Don’t tell the Boss Read online

  Choosing centrepieces can be tricky. They can make your table look beautiful and really allow you to put your personal stamp on the venue. Yet, at the same time, they can be ridiculously expensive, time-consuming if you make them yourself, and if they’re too big and elaborate then they block guests’ views of one another round the table! Why not speak to your wedding venue before you start planning, as don’t forget they’ll hold other functions there too and they might have candelabras or vases that they can use for your tables. I personally think they’re a foe - but what do you think, do you have any tips for turning them into a friend?

  Tags: table centres, obstacles, dilemma.

  I don’t think I’ve even got the energy to open my front door. If ever there was a time when I should have taken a duvet-week (that’s right, a duvet-week), then this was it. The signs were all there first thing Monday morning and the tone for the rest of the week was set.

  Giles has started popping over to my desk with alarming frequency. It seems that Gunther wants to know all the details about the trip. He wants to know everything from what we’d be carrying on our back to what the toilet facilities would be like. But although I’d recoiled in horror at the replies the scary sergeant major had given me, Giles expended a little yelp of delight and would exclaim, ‘Gunther will love it!’ I’m beginning to form an interesting view of just what kind of a sadistic bastard Gunther is.

  And, if that wasn’t bad enough, I had all those lovely graduate applications to sift through, so most days I’ve been at my desk at eight a.m. and I’ve still been there eleven hours later. It’s been practically dark when I’ve left, and it’s nearly summer.

  Then there’s Beth. Or, at least, there should have been Beth, only I haven’t managed to see or speak to her all week. I’ve been nipping by her house every day and she hasn’t been in once. I’ve had a lot of tea with her mum, and although she seems nice enough, the two of us having a pleasant chat isn’t exactly going to solve her daughter’s problem. I finally got a reply to all the texts I’ve sent and she’s promised to meet me this weekend. Which is just what I need after the week I’ve had.

  And, if that all wasn’t enough to deal with, I don’t think I have the mental energy to even think about the lists that Henri has been sending me. When I told her to email her thoughts regarding the wedding, I hadn’t really meant for her to email her every thought. I’ve learnt a lot this week about Henri and, mostly, I’ve learnt that she needs to filter what she’s thinking. On Thursday she started an email thread about whether she should have stockings and a suspender belt or whether she should have hold-ups. I put an end to that after telling her that we needed to get her a dress first. I’ve got that joy to come one day in the unfortunately not-too-distant future.

  If I thought that shopping for wedding dresses with my mum was bad, then I think I’m in for a huge shock. Although my mum didn’t bat an eyelid about shopping on the high street for a wedding dress after she found out that Money Saving Expert recommended it, I don’t think that Henri’s got the same sort of respect for (aka a crush on) Martin Lewis.

  Remember when I said planning Henri’s wedding would help with my blog? I’ve spent so much time writing emails that I haven’t managed to put up more than a Penny’s top tip on the blog in two weeks.

  But, all I can say is, TFI Friday. The end to a crappy, crappy week. I phoned Mark as I was leaving the office and he said that he was making his triple-cooked chips. I don’t know what he’s cooking with it, as I stopped listening after he mentioned them. If you’ve ever seen an episode of The Simpsons and seen how Homer dribbles over doughnuts, that’s pretty much what I’m like when it comes to Mark’s chips. And doughnuts too, come to think of it. If only Farnborough had a Krispy Kreme drive-thru, like they have in the US.

  Thinking of the chips makes me dig deep and find the energy to open the door.

  ‘Hello,’ I call out in what can only be described as a pathetic little-girl voice.

  ‘Hey, I’m in the kitchen.’

  The smell of the chips hits me as I walk in and, like the old Bisto advert, I let my nose lead me to Mark.

  ‘Hey, honey,’ I say, I shielding my eyes from the bright kitchen lights. Mark loves our kitchen lights. As if they weren’t already so bright that I genuinely worry that the planes landing at Farnborough airport will get confused and accidentally try and land in our garden, when Mark cooks he puts the lights under the cupboards on too. I actually think I might need sunglasses.

  He comes over and kisses me, before handing me a large glass of wine.

  ‘No need to ask how your day was,’ he says, returning to the hob to stir something in a saucepan.

  ‘Pretty much like the rest of the week. Thank God that’s over.’

  ‘And now you can relax, it’s the weekend.’

  ‘I know. I feel like I’ve earnt it today. I’m knackered.’

  ‘I’m proud of you, you know, Penny, working so hard for this promotion. You know you’re going to get it.’

  ‘Thanks, honey, that means a lot. So, how was your day?’

  ‘Yeah, good. I got an email from Nan.’

  Wow. An email; Mark’s Nanny Violet is getting all twenty-first century.

  ‘How’s she getting on?’

  ‘She’s having a lovely time. She sends her love.’

  That makes me smile. This time last year Nanny Violet almost ruined my chances of marrying Mark, and now she’s sending me her love. Bless her. She’s on a cruise right now, somewhere in the Mediterranean. Sounds heavenly. She’s gone with an old friend, Ted. She insists he’s just a friend, but I secretly hope that there might be more to it. You’re never too old for a bit of romance in my book, and she’s practically a spring chicken at eighty-nine.

  It makes me chuckle that this is the same Nanny Violet who made Mark and I plan a wedding in three months because she thought she might snuff it. And now, here she is, gallivanting around Europe getting a tan.

  ‘Anything else exciting happening?’ I say, sitting down and helping myself to an extra-large gulp of wine.

  ‘Not really. Clive gave me another one of his clients, so that’s three this month. I’m sure it’s so that he can get his golf handicap down before the summer.’

  ‘So you need a good rest over the weekend too?’

  ‘I certainly do. I think I’m going to give golf a miss tomorrow. Stay in bed.’

  ‘Ah, I was thinking of giving the museum a miss tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  I’d love to say yes, but what normally happens when we both reveal what we’re thinking is that we find we’re on totally different pages. The last time Mark asked me that question, after I’d said I was feeling like something naughty, I went to grab my saucy underwear and he went to the kitchen drawer to retrieve our favourite curry house menu.

  I was kind of hoping that when we got married we’d develop some sort of telepathy, but so far we’re not quite tuned in. But, this time, I’m hopeful Mark is thinking the same as me.

  ‘Staying in bed all morning for snuggles?’ I say hopefully.

  ‘Almost,’ says Mark.

  Well that’s pretty good, eh? As long as Mark doesn’t end the sentence with the words three-mile run, we’ll be on to a winner.

  ‘I bought these, so we can have breakfast in bed.’

  Mark’s holding up a packet of croissants. Croissants, you won’t be surprised to know, are up there with triple-cooked chips in my book.

  ‘Croissants and fresh coffee. I might just orgasm.’

  ‘Well, I might be able to help with that tomorrow morning too.’

  So we were thinking the same thing. Maybe we’re getting more in sync after all.

  ‘Right, are you ready to eat?’ says Mark. ‘I’ll just put the steak on.’

  ‘Steak, croissants? Monsieur, you are really spoiling me.’

  ‘Well, you can spoil me tomorrow by bringing me breakfast in bed.’

  ‘Hey, that’s not f
air.’

  Bugger, how did I get the short straw?

  ‘You can do the washing up tonight if you like and I’ll do breakfast.’

  I have a quick look at the kitchen. As per usual when Mark’s been doing the cooking, he’s used nearly every pot and pan in the house.

  ‘OK, I’ll do breakfast.’ How hard could it be? It isn’t like I’m going to have to cook a full English.

  Mark places a plate of food in front of me and the sight of it makes me dribble like a dog: steak and chips with peppercorn sauce. My favourite.

  ‘I think you’re going to have to roll me out of bed tomorrow. My belly’s already getting really big.’

  It really is. I haven’t been to the gym this week and it’s practically ballooned.

  ‘It’s not that big,’ says Mark taking his seat.

  I stop cutting my steak. ‘Not that big? Does that mean you think it’s a bit big?’

  ‘Um, I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘But you said it, you must be thinking it.’

  I can feel the tears prickling behind my eyes.

  ‘Penny, don’t cry. Come on, you know that I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘Well then, how did you mean it? You called me fat!’

  ‘I did not call you fat. You’re blowing this all out of proportion.’

  Mark’s starting to sound cross, which makes me even more upset. A fat tear rolls down my face and lands in my peppercorn sauce.

  ‘You said my belly was big.’

  ‘No, you said it was big. I just said it was a bit bigger than normal. There’s nothing fat about it.’

  ‘But you agree that it’s bigger,’ I say, sobbing.

  ‘Penny, for heaven’s sake, you’re going to ruin your chips.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t stop crying.’

  ‘You’ve just had a long week at work. You’re over-tired and that’s why you’re crying.’

  ‘Don’t tell me why I’m crying,’ I say hiccuping as I try and stop.

  I know I’m overreacting but I honestly can’t help what I’ve started.

  ‘Penny!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know, I know, I’m being irrational, I can’t help it.’

  Mark puts his fork down and comes over to give me a hug.

  ‘I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow, I think you need your sleep.’

  ‘I should probably make it. After all, I need the exercise.’

  Mark sighs loudly and walks back round his side of the table.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t like being fat,’ I say.

  ‘You’re not fat,’ shouts Mark. ‘And what are you going to be like when you’re pregnant?’

  ‘If I ever get pregnant.’

  When this month’s period arrives, we will have been trying for eight months. This month’s period: there’s something to look forward to.

  I put down my fork.

  ‘Mark, what’s the date today?’

  ‘The twenty-third.’

  I get up from the table and run over to grab my phone from my handbag.

  ‘Your chips will get cold. What are you doing?’

  I can’t reply, I’m too busy working out the dates. I’m sure my period is late. With all that’s been going on lately I haven’t even thought about it. I flick up my calendar app and start counting. My period’s late: three days late.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asks Mark. He’s got concern written all over his face.

  ‘My period’s late,’ I say with the thought slowly sinking in.

  ‘How late?’

  My eyes lock with Mark’s and I can see the hope in his eyes.

  ‘Three days.’

  ‘Three days? That’s not a lot, is it?’

  ‘Well I’m usually as regular as clockwork.’

  I could actually be pregnant. I mean, my belly is huge and it’s been rumbling all day. And now that I think about it, my boobs are feeling a little bit tender.

  ‘Is it too early to take a test?’ asks Mark.

  ‘I think you can do it from as soon as your period is due.’

  A smile breaks out across his face and he looks so happy.

  ‘If only we hadn’t had the wine, we could have driven to Asda to get a test. Do you think the garage down the road would have one?’

  ‘Probably not, but we can go to the supermarket first thing tomorrow,’ I say, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. I know we’ve been trying for ages, but I can’t quite believe that it could be true.

  ‘Imagine, this time next year there could be three of us living in the house,’ says Mark.

  ‘I know,’ I say. And then it hit me. We could actually be having a baby. What about the trip to Wales? I’m having trouble breathing. I wouldn’t be able to go on the trip in July. The sergeant major was very insistent that we make sure that there are no pregnant women there as a lot of the activities are fairly physical and their insurance doesn’t cover it. What with Giles and Gunther coming, how would that look if I didn’t participate? I’d have to tell them that I was pregnant and then I wouldn’t get my promotion. Why couldn’t I have just got the overhaul of the appraisal process instead? No one would have been any the wiser.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asks Mark. ‘Aren’t you excited?’

  ‘Of course I am. It’s just my promotion, I mean, what if I don’t get it because of the bump?’

  ‘Well, firstly I think you of all people should know that you can’t discriminate against pregnant women and, secondly, who cares? We never planned for you to get the promotion anyway, it’s not like we’re counting on the money.’

  ‘But what if I wanted the promotion? I mean, I know I could do it.’

  ‘Of course you could. We always thought that if you looked for a job the next rung up the ladder, you’d get one. It’s just that I thought you were waiting until after the children.’

  ‘I was. Or I am.’

  My mind’s suddenly in a muddle. I’ve got thoughts of the promotion and Giles and Gunther combined with a little baby flashing round my mind.

  Mark leans over and strokes my hand.

  ‘Penny, we might have reached stage six.’

  I giggle. Stage six. The holy grail of our life plan. I’ve been waiting for this ever since stage one, when we rented our tiny shoebox flat, stage two when we moved into our terrace, stage three when Mark passed his accountancy exams, stage four when we got engaged and finally stage five, which happened last year when we tied the knot.

  ‘We might have indeed.’

  I go to reach for my wine glass and instead pick up the water glass next to it. Just in case, I, Penny Robinson, may be an expectant mother. I chuckle at myself. Heaven help the child.

  *

  How I managed to get any sleep last night, I’ll never know. I was so excited about the possibility of being pregnant. But not only did I manage to fall sleep, I also dreamt I was so pregnant that Mark had to roll me around everywhere like I was a giant wheelbarrow. After wolfing down croissants at early doors this morning (so much for our lie in), Mark’s gone out to get a pregnancy test.

  I’ve been trying not to wee before he gets back so that I’m able to perform on demand, but it’s no good because I’m absolutely busting. I’ll just have to go and drink a big glass of water after. As I sit down on the toilet, I realise just how close I’d been to wetting myself. Good job I got out of bed after all.

  I glance down and see a familiar sight in my knickers: a tiny spot of blood.

  When I was in my late teens, I loved that sight. The tiny thing which said I hadn’t got up the duff although, to be honest, the way that my first boyfriend and I had sex, that probably would have been a bit like the immaculate conception. But today, I feel that someone’s punched me hard in the stomach.

  It’s funny, you spend your life being told to always be careful and that accidents can happen, and yet when you start trying for a flipping baby you realise just how lucky you need to be to actually have sex at the right time and for everything you
don’t have control over to work perfectly for it to happen.

  A tear rolls down my face and I wonder how many more months I’m going to have to go through this. Last night I was so convinced that I was pregnant. All those symptoms, those hormonal tears; they were all premenstrual, nothing more.

  I know last night I was freaking out about being pregnant, but I didn’t really mean it. I do really want a baby. I do.

  ‘Penny?’

  I hear Mark calling up the stairs. How the hell am I going to tell him? He was up at the crack of dawn this morning making my breakfast and running out to the chemist. He’s usually only a morning person if it involves watching sport or playing golf.

  ‘Up here,’ I say.

  I walk out of the bathroom and bump into him on the landing.

  ‘I didn’t know which type to get. So I got the one that tells you how many weeks pregnant you are and then I got a twin pack so that you can make doubly sure of the results. I spoke to the chemist and she recommended some vitamins and I bought those—’

  ‘Mark, stop it. I’m not pregnant.’

  Mark looks like I’ve just told him that I drown puppies for fun.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I just got my period.’

  Mark isn’t saying anything and it just makes it so much worse. Then, before I know it, he’s wrapped his arms around me and he’s pulled me into a bear hug which is exactly what I need.

  ‘There’s always next month, Pen.’

  I try and blink back the tears. Of course there is, there’s always bloody next month.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mark,’ I say.

  ‘Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.’

  ‘But I got your hopes up, if I hadn’t have worked out my dates yesterday, then neither of us would have been any the wiser and I would have woken up, got my period, and everything would have still been normal. And we wouldn’t have spent last night going to bed picking baby names.’

  ‘Well, that did teach us a valuable lesson. We’re not using names from Tatler magazine for inspiration.’

  ‘But Chandos is such a great name,’ I say, pleading. ‘You can just imagine Chandos being a brain surgeon or running for prime minister.’

  A small smile returns to Mark’s face and I start to smile too. So it might take us a little longer, but when that day comes, Mark is going to make the best dad.