Chapter 10
Dear Adam
I really fancy this girl I work with. Let’s call her girl A. She’s everything I’m looking for in a woman – cute, smart, and thoughtful. Unfortunately, I just can’t help blushing and getting all tongue-tied every time I look at her. And it seems she has the same problem – although I’ve got to admit she looks a whole lot better when she blushes than I do. She scrubs up seriously well too – just the other night I saw her for the first time with make-up on and wearing a party dress, and – phwoar!
But that’s not the only problem. On said night, I messed up really badly and kissed another girl. Maybe we should call her girl B? It wouldn’t have been a problem, because I’m single after all and as far as I know so is Girl B. But what I didn’t know was that Girl A was there that night, and she and Girl B (still with me?) were out together in the same group.
Told you I messed up. Question is, what on earth do I do now?
Ross, Dalston
Dear Ross
I gazed at the picture of Adam on my phone. There he was, same as always, with his high fade and his neatly trimmed beard, leaning his chin on the heel of his hand, thoughtfully sucking a pencil. Every week, some graphic designer added a different bit of cartoony art to the picture to make it look different – today Adam had a thought bubble coming out of his head with a few hearts and a mathematical equation in it.
Only problem was, Ross didn’t have a problem. Gazing at Adam’s Max! column on my phone, I’d simply invented the problem I wished Ross had – and I was totally unable to imagine what Adam’s response to it might be.
Wearily, I chucked my phone down on the duvet cover next to me and stood up. It was Friday afternoon. I’d had the day off work and spent it having a manicure with Amelie and her other bridesmaids, then inspecting the wedding reception venue with Mum, who was having a last-minute panic about the tablecloths and napkins not being exactly the same shade of rose gold.
‘It looks almost beige to me in this light, Lucy,’ she’d fretted. ‘Do you think we should ask Amelie what she thinks?’
‘Definitely not. She’ll only panic and it’s too late to do anything about it. No one’s going to be looking at table napkins anyway, come on, Mum.’
In a few minutes, Dad would be here to collect me and my bridesmaid’s dress, which was hanging on the back of my wardrobe encased in plastic, and take us to the hotel. Everything was packed and ready. My spare keys were with a neighbour, who was feeding Astro the next day and Sunday morning.
It all felt very final, somehow. It wasn’t me getting married – I had no justification for this sense of seismic shifting, of the end of an era. But it felt that way anyway. As of tomorrow, Amelie would be a married woman. I’d no longer be the closest person to her in the world. Of course, the process of her moving away from me had started long ago, probably even before she met Zack and certainly by the time they’d moved in together and got engaged.
But now it would be more than a gradual process – it would be a done deal. My sister would have two rings on her finger instead of just one, and she’d be heading off on honeymoon and then to live with Zack in New York, where he’d been seconded with work, for six months.
It would be the longest I’d ever gone without seeing her. She’d have all the excitement of a new city, a new husband, a new apartment to turn into a temporary home.
I’d have my own life, carrying on just the same, only without the presence of my sister just a Tube journey away.
I should have felt happy for her. I did feel happy for her. But I felt a deep, selfish, hollow sense of loss for myself.
A buzz from the bed next to me and the sudden illumination of my phone’s screen interrupted my glum introspection. It was Dad come to pick me up, fifteen minutes early. I leaped off the bed, threw the last of my things into my bag, kissed Astro and ran downstairs, too rushed and excited now to think that the next time I saw my flat and my cat, my sister would be married and everything would have changed.
Since she was a little girl, Amelie had been clear what kind of a wedding she wanted. Admittedly, that idea had changed numerous times over the years – from marrying a prince in a magic castle to a secret elopement to being barefoot in a field with lambs grazing nearby (she was dating a student vet at the time; I expect he could have told her that the reality of lambs was a lot less romantic than her idea of them).
But since getting engaged to Zack, her dreams had settled on a London hotel, the flasher the better. My parents could never have stretched to that, but fortunately Zack could, and it was his vision of the perfect venue too. So later that evening, I found myself stepping out of a lava-hot shower into a room that, while nowhere near as large and luxurious as the bridal suite my sister and brother-in-law-to-be occupied, was way posher than anywhere I’d ever stayed before.
The bathroom was all done up in marble, with gold taps. The bed was huge and covered by a duvet so smooth and white it looked like snow had fallen on it. Through the heavy drapes on the windows, I could see glimpses of a rose garden three floors below. On the table by the telly, there was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and I resolved to treat myself to a glass while I got ready to go down for dinner.
But I didn’t get the chance. While I was rooting around in my bag for my make-up, there was a soft tap on the door. Mum come to discuss some last-minute emergency, I thought. Or Nush offering me her hair straighteners. Or Amelie, saying she’d forgotten her eyelash curlers (as if I’d be able to help with that).
But, when I opened the door, wrapped only in a towel, it was Bryony I saw standing smiling expectantly at me.
At least, I immediately assumed it was Bryony – her twin sister had even less of a reason to come calling on me than she did.
‘Hi, Lucy!’ she reached over to hug me like we were best friends, but when I raised my own arms my towel came adrift and I had to clutch at it, aborting the hug. ‘Isn’t this fabulous! I’m so excited! Are you excited?’
‘Yes!’ I tried to copy her giddy, friendly tone. ‘Really excited! Come in!’
‘I brought a bottle of fizz.’ She brandished it. ‘It was in our room. How cool is that? Like being a VIP.’
I giggled – her enthusiasm was endearing, and quite contagious. ‘I guess we are VIPs. I’ve got one too, and glasses.’
‘We’ll open mine,’ she said firmly, and did so, carefully pouring some into two glasses.
There was no seating area – like I say, my room was posh but not exactly palatial – so we perched on the edge of the bed, next to my open wheely suitcase. The bathroom door was open and steam from my recent shower scented the room; Bryony smoothed her hair as if she was worried it would frizz.
‘I’m really sorry to interrupt you,’ she said, once it was clearly too late for me to tell her that she was interrupting me. ‘Is this a bad time?’
Well, it obviously was, but there wasn’t really going to be a better time, so I said, ‘No, it’s fine. We’re meeting for dinner at eight so I’ve got ages to get ready.’
Bryony glanced at her watch. Clearly her idea of ages to get ready was different from mine. But she was already dressed, her make-up perfectly applied.
‘It’s just that tomorrow’s going to be so busy,’ she said. ‘I thought we might not get time to talk.’
‘Now is fine,’ I assured her, smiling. ‘Cheers.’
She leaned in, suddenly serious. ‘I just wanted to ask you about Ross.’
Of course you did. ‘Sure. What about him?’
‘Um… well, you know. At the hen, he and I kind of got together. I didn’t realise until the next day you worked together.’ She gave a tinkly little laugh.
The next day. So they had spent the night together. Unless they’d just exchanged LinkedIn profiles, which I doubted.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
She laughed again. ‘Haha, I mean, random or what?’
‘He lives nearby. I expect he goes out in Shoreditch all the time, so it’s not that random.’
‘So I just wanted to ask,’ she carried on, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘I mean, what’s he like?’
I shrugged. ‘Nice guy. Good at his job. I haven’t worked there very long so I don’t know him all that well.’
‘Oh, right. So you don’t know if he, like, does that kind of thing often.’
I couldn’t resist. ‘What kind of thing?’
‘I mean, he and I…’ she flushed. Compared to Ross’s and my epic blushes the previous week, it was a pretty poor effort, but credit to her for trying. ‘You know, slept together. I just wondered if that’s something – you know. If he’s one of those who’s got a different girl on the go every week or something like that.’
Suddenly, I felt a bit sorry for her. ‘Honestly, Bryony, I’ve got no idea.’
‘Did he say anything to you about me?’
‘We work together. We’re busy, and we’re not close.’
Her face fell. ‘So he didn’t?’
‘He’s on holiday this week,’ I explained. ‘In Croatia. So I haven’t seen him.’
‘Oh!’ she brightened. ‘So that might be why he hasn’t returned my calls.’
Calls? How many calls, I wondered. But I said, ‘Yes, that might be why.’
‘That makes me feel better.’ She tipped up her glass and necked what was left in there, which was about half. ‘You see, I really liked him. I know it was just the one night, but you know how sometimes you think this one might just be special? And then I didn’t speak to him and I thought maybe I was wrong. But you’ve given me hope! Thanks, Lucy.’
She reached over and gave me a fragrant hug.
‘It’s my pleasure,’ I managed to say.
‘Put in a word for me, won’t you? Next time you see him?’
‘I’ll try.’ Given I could barely offer the man a coffee without having a near-death experience, it wasn’t looking good.
‘Thank you.’ She went all serious again. ‘Bloody weddings. They just make you realise how shit it is being single, don’t they?’
Before I could respond, she stood up and swished out, clutching her half-drunk bottle of champagne.