Page 55 of Close to You
‘Told me what?’
‘Ben and David were never really friends at university. We didn’t really know him. After my birthday party, we spent a good hour trying to figure out why he came and who invited him.’
I turn to her, wondering if this is some sort of joke. Her face is serious as she switches her attention from David back to me.
‘I should’ve said something ages ago,’ she repeats.
‘I don’t know what you mean. Weren’t Ben and David on the same football team?’
‘Ben says they were in the samesquad. Ben was in the first team and David would come along to training sessions. That was about it. He couldn’t get in the team.’
I watch David float around the room and, now I’m looking for it, it’s suddenly obvious that he’s studiously avoiding the corner where Ben and the rest of the university football team are congregating. It wasn’t David’s idea to invite the members of the football team still living in the area; it was mine. I insisted on it. He even tried to talk me out of it, but I said there had to be some people he knew at the party. I know Jane’s telling the truth and yet I can’t quite take it in.
‘I don’t get what you’re telling me,’ I say.
‘Maybe I’m talking out of turn,’ Jane says, ‘but that’s what happened. If he’d been a proper member of the football team, I’d know him. I hung around with all the players because I was seeing Ben. I honestly don’t think I’d ever met him until you introduced us. When he and Ben were arguing outside your flat on the day he moved in, it was because Ben was asking him why he’d turned up to my birthday party.’
‘Why had he?’
‘We’re still not sure. We think he’d seen the invite via a friend of a friend on Facebook, something like that, and tagged along. We didn’t know if we should say something… You seemed so into one another and I didn’t want to spoil things…’
Neither of us speak for a while. David takes out his phone and rests on a table at the furthest end of the room. He’s by himself, making no attempt to mix with anyone.
‘Haven’t you noticed how all his stories make him out to be either a hero, or wronged in some way…?’ There’s a wobble in Jane’s voice. The wine taking hold, though there’s truth in what she has said.
I had noticed before and put it to one side. Most people are like that, aren’t they? We’re all the heroes of our own stories. Except that so many of David’s talesdoend up with him being wronged. Whether it’s by his sister or unscrupulous buyers or sellers, he’s almost always the victim.
‘That’s untrue,’ I say, not wanting it to be the case. It’s not just about him – it’s about being wrong in front of Jane.
‘I just want you to be sure. Marriage is so… final.’
Jane is trying to help and I know it’s partly the booze talking. It’s partly her, too. The jealousy that I’ll be getting married first. I could probably get pregnant first if I tried. When she talks of a ‘career gap’, what she really means is to stay home, spread her legs, and pop out a series of babies. She wants to be a stay-at-home mother. I think she always has.
David may not be a hero, he may not be popular or even always truthful, but he wants to marry me and who said marriages were ever perfect. They take work and effort, and at least I’m going in with my eyes wide open. We both know what we’re getting into and we both know the alternative.
‘David supported me,’ I say. ‘You didn’t. You said I should get a job at a bank. He pushed me into visiting gyms and leisure centres a bit further out. That got me more serious jobs closer to home.’
Jane shrugs and finishes her glass. ‘I’m not saying—’
‘Whatareyou saying?’
She sighs and glances away. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s not my fault your boyfriend is stuck for life shuffling papers around a bank and won’t marry you. Talk about living the dream.’
I can feel her staring sideways at me, her mouth open. I’m watching Ben, who’s busy laughing with his old football friends. For so long, I’ve thought that Jane and Ben were the perfect couple. I’ve wanted to live up to everything they are – and, now that David and I are close, I see how jealous Jane can be.
‘I think I’m going to go,’ Jane says – and, as she pushes herself up, I know that I’m never going to say sorry for this.
Twenty-Six
Two years, seven months ago
The sun is beaming through the back windows of the Rolls-Royce and I can feel the sweat starting to pool in the space where the zip sits at the back of my dress. Mum is sitting indignantly with her knees crossed, facing me as if we’re in the back of a black cab. Meanwhile, Jane is at my side. It’s only her presence that’s stopped my mum criticising what I’m wearing.
‘Are you nervous?’ Jane asks.
‘I wasn’t until you asked,’ I say.
