Running in Heels Read Free

drink.”
    I grimaced but Simon looked through me as if I was wearing orange tie-dye trousers. Within seconds I was feeling like a goat again. This time I went home immediately.
    That was five months ago, and now this! I look down on Babs in her frothy white dress and can barely believe it. I should have realized there was mischief afoot when she went missing for three days.
    â€œDon’t worry, though,” she purred when she finally bothered to call: “I’ll do your share of the washing up next week!”
    To which I retorted, “Thank you, Barbara, and now if you’ll excuse me I have to call the police to inform them the search for your body is now off.”
    I wanted contrition but got instead: “Good idea, because Si’s been conducting his own investigation! Pah ha ha! It’s been very in-depth!”
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    â€œ I t’s very English, isn’t it?” says a voice, making me jump.
    Andy leans his arms on the balcony railing, and turns to me, smiling.
    â€œIt’s lovely,” I reply, torn between loyalty to Babs and wanting to snub Andy.
    â€œMum didn’t want to have hymns—Italian weddings don’t have hymns—but Simon’s parents wouldn’t budge.”
    â€œYour parents are very easygoing,” I say. I hope this doesn’t sound friendly.
    â€œUnlike Simon’s. I think Mum and Dad feel like Germany at the Treaty of Versailles.”
    â€œThat’s a shame,” I reply. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
    â€œSo Nat,” he says, “how about a dance later? To ‘Rule Britannia,’ probably.”
    â€œWell, I—”
    â€œWe should, we’re practically brother and sister!”
    â€œThank you, but I already have one brother,” I say. “And believe me, he’s more than enough.”
    I return to our table.
    Tony is chatting to a Keith over Frannie’s abandoned chair. My brother and Frances Crump do not get on. She calls him an “unreconstructed Neanderthal” while he refers to her as Fork-head (meaning, he’d like to stick a fork in her head). I glance at the top table and see Frannie crouching before Babs like a eunuch in front of Cleopatra. I swallow hard. I don’t get on with Frannie either. Frannie is the Third Friend. She follows Babs around like a pimple on a bottom.
    I smile helplessly at Chris, who grins in a way that squeezes the air from my lungs.
    â€œI can’t be doing with weddings,” he drawls. His voice is soft and scratchy, honey on gravel. Its faint northern twang goes straight to my knees. He holds my gaze and adds, “Normally.”
    I smile and say, “Me neither.”
    Chris tips back in his chair. He seems to have ants in his pants. Meanwhile, Babs and Simon are smooching up for the first dance.
    Chris murmurs, “I’d ditch all this and go to Vegas.”
    I giggle and say, “Me too.”
    Then we fall silent as Kenny and the Drum Kit Krew start up a terrible racket that is faintly recognizable as “You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You.” This is a hard-line wedding, I think, as everyone claps. My mother, I notice, applauds so furiously she looks like a Venus flycatcher on speed.
    â€œI’d go to Vegas,” says Chris again. He and I sit out “Lady in Red” and “Come on, Eileen.” I ask Chris why he’s not wearing a tux like all the other men. His answer is to sniff twice, and cast a withering look at all the other men. Andy, I note, is dancing with Frannie.
    â€œVegas,” mutters Chris.
    â€œAs you said,” I say politely. He grinds his teeth and I’m not sure if he has Alzheimer’s. He then asks why I’m wearing a brown hat. My answer is that my mother over there making a spectacle of herself to “Agadoo” said I should, except I don’t get that far because Chris grabs the hat from my head, drops it onto the violently patterned carpet,