Chapter Five Lee
Chapter Five
Lee
The picture clutched in my trembling hand is a group shot.
We’re surrounded by a pack of women who are smiling wide and wearing bejewelled denim jackets with bright pink brIDESMAID sashes.
Two of them are enthusiastically embracing a man with a very orange spray tan, who has donned a rhinestone-studded Elvis jumpsuit, slashed down to his belly button, and a pair of giant sunglasses.
In the centre of the picture Nico has swept me up into his arms and is laughing down at me. My hair has totally escaped its braid. I’m wearing a veil and a white sash emblazoned with the word brIDE over the top of my suit, and I’m beaming up at Nico like he’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.
Behind us there’s a neon sign that reads: LITTLE CHAPEL OF LOVE.
‘Oh my god,’ I manage again.
I try desperately to remember anything about this, certain that I couldn’t forget getting married, but it really is like my mind is reaching for something that isn’t there.
I stare at the Elvis impersonator, and maybe he does look familiar…
I’m having misty visions of curled lips and lots of ‘thank you very much’ and enthusiastic hip thrusts, each one followed by high-pitched squealing, presumably from the gaggle of bachelorettes we’d collected along the way.
Over my shoulder, Nico starts laughing. ‘Have those women got tiny pink penises bedazzled all over their jackets?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Panic has my voice climbing breathlessly high. ‘How can you be laughing about penises at a time like this?’
‘Daisy.’ Nico reaches out and holds onto both my elbows, steadying me. ‘Take a breath. We didn’t get married.’
‘We didn’t?’ I whisper, and I sound humiliatingly disappointed while I blink up into his face.
I’m far, far too hungover for this emotional rollercoaster. My pathetic jelly-like limbs are about to collapse. Maybe I’ll give in entirely, slide down onto the floor and dissolve there into a sad puddle of sambuca and confusion. Honestly, that sounds pretty good right now.
Nico shakes his head again. ‘Even in Las Vegas you can’t just get married… whatever the movies say about it. You have to have paperwork, a wedding licence.’ He pulls out his phone and starts tapping away before turning the screen to show me.
He’s right. I eye the millions of search results that reassure me of the fact.
‘Okay,’ I say, a bit steadier. ‘So what’s with the picture?’
He shrugs. ‘A photo opportunity. It is Las Vegas, and they love this stuff. I bet they charged us a fortune to pose with Elvis.’
‘Right,’ I reply with a nod, trying to get my frantically hammering heartbeat under control. ‘Of course. Sorry, I – it was a bit of a shock.’
‘Well, yeah.’ Nico has the audacity to laugh again. ‘God, can you imagine the two of us getting married!’
‘Mmm,’ I murmur. ‘Imagine.’
As if five-year-old me hadn’t announced over dinner that she was going to marry Nico Hart one day. Nope, it had never occurred to me.
Nico sighs, breaking into my fun little stroll down memory lane, and treating me to a long, measuring look before rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. ‘Daisy, I’m sorry that I dragged you down with me last night. Believe it or not, I’ve been partying way less than I used to.’
He sounds a bit desperate, like he thinks I won’t believe him, but that’s not actually the part I’m hung up on.
‘What do you mean “dragged” me down with you?’
‘Just that the state we got in with the drinking, the way we’re both feeling this morning and the memory gaps… I’m sorry you got pulled into it.’ He sounds so serious. ‘I can be a self-destructive bastard, and the absolute last thing I’d ever want to do is put you in a bad situation.’
I blink. Why do I feel so insulted by this? ‘Nico, I’m not some pure virgin sacrifice that you’ve sullied…’
His face loses all colour and he rears back like I’ve struck him. ‘Christ, Lee, I promise you – nothing happened last night. I would never have let it,’ he adds, in a low, deeply earnest voice. ‘Absolutely no way.’
Okay, now I definitely feel insulted. And mortified.
Clearly, my feelings for Nico aren’t reciprocated, but wow. Does he have to go all pale and shaky at the mere suggestion?
‘Obviously, nothing happened,’ I say stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean it that way, but you’re acting like you took advantage of me, when I’m perfectly capable of making my own choices.’
Nico looks uncomfortable. ‘I know you are. But I feel… you know, responsible for you.’
My face heats. I struggle for some poise. ‘Responsible for me? I’m not a child, Nico.’
‘Of course not.’ Nico pushes his hair back from his face. ‘It’s just, you’re Jack’s little sister. You’re not—’
‘Not what?’ I ask, even though I can finish his sentence for him just fine. Not adventurous like him. Not someone he sees as a grown woman. Not someone he sees at all. I’m only Jack’s sister. In the end that’s all I’ll ever be to him.
It hurts. It hurts so much more than it should. I feel so stupid then, so small and inconsequential.
It’s obvious Nico knows he’s said the wrong thing; the stricken look on his face makes me want to scream. (I won’t, of course, I’d never scream at anyone.) Instead, I do what I always do and I shut it all down, lock everything up tight.
‘I don’t need you to take responsibility for me,’ I say, the picture of calm. ‘I’m fine and so are you. Like you said, nothing happened except we had a few too many drinks. Let’s not make more of it than it is.’
There, that sounded sufficiently cool and collected. There’s no need to let him see all the emotion roiling inside me. I smooth my face out into a mask of bland indifference. No hurt feelings here. No feelings at all.
He shifts uncomfortably on his feet. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘You’re probably right. No big deal.’
There’s a beat of tense silence.
‘So,’ Nico says finally. ‘What time are you leaving?’
‘I have a couple of loose ends to tie up with Frankie. My car’s booked for six.’
He makes a humming sound in the back of his throat. ‘I guess I’d better head back to my room and get my shit together. I’ve got a flight to catch.’ He looks at his watch and winces. ‘Shit. I really had better get a move on.’
‘Of course,’ I murmur, and my own voice sounds distant. ‘Give Jack and Cynthie my love.’
‘I will. Give mine to Gran and tell her I’ll call next week.’
I am struck by the sudden urge to cry. It feels like something’s been ruined between us, and I don’t know in this moment how to make it right. I’m so frozen with embarrassment.
The bits of last night that I do remember were good – happy, fun, maybe even a little flirty – and this morning we even woke up in bed together.
But in the cold hard light of day, Nico couldn’t make it any clearer: he sees me as nothing more than his best friend’s kid sister.
Not even a friend, but a responsibility.
Anything more I might have imagined is precisely that: a fantasy, pure fiction.
‘Bye, Lee,’ he says, heading for the door. ‘It really was good to see you.’ He turns and looks over his shoulder, flashing me that quick, easy Nico grin, but I know his face better than I know my own – it’s a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
‘Bye,’ I manage, but he’s already gone, the door closing heavily behind him with a click.
I stand, frozen for a long moment, staring down at the photograph that I’m still holding in my hand.
How humiliating to look at it and still feel a little thrill.
Now, I’m forced to confront the mortifying fact that a small, stubborn part of me always dreamed that Nico would finally see me the way that I see him. Clearly that’s never going to happen.
This ridiculous crush has gone on long enough. It’s lucky I didn’t make an even bigger fool of myself last night. Taking a deep breath, I tear the picture in half, throwing the pieces in the bin.
An hour later, I’m busy finishing up my packing when my phone rings. My traitorous heart leaps when – for a brief, shining moment – I think it’s Nico, wanting to clear the air between us, but instead it’s an unknown number.
‘Is this Ophelia Turner-Jones?’ an unfamiliar male voice asks.
‘It is.’ Something in his deep, official tone already has my stomach twisting.
‘This is Dr Clarke at the Princess Grace Hospital in London,’ he continues. ‘I have you listed as the emergency contact for Mrs Bridget Turner, is that correct?’
‘She’s my grandmother,’ I force the words out, my mouth dry.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news…’