Chapter 19
GUY
The Afternoon of the (Aborted) Cow Wedding
I sent Lyra a message one hour and sixteen minutes ago, telling her where we are on Rocker beach, in case she changes her mind and wants to join us.
Dave was right – Kylie and her friends are outrageous, especially when they’re drinking. But in a fun way.
Their conversation has covered kids, schooling, work, general gossip and Chris and Rosie Ramsey’s comedy podcast, Shagged, Married, Annoyed. Which led to the beef they have with their husbands and the male species in general.
The number one complaint of all six women is a lack of domestication.
I’m booed when I tell them I just don’t think men are innately programmed to competently do household chores – choice words to elicit a response, which I do.
One of the lasses throws a flip-flop at my head, which sails over me and lands in the lettuce that was supposed to dress-up the burgers Dave and I are cooking on his coal barbeque.
They flirt when I’m topping up their wine in plastic glasses from Dave’s prized picnic set, but I’m not remotely interested and neither are they. If I wasn’t in such a foul mood, my amusement would probably be heightened, and genuine.
When the conversation shifts to peri-menopause, I decide it’s a good time to retreat to my own blanket.
We’re set up on the beach directly in front of my apartment building, which would have been handy, except I still had to lug all of Dave’s man-equipment from his van parked nearby – including a set of barbeque utensils that are far too big for their purpose – and the barbeque itself, that might as well be made of bricks.
It was high tide at lunchtime, so the North Sea is slowly retreating, giving us more beach and more space.
A good thing, since a few passers-by have done double-takes in my direction, something that wasn’t happening regularly before that video of me and Nanna Winnie went viral, and now guests from other weddings have started posted me all over socials, too.
Me singing Aerosmith today already has a ridiculous number of views, according to Dave, as if it’s more important than the fact the bride got jilted.
I lie back, feeling the heat of the day on my naked torso, and reach for my phone.
Still no response from Lyra.
I really did blow it.
I meant to, obviously. I actively chose not to contact her over the last fortnight.
For multiple reasons. I genuinely had a lot going on, with work and seeing Trev again, and having this constant and growing sense of guilt about ignoring my sister’s invitation to go to her birthday bash, or even meet up with her.
Mostly, I’ve spent my time stewing, playing my Martin into the early hours of the morning – receiving a few thuds on the walls from neighbours telling me impolitely to shut the fuck up – thinking a younger or different version of me would have called her.
Would have told her to come to my place, enjoyed every inch of her body, then not called her back.
But with Lyra, it doesn’t feel right. Maybe I’ve changed.
One thing’s for sure, though, she’s better than a one-night stand.
Better than me. That’s why she didn’t ask for my number after kissing me at that hen party.
I tried to get her to admit it earlier when I asked why she never got my number then.
And her mum’s reaction to me even being in her house that Saturday night was case in point.
Lyra and I come from different walks of life. Even if we didn’t, she’s selflessness and hopefulness and I’m… the antithesis of those things.
I was holding steadfast. Strong. Resolute.
Until I fucking saw her today and I knew it would be hard to ignore the pull I’ve felt since the first day I met her in that broken lift. But when she turned up today, looking exactly like the girl from my dreams, the girl who has recurred in my dreams for seven years, all resolve was lost.
I think she’s become the girl of my dreams. When I close my eyes, even now, behind my sunglasses, under the sun, I can’t see the girl from That Night any more, I only see Lyra, as if she had been there, as if the girl That Night was her.
So I’m lying here, grumpy as sin, holding on to a fine thread where a lifeline should be, clutching at straws, hoping she might still come.
Because, damn it, even the way she sassed me and slammed her car door in my face earlier was…
fucking hot. I like the fact that I seem to be the only person who elicits from her these less controlled emotions.
At least I know I’m getting to her in some way.
A trace of the way she is well and truly under my skin.
‘Afternoon, lads and lasses.’
I’m dragged from self-wallowing by Trev, who’s holding the hand of a heavily pregnant woman wearing a stripy dress that tugs across a well-brewed baby bump.
We’ve seen each other a few more times in the last couple of weeks, always at the gym, skirting around any mention of the band, Scott, Jay, old times.
Standing, I brush sand from my swim shorts. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘Are you match-making again, Dave?’ Trev asks.
Dave wags a spatula and a pair of tongs in our direction. ‘I had to do something to drag Guy’s face out of his backside.’
‘My face isn’t up my backside!’
‘Oh, it is, hunny,’ Kylie says, patting my shoulder as she heads over from her towel and pulls Trev into a hug. ‘How are ya, love? And you!’ She tugs Trev’s fiancée into an embrace, bending over the bump. ‘You look gorgeous, Tally.’
‘Urgh, thanks. I feel like a house end. My feet are swollen up like water balloons in this heat.’
‘Been there, hunny. I feel for you having a summer baby.’ Kylie leads Tally over to her friends and calls back to me, ‘Guy, bring Tally a deckchair, would ya?’
I carry over a chair and help Tally settle into it, then head to the barbeque where Dave and Trev are talking up the meat – they’re cooking bog-standard sausages, burgers and marinated chicken but anyone listening to them would think it was Cut at 45 Park Lane.
‘Beer, mate?’ Dave asks Trev.
‘Just one, I don’t drink much these days. Not least ’cause Tally threatens me with going into labour every time I do.’
I get him a bottle of beer from a cooler and another can of pop for myself.
‘You really are gonna be a dad,’ I tell Trev. ‘That’s a bump and a half.’
Trev nods as he drinks from his bottle. ‘Aye. It’s happenin’.’ And the way he beams at Tally makes me surprisingly envious.
The sun must be going to my head.
‘What’s this about you being in a foul mood, then?’ Trev asks me.
‘Dave talking bollocks, as usual.’
Dave shakes his head. ‘The lass he’s after isn’t interested.’
‘I’m not after anyone,’ I lie, sounding petulant in the process.
Dave clears his throat and points his beer bottle along the beach from us. ‘Not even her?’
As soon as I see Lyra, before I even clock her legs beneath tiny denim shorts, and her perfectly rounded breasts in her bikini top, barely covered by the open checked shirt she’s wearing, I’m rooted to the spot.
Stunned by a concoction of adrenaline, relief and excitement.
As if I’ve been performing on stage for the first time, waiting to see how the crowd will react, and finally, they erupt.
‘She came,’ I say, either inwardly or outwardly, I’m not sure.
‘Ya might wanna go over there, mate,’ Trev says, pushing my back until my legs kick into gear.
Fuck. She came. And now I need to stay calm, be cool, pretend like I don’t want to pick her up and take her back to my place, where I can have her all to myself.
‘Is that her?’ I hear Kylie ask behind my back.
‘Hi,’ I say to Lyra when I reach her. We’re two feet apart and I’m trying my best not to gawp at how fucking incredible she looks, not least because I’m not wearing boxers under my shorts.
‘Oh, hey,’ she says. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
My lips break into a smile that’s so wide it feels like a long-lost relative, and when she reciprocates with her own, I swear my insides explode. She made me wait more than two hours. Tortured me for one hundred and twenty-odd excruciating minutes.
That smile is worth every single one of them.
‘Just out for a stroll, are you?’ I ask.
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, Dave’s brought a butcher’s shop with him, so you might as well come and get some food. Since you’re here anyway.’
She checks her watch. ‘I suppose I could spare a few minutes.’
I chuckle, slipping her full beach bag from her shoulder and leading her over to the gang that suddenly feels much more tolerable. ‘I’m glad you came,’ I tell her, glancing her way in time to see her cheeks blush in that way they do.
She looks like a rock star but she embarrasses like a girl next door.
‘Everyone, this is Lyra,’ I announce when we’re with the group. ‘She’s just passing by.’ I smirk at her and she sticks out her tongue in response.
‘At last, he smiles,’ Kylie says, standing to give Lyra the kind of greeting that suggests she’s already one of the crew.
Kylie has always been the mam of the band, and having Lyra here feels like I’m bringing her home to meet my family. It’s weird and new, and I’m astonishingly cool with it.
‘Come and sit down with us, Lyra,’ Kylie says. ‘Put her towel out and bring her a glass of wine, Guy.’
I expect Lyra to look doe-eyed under the pressure and next to Kylie’s mammoth-sized personality, but she seems entirely at ease as I set her up with a towel.
When I hand her a glass of wine, she hesitates to take it. ‘Oh, no, I’m okay.’
‘It’s okay,’ I whisper. ‘I’m used to it by now.’ Though grateful for the effort.
Her shoulders drop and her lips turn up. ‘Thank you.’
Our fingers graze as the drink transfers between us and that smallest of touches puts my entire body on high alert. We like her, it’s screaming. We like her a lot.