Bridesmaids (17 page)

I scramble past a group of tables and chairs, trying to get to the door as fast as I can. But everywhere I turn, someone blocks my path–and every one of them looks at me as if I’ve landed the star part in a remake of
Night of the Living Dead
. I start pushing guests out of my way like skittles, knowing that it’s the height of rudeness, but thinking that I’m going to have to be excused on this occasion.

Breathless, I finally get outside into the fresh air, where the sun is setting and the Atlantic waves are crashing onto the shoreline. Flinging off my Jimmy Choos, and carrying one in each hand, I start sprinting towards a handy rock. It seems like the most fitting place for me to be at this moment in time: my own rock to crawl under.

I turn back to see if anyone is behind me and to my relief I’ve managed to lose Jack. I sigh and sit on the other side of the rock, looking out to sea, and suddenly feel more relaxed than I have all day. It’s great, sitting here with nothing more than the waves and a couple of cormorants to keep me company.

Suddenly, I see something in the water and can tell immediately that it is bigger than a fish. I study the spot where I
saw it…and it happens again. I cast my mind back to the guide book and realise that it must be a seal. Sure enough, a little head pops up out of the water and turns straight to me. I smile.

‘What are you looking at?’ I say to him. ‘Do I look so bad that I’m now getting dirty looks from you too?’

‘Evie,’ a voice says. ‘Is that you?’

I frown at the seal again for a second, momentarily wondering what on earth is going on. Then I hear footsteps at my side.

Jack’s found me!

I immediately put my head in my hands.

‘Don’t look at me!’ I squeal, realising that this tactic will probably have the direct opposite effect of the one I actually want.

‘I just came to see how your allergic reaction was,’ he says. ‘Your mum told me what happened.’

‘Oh God, thanks, Mother,’ I say, my head still buried beneath my hands.

Jack sits down next to me. ‘Are you going to stay like that all night, with your hands over your face?’ he asks.

I lift my head up, my hands still firmly in place. ‘Probably,’ I mumble.

He bursts out laughing. ‘Well, okay, fine,’ he chuckles. ‘But you must think I’m terribly shallow.’

‘How do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Well, you obviously think I won’t want to sit here and have a conversation with someone, just because they’ve got a few…spots.’

‘They’re not spots, actually,’ I say. ‘They’re blotches.’

‘Only blotches?’ he says. ‘That’s nothing.’

‘Look,’ I say, my hands still over my face, ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but it’d make my life much easier if you just went back to the party and practised your
Come Dancing
routine again.’

‘Oh, you’re kidding, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘I can’t stand all that stuff. Now, come on, Evie, be sensible. Let me see you.’

I think about this for a second. Or probably more like a minute. Against all my better judgement, I slowly peel my hands away…and look into his eyes.

‘Oh–my–God!’
he shrieks.

‘Argghhh!’ I say, and put my hands back again.

‘I’m joking!’ he says. ‘Evie, really, I’m joking.’

He puts his hand on my arm, sending a small shockwave through my veins. Then, he slowly pulls my hands away.

‘Honestly, that was a joke. I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m really sorry. Look, Evie, I don’t think it looks anywhere near as bad as you think it does.’

I grimace.

‘I know you’re only being polite’, I say, ‘but thank you anyway.’

Jack picks up a piece of rock and starts to play with it as we both look out to sea.

‘I think your mum’s great, by the way,’ he says.

I look at him, surprised.

‘Do you?’ I ask. ‘I mean,
I
think she’s great too, but most other people would run a mile just at the sight of those tights.’

He smiles.

‘Has she invited you to her wedding yet?’ I ask.

‘She has,’ he replies. ‘Do I assume from the question that it might not be the most exclusive ticket in town?’

‘You could say that,’ I tell him. ‘I ought to warn you as well that it won’t be anything like as civilised as all this. I hope you like nettle wine, put it that way.’

‘It’ll be worth it just for that,’ he jokes. ‘And you’re a bridesmaid again, are you?’

‘Yep, for the third time this year. I’m a serial bridesmaid.’

He laughs and looks over to me.

‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘I’m glad to have escaped for a bit.’

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘Although I’d assumed you were taken for the night.’

‘You mean with Beth?’ he asks.

‘Hmm,’ I say, nodding.

‘No,’ he says. ‘She’s very sweet and everything but, no, I certainly wasn’t taken for the night. Not with Beth.’

This should be the best news I’ve heard all night, but something is still bothering me. Why, exactly–if he
wasn’t
taken with Beth–has he given her his phone number? I bite my lip and think about this, pretending to look for something in my bag. Should I bring it up? Just get it out on the table and clear the whole matter up at the start?

No.
No way
. I mean, what has it got to do with me? Precisely nothing, that’s what. Then again, when has that ever stopped me? I’m just considering whether a way exists for me to mention this without looking like a grade A bunny boiler, when suddenly, something takes my mind off the whole issue.

His hand brushes against mine.

I can’t decide at first whether it was just an accident. But then he does it again. This time, his fingers clasp around mine decisively, sending a bolt of electricity though my body. I turn and look at him, our fingers intertwined in each other’s, his hand squeezing mine.

‘If it’s not too personal a question,’ he says, looking into my eyes, ‘are you seeing anyone?’

I know I should be pouting and looking seductive here,
but sadly, the only thing I can manage is uncontrollable grinning.

‘It’s not too personal a question,’ I reply. ‘And no, I’m not.’

Now he smiles.

‘Are you?’ I ask.

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘As you know, I went on a couple of dates with Valentina but that’s it since, well, since my girlfriend and I broke up.’

‘Oh,’ I say, half-wishing that hadn’t come up.

There’s a short pause while I think about what to say.

‘Was it, you know, amicable?’ I ask, more out of politeness than actually wanting this line of conversation to develop.

‘Hmm. I suppose so,’ he says. ‘But I don’t think that ever makes splitting up less of an ordeal when you’ve been together for a long time. We’d been an item for over three years.’

‘You were in love with her?’ I ask.

He thinks for a second.

‘I thought I was,’ he says. ‘Although when I look back now, things weren’t working out for a long time before we split up.’

‘You don’t think there’s a chance you’ll get back together again, then?’ I ask.

‘No, definitely not,’ he says. ‘It’s taken me a long time to come to this conclusion, but I know now that we were right to go our separate ways.’

He pauses for a second. ‘That hasn’t stopped me making a promise to myself though.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘there is no way I’m going to let it happen again.’

‘Which bit?’ I ask tentatively.

‘The being dumped by someone I really care about bit,’ he says.

I suddenly feel a little uncomfortable.

‘Do you think that’s stupid?’ he asks, obviously sensing it.

‘No–God, no,’ I tell him. ‘It’s awful when that sort of thing happens–being dumped and everything.’

He smiles. ‘You sound as if you speak from experience,’ he says.

Christ, do I? How did that happen?

It strikes me suddenly that I’ve got two choices here. One, I can come clean. I can tell Jack that, in fact, I am the most desperately dysfunctional person he is ever likely to meet when it comes to relationships. Never been in love. Never been out with someone for more than three months. Never come close to having had my heart broken.

Or I could fudge it.

Option two seems far more attractive.

‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘I mean, I have as much experience as the next person.’

‘Go on, tell me about it,’ he says.

Oh shit. Can’t we talk about something less complicated, like the Arab-Israeli conflict, for example?

‘Oh, no really, I don’t want to bore you with it,’ I say, shaking my head as if the whole thing is all too painful for me to discuss. He raises an eyebrow and I start to think that if I don’t say something soon, he’ll smell a rat, and a rather big one at that.

‘Okay
,’ I say. ‘Well, I had this boyfriend.’

‘Name?’ he asks.

I scan our immediate surroundings for inspiration.

‘Jimmy,’ I say, hoping any knowledge he may have of the fashion industry doesn’t extend to identifying the names of shoe designers.

‘And how long were you together?’ he asks.

‘Oooh, a while,’ I say. ‘Yep, a good while.’

‘What, two years, three?’

‘Yep,’ I say.

‘Which one?’ he asks.

‘Hmm?’

‘Two years or three?’

‘Oh, two,’ I say. ‘And a half.’

He waits for me to elaborate. I pretend not to notice.

‘So what happened?’ he asks, eventually.

‘Well, as I say, we’d been together two and a half years and, out of the blue one day, he split up with me.’

‘Right,’ he says.

I am painfully aware that the complete lack of detail in this story means it couldn’t be more suspicious if it involved Colonel Mustard, a dining room and a bloodstained candlestick. I desperately need to fill in some gaps.

‘Basically,’ I say in a rush, ‘he asked me to go for a walk with him in Sefton Park. Well, we walked and walked until we got to the bandstand and then he turned to me and said, “Evie, I’ve got something to tell you”.’

More detail, Evie, more detail. I take a deep breath.

‘I didn’t know what he was going to say,’ I continue. ‘He might have been about to propose, for all I knew.’

Steady on, Evie.

‘God,’ Jack says.

‘Hmm,’ I add, and am appalled to realise I have developed a sorrowful Princess Di-style expression.

‘So he held my hand,’ I continue, ‘and said, “Evie, I don’t want to be with you any more”. And you know, I would have cried but the place was swarming with teenagers on skateboards.’

Dear God, what am I saying?

Jack squeezes my hand as if to say I don’t need to go on if I don’t want to, and I am torn between disgust at myself and feeling touched by his kindness. Either way, my heartbeat is going into overdrive.

Thankfully, Jack is suddenly distracted by something, and I take the opportunity to breathe deeply and try to force myself to relax.

‘Oh, look over there!’ he says, pointing into the sea.

I scan the water and wonder what I’m looking for.

‘I can’t see anything,’ I say.

‘It’s a seal!’ he exclaims.

I’m about to tell him I saw one earlier, but decide against it, given that he seems to be huddling up to me to point it out. I search the water but can’t actually see a seal this time. Admittedly, this is probably because I am struggling to concentrate on anything other than the curve of his forearm around my waist.

‘I still can’t see it,’ I say rather breathlessly. ‘You’ve obviously got better eyesight than me.’

I suddenly become aware that he is looking at me and I turn to look at him too. Our faces are no more than six inches away from each other. Then he smiles.

‘What?’ I ask, wondering whether I’ve still got some blotches or some wildberry compote stuck in my teeth.

‘Nothing,’ he says softly.

My heart is beating like crazy now. He’s going to kiss me–I
know it. I have never been more sure of anything in my life. My eyes close as he pulls me towards him, the heat from his body searing into mine. Even before we have touched, I can already sense the softness of those lips. I can almost taste his mouth, feel the wetness of his tongue…I’m so turned on by anticipation as our lips are about to meet that I almost feel faint.

‘Eviiieee!!’

Oh God.

‘Eviiee! Is that you over there?’

If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was the Hound of the Baskervilles.

‘Evie, we need you!’

I could happily kill Valentina sometimes.

Life is supposed to be all about learning lessons, and I have learned a significant one today. Never again will I agree to carry the key card of a friend who is having her period and therefore likely to want to get into her room at any given moment for a greater choice of sanitary products than those on offer in the ladies’ loo.

The friend I refer to is actually Charlotte–Valentina had simply been deputised into the search-party. Charlotte had been unable to fit said card into her own bag because, despite being exceptionally pretty, sparkly and well-matched to her dress, it was also so small it wouldn’t accommodate anything other than a sample lipstick from the Clinique counter and two Kirby grips. Which, I did point out, kind of negates the object of a bag, for me.

Poor Charlottte was apologetic almost to the point of self-flagellation when she found out where I’d been for the last half-hour. Which makes me feel slightly better, but not much. Because, between Georgia’s dad stopping for a chat with me, and my mum waylaying Jack for a discussion about Amnesty International’s membership fees, I somehow managed to lose him again.

Which is bloody careless, I know.

‘You don’t get away that easily,’ says a voice behind me, prompting a small somersault in my stomach.

I spin around eagerly, but realise it’s only Seb.

‘Pull up a chair,’ I say, trying for the sake of common decency not to look as disappointed as I feel. ‘Have you enjoyed the party?’

‘It’s been spectacular,’ he says.

‘Not missing your pool table?’ I enquire.

‘Oh, I can manage without that for a night,’ he says. ‘Anyway, listen. Your office isn’t far from where I work. We should really hook up some time for a drink after hours. Or lunch maybe.’

I hesitate.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ve never known a journalist to turn down the offer of a free lunch yet.’

‘Oh, you’re paying, are you?’ I ask.

‘Of course.’

I smile. I don’t want a romance with Seb again–I’m pretty sure of that much–but being friends with one of my ex-boyfriends might be just the sort of novelty I could do with at the moment.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘We’ll definitely do that.’

As I take a sip of my drink I spot Charlotte sitting by herself at the side of the dance floor.

‘Would you excuse me a minute, Seb?’ I ask. ‘I just need to catch up with someone.’

‘I Just Can’t Get You Out of My Head’ is playing and Valentina is, predictably, in the centre of the dance floor, jerking backwards and forwards in as close an approximation of Kylie’s video routine as someone who is five foot nine can manage.

‘Valentina appears to be having some sort of convulsions,’ I say to Charlotte as I sit down next to her. ‘Do you think we ought to find a paramedic or just shoot her now to put her out of her misery?’

Charlotte giggles.

‘You don’t feel like dancing then?’ I ask.

She shakes her head and smiles. ‘Even if I lost ten stones I don’t think you’d ever get me dancing like that,’ she says.

‘I should hope not,’ I say. ‘There wouldn’t be room for two people doing those moves. You’d end up taking somebody’s eye out.’

‘I just mean I wouldn’t have the confidence of some people,’ she says, looking now at my mum and Bob, both flailing their arms about like a pair of manic Morris dancers.

‘You’ve got everything to be confident about now,’ I say. ‘You look amazing. You’ve lost so much weight already.’

‘I’ve got a long way to go before I’m a Gold Member at WeightWatchers,’ she sighs.

‘But you’ll do it, won’t ask?’ I say. ‘You’ll more than do it, I’m sure.’

She nods decisively. ‘Oh, I’ll do it all right,’ she says, grinning. ‘I’ve not given up my smoothies and replaced them with this blinking Diet Coke for nothing.’

Suddenly, Valentina bounds over looking like a member of Legs and Co, and dramatically plonks herself down next to us.

‘Okay, I give up,’ she says. ‘If there is a single goddamn eligible man here, I’ll be goddamn damned if I can find him.’

‘Would you like a drink?’ asks Charlotte.

‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m taking it easy after Grace’s wedding. Strictly between the three of us, I didn’t feel so good the next
day, although that was probably more down to the beef, which I bet wasn’t organic. And I’d had a mouthful of Frisée with my starter which wouldn’t have done my enzymes any good. I’ve told you I’ve got a lettuce intolerance, haven’t I?’

Charlotte nods, then says, ‘Well, it’s certainly not like
you
to struggle on the man-front, that’s for sure.’

Valentina pulls a face. ‘You’re not suggesting I’m easy, are you?’ she asks.

‘No–God, no!’ says Charlotte quickly. ‘All I mean, is that you usually have them swarming around you.’

This is apparently the right thing to say.

‘I know,’ replies Valentina, smiling. ‘Although, can I let you both into a secret?’

‘Go on,’ I say. It goes without saying that Charlotte would never betray her confidence.

Valentina beams. ‘I’m getting married,’ she tells us.