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‘You look beautiful,’ George said between hiccups, leaning in to kiss me with wet lips.
‘George! You’re drunk. I’ll see you at home,’ I said, shooing him away. He stumbled backwards and tripped on the top step, grabbing the handrail as he slowly slid to the ground.
‘Can you take me home?’ George asked, using his jacket for a pillow as he lay on the floor.
‘No, I won’t be finished for another hour,’ I whispered. ‘Get a cab.’
‘I can’t find my wallet,’ George said, his eyes closed, snuggling down as if to sleep.
‘Get UP. You can’t lie there, I’m at work. Oh God. Hang on. I’ll get you some cash.’ I shut the door and ran to my bag, rootling around for a tenner as Margot came back into the kitchen.
‘We have one of those lactose intolerants in the group, asking for milk-free cheese,’ Margot muttered, raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Honestly, what do they expect me to do? Oat milk Dairylea dippers? I am not a magician.’
I hovered near the back door, desperate to give the money to George and get him off the doorstep. Margot was in a cheese-fluster, so I waited until she was in the fridge, then posted the note through the letterbox and watched as it fluttered through the air onto George’s snoozing face. He snuffled around for a bit, then repositioned himself and settled back down. FFS. I needed him to wake up, notice the money, and GO. I grabbed my phone and dialled his number, dropping it into my apron, still-ringing, as Margot returned with a wheel of Gouda and a smelly blue Montagnolo.
‘These will ’ave to do,’ she muttered, selecting a sharp knife. ‘It wouldn’t be my normal choice of combination, but perhaps it can work.’
‘We have some fresh figs in the larder if that would help?’ I said loudly.
‘Can you hear that?’ Margot asked, stopping deadly still. ‘Is that your phone?’
I frowned and pretended to hear it for the first time. For the love of God, why wasn’t it kicking into voicemail? I heard a low groan from George outside and held my breath as Margot marched over and flung the back door open.
‘What the…?’
‘George? Is that you?’ I said, trying to hold it together. Honestly, how would I ever be taken seriously in my professional life when my nearest and dearest were openly trying to take me down like this?
‘Thanks for the cash,’ George said, peeling the tenner off his cheek, ‘I’ll see you back at the house, shall I?’
Margot looked entirely perplexed as he pulled himself together and shuffled off down the street.
‘Is this the man giving you advice on how to live your life?’ Margot asked, pointedly.
‘Erm… yes, it did look very much like him,’ I replied, mortified.
‘And which milestone is he working towards here?’
‘I know, I’m so sorry Margot – he shouldn’t just turn up like that.’
‘Why are you sorry? You can’t control George’s life choices any more than he can control yours.’
Three
Three weeks to the wedding. 19th August
I’d spent the entire day in wedding dress hell and had finally got myself sorted. Dress, check, veil, check, old, new, borrowed and blue, checkety-check-check-check. I got back to the flat and immediately switched my shoes for slippers and my dress for a silky dressing gown. Basil kadunked in through the cat flap and gave a welcoming singsong of miaows, which I easily understood to mean,What time do you call this? You’re late. Feed me.
I sent a quick message to George to see where he was. It wasn’t all flexitime and long lunches; sometimes the council meetings dragged on and he couldn’t get away.
Me:Are you home for dinner?
George:Yes please– can we have chicken pie?
Me:Pie? In August? Really?
George:We can have it with a salad?
George:But ideally with mash xx
