“—sorry, Nush. But I just don’t think it’s for me.”

“Whatever. Got plenty of other chicks.”

“I don’t doubt it. I wish you well.”

I slammed the phone down and turned to Teenie at the next desk. “You know what? I’ve had it with New York men. They’re fucking lunatics! No wonder they have to go to speed dating, even in a city where women are crawling the walls with desperation for a date.”

Teenie pursed her silver lips into a sympathetic moue. (She never wore normal-colored lipstick; unlike me, kookiness came naturally to her, she was kooky to the bone. Despite this we were great pals, she was my favorite of all the McArthur staff.)

“Whoever heard of going on a date and building a house? A fucking house—”

The phone rang, interrupting my rant; I took a deep raggedy breath and said, “Candy Grrrl publicity, Anna Walsh speaking.”

“Hey, Anna Walsh, it’s Aidan Maddox speaking.”

“Oh, right.”

“What have I done?”

“Are you calling to ask me out?”

“Yes.”

“Bad timing. I’ve just sworn off New York men.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m from Boston. So what’s going on?”

“I’ve had the weirdest week, with the weirdest dates. I don’t think I can take another one.”

“Date? Or weird date?”

I thought about it. “Weird date.”

“O-kay. How about we go for one drink? Is that unweird enough?”

“Depends. Where are we having it? A beauty salon? A freezing park? The surface of the moon?”

“I was thinking more of a bar.”

“Okay. One drink.”

“And if, by the end of the drink, it’s not working out for you, just say you’ve got to go because there’s a leak in your apartment and the plumber is coming. How does that sound?”

“Okay. Just one drink. And what will your get-out clause be?” I asked.

“I don’t need one.”

“You could say you’ve got to get back to the office to finish stuff for a breakfast meeting the next day.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he said. “But I don’t think so.”

11

Mum fought her way over to my bed.

“I just spoke to Rachel. She’ll be here on Saturday morning.” Two days away. “And the two of you’ll be flying back to New York on Monday. If you’re still sure that’s what you want.”

“It is. Is Luke coming over with her?”

“No. And thank God for that,” Mum added heartily, lying down beside me.

“I thought you liked him.”

“I do like him. Especially since he’s agreed to marry her.”

“I think it might have been since she agreed to marry him.”

Rachel and Luke had been living together for so long that even Mum had given up hoping that Rachel would “stop making a show of us all.” Then, just over two months ago, to everyone’s great surprise, they announced their engagement. Initially, the news plunged Mum into despair because she concluded the only reason they were getting married after all this time was because Rachel was pregnant. But Rachel wasn’t pregnant; they were getting married simply because they wanted to and I’m very glad they went public when they did, because if they had waited even a few days longer, they’d have felt that out of deference to me and my circumstances, they couldn’t. But the date was set, the hotel was even booked—it was owned by a “recovery” friend of Rachel’s who was giving them a good deal. Mum had been horrified when she’d heard: “A drug addict! It’ll be just like the Chelsea Hotel”—and if Rachel and Luke backed out now, they knew I’d feel even worse.

“So if you like Luke, what’s the problem?”

“I just wonder…”

“What?”

“I wonder does he wear underpants?”

“Jesus,” I said faintly.

“And if I stand too close to him, I feel like I want to…to…I feel like I want to bite him.”

She was staring at the ceiling, locked in some Luke-centric reverie, when Dad stuck his head round the door and said to Mum, “Phone.”

She gave a little jump, then heaved herself off the bed, and when she returned, she was clearly troubled.

“That was Claire.”

“How is she?”

“She’s coming from London on Saturday afternoon, that’s how she is.”

“Is it a problem?”

“She’s coming because she wants to see Rachel in person to beg her not to get married to Luke.”

“Ah.” Just like she’d begged me not to marry Aidan.

Maybe she’d had a nerve doing such a thing, but as it had happened, I’d definitely had my doubts. I’d known Aidan was a risk—although, funnily enough, not in the way it turned out.

Should I have listened to Claire? In the last few weeks spent sitting in the garden watching the flowers, letting my tears leak into my wounds, I’d thought about it a lot. I mean, look at me now, just look at the state of me.

I kept asking myself if it was better to have loved and lost. But what a stupid, pointless question because it’s not like I was given any choice.

“I’m not having Claire shag up this wedding on me,” Mum said.

“It’s not her fault.” After her own union had gone so disastrously wrong, Claire began to deride marriage as “a load of bollocks.” She went on about women being treated like serfs and that the “giving away” bit reduced us to nothing but chattel, being passed from the control of one man to another.

“I want this wedding to go ahead,” Mum said.

“You’ll have to get a stupid-looking hat. Yet another one.”

“A stupid-looking hat is the least of my worries.”

12

When Rachel arrived on Saturday morning, the first thing Mum said to her was, “Look radiant, for the love of God. Claire is coming to tell you not to get married.”

“She isn’t?” Rachel was amused. “I don’t believe it. She did that to you, too, Anna, didn’t she?” Then, realizing she’d put her foot in it, she jerked as if someone had just rammed a poker up her bum. Quickly she changed the subject. “How radiant do you want me to look?”