did I ever even tell her I was dating Richard? Let alone introduce them. Let alone start talking about proposals.

Next time I meet a man, I’m saying nothing to anybody . Nada. Zip. Not until we’ve been blissfully married for a decade and have three kids and have just renewed our wedding vows. Then, and only then, will I send a text to Fliss saying: Guess what? I met someone! He seems nice!

“Oh, I’m fine.” I muster a breezy, matter-of-fact tone. “How about you?”

“All good this end. So …?”

She leaves the question dangling. I know exactly what she means. She means, So, are you wearing a massive diamond ring and toasting yourself with Bollinger as Richard sucks your toes in some amazing hotel suite?

I feel a fresh, raw pang. I can’t bear to talk about it. I can’t bear her sympathy gushing over me.

Find another topic. Any topic. Quick.

“So. Anyway.” I try to sound bright and nonchalant. “Anyway. Um. I was just thinking, actually. I really should get round to doing that master’s on business theory. You know I’ve always meant to do it. I mean, what am I waiting for? I could apply to Birkbeck, do it in my spare time.… What do you think?”

FLISS

Oh God. I want to weep. It went wrong. I don’t know how, but it went wrong.

Every time one of Lottie’s relationships ends, she immediately talks about doing a master’s degree.

It’s like a Pavlovian reaction.

“Maybe I could even go on to do a PhD, you know?” she’s saying, with only the tiniest shake in her voice. “Maybe do some research abroad?”

She might fool the average person―but not me. Not her sister. She’s in a bad way.

“Right,” I say. “Yes. A PhD abroad. Good idea!”

There’s no point in pressing her for details or asking bluntly what happened. Lottie has her own distinct process for dealing with breakups. You can’t hurry her and you must not express any sympathy. I’ve learned this the hard way.

There was the time she split up from Seamus. She arrived on my doorstep with a carton of Phish Food and bloodshot eyes and I made the elementary error of asking, “What happened?” Whereupon she exploded like a grenade: “Jesus, Fliss! Can’t I just come and share ice cream with my sister without getting the third bloody degree? Maybe I just want to hang out with my own sister. Maybe life isn’t just about boyfriends. Maybe I just want to … reassess my life. Do a master’s degree.”

Then there was the time Jamie dumped her and I made the mistake of saying, “Oh God, Lottie, poor you.”

She eviscerated me. “Poor me? What do you mean, poor me? What, Fliss, you’re pitying me because I don’t have a man? I thought you were a feminist .” She vented all her hurt on me in one long tirade, and by the end I practically needed an ear transplant.

So now I listen in silence as she talks about how she’s been meaning to explore the more academic side of herself for ages , and a lot of people don’t appreciate how cerebral she is, and her tutor entered her for a university prize, did I know that? (Yes, I did: she mentioned it straight after she broke up with Jamie.)

At last she tapers off into silence. I don’t breathe. I think we might be getting to the nub of things.

“So, by the way, Richard and I aren’t together anymore,” she says in a careless, dropping-something-from-the-tips-of-her-fingers manner.

“Oh, really?” I match her tone. We could be talking about a minor subplot in EastEnders .

“Yeah, we split up.”

“I see.”

“Wasn’t right.”

“Ah. Well. That’s a real …” I’m running out of anodyne one-syllable words. “I mean, that’s …”

“Yes. It’s a shame.” She pauses. “In one way.”

“Right. So, was he …” I’m treading on eggshells here. “I mean, weren’t you …”

What the fuck went wrong when an hour ago he was in the middle of a bloody proposal? is what I want to demand.

I don’t always trust Lottie’s version of events. She can be a little starry-eyed. She can see what she wants to see. But, hand on heart, I believed as firmly as she did that Richard was planning to propose to her.

And now not only are they not engaged but they’re over ? I can’t help feeling profoundly shocked.

I’ve got to know Richard pretty well, and he’s a good’un. The best she’s ever dated, if you ask me.

(Which she has, many times, often at midnight when she’s drunk and interrupts before I’ve finished to announce she loves him whatever I think.) He’s sturdy, kind, successful. No chippiness, no baggage.

Handsome but not vain. And in love with her. That’s the main point. In fact, the only point. They’ve got that vibe of successful couples. They’ve got that connection. The way they talk, the way they joke, the way they sit together, always with his arm hooked gently around her shoulders, his fingers playing with her hair. The way they seem to be heading for the same things―whether it’s take-out sushi or a holiday in Canada. They have togetherness. You can just see it. At least, I can.

Correction: I could. So why couldn’t he ?

Bastard, stupid man. What exactly is he hoping to find in a partner? What exactly is wrong with my sister? Does he think she’s holding him back from some great romance with a six-foot supermodel?

I let off steam by chucking a balled-up piece of paper aggressively into my bin. A moment later I realize I actually need that paper. Bugger.

The phone is still silent. I can feel Lottie’s misery emanating down the line. Oh God, I can’t bear this. I don’t care how prickly she is, I have to know a bit more. It’s insane. One minute they’re getting married, the next we’re on Stage One of Lottie’s Breakup Process, do not pass Go.

“I thought you said he had a ‘big question’?” I say as tactfully as I can.

“Yes. Well. He changed his story,” she says in a determinedly nonchalant voice. “He said it wasn’t a ‘big question.’ It was a ‘question.’ ”

I wince. That’s bad. A “big question” isn’t a variety of “question.” It’s not even a subset.

“So what was the question?”

“It was about air miles, as it happens,” she says, her voice flat.

Air miles? Ouch. I can imagine how that went down. Ian Aylward is at my office window, I suddenly notice. He’s gesticulating energetically. I know what he wants. It’s the speech for the awards ceremony tonight.