Chapter Three
Meet Me Halfway
19 th December
My breath sparkled in the air in front of me the next morning as I sat on the freezing metal furniture outside Porthglen’s lovely little bakery on Seaview Corner.
The winter sun was only just rising above the sea and the town was bathed in a cool yellow light.
Archie approached me in a waterproof jacket zipped up to his neck, a red scarf and grey tracksuit bottoms, looking just as reluctant to be there as I was feeling.
“Is it even open yet?” He grumbled. “The sun has barely risen.”
“Not for another five minutes,” I admitted. “Sorry for the early start.”
“Well, your text was just so persuasive I thought ‘7am in the freezing cold with someone who hates me, sure’!” He sat on the chair opposite me and perused the menu.
“I don’t hate you,” I said quietly. “We just… don’t see eye to eye.”
“Yeah, I know that,” he said. “We’re different. You like getting up before the sun, and I like to sleep in. You like your mustard yellow trouser suits, and I like tracksuit bottoms. But you’ve got to meet me halfway. I’m best man, you’re maid of honour. We need to figure out a way to work together for the people we care about.”
I was a little stunned by his eloquence, especially considering how self-deprived and hungover he looked.
The night before, Ross bought Archie a few more pints of cider after the one I’d dumped on him, whilst Lou had whisked me away, hiding her laughter.
She found our rivalry equal parts frustrating and amusing.
“You’d like him if you gave him a chance,” she had insisted. “He’s a nice man.”
“He’s a 30-something manbaby,” I’d retorted.
“That’s not the real him,” she’d said. “Just… try a bit harder? For me?”
“Fine.”
We’d headed back to the accommodation at the farm and watched a Christmas film with no more talk of Archie, yet he was on my mind all night.
My guilt grew until bedtime when Lou left, and I texted him to meet me at the bakery the next morning. He’d texted back:
Archie 11.40pm
yEp, seee you then IMMOgen , niht night
Drunk, naturally.
I sighed and replied a little defensively. “Yes, you’re right. And for the record, you only like to sleep in because you get sloshed every night.”
He chuckled. “Ross was buying, what do you expect? And you only get up so early because your corporate job has ruined your perception of what’s important in life. Like rest.”
I glared at him.
“Do you even know what I do for a job?”
He paused, his eyes trailing the top of the table as he thought about it. “Executive Communications and Consultancy Project Management.”
“Is that just a mish-mash of every corporate job title you could think of?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Come on, you know what I do. Being a tree surgeon is hardly mysterious.”
“Do the trees wait for you to get up at midday or do you cut them hungover?” I asked.
“I work for myself. I can work at midnight if I want to.”
“I don’t think your clients would like that.”
“No, true.” He leaned back on his chair and raised an eyebrow at me. “Come on, I extended an olive branch. Tell me what you do.”
I sighed, knowing he’d mock my job title. I tried to think of another way to say it, but just decided to bite the bullet.
“I’m a Lead Team Co-ordinator for a women’s business network,” I said.
I could tell his first reaction was to mock me, but he resisted.
“So, you help your team co-ordinate?” He asked, with as little bile as he could muster.
“That’s the simplified version,” I answered. “I manage a group of 50 different women who all have independent businesses. Like yours.”
He grinned. “Tree surgeons?”
“No. Self-employed. Small businesses. That sort of thing.”
“That’s actually quite impressive,” he said. To my shock, he seemed genuine. “It must be difficult to organise everyone.”
“Very,” I said, unable to hide the surprise from my voice. “Especially when the clients are being temperamental.”
He blew out his breath and regarded me.
“Well, then, Imogen,” he said after a moment. “There should be no reason why you and I – me with my charisma, good looks and knowledge of this fine town, and you with your organisational skills and business know-how – can’t make a good go of this wedding. If we can stop tearing lumps out of each other.”
“Yes,” I said. “Do you think we can?”
He shrugged. “If we try. No more snide comments. No more jokes at each other’s expenses. No more belittling each other. I’ll agree if you will.”
I hesitated, thinking about every interaction we’d had over the past few years Ross and Lou had been dating.
The engagement party fiasco, of course. He had put salt in my drink at last summer’s family BBQ to get his little niece to laugh. He’d drawn an explicit cartoon in permanent ink on my souvenir pen at a Christmas party two years ago.
Equally, I hadn’t been innocent. I’d egged his car after the salty drink incident. That really made his little niece laugh, especially when I let her throw the last egg. There had been too many insults over the years to count.
And last Boxing Day I’d swapped everything in his stocking for embarrassing photos of him from over the years. That one made him particularly angry as his grandmother had insisted on keeping all of them to frame when she got home.
I should meet him halfway.
Let the past go.
We had a more important task to work on now.
“Okay,” I said. “I agree. For Lou and Ross.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Good. Now – is this blooming bakery open yet, I’m freezing?!”
I checked my watch. 7.02am.
“It is now,” I said. “Breakfast? My treat? I already checked and they have a gluten free menu.”
“You’re right, they do,” he said with begrudging gratitude. “Is that why you chose this place?”
“Don’t be too flattered. I just wanted a croissant,” I grinned.
“I’ll watch you eat it with horrible envy,” he said. “Thus completing your evil plan.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll eat off the gluten free menu too.”
His face lit up with genuine warmth for a moment, before he seemed to correct it.
“I won’t torture you by making you do that. Though the gluten free sourdough here is pretty good.”
“Noted,” I said. “Let’s head in before my nose falls off.”
Twenty minutes later, we were sat inside with a plate each of gluten free sourdough toast, whipped feta, drizzled chilli honey and winter-spiced roasted plums.
Archie nursed his hangover with a black coffee whilst I opted for a green juice.
“Perhaps I do fit the London stereotypes,” I said with a gulp of my juice.
“I’m not saying anything, I’m sticking to our agreement,” he said.
“Very good,” I smiled. “So, what’s first on our wedding to-do list?”
He looked at me with a reluctant half-smile. “Are you sure we’re ready? We were having a not-completely-mind-numbingly-horrible time together for once.”
“Why, what is the first item?” I asked.
“The stag and hen dos,” he answered with a simple shrug. “I already have an idea for Ross’ and I presume you’ve thought about Lou’s? When, where etc.?”
“Yes. The 23 rd starting at 2pm. I’ve booked an afternoon tea at Porthglen Manor to start, then we’ll be walking over to the florist to do a flower arranging session so that everyone can make their own bouquets. Then we’re finishing the night with a meal at the café in the old lighthouse. The owner is a highly esteemed chef, so he’s put together a very elegant menu.”
Archie blinked at me for a moment.
“The 23 rd ? The day before the wedding.”
“Yes.” I was confused by his clarification. “It’s traditional to hold it the day before the wedding. Besides, the bouquets need to be made fresh or they will wilt.”
“Well, sure I imagine it was traditional in 1890 when everyone headed to the church at 9am for a quick ceremony before their shift at the coal mine began.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That’s… historically inaccurate, to be polite.”
“Whatever,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “My point is – aren’t you worried that everyone will be too hungover to enjoy the wedding the next day? Especially Lou…”
“I think Lou and her bridal party are far to mature to overdo it the night before the wedding. Plus, my grandmother will be there. And your grandmother. I don’t think they’ll be painting the town red.”
“Red with wine, yeah,” he said. “Don’t underestimate them just because you have a cosy idea of who your grandmother is. She was young once too.”
“Fine,” I rolled my eyes. “What’s your grand plan for the stag do?”
“Classic. 22 nd starting at The Ancient Mariner at 8pm for some grub to line our stomachs. Then a beer crawl including three pubs, two bars and a gentleman’s club that may or may not have a burlesque show.”
I could only stare at him, horrified.
“That’s ridiculous,” I finally said.
“How is it?” He chuckled. “The groomsmen will have a full day to recover, and everyone will have fun, unlike your poor bridal party with their tea party snoozefest.”
“Lou is 52 years old,” I reminded him plainly. “She doesn’t want to do shots off of a stripper’s body-”
“ Burlesque . And they don’t let you do that anyway. It’s all very tasteful.”
“Sure. She doesn’t want some boozy, sleazy hen do where she’ll be drunk to remember everything and make up feeling awful.”
He crossed his arms and smirked. “Have you asked her?”
I paused.
“Asked her what?”
“Have you asked her what kind of hen do she actually wants?”
I was too embarrassed to say that no, I hadn’t asked her. Besides, my facial expression was confirmation enough for him.
“Well, does Ross want a beer crawl? He’s in his mid-50s too, does he really feel like traipsing around the freezing cold countryside watching his mates take it in turns to wee up lampposts.”
“Unlike you, I actually spoke to him about it. He sees it as one final adventure.”
I scoffed, “That’s not a very nice view of marriage. This ‘get it all out of your system before you’re tied to the ball and chain’ mentality is horrible.”
“You came to that conclusion all on your own, I never said anything like that and neither did Ross. He’s not a big drinker, or a big partier, he never has been. This is the only opportunity where all of his friends and relatives – who live all over the world if you remember rightly – are going to be in the same place at the same time to have some fun together. And he knows the group will enjoy it.”
He was right, Ross’ friends and relatives had come in from far afield. His friend Jon lived in Hong Kong and had just come over for the wedding, and his cousin Pete was visiting from Australia.
“Still it’s so predictable and immature,” I sighed. “I thought better of you.”
“You did?!” He laughed. “Could have fooled me.”
“Well, not you specifically. But all of you as a group.”
“I’ll make sure to tell Ross you said that,” he grinned.
I scowled at him. “So much for our truce.”
“I’m trying,” he insisted, slurping the remains of his coffee. “You’re not making it easy.” He stood to get another drink. “Do you want another?”
“No thank you,” I said. “I never have more than one juice at a time.”
“You really live a wild, crazy life, don’t you Imogen?” He sneered, heading to the counter.