Fair Do’s. David Nobbs

of “out of the frying pan into the fire”.’

      ‘I’m a frying pan now. Terrific,’ said Ted.

      ‘Shut up, Ted,’ said Rita.

      ‘Yes, shut up, Ted,’ echoed Gerry.

      ‘Ted!’ Rita was belatedly astounded. ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I wanted to see you happily launched on your new life.’

      ‘Oh, Ted.’ Rita turned back from her ex-husband to her ex-fiancé. ‘Oh, Gerry’. What words could begin to explain? ‘For the best part of my adult life I’ve felt like a doormat.’

      ‘Terrific. Thank you, Rita,’ said Ted.

      ‘Shut up, Ted,’ said Rita.

      ‘Yes, shut up, Ted,’ echoed Gerry.

      ‘I’m a frying pan,’ grumbled Ted. ‘She’s a doormat. What are the boys? Garden gnomes?’

      ‘Shut up, Ted,’ said Rita.

      ‘Yes, shut up, Ted,’ echoed Gerry.

      For the first time, through the mists of her emotions, Rita saw the rapt, staring faces of the guests. She was appalled.

      ‘Is everybody listening to us?’ she said. ‘For God’s sake! Please! I’m trying to have a private conversation with my fian … with my ex …’ She shook the freesias in frustration, ‘… with Gerry.’

      There was a brief, stunned pause. Neville turned hurriedly to Rodney and said, ‘How were your roses last year, Rodney?’

      ‘Covered in greenfly,’ said Rodney.

      ‘Really? Ours weren’t. Isn’t that extraordinary, Liz? Rodney’s roses were covered in greenfly and ours weren’t.’

      ‘Good old Neville,’ said Liz. ‘First to the social rescue yet again.’

      All over the room, trivial conversations were cranked into fragile life, and Rita turned back to face her jilted fiancé, in total privacy, in the middle of the crowd.

      ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Gerry,’ she said. ‘And after you’ve paid for all this.’

      ‘That’s hardly the aspect that upsets me most, Rita.’

      ‘Oh, Gerry. I had no idea I wasn’t going to be able to go through with it, or I’d have broken it off earlier. I’d have done anything to spare you this humiliation.’

      ‘I think anybody considering how you and I have behaved today might think it’s your humiliation, not mine.’

      ‘Thank you, Gerry.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘For making it easier for me by being nasty.’ Rita was shocked by Gerry’s hot, hostile eyes, and tried an altogether less combative approach. ‘I’m sorry. Look, I set out today to marry you. Probably I still love you.’

      ‘Unfortunately it doesn’t say that in the wedding service.’ There was a remorselessly thorough quality to Gerry’s sarcasm. ‘“Do you take this man probably to love, perhaps to cherish even, in minor illness and in health, maybe almost till death or a long holiday do you part?”’

      ‘Precisely. So I couldn’t marry you. Look, all this is entirely because of me and because of my life history and how I see my role as a woman.’

      ‘Ah! Aha!’

      ‘Well all right. “Ah! Aha!” away. Gerry, I’m afraid I realised that I just don’t want to be a politician’s wife. Your brother said … er …’

      ‘What did my brother say? Why did I let him give you away? Where is he?’

      Rita had found it difficult to decide who should give her away. Her father was dead, she had no brothers, her sons were out of the question. If she chose any other relative, she would offend her remaining relatives. So she had chosen Gerry’s brother and offended them all.

      People were trying not to seem interested in how things were going between Rita and Gerry. But they wished, even the most unselfish and thoughtful and well-mannered of them wished, even Neville wished, that they could hear every word.

      ‘I wanted to face you on your own,’ the lovely bride that wasn’t to be was saying. ‘We were driving along, we were more than half way there, I said, “I can’t go through with it, Nigel.” He took me for a drink.’

      ‘He didn’t even try to persuade you? The bastard!’

      ‘He did try to persuade me. It was no use. I had four large gins in the Three Tuns, where my appearance caused quite a sensation. Pool players stopped in mid-clunk. “Nigel,” I said, “I don’t want to be the little woman who fondles his constituents’ babies. I’ve played second fiddle too long. I don’t want to be an appendage. I don’t want to be a smile on his manifesto.”’

      ‘And what did he say, my wonderful brother?’

      ‘I can’t tell you.’

      ‘Rita! You must.’

      Yes. She must. In not turning up at the church she had exhausted her capacity for acting against Gerry’s wishes.

      ‘Oh Lord! He said … he said, “But, Rita, he’ll never be elected. It’ll just be one humiliating campaign and then ‘Goodnight, Hindhead.””

      ‘The bastard!’

      ‘I said I didn’t believe that.’ Rita’s head was swimming. She was finding it difficult to control her speech. ‘You’re intelligent, good-looking, energetic. Apart from an unfortunate tendency towards niceness and honesty you have all the qualities a politicians needs.’ She frowned, aware that she had used too many plurals. She must concentrate. She must get things right. ‘But you see, Gerry, when the crunch came, I found I didn’t love you enough to give up my career.’

      ‘What career?’ Gerry didn’t attempt to hide his scorn.

      ‘Precisely! I must do something soon. I don’t love you enough to fill my garden with Bulgarian wine, Lymeswold cheese, and hordes of frantically argumentative moderates. I don’t love you enough to host elegant dinner parties for smiling Japanese businessmen with microchips on their shoulders. It came to me that I must release you before I trapped you. I’m so very, very sorry. And really, dear dear Gerry, there’s nothing more to be said and oh God I must explain to them before I cry.’

      Rita scurried to the end of the room, clutching her posy fiercely. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she called out. Silence fell with suspect haste. She stood facing all her guests; all Gerry’s guests; her ex-husband, whose face was a vault of secrets; his ex-lover, whose face was an open book; Neville, his face creased in concentration and sadness; Jenny and her llamas on the verge of tears; Rodney and Betty frowning in unison, synchronised swimmers in a pool of sorrow; Elvis, unaware of Carol Fordingbridge’s drowning arm clinging hopefully to him; Simon, as concerned for another person’s predicament as it’s possible for a young man to be while remaining an estate agent; a pale shaft of late afternoon sunshine catching Corinna’s yellow dress; Sandra, her corn-coloured hair dishevelled, her apron crooked, her hands clutching a disturbingly large pile of dirty pudding plates, her fierce young eyes uncertain whether to look at Rita or Corinna; and, between Rita and all these people, the wrecked buffet, over which the uncut cake towered, a snow-covered cathedral that had miraculously survived the bombing of the surrounding city.

      Rita looked at all this through wet eyes and saw none of it. Saw a blur. Lowered her eyes as if she might find on the floor the words that she sought.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I owe you all an apology for ruining this dreadful day. I mean this wonderful day that it would have been if I hadn’t ruined it. Ladies and gentlemen … and everybody else … what I’ve done today is because of being a woman, and the unhappiness of my first marriage.’

      ‘Terrific!’