This is just like the time when I told my parents I was doing the Further Maths GCSE. Tom next door was doing Further Maths and Janice was really smug about it, so I told Mum and Dad I was too. then the exams came, and I had to pretend I was sitting an extra paper (I spent three hours in Top Shop instead). And then the results came out and they kept saying, “But what did you get in Further Maths?”
So then I made up this story that it took the examiners longer to mark Further Maths than the other subjects because it was harder. And I honestly think they would have believed me, except then Janice came running in, saying, “Tom got an A in Further Maths, what did Becky get?”
Bloody Tom.
“You haven’t asked about the wedding yet,” says Mum as we zoom along the A3 toward Oxshott.
“Oh! No, I haven’t, have I?” I force a bright note into my voice. “So — er… how are preparations going?”
“To be honest, we haven’t done very much,” says Dad as we approach the turning for Oxshott.
“It’s early days yet,” says Mum easily.
“It’s only a wedding,” adds Dad. “People get far too het up about these things in my opinion. You can put it all together at the last minute.”
“Absolutely!” I say in slight relief. “I couldn’t agree more!”
Well, thank goodness for that. I sink back in my seat and feel the anxiety drain out of me. This is going to make everything a lot easier. If they haven’t arranged very much yet, it’ll take no time to call it all off. In fact, it sounds like they’re really not bothered about it. This is going to be fine. I’ve been worrying about nothing!
“Suzie phoned, by the way,” says Mum as we start to get near home. “She said, would you like to meet up later on today? I said I was sure you would… Oh, and I should warn you.” Mum turns in her seat. “Tom and Lucy.”
“Hmm?” I resign myself to hearing the details of the latest kitchen they’ve had put in, or which promotion Lucy has won at work.
“They’ve split up.” Mum lowers her voice, even though it’s just the three of us in the car.
“Split up?” I stare at her, taken aback. “Are you serious? But they’ve only been married for…”
“Not even two years. Janice is devastated, as you can imagine.”
“What happened?” I say blankly, and Mum purses her lips.
“That Lucy ran off with a drummer.”
“A drummer?”
“In a band. Apparently he’s got a pierced…” She pauses disapprovingly, and my mind ranges wildly over all the possibilities, some of which I’m sure Mum’s never heard of. (To be honest, I hadn’t either, till I moved to the West Village.) “Nipple,” she says at last, to my slight relief.
“Let me get this straight. Lucy’s run off… with a drummer… with a pierced nipple.”
“He lives in a trailer,” puts in Dad, signaling left.
“After all the work Tom did on that lovely conservatory,” says Mum, shaking her head. “Some girls have no gratitude.”
I can’t get my head round this. Lucy works for Wetherby’s Investment Bank. She and Tom live in Reigate. Their curtains match their sofa. How on earth did she meet a drummer with a pierced nipple?
Suddenly I remember that conversation I overheard in the garden when I was here last. Lucy didn’t exactly sound happy. But then she didn’t exactly sound like she was about to run off, either.
“So how’s Tom?”
“He’s coping,” says Dad. “He’s at home with Janice and Martin at the moment, poor lad.”
“If you ask me, he’s well out of it,” says Mum crisply. “It’s Janice I feel sorry for. After that lovely wedding she put on. They were all fooled by that girl.”
We pull up outside the house, and to my surprise there are two white vans parked in the drive.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“Nothing,” says Mum.
“Plumbing,” says Dad.
But they’ve both got slightly strange expressions. Mum’s eyes are bright, and she glances at Dad a couple of times as we walk up to the front door.
“So, are you ready?” says Dad casually. He puts his key into the lock and swings open the door.
“Surprise!” cry Mum and Dad simultaneously, and my jaw drops to the ground.
The old hall wallpaper has gone. The old hall carpet has gone. The whole place has been done in light, fresh colors, with pale carpet and new lighting everywhere. As my eye runs disbelievingly upward I see an unobtrusive man in overalls repainting the banisters; on the landing are two more, standing on a stepladder and putting up a candelabra. Everywhere is the smell of paint and newness. And money being spent.
“You’re having the house done up,” I say feebly.
“For the wedding!” says Mum, beaming at me.
“You said—” I swallow. “You said you hadn’t done much.”
“We wanted to surprise you!”
“What do you think, Becky?” says Dad, gesturing around. “Do you like it? Does it meet with your approval?”
His voice is jokey. But I can tell it really matters to him whether I like it. To both of them. They’re doing all this for me.
“It’s… fantastic,” I say huskily. “Really lovely.”
“Now, come and look at the garden!” says Mum, and I follow her dumbly through to the French windows, where I see a team of uniformed gardeners working away in the flower beds.