Page 25 of Always the Bridesmaid

The bronze statue is impressive. A real likeness. But I wonder what it is about Amy Winehouse that makes Charlie like it so much.

Pausing for a minute, staring at the talented woman who had been extremely troubled, I conclude I don’t really know much about Charlie at all. Perhaps I’m looking for some deeper meaning and there isn’t one. It is possible that Charlie simply likes the statue. Maybe he’s a fan of sculptures.

I walk on to Camden Market. The market is fascinating. Not just because of the eclectic mix of shops – from antiques to upcycled clothes, from fancy dress to real fur – but because of the buildings themselves – old stables, a former equine hospital; they are full of hidden details and delights.

I wander through Italian Alley, Cuban Yard, the Basement, the Amphitheatre, North Yard, Saddle Row, Gibley’s Row and Paddock Lane.

I try on an outrageously jazzy, upcycled denim jacket that I might have pulled off as a teenager in the nineties and early noughties. Looking at myself in the mirror now, I am reminded that I am not a young girl anymore. And that’s okay. I’ve already lived a longer and fuller life by comparison to some.

In a hat store, I am encouraged by the store owner to try out a red beret, a green top hat, an orange bucket hat and a purple cloche hat with turquoise trim. The eccentric man turns me and twirls me around the compact and jam-packed store until I feel like an actress in a romance movie, where the girl and guy fall in love as they work their way through market stalls, trying on hats, scarves and funky shades, the more outrageous the better.

But when I stop twirling, this time in a grey homburg, I realize the man under whose arm I am turning is around seventy years old, an old punk rocker, and almost certainly gay. My life isn’t a clichéd romance. I am a widow. Mid-thirties and alone. I have lost the love of my life. My soulmate. There are no more knights in shining armor for me and no more market stall meet-cutes.

I slide the homburg from my head and hand it back to the owner. ‘Thank you,’ I say. And because I have spent so long being wooed in the tiny store, I tell him, ‘I’ll take the beret,’ and hope that Cady will like it as a gift.

I want to get back to Surrey and to my friends. Spending too long alone is never good for me and it isn’t even 5p.m. yet. It will be hours before Charlie and I are back in Surrey.

I have been wandering in contemplation until I realize I have stumbled into a food court. Assaulted by the smells of spice and sweet, my salivary glands go into meltdown. My mouth is like Olaf in the Caribbean sun.

Chickpea curry, chicken kebabs, falafel, Venezuelan pockets. Pakistani food, Nigerian food, Hungarian food. It all smells so good. Still far too full-up for savory, I reluctantly walk past the stalls, but find my second stomach – the one reserved for sweet treats only – has a little hole for something tasty.

Drawn to a food stand selling French crepes, I order a classic, with lemon juice and sugar. I thank the server and carry my carton away to find somewhere to sit and eat. But en route, I spot the churros Charlie told me to try.

I buy six and stack the box on top of my crepe box. Before I locate a suitable spot to eat, I smell, then see a Portuguese stand selling custard tarts.

Cinnamon wafts up my nostrils like magical dust, stopping my legs from carrying me forward and drawing me left. A minute later, I am walking away with desserts stacked three boxes high.

Finally, I see a seat on a bench, beside a little girl and her dad, each of whom is eating a scoop of fried ice-cream from a cardboard pot.

‘Mm, strawberry,’ the little girl says, smiling cheekily at me and rubbing her tummy to demonstrate its deliciousness.

‘Yummy!’ I say.

‘Sorry,’ her dad says, ‘She’ll talk to anyone.’

I smile. ‘She’s extremely cute.’

‘Thanks. Gets her looks from her mum.’

And her mum, who now comes to join them, holding a custard tart much like one of the two I have bought, is very beautiful.

I watch the family as they steal each other’s desserts and laugh amongst themselves.

I open the box containing my crepe and see two small wood forks inside with the food. I shouldn’t be binging alone and I know someone whom I’d bet would love a churro.

Closing the lid, I gather my bags, the Elvis suit and my food boxes and set off to make one last stop before heading back to Chalk Farm Tube station.

11

CHARLIE

I didn’t need to do a sound check – ordinarily, my manager deals with technical details for my gigs – but I did want to scope out the place. More than that, I just needed an hour or so, some space to myself, with my own mind and my own thoughts. No one whining at me or speaking to me or expecting me to perform and turn on a smile. A moment’s peace. I know Bill, the owner of the club, and I knew that he would let me come inside for a drink before the club opened at 5p.m.

I feel bad about bailing on Sarah and sending her to Camden alone, in a city she doesn’t know, but she is a New Yorker born and bred; you don’t get much more city than that. And from what little I know of Sarah, she is as independent and sharp-witted as she is feisty. I know she’ll be fine. Nevertheless, I felt so bad that I almost changed my mind and went with her to meet Joe Elvis.

I’m onto my second bottle of alcohol-free beer, sitting alone on a stool, at a slightly sticky high table, staring at the stage on which I will be the main act tonight.

‘Penny for them?’ Bill asks as he approaches, a can of Diet Coke in his hand and his typical Nirvana hoody zipped up to his neck to combat the chill of the empty, dark space.

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