The Other Woman Page 7

  “Not much, darling,” Linda says. “How about you?”

  “Not much,” Emma says. “But are we going to be anywhere in Knightsbridge? I’ve got a pair of shoes on hold in Harvey Nichs. It won’t take a minute.”

  My flush, thankfully, fades, and I turn to Emma. “Another pair of shoes?” I ask, knowing that she bought a pair of Prada sandals earlier in the week.

  “They’re on sale. So it doesn’t count. Both pairs combined cost the same as one pair. Honestly, it would have been rude not to buy them.”

  “You and Richard,” Linda sighs. “You’re both hopeless with money.”

  “Yes, Mummy.” Emma rolls her eyes. “Where is that necklace from again?”

  Linda reaches up and smoothes her fingers over her Bulgari necklace. “That’s different,” she says. “I’m a lot older than you and I can afford it.”

  “You mean Dad can afford it,” Emma protests.

  “I mean we can afford it. Since when were you earning enough to buy all these designer clothes?”

  “Since I started staying with friends and using my money for the important things in life.”

  Linda sighs. “Are you ever going to grow up, Emma?”

  And Emma just laughs. “Not if I can possibly help it.”

  “Seriously,” I whisper in the changing room of the second bridal gown place, while Emma’s helping zip me in and Linda’s outside acting like the Queen, sipping cappuccino and chatting away to the sales assistants, “how do you afford all your designer gear?”

  Emma laughs. “Being a freelance stylist isn’t nearly as lowly or low paid as my mother seems to think. And I get huge discounts. And half of the clothes my mum thinks are designer are knockoffs from Portobello for a couple of quid.”

  I look suspiciously at her Pucci shirt. “Not Pucci, then?”

  “Fucci, more like,” she laughs. “If you’ve got the shoes and the bag, everyone will assume everything else is real.”

  “Blimey. I’m impressed.”

  “Now you know why I’m such a good stylist.” She winks as she turns to look at the right side of the changing room. “I thought you said no cream puffs? Why are we even bothering in here?” She gestures at the five dresses adorning the walls in the oversized changing room. All five are huge, white and meringuelike.

  “It keeps your mum happy,” I say, obviously not telling her why it’s so important to keep Linda happy, how this is the least I can do after she gave me such a generous and thoughtful gift.

  Emma winces and says, “Forgive me for saying this, but they all make you look like a house.”

  I turn and put my hands on my hips, looking her sternly in the eye. “Good job you’re going to be family, Emma. If a friend said that to me, I’d chuck them.”

  “Well, that explains why you haven’t got any friends,” Emma ribs me, not knowing how close to the truth she is. “Okay, I take it back, but don’t you think you’d be far more beautiful in something simple and elegant?”

  “Of course.” I shrug. “But your mum needs to see how disgusting I can look before she appreciates the plain Grecian column.”

  “Ah, I see,” Emma nods. “Clever plan. Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  Four bridal shops later even Linda is starting to lose her enthusiasm. I don’t help matters by putting on each meringue, walking out of the dressing room to show her, and deliberately hunching my shoulders and pushing my stomach out so that I look as awful as I can.

  “I never realized you had such bad posture,” she said at one point. “You must learn to put your shoulders back, Ellie.”

  Finally I spy the perfect dress. Close fitting, bell sleeves, silk and chiffon, dreamily simple. I nudge Emma, who goes to have a closer look.

  “Mum,” Emma says, bringing the dress over, “what about this one?”

  “It’s a bit…nothing, isn’t it?” Linda looks disdainfully at the dress, which is, quite honestly, my idea of heaven.

  “It’s just that she’s tried on big dress after big dress. It might be nice to see Ellie in something a bit different. Just for comparison.”

  “Ellie?” Linda still looks doubtful. “Do you want to try this on?”

  “Sure,” I say, doing a silent scream of laughter with Emma the minute the curtain is drawn.

  “Wow,” Emma says, as she looks at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Wow,” I echo, wondering how it is that I never realized I was this beautiful, this thin, this elegant. The dress hides all my worst features and brings out all my best.

  I open the curtain and glide, swanlike, shoulders back, into the shop, where Linda puts down her coffee cup, openmouthed.

  “Now that’s more like it,” she says, smiling for the first time in two and a half hours. “Ellie, you look like a princess.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want her to try on another fifty cream puffs?” Emma has an evil glint in her eye.

  “Oh, do be quiet. How do you feel, Ellie? Do you love it?”

  “Love it? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn in my whole life.”

  “Then that’s it,” Linda says. “That’s your dress. I knew we should have gone with something simple in the first place.” Emma and I try not to laugh.

  Diamond earrings, I tell myself. Don’t piss her off now.

  “Well?” Dan rings on the mobile while we’re in the car going home.

  “Well, we found it,” I say, smiling. “The most beautiful dress you’ve ever seen.”

  “Don’t tell him,” Linda screeches loudly next to me. “Don’t tell him a thing about it.”

  As if I was going to. “Clearly,” I say, “I’m not allowed to tell you anything about it.”

  “But did you have fun?” he says, anxious that Linda and I should be best friends again, that I won’t be coming home to bitch or moan, that he won’t have to listen to me say anything derogatory about his mother.

  “We had a great time,” I say, and it’s true. We did. I felt like a normal woman, having a fun shopping day with her mother and sister. Well, almost. But I did feel like I belonged, and that was the greatest feeling in the world.

  7

  We’ve finally found the flat of our dreams, and if I thought the pressure was bad before, it’s nothing compared to praying for an offer on our flat, having to reduce the price, and then finally accepting an offer and attempting to go for a simultaneous exchange.

  Estate agents and lawyers are calling me all day, and I’ve got such anxiety about something falling through, or being gazumped, that I go into panic mode if my mobile isn’t permanently clamped to my hand.

  And today we’re in the middle of planning the spring campaign. I’ve just finished giving my presentation when my mobile starts to vibrate.

  I don’t understand this vibrating feature. I had assumed it would be silent, unobtrusive, but the phone’s practically leaping around on the table and buzzing very aggressively as our chief executive, Jonathan, who’s talking, stops and raises an eyebrow at the phone.

  “Sorry,” I mumble as I reach for the phone, expecting it to be the lawyer yet again and knowing I’ll have to excuse myself for a few minutes to take his call, but, as I pick up the phone, I see Linda’s name flashing on the screen.

  Oh, for God’s sake. And thank God for caller ID. I hit the divert button to send her straight to voice mail and apologize to everyone. Two minutes later it rings again. I divert it again.

  Two minutes and three separate sets of vibrations later, my boss sighs and stops talking to look at me pointedly while I blush a deep red. “Do you think perhaps you ought to take that call?” he says, the vibrating phone being rather more obtrusive and noisy, given the quiet conference room, than it might otherwise be.

  “I’m sorry.” I turn the phone off immediately, inwardly cursing that bloody woman. “It’s not urgent and can certainly wait until this meeting is over.”

  Less than five minutes later Sandy, one of the marketing assistants, pops her head round the door.
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  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says timidly, “but there’s an urgent phone call for Ellie.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. I scrape my chair back and excuse myself, stamping over to my desk to pick up the phone, the irritation clear in my voice.

  Of course it’s her. The woman who doesn’t know the meaning of the word patience. Who, when she wants something, wants it at the latest now, if not yesterday.

  “Hello?” I’m trying my damnedest to be polite, to try to hide my fury because she is, after all, my future mother-in-law. And, irritating and infuriating though she may be, the last thing I want to do is alienate this woman who is not only the mother of my husband-to-be (I still can’t think of the word “fiancé” without grimacing) but is also paying for my entire wedding.

  Plus I’m the quintessential people pleaser—the result of having an alcoholic mother and having to tiptoe around and be on my best behavior in the mistaken belief that this was the only way to keep her happy. I’m only happy when you’re happy, and I may not like you, but I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure you like me.

  And therein lies the madness, and the reason why I am not able to chastise my mother-in-law for embarrassing me at work, or tell her not to call me during the hours of nine to five. Make that twenty-four hours.

  “Hello, Ellie,” Linda says brightly. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” My teeth are gritted and there’s a long pause before I spit out, “You?”

  “Fine. Is there something wrong with your mobile? I’ve been trying you for ages.”

  “I was in a meeting.” My voice is cold. “You could have left a message and I would have called you straight back after the meeting.” Instead of dragging me out for something that I know is going to be ridiculous, I add. Silently of course.

  “Oh, silly me,” Linda laughs. “I thought perhaps the phone was broken, and of course if I’d known you were in a meeting I would never have disturbed you.”

  I bet she knew I was in a meeting. I bet Sandy told her. “So is everything okay?” I say finally, after an awkward silence.

  “Absolutely fine. I just wondered whether you and Dan wanted to join Michael and me for supper tonight. We were thinking of trying that new Indian in the village. Around seven thirty?”

  I really don’t believe this. Did this woman actually pull me out of a meeting to invite us for supper? Is this the hugely important reason that she had to speak to me immediately and couldn’t possibly leave a message?

  “I’m sorry, Linda.” I fake an apologetic voice. “But Dan’s been shooting in the North and he’s exhausted, and I’ve had a really tough week. I think we’re just going to have an early night…

  “But thank you,” I add quickly as an afterthought, knowing how easily offended my mother-in-law can be.

  “Oh,” Linda says, a hint of my previous frostiness in her own voice. “But I just spoke to Dan—he’s on the train home, by the way—and he said it sounded fine. I was just phoning you to let you know.”

  “Oh.” Great. So now she’s tricking me as well. Why in hell did Dan say yes? “Oh,” I say again, faltering. “Okay. I’m sorry. You should have said. I mean, if Dan says it’s okay, then it’s okay.”

  “Wonderful,” Linda says. “Come to us at around 7:15. See you later!” And she’s gone.

  “Sandy?” I screech, marching over to Sandy’s desk, determined not to take it out on her, but I need to vent my frustration on someone, and Sandy, unfortunately, is the closest and of course the easiest to blame.

  “Uh-huh?” Sandy looks up nervously from her computer.

  “Did you realize that was my future mother-in-law?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why didn’t you tell her I was in a meeting, for God’s sake?”

  “I did,” Sandy says. “I told her and she said it was urgent and to get you out of your meeting.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” I shake my head as Sandy looks stricken.

  “I’m so sorry,” Sandy says. “I did try to tell her but she was…well, honestly, she was a bit scary.”

  And I sigh and back down. What else can I do. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just taking it out on you, and I know how scary she is. She’s just got such a bloody nerve.”

  Sandy shrugs and turns back to her computer, as I debate whether I have time to phone Dan and scream at him now, or whether it should wait until after the meeting.

  No. I need to cool down before doing anything, and I go back to the meeting, although the first fifteen minutes go completely over my head, as I am far too busy fuming over Linda. But then the launch of Calden, Edinburgh, takes over, and by the time the meeting is over, an hour and a half later, my frustration has abated. I phone Dan as soon as I’m back at my desk, and manage not to shout or scream the way I definitely would have done an hour and a half previously, although Dan knows, the minute he picks up the phone, that something is wrong.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Your mother. As usual.”

  “Oh, come on, Ellie.” Dan does nothing to hide his exasperation, which frankly is also starting to get me down. He’s about to become my husband—isn’t he supposed to be supporting me?

  “Oh, come on, nothing. She dragged me out of a big meeting, saying it was urgent, then tricked me into turning down her dinner invitation tonight before telling me you’d already accepted. Thanks a lot, Dan. I wish you’d ask me before you—”

  “Hang on a minute!” Dan interjects. “I didn’t accept anything. She mentioned something about dinner and I said I was exhausted and we’d probably have an early night, but that I’d have to talk to you first.”

  “Well, that’s just great. So she’s been as manipulative as usual.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Dan snorts, “can’t you just give it a rest? All I’ve been hearing for weeks now is you bitching about my mother.”

  “That’s because you never stand up for me. If you were to actually show some balls and defend me, or agree with me when your mother is manipulative or unreasonable, then it wouldn’t wind me up as much.”

  “If you’re so unhappy about it, why are you bloody marrying me?” Dan snaps, no longer bothered that the entire train carriage is eagerly listening in to his row.

  “That’s a bloody good question,” I shout, and then, even though I don’t mean to, even though I know it’s the worst thing I can possibly do, I slam down the phone, and for a split second, just a tiny split second, I feel a whole lot better.

  We meet at the flat just before six-thirty. I, of course, spent the rest of the afternoon feeling horrible, hating myself for being so mean, knowing that most of it is prewedding stress, but this doesn’t feel like much of an excuse. I feel even worse when I see how upset Dan clearly is.

  I know how he feels, really I do. Weeks before, when we managed to talk about it calmly, Dan explained how he feels pulled between the two most important women in his life, and I understand that. Really I do. And I explained that I need his support, that I am, or at least should be, the most important woman in his life now, and he nodded and said he will try harder, and that it is just an adjustment.

  Maybe if things were different in my own family I would understand more, I think sadly from time to time. Maybe if I were a Daddy’s girl, Dan would be battling with my father. Maybe this is all par for the course, part of becoming a woman, a wife, a truly emancipated adult.

  “I’m sorry,” are the first words out of my mouth as Dan walks in and dumps his duffel bag in the bedroom. “I’m sorry for the things I said and I’m sorry for putting the phone down on you.”

  And I expect Dan to do what he always does after these fiery rows: to put his arms around me, to apologize in turn, but Dan doesn’t say anything, just sits down on the sofa opposite me and looks at the floor, and for the first time I feel a horrible unease wash over me. Oh, God. Please don’t let him say something awful. Please don’t let him be having second thoughts.

  “Dan, I said I was sorry,”
I whisper, fear constricting my chest, making me unable to speak any louder.

  “Dan? Would you just say something?”

  A couple of minutes pass, and Dan raises his head and looks at me, his eyes filled with sadness.

  “It’s just so hard for me,” he says. “I understand how stressful this is, and I know my mother can be overbearing, but I just can’t keep hearing about how awful you think she is. She’s my mother, Ellie, and whatever you think about her she’s only trying to do the best for us.”

  “I know—”

  “No, let me finish. The thing is that, as far as I can see, my mother’s going out of her way to make you feel part of the family. We’re all used to spending a lot of time together, to doing things together, and all my mother wants is for you to feel included, but everything she does seems to be misinterpreted by you, and I’m just getting sick of it.”

  I sit in silence. Ashamed.

  “Whatever you think of her, she’s not a bad woman. She loves me and she wants me to be happy, and she thinks, she thought”—he looks at me pointedly—“that welcoming you into our family would be the way to do it. It should be making me happy, but instead I’m just watching you get more and more wound up by this and I don’t understand why.”

  And he’s right. Of course he’s right. Could I have been any more heartless? Any more horrible? How could I have jumped to these terrible conclusions when it all now seems so clear? Because Dan’s rationale is so rational, and I am so obviously the bad guy in all of this.

  Shame fills my body, and when Dan has finally finished speaking, the only words I can say for a while are: I’m sorry.

  And then, “I know it’s not an excuse, Dan, but I think that at times I just find it overwhelming. I don’t know how to handle it, having never had a family of my own.”

  “But you always said that’s what you wanted.”

  “I know. And it’s true. It’s just that it’s taking me longer to adjust than I’d expected. You need to give me time.” I take a deep breath. “I haven’t ever really had a mother, and I know she’s trying to fill that role, but I don’t know how to be with a mother, and even though I thought that’s what I wanted, I think it’s just much harder than I’d realized.”