Dad winced a little, then smiled back at her. ‘I am, Tessa, I am. A bit of a sore jaw tonight. Too much chatting, obviously.’
I laughed. ‘Obviously, Dad. We can never get a word in when you’re about.’ I felt Thom and Mum look at one another, but was grateful enough for the interruption to not chase that glance down and kill it bloodily all over the dining table.
TO DO:
Check waiting times and delivery times on The Dress
December 6th
Am I simply having troubles with my priorities? Or am I a monster? A growing suspicion that it’s the latter. Susie invited us over for dinner last night, for Pete’s birthday and some early Christmas cocktails. For once she actually had both booze and Pete in the house, and was sloshing the former merrily into beakers as soon as we’d walked in the door. We toasted one another, with all the festive spirit mulled wine invites:
Susie: To friendship!
Me: To brotherhood on the high seas!
Pete: To the kingdom of Neptune!
Thom: To mermaids!
Susie: To milkmaids!
Pete: To milkmen! Speaking of which, Suse …
Susie: Are we blaming it on the milkman this time?
Me: [a bit tipsy already, laughing] Wait, what? Are you pregnant or something?
Susie: [pausing] … A bit?
Thom whooped and grabbed Susie, then Pete, and gave them huge hugs. I was a bit staggered – pregnant? Due in July? Which would mean next year would be entirely about the new baby? A new baby which would be there crying and sicking milk up during our wedding? Jesus, no, I am a monster.
Susie looked like she’d been slapped when she saw me hesitating, so I gave her an enormous hug and told her that she would be the finest milk-machine at our whole bash. She didn’t really like that either.
December 8th
Thom had a horrible day at work today. They have a new client, a ‘nutrition group’ conglomerate that includes all the no. 2 soft drinks, chocolate bars and potato-based snacks in Europe and Asia. They are rich, and powerful, and from everything Thom says they have a massive potato-based snack on their shoulder (accountant humour) from missing out on the no. 1 spot in every field. Apparently they spent $17 million on a marketing push in Korea which saw them hit the top for a fortnight, before they went back to their familiar, uncomfortable second-tier position. The men who came to deal with Thom today are hardly people you’d invite to a house party – pigs at best, full-on pricks at worst – but he’s always aware of how nice he has to be to them so that his company can get a little piece of their money, of which they’ll give an even smaller piece to Thom to keep his brain working on how to make these men a little bit richer, etc. Put it this way: when Thom talks about his job, it makes me want to bake a thank you cake for Carol and Tony and Raff and Jacki. And today was even worse than normal, because today Thom was supposed to show them some fascinating little Monaco loopholes which would make them jig all the way to the bank, and he’d spent the last week checking and double-checking all the figures and the byzantine laws that help rich men stay good and rich, and had everything lined up in a snazzy little presentation for them, neat and clear and simple. But when the time came to start pointing his clicker – or clicking his pointer, whatever – he found that the screen was empty, as was the computer file, as was his USB stick. His secretary came in and had a go too, but there was nothing to be found, and after ten minutes of staring at the company’s most handsome meeting room (while enjoying the finest coffee and biscuits money can buy and spending the time not tapping their feet in silence but comparing notes on their holiday homes and children’s school fees) the Gloucester Old Spots starting getting their bristles up, saying at slightly louder than shouting volume, ‘Bloody joke of an accountant, this one,’ etc. Quel charme. Thom took a deep breath and apologised for the 4,000th time, then from memory gave them all the facts they needed and passed around the very detailed and very boring document he had prepared over the last few days. But they didn’t want to know. Of course, they did want to know, and they’ll be back in a week or so to get the plotting plotted, but men like that enjoy knowing that Thom will receive a royal ticking off, probably from a former school chum of theirs.
Maybe Thom’s been hoarding all our money for his flight to Mexico when they all finally get too much. Maybe not.
December 10th
Alice and I enjoyed a – cough cough – extended lunch hour today, starting on our Christmas shopping. We’d elbowed our way into Liberty to admire the beautiful homeware rooms, when Alice spotted a sign, nudging me: ‘Wedding Lists available here’.
Me: [sighing] Oh, Alice.
Alice: Uh-oh. Don’t ‘Oh, Alice’ me. I think this was an error.
Me: I didn’t even want a wedding list before, but just think…
Alice: I am thinking. I’m thinking that if your fiancé finds out I’m to blame for you wanting your wedding list at Liberty, I won’t even be allowed at your wedding. And that will make me so sad. [pulls exaggerated sad face]
Me: [laughing] Alright, alright, I surrender. But a wedding list does seem like bloody good fun, doesn’t it?
Alice: I’m not sure I like that look in your eye, young Kiki.
I promised I wouldn’t do anything to get her banned from our wedding. She looked sceptical. How many other things have I not even thought about yet?
December 11th
Tonight was Thom’s work Christmas dinner. Every year they hire out one of the huge banqueting halls in a London hotel, invite everyone in the company, from the big cheeses to the secretaries, give everyone a plus one and access to an open bar, and let mayhem commence. We were on a table of twelve, and although officially I was seated next to one of Thom’s colleagues, he had swapped places to talk shop on the other side. Instead, I was next to his wife, Della – of a month, she insisted on telling me – while Thom chatted to the woman on his other side. Despite my best efforts, my eyes were drawn inexorably down to her hand, which waited, fingers tapping, to show the enormous ring. She laughed when she saw me looking at it, saying, ‘It’s subtle, isn’t it? Well, I thought I certainly deserved a reward.’ I thought: maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe she gave her husband a kidney. I’d want a giant piece of jewellery if I gave Thom one of my vital organs. Although maybe I’d want it shaped like that organ: a lung-shaped pendant. A liver-shaped brooch.
Della: We both work so hard that I thought it would be nice to have something to show for it, you know? We’re working over eighty-hour weeks, we bought our first place together before the wedding, and I knew a year ago that I wouldn’t just want some tiny little thing [flaps hand as if it’s almost too heavy to lift] for the rest of my life. D’you know what I mean?
Me: [trying to laugh] I do, actually! [lifts up hand]
Della: [looks mortified] God, Kiki, I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry. That’s a beautiful ring, anyway. Was it one in the family he had to use?
Me: No, Thom chose it for me. It is an antique, though.
Della: [putting her head on one side] Oh, well, well done you. Flying the flag for anti-consumerism.
Me: [taking a deep breath] Della. What do you do?
Della: Oh, I’m in the City. I’m a compliance consultant.
She saw my baffled/uninterested face, and proceeded to describe her job to me, but I tuned out after a while. Here are the highlights:
It’s mainly about managing client relationships [I start wondering how many strip joints she’s had to take those clients to] and ensuring their prime point of contact … blah blah blah … promotion of services within assigned accounts … blah blah … winning engagements … increased fee incomes … blah blah … supporting a new business direction … blah … allocation of resources for productivity levels … Ten minutes later I’d necked four glasses of wine and she stopped pitching to me, and switched gears to talking about how terrible it was that people were clamouring for any kind of financial regulations, and criticising bankers was a dreadful bore and utterly self-defeating. I suddenly felt very drunk.
Me: How exactly is it self-defeating?
Della: Well, all the banks will just up sticks and go to Dubai, or Singapore.
Me: And is that a problem?
Della: Well, the banks pay billions of pounds of tax every year, don’t they?
Me: But do they pay all the tax they should? Do they make our country’s life better?
Della: [scoffing a little] Yes, they employ thousands of people. Not everyone is a senior executive, you know.
Me: Of course, that’s true. So why do senior executives get so much?
Della: Because they all work so bloody hard.
Me: But what is that work? What do they do? Why couldn’t other people do it? Hasn’t there been a study to show traders are no better at trading than a rolled dice? What do they add?
Della: Oh, Kiki, that’s a bit of a socialist, naïve view of things. We can’t just run the country on nurses and teachers, you know?