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you.’
    ‘Oh, no problem,’says Craig, blushing. He’s not good at handling compliments, doesn’t get them often enough.
    ‘Really mate, you’ve put a lot of effort in. All those lists and things. You’re a good bloke.’
    ‘Couldn’t leave it to you. Could I?’
    ‘No, not really,’I admit.
    ‘Responsibility is only a tad less offensive to you than commitment, isn’t it?’
    ‘Easy, mate. That’s harsh.’I laugh, sip my pint, take a drag.
    ‘But true.’Suddenly Craig looks stricken with terror. ‘What about the speech?’
    ‘Speech?’I play innocent.
    The thing is, although I’m truly grateful to Craig for digging me out of a hole in terms of bringing a little organization to the stag weekend, I do fancy owning the Best Man’s speech. The thing is – I’m funny.
    ‘The thing is you’re funny,’says Craig.
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Well, I’m more earnest than funny.’
    ‘The aunts would love to hear what you have to say,’I tell him, playing it cool.
    ‘Yes, and they’ll probably die of shock when they hear anything you have to say, but even so, the rest of the guests will probably appreciate you more than they’d appreciate me.’
    This is one of Craig’s many qualities. He’s decent. He probably knows I’m desperate to make the speech. Still, it wouldn’t be gracious to be pushy. ‘We could split it,’I offer.
    ‘Good idea. I’ll read the telegrams and cards and you can do the funny man stuff.’
    ‘Deal,’I agree immediately.
    But before we can clink glasses and say cheers, Craig adds, ‘I’ll have to see the speech before you make it, of course. No cursing, no revelations about Tom’s ex-shags and
do not
mention the time Jenny was wasted and tried to snog you. It was a long time ago.’
    ‘OK, you can trust me,’I grin.
    ‘No, John, I can’t. Even you don’t trust you,’says Craig. And he’s not smiling as he says it. Funny man.

4
Monday 4 September

Lucy
    I make an enormous effort to get home early from work; I tell my boss I have an offsite meeting and turn down two offers to eat out, one of which is with a client – he doesn’t pay for my time twenty-four hours a day but he has bought my soul. Normally we go to dinner together once a week minimum. The man’s a bore. He has four jokes which he tells in rotation, on a more or less constant basis. He smokes cigars, which I used to enjoy until I fell pregnant with Auriol, and ever since the smell of cigar smoke has left me nauseous. He drinks heavily and invariably the evening ends with me having to haul his large carcass into a cab. Still, it’s part of my job to feign an intimacy with the man so that he continues to give my company hundreds of thousands of pounds to invest. Usually when he’s delivering his predictable punchlines I amuse myself by thinking private and important thoughts.
    I think about Pete and me taking Auriol to Tokyo’s Disney World last April. Obviously I did not entertain the idea of Disney in Paris (weather too unreliable) orAmerica (cellulite too abundant), but I conceded that if we did Disney in Tokyo and we threw in a couple of temples and some cherry blossom trees, the trip would be bearable. Bearable was my benchmark, as we were between nannies, so it was the first holiday we’d gone on without help. It hadn’t been our plan to be between nannies (another one left unexpectedly and unaccountably), so we did not have an itinerary of children’s clubs as a back-up. To be honest I was thinking of cancelling. What a surprise. I genuinely had a great week in Tokyo with Pete and Auriol. I mean, who’d have thought going anywhere with a four-year-old could be such fun? Not me, certainly. But it’s thoughts of Auriol giggling hysterically at Monster Girls and scrunching up her face as she first tried sushi that get me through tedious dinners with colleagues and clients.
    At lunchtime I sent Julia, my PA, to buy a dozen helium balloons for Auriol, so I need to take a cab from the office. As I