Georgie Carter - The Perfect Christmas

Jo looks like a girl whose sole aim in life is to please her man, exactly what Pat has always dreamt of. He made no secret of the fact that he wanted his wife to give him babies and stay dutifully at home while he went out to hunt and gather. Looking back, maybe I really did have a lucky escape.

‘Actually, Robs, I’m glad we bumped into you today,’ Pat is saying. Is it me or does he look a little bit shifty? The way he always did when he came home three hours late and told me some long and involved yarn about his whereabouts. Instantly, I’m on red alert. ‘There’s something I – we – wanted to tell you. We thought it was better if you heard it from us first.’

‘I’m intrigued.’ I raise my eyebrow too. It always annoyed Pat that I could out-Roger-Moore him. ‘Go on then, what is it? A new show?’

But Pat is shaking his glossy head and pulling Jo against him. One of his big, and now beautifully manicured, hands rests protectively on her stomach. Her gently rounded stomach …

‘It’s a million times better than a new show. Jo and I are having a baby!’ Pat says, and his voice brims with excitement and pride. ‘Can you believe it, Robs? I’m going to be a daddy, so I am! Isn’t it fantastic?’

‘Fantastic,’ I echo dutifully, but my entire blood supply feels as though it’s taken a really fast elevator to my feet and for a hideous moment I feel faint. ‘And we’re getting married too, before this little one puts in an appearance,’ he adds.

I stare at him. ‘Really?’

‘Jaysus, Mammy would throttle me otherwise! What would the priest think?’ Pat laughs, his peat brown eyes sparkling down at Jo and belying the casual words. He raises her hand to his lips and kisses it gallantly. ‘Aren’t I lucky that this lovely woman’s agreed to take me on?’

‘Very,’ I say, but Pat’s too busy telling me his plans for an August wedding in Ireland to notice that my smile is a little stiff and that I’m clutching my clutch so hard it might pop. Finally, though, he runs out of steam and turns his attention back to a much less exciting topic – namely me.

‘So, Robyn Hood,’ grins Pat, ‘why were you skulking behind a pot plant? Was it the nearest thing to Sherwood Forest you could find?’

‘I wasn’t skulking.’

Up goes the famous eyebrow. ‘Not planning to shoot me with your bow and arrows then?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘Bows and arrows are far too good for you. I thought I’d just rip your head off and hit you with the soggy end.’

Actually I don’t say this but I’d like to. What I actually say is, ‘No. I was … err … distance wedding planning.’

‘Distance wedding planning?’

‘Yes,’ I warm to my theme. ‘It’s wedding planning but—’

‘From a distance?’ Pat finishes for me.

‘Exactly.’

‘And always behind a plant?’

‘Plants are optional,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll remember that, so I will,’ Pat nods. ‘Next time I’m up to something I shouldn’t be I’ll just tuck myself behind a plant.’ He grins, ‘Jaysus! I’d better buy up Kew Gardens!’

When Pat laughs at himself I remember why I liked him so much as a friend long before we became romantically involved. Before shared bank accounts and children’s names and the tiny stifling cottage in the country came up. Should I be glad that Jo – the groupie who took it all away from me – has turned out to be a significant relationship? Would it have been worse to have gone through all that heartbreak over a meaningless fumble in the dressing room?

‘Here, give me one of your business cards, Robs,’ says Pat. ‘You never know, it might come in useful.’

God this man can be insensitive! But opting to save face, I peel back my fingers from my clutch and take out a card.

‘Pat!’ gasps Jo, looking horrified. ‘God, you can be insensitive! I’m sure the last thing Robyn wants to do is plan our wedding!’

Planning my cheating ex-fiance’s wedding is right up there with all my other favourite jobs, like putting out the bins and root canal surgery. But there’s no way I want to agree with Jo, so I just smile.

‘No, no,’ I say. ‘It’s absolutely fine. It’s great, actually.’

I’ll have to go and punch a pillow later or something.

Time to make my excuses and tend to Adam and Samantha’s guests. Several of them are looking rather pink in the face and it may be a nice idea to open a window.

‘Isn’t it warm?’ I fan my face with my hand. ‘I think that I’d better let some air in before somebody passes out. Good to see you again, Pat. Nice to meet you, Jo.’ And I hurry away.

It’s painful to think that while Pat is all cosied up with Jo, I’m well and truly up on the shelf and gathering dust. Where are all the eligible men anyway? All the half-decent ones are already married and as for the rest … Well, let’s not go there. What a depressing thought. The nearest I’ll probably ever get to sex now will be walking past Ann Summers.

With a sigh, I throw open the French windows. The cool evening air soothes my hot cheeks and lifts the tablecloths. But it isn’t just the breeze that drifts into the room but also the unmistakable undertones of a row on the terrace.

‘I’ve had enough!’ hisses a woman’s voice.

Arguing at a wedding? Honestly, some people have no manners.

‘This marriage is nothing but a farce!’ she continues. ‘I should have left you years ago!’

Is fate trying to convince me that all relationships end in tears?

Tutting to myself, I’m about to fasten back the doors when I feel a horrible prickling nausea of the variety known only to wedding planners who have just made an enormous error of judgement.

I think I know that voice. And from the looks of it, some of the guests know it too.

‘I’ve had enough, Geoffrey!’

I do know that voice! I know it because it’s been berating/thanking/bossing me around for the past six months. These not-so-dulcet tones belong to none other than Susan Ellis, mother of the bride.

Not good.

I peep around the French windows and sure enough there she is, hands on hips and mouth wide open, out of sight of the top table but now louder and, unfortunately, within earshot.

‘Do you hear me? Enough!’ Susan yells at her husband, drowning out his muttered response. ‘Our marriage is over!’

The guests nearest the windows hear every word. Those seated further away notice the unease of the faces of the bride and groom and fall silent. Even the musicians in the string quartet sense the atmosphere, their instruments scraping to a discordant halt. The absence of the beautiful music highlights the ugly words slicing through the stillness.

I’m mortified. What’s the etiquette in such a situation? Do I go outside and tell them to keep it down, or do I shut the windows quickly and hope that we are all English enough to pretend that this isn’t happening? Deciding on the latter, I start to wrestle with the windows.

Oh no. The doors are stuck. And Susan Ellis is yelling with more volume than a 747 taking off.

‘I’ve kept quiet because I didn’t want to ruin our Samantha’s big day,’ she hollers. ‘But she’s married now so I don’t have to lie any longer. And neither do you.’

A mumbled response from Geoffrey Ellis, that none of us can hear.

‘I know you’re sleeping with Marion from next door!’

I turn to look at the audience – I mean, the guests – and a large woman dressed in violent magenta linen blushes the same colour as her frock: Marion from next door.

Oh, God. It’s my worst dream come true. My lovely wedding, Sam and Adam’s perfect day, has turned into The Jerry Springer Show.

‘I’m not wasting another minute with you!’ shouts Susan and then, just in case Geoffrey misses the point, ‘I want a divorce!’