If I Were You

Chapter 27 Amy

Not only did Flynn not listen to my instructions but he managed to make things worse. He made me out to be this self-obsessed, drunk narcissist. Then falling into the lake ensured anyone who didn’t think the evening had been hijacked by me, definitely would now.

The sun is setting as I row him back in furious silence. Mum and Geoffrey are flanked either side saying things like ‘Well, that went well’, ‘I did like the salmon.’ I can’t contribute a word, too upset despite Flynn’s teeth chattering comically in my soaked flowered dress. The sky is darkening, large clouds banking on the horizon, the sun lost beneath the silhouette of the hills, and I wish for the millionth time this thing hadn’t happened to us.

He looks miserable but all I can see are the glances of the rest of the wedding party. I just need to get him far away so he can’t do any more damage.

The moment we get to the other side of the lake, Laura hauls him off and all I see are her arms flailing and his head dangling, dripping curls, headband squiffy, a forlorn expression on his face. I can’t face intervening; he deserves the telling-off and he wilts further as Laura turns on her heel and marches away. My chest aches as I see her hurt expression: Laura doesn’t deserve this.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask her as she passes, attempting to assess how bad the damage is.

‘Just peachy, Flynn.’

I follow her over the lawn and back up to the front of the hotel. ‘I know Amy feels horrible,’ I say, talking as I traipse after her. ‘I think she’d had a lot to drink, she wasn’t making any sense. I know how much she’d practised her speech and that wasn’t it.’

Laura bit her lip, clearly forcibly restraining herself from letting rip. ‘Leave it, Flynn, OK …’

She takes the stone steps to the entrance of the hotel two at a time and I follow her inside. Our bags have been piled up on a nearby porter’s trolley. It reminds me of the last few weeks, the things I’ve put together for this weekend. I’ve been so intent on being a great bridesmaid, stepping up this weekend to make up for so many other times recently.

‘Wait,’ I say, holding her arm in the foyer, the air filled with the scent of beeswax and flowers.

‘I want to give you something, I mean, I know Amy wanted you to have this’ I say, moving quickly to my handbag, pulling out the photo of Dad, Laura and me.

Seeing it makes her inhale sharply as she wordlessly accepts the frame, staring at the photo for an age.

‘I love that picture,’ she says softly, a finger reaching to lightly touch Dad’s face. ‘We lost the negatives, Amy has the only copy.’

‘I know,’ I whisper. Why didn’t I ever think of giving it to her before now? Why have I assumed her grief over him is any less than mine? My throat closes, the emotion forcing me to clamp my lips together to stop the tears forming as she traces our outlines.

Just then Flynn emerges through the heavy gilt doors. Laura bristles as he makes his way across to us, my tea dress practically see-through, a sad path of wet footprints on the marble floor in his wake.

He is still drunk, his eyes unable to focus as he gives us both a wobbly smile through damp tendrils of hair.

‘Flynn was showing me this,’ Laura says stiffly. ‘Thank you,’ she adds, swallowing. ‘I love it.’

Flynn looks lost and I grab at his arm. ‘Let’s get you upstairs and changed,’ I say loudly, steering him away from Laura before he can say anything and ruin this tentative peace.

‘I think I was sick on someone wearing a kilt,’ he mumbles to me.

Oh for …

Dolefully I check us in, feeling guilty about allowing the hotel porter to take our bags. I only have Flynn to manhandle. He leans on me all the way up to our room along the first floor.

‘Please don’t throw up on the carpet,’ I say, opening the door on a sea of pristine whites, creams and greys.

There are sprigs of fresh lavender on the pillows, the duvet expertly turned down, the softest linen sheets. I steer Flynn into a cream bucket armchair and then move across the room to pull the soft grey curtains closed, the heavy fabric blocking out the night sky now pockmarked with stars. From our window I can make out the silhouette of the island on the lake, the fairy lights still shining from here. I feel like crying once again. I wanted to share in this weekend with Laura, I wanted to create nothing but perfect memories.

If this evening has taught me anything, it’s that we must do everything we can to turn back.

‘I can’t believe you got drunk,’ I say quietly, looking at Flynn slumped in the armchair.

‘It’sh not my fault it takes three drinks and you’re gone,’ he says, standing up, both arms out to the side like he’s on a tightrope.

‘Three?’

‘Amy, the room is spinning,’

I put my head in my hands and pace as he collapses star-fished on our bed, dress rucked up, knees wide, my pink pants on display. Just then there’s a knock and I leap up to let the porter in, quickly pulling Flynn’s dress down as I pass. The porter can’t stop a smirk at me as he places our bags down and exits discreetly. I feel a flush of anger at him.

‘Oh my god, we have to switch back,’ I say in a puff of frustration.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Flynn slurs, arms flung up to the sky from his prone position on the duvet. ‘Go out in another thunderstorm? Electrocute myself with the hotel hairdryer?’

‘I don’t know, Flynn, but we can’t stay like this.’

‘Let’sh try and get shome shleep, we can work it out tomorrow,’ he mumbles, and I know he is already dropping off.

How can he even think of sleeping at this moment? Not that I have another solution. What can we do? Should I just leave? Why has this happened?

‘OK, let’s try and sleep, and when we wake up this will all be over, we’ll have swapped back,’ I say, my voice steady as if I could fool myself with this confidence.

‘And if we don’t?’ he mumbles.

‘Then,’ I say, sitting down next to him, ‘Then we’ll …’

But the next thing I hear is a snore and I know he’s already out.