Coco Pinchard's Big Fat Tipsy Wedding: A Funny Feel-Good Romantic Comedy (3 page)

 
When I went upstairs to bed, I passed Rosencrantz's empty bedroom. I stopped in the doorway, the moonlight shining a bright oblong on the dark carpet.

What do you think it is with Adam? Is he getting cold feet? He was fine yesterday.
 

Wednesday 17th November
 
21.56

TO: [email protected]

I didn’t call Adam all day. It was his job to call and apologise, or at least explain — but he didn’t. Just as Eastenders was finishing, the doorbell rang. He was stood outside in the rain. I folded my arms and looked at him.
 

‘Can I come in?’ he said.

‘Why should I let you?’
 

‘It’s pissing down!’ I stood to one side and he dashed in. I took his coat and went upstairs to get him a towel. When I came back, he was sat in the living room. I draped the towel over him and switched off the TV. Silence played through the house accompanied by rain plinking off the roof.
 

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I said.

‘No. I’m fine.’
 

‘Did you eat?’

‘I’m not hungry.’
 

It felt awkward, like we were strangers. From outside in the back garden there was a loud creaking sound. We looked up and a stream of dead leaves and water began to hurtle past the window followed by a length of guttering. It crashed onto the table and umbrella set on the terrace. I got up and went to the window.

‘Shit!’ I said craning my head up to see the damage. Water was now pouring off the roof and straight down the brickwork. ‘It’s gonna cost a fortune to get that fixed… they’re Zinc gutter pipes, do you know how much Zinc costs?’

Adam just stared. The gutter pipe began to slip off the umbrella and tore through the fabric on its way down to the grass. He jumped up, grabbed the cord to yank down the blinds. One side shot down but the other refused to yield and got into a tangle.

‘Let me do it’ I snapped grabbing the cord. ‘You don’t know how.’
 

‘Maybe I should just give you my balls,’ he said. ‘You can keep them in your desk drawer along with everything else.’

‘What does that mean?’ I said turning to him. ‘Is this about me changing your addresses? I’m sorry. I thought you’d be pleased.’
 

Adam carried on staring; he opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it.

‘What?’ I said. ‘Spit it out Adam!’

‘I need a drink,’ he said. I followed him into the kitchen. He cracked open a beer from the fridge and gulped it down, his eyes watching me over the base of the can.

‘I can see you’re stressed… Why not come to New York. It’ll help you relax. I know you can take the time off.’

He finished the can and chucked it in the bin.
 

‘Why are you being like this?’ he said. ‘You just don’t give up!’

‘Like what? I'm not like anything Adam.’

However, he was gone, slamming the front door and out into the pouring rain. Just then, there was a rumble of thunder and the power went out. I fumbled in the darkness to my jacket and came out of the front door. The wind and rain wheeled round and smacked me in the face. The streetlights were off too. The four storey terraces closed in from either side of the street, blocking out even the light pollution from the rest of the city. A few cars crept along, illuminating everything from the knees down.
 

When I reached Marylebone High Street, I sheltered in the doorway of a posh Deli. I tried calling him, but got his voicemail. The rain fell harder splattering on the awning above.
 

The power cut appeared to stretch across half of London. I hurried to his flat, past the dark tube station and let myself in with my key.
 

A silhouette of Adam was sat on the living room floor by the bay window, intermittently lit up by the flashes of lightning outside. I heard a tsk as he opened a can of lager and I sat beside him. I reached up and stroked his wet hair. He tilted my chin up and kissed me urgently.
 

‘You’re beautiful Coco, don't forget that,’ he whispered hoarsely. He put his finger to my lips, and then traced it down my throat. I reached down and slid his wet t-shirt up and over his head. The heat of his muscly chest hit me. I fumbled with his belt as we quickly undressed, and made love on the pile of wet clothes as the storm raged outside. All our worries fell away and it was just him and me.
 

Afterwards he pulled me through to the bedroom. We climbed under the covers shivering, and snugged up in his cosy bed under the window.

The storm was receding but rain continued to hammer on the roof. We lay there watching the water run in rivulets down the window.

‘I love you,’ I said. ‘But I am not having secrets between us. If you want secrets, you know where the door is. Well, of course this is your flat, so I know where the door is… My point is that it’s a metaphorical door and…’ But Adam had already drifted off to sleep. He looked so peaceful and beautiful. I traced my finger along his handsome profile.

‘Okay. You sleep,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll give you the ball breaker speech tomorrow.’

I woke up just before seven the next morning with the sun streaming through the window. Adam’s side of the bed was empty. After a while, I couldn't hear any noises from the bathroom or kitchen so I got up.
 

On the kitchen table was a note.

It was one of those moments where you see your life from outside your body. The ground tipped under me as I read what Adam had written. He said he was sorry, but he didn't want to move in, and he didn't want to see me anymore.

I quickly dressed and ran home, hoping I would find him in my kitchen grinning with his suitcases, and that this was just a bad practical joke. When I let myself in all the lights were on from last night, but no Adam. I then ran back to his flat,
this isn’t happening,
I thought,
this isn’t what’s meant to happen
. When I reached his front door, I dug in my pockets for his key, but it wasn't there. It had been taken off my key ring! I banged on the door, but nothing. Eventually I walked back home.
 

I keep calling, but he's not answering. I am supposed to be packing for New York. I can’t face myself in the mirror, let alone get on a plane.

Thursday 18th November
 
06.17

TO: [email protected], [email protected]e.com

Angie refused to let me cancel going to New York. She said a lot was riding on me showing up and accepting the award. I asked her what, exactly?

‘Well, the Doris Finkelstein Foundation has already booked flights and accommodation,’ she said. ‘And a ceremony is arranged. Besides, don’t you wanna to bask in the glory? Do you remember how hard it was to get this book published?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘And how many people who’ve just been dumped would kill to be whisked off to foreign climbs and recognised for their talent and success?’

‘Lots…’
 

‘And the publicity means your American publisher will issue a new print run of Chasing Diana Spencer and a new eBook edition with a hefty promo on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. You forget that I earn money from your books too,’ she said pointedly.

There was a silence.

‘Oh crap. What time is the flight?’ I said.

‘Ten in the morning. I’ll pick you up in a taxi at five,’ and she put the phone down. I presume this meant she was coming too.

Trying to work out what to wear and pack nearly killed me. I couldn’t plan. My brain kept going back to the realisation that Adam has dumped me, and a cold horror trickled through me. Then I kept racking my brains if there was anything I needed to do; but I have no pets that need feeding, no plants that need watering, no boyfriend or son at home anymore to chivvy along. I can just drop everything and go to New York. I spent years wishing I could just drop everything and go somewhere at the last minute. It doesn’t seem such fun in reality.

The taxi pipped its horn outside just before five, and I left the house in the darkness with my face scrubbed clean of makeup and wet hair scraped back in a pony tail.

Angie was perched inside the taxi looking stunning in a blood red Chanel suit, full makeup, and a matching red patent leather clutch bag.

‘Jesus, Coco,’ she said as I climbed in beside her.

‘What?’ I said blearily doing up my seat belt.

‘We’re off to New York not the pound shop… At least put some bloody make-up on.’

‘No.’

‘I can’t talk to you until you at least put on some lipstick,’ she said pulling a gold Chanel lipstick out of her clutch.

‘Fine, don’t talk to me,’ I said.

‘Coco, I’m serious. You look like a pile of shite.’ I huffed a bit and applied the dramatic red to my lips.

‘And put these on,’ she said handing over a pair of giant black sunglasses.
 

‘I can’t see a thing,’ I said when I’d slipped them on.

‘But I can. Now you look like someone who is trying not to be someone, as opposed to nobody not managing to be anybody.’

‘I’m taking them off,’ I said.

‘It’s either wear them or I pay the taxi driver to hold you down whilst I forcibly apply mascara. Your eyes look like two piss holes in the snow…’ I wouldn’t have put it past her, so I kept them on.

‘You’ll thank me when we get to the First Class Lounge,’ she said.

She was right, of course. Now we’re sat in the British Airways First Class Lounge I am blending in with all the rich bitches. Angie hasn’t mentioned Adam, which I am thankful for, but she did offer a choice of Xanax or Valium to go with the complimentary Champagne. I plumped for Xanax.

‘You sure love?’ she said. ‘The Valium is stronger.’

‘No, I like the sound of Xanax, it’s a palindrome, — it can be pronounced the same way forwards and backwards.’
 

‘Bloody writers,’ she said popping a Valium on her tongue and jerking her head back to swallow it in a well-practised move.
 

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I should have invited you on this trip. You’ve always stood by me.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘But I’m warning you. I can’t do slushy emotional girl chat, and if you suggest we get Cupcakes to cheer us up, you can fuck-off to economy.’

‘It’s a deal,’ I said from behind my shades downing the pill with a gulp of champagne. Angie reached out and squeezed my hand.

‘He’s an arse hole and you deserve better,’ she said.

I didn’t say anything, I just squeezed her hand back. The problem is, Adam isn’t an arse hole, he’s wonderful. That’s what makes the situation even more confusing.
 

It’s still dark outside, with just the winking lights of planes taking off and landing. I think the Xanax is kicking in. I feel much better, and I have a sort of slack smile on my face.

Saturday 20th November
 
23.14

TO: [email protected], [email protected]

We’re staying at the Four Seasons overlooking Central Park! I’m sitting in the grand soaring lobby lit by Tiffany lamps; above me is a backlit Onyx ceiling. A sexy vibe pervades the air as the staff glide about, all young and gorgeous, filling their crisp immaculate uniforms with firm toned bodies. I feel like a grubby Brit, with the teeth God gave me and legs I haven’t shaved in a few days. I just want to be at home, in a tracksuit, by the fire.

 
I have an elegant, cavernous room with a giant four-poster bed and floor to ceiling windows. My view over Central Park and the Skyscrapers has been framed by a boiling sky. Torrential rain has streamed down the window since we arrived, and if I look down, I can see it continue falling to the tiny cars and people on the streets far below. Last night Angie was desperate for me to hit the bars with her,

‘I’m not in the mood for what you look like you’re in the mood for,’ I said through the gap in my door. She looked amazing in a tiny purple Versace dress, pinched in at the waist and towering heels. She swept in past me and I closed the door behind her. She rummaged around in her tiny bag.

‘Well, you can at least stick these on for me,’ she said pulling out a sheaf of nicotine patches. ‘This non-smoking city is doing my head in.’

‘There’s not much of you covered up to put them on.’
 

‘Stick six of them on my back,’ she said sliding up her dress. I gingerly peeled the backing off the nicotine patches and stuck them on.

‘Come on Coco, come with me to some dive bars,’ she said pulling her dress back down. ‘You’re my only single author…Sometimes have to get under one man to get over another…’

‘Well, you can do that on my behalf,’ I said. ‘Just make sure no one puts anything in your drink.’

‘It takes a lot to tranquillize me,’ she said with a brittle laugh. We hugged and then she was off into the night.

I had a shower then ordered room service. A handsome waiter delivered a mouth watering Macaroni and Cheese and turned down my bed (he turned down the bedcovers — not any salacious offer I made him). Then I ate Reese's Peanut Buttercups from the mini bar in front of back-to-back episodes of
As Time Goes By
,
Keeping Up Appearances,
and
Are you Being Served?
on the PBS channel.
 

I met Angie the next morning for breakfast. She didn’t look happy.

‘Didn’t you meet anyone?’ I said.

‘A divorced stockbroker who offered to take me home.’

‘Where was home?’

‘Staten Island…’

‘Why didn’t you bring him back here?’

‘You can smoke on Staten Island. I was climbing the wall for a fag.’

‘What was it like?’

 
‘I never got to his place, I got motion sickness, and his toupee blew off into the water. A passion killer on both counts.’

 
After breakfast, we took a non-smoking cab to the Doris Finkelstein Library. It was colossal with a carved ceiling as high as a Cathedral; gothic arched windows and row after row of long tables. At the very end, past the thousands of books lining the walls were rows of seats facing a raised stage and a giant projector screen. A hundred or so audience members and journalists sat waiting.