‘I’ve watchedBargain Hunt.Same difference.’
We had a reasonably successful morning, although Sarah was the only one of us managing to hold the line. Once custom had trickled off towards lunchtime, we sold a nearby trader all the leftover items for a round fifty quid. I returned home with enough to cover the roofer’s bill, with a reasonable amount left over. Snuggling into my duvet that night, I imagined all the ways I would spend my spare cash. A new pair of jeans, a slap-up meal, a skip…
In the end, I caught the bus into Mansfield to buy a smartphone. Which I did, eventually, once I’d wandered around reacclimatising to concrete, constant noise, strip lighting and people pushing past. Was it only four months ago I’d been pounding pavements, stressed and lonely, always rushing, never quite getting anywhere? I caught my reflection in a window, and had to double-check that this woman with a healthy glow was really me.
Today, I could see New Jenny – go for it, independent, can-do Jenny – emerging from behind the outgrown hairstyle and hand-me-down coat. And New Jenny required a decent phone. New Jenny had numbers to add to her phone contacts that weren’t that of her sister’s housekeeper.
New Jenny blew the rest of the money on a pair of silver shoes with the highest heels she’d ever seen.
And now she was going to have to go to that darn wedding or she’d just spent her last penny on shoes she’d never wear.
That evening, still high on adrenaline, the thrill of new possibilities and town-centre car fumes, I fired off a wedding acceptance email to Richard’s secretary. Ta-da! New Jenny and her plus one would be deee-lighted to celebrate the wedding of her evil twin and ex-secret-boyfriend.
Half an hour later my new phone rang. By the time I’d figured out how to answer it, gulping down a mouthful of scalding jacket potato, I felt a little flustered.
‘Jenny Birkenshaw?’ a clipped voice asked. Before I had a chance to say ‘yes’, despite it being about the shortest word possible, the voice continued: ‘Martha Marsh. Richard Abernethy’s personal assistant. I’m calling regarding your wedding acceptance. I believe you neglected to include the name of your guest.’
‘Urrrr… yes. You believe correctly.’
‘I need the name of your guest, Ms Birkenshaw.’
‘Right. Okay.’ New Jenny waved toodle-oo and left Old Jenny to get on with it.
‘So?’
‘So?’
‘Can I have the name?’
‘Yes.’
I held my breath.Think. Think. Think. Think of a name… you can always say they got ill at the last minute and couldn’t come.
‘Now, please?’
For goodness’ sake, Jenny, just say the first name that comes into your head!
‘Mack.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘My plus one’s name is Mack.’ Could she hear me cringing?
‘And is Mack his or her full name?’ Martha Marsh asked, dripping with sarcasm.
‘Mack… Macintyre,’ I blurted.
‘Mack Macintyre,’ she repeated, slowly.
‘Yes, Martha Marsh,’ I replied, even slower. ‘His name is Mack Macintyre. Highly appropriate for the Scottish wedding of the year, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘What an interesting coincidence. I’m sure the bride and groom will look forward to meeting Mr Mack Macintyre.’
‘And so they should.’ I hung up, before I could say anything even stupider.
Rats.
Where did I put the rest of that potato?
