David Lodge by David Lodge Read Free Book Online Page B

arrangements that have already been made.” She told him about them in some detail.
    Emma had to go to the Ladies between the pre-dessert and the dessert, and when she returned to their table found Tom frowning at his iPhone. He pocketed it as she sat down. “I'm terribly sorry, Emma,” he said. “But there's a bit of an emergency in London I've got to attend to.” After he had gobbled his dessert (Emma left hers untouched) he escorted her to the lobby of her apartment building and kissed her chastely on the cheek before hastening off to catch a late train to London. “Let's keep in touch,” he said. Alone in the lift Emma screamed loudly all the way up to the seventh floor, and pounded the padded walls with her fists. There was a message on her landline from her mother to say that the wedding invitations had been printed and delivered, and would she like to come over some time and help to address the envelopes. And there was an email from Neville saying that he would have to stay on in Dubai for another week, and he thought they should not wait any longer to announce that the wedding was off. Emma took two Temazepam and went to bed.
    The next day her mother phoned her at work about the invitations. “If you're too busy to come over, darling, I'll send them out myself.” “No, don't do that,” Emma said. “They might have to be changed.” “Changed?” Mrs Dobson repeated wonderingly. “Why?” “There might be a mistake in the wording,” Emma said. “I must check them myself.” “Well, don't leave it too long, darling,” Mrs Dobson said. “Time is running out.” “I know it is,” Emma said. “I'll come over as soon as I can.”
    Her last resort was the internet. She found a website called The Hitching Post where singles could make contact with potential marriage partners without revealing their own identities and posted an enticing description of herself and a list of the attributes she desired in a husband which concluded, “Must be available for wedding on the last Saturday in June.” She got a number of replies with surprising speed, some apparently serious, some amused, some obscene. One sent her a photo of his erect penis. A man who described himself as a college lecturer aged thirty-five sounded possible, and as he lived near Birmingham she arranged to meet him in the tea shop of the Art Gallery & Museum. He said he would be wearing a red scarf for identification. She said she would be wearing a silver quilted ski-jacket. In fact she wore a beige raincoat, so that she could observe him covertly before introducing herself. She arrived early for the appointment, but he was already there, with a cup of tea before him, and a soiled red scarf round his neck, reading a newspaper. He was grey-haired, with a straggly beard, and looked as old as her father. As she watched, he picked his nose vigorously, examined the excavated mucus on his fingernail, and put it in his mouth. Emma went hurriedly to the Ladies and was sick.
     
    It was raining when Emma left the Art Gallery. She pulled the hood of her raincoat over her head, thrust her hands into its pockets, and wandered aimlessly along the canal towpaths. Finally, she accepted defeat. She could not persist any longer in denial that the wedding was a lost cause. She began to admit to herself that her recent behaviour had been irrational - irrational and dangerous - driven by a desire not to be married, but to impose her will on a stubbornly resistant reality. What a fool she had been to imagine, when Neville let her down, that she could find another man to replace him in a matter of weeks. She came to a halt, and stared down at the black waters of the canal.
    “Excuse me, but are you all right?”
    She turned to find a young man in anorak and jeans standing a few yards away. He had his hood up too, but as if conscious that this might seem threatening he pulled it back, revealing a round freckled face and a mop of fair curly hair which had quite the