CHAPTER FIFTY LEXIE
CHAPTER FIFTY
Lexie
December
‘Is this the invite?’ Scarlet asks, spying it on my mantel and moving over to take a look. ‘That’s lovely. Very good paper quality.’
I chuckle to myself as I make us both dinner.
‘Shame I can’t be your plus-one for this one,’ she continues, placing the invitation back on the mantel. She and Rory are going on their first proper holiday together while I’m away. ‘New York would have been amazing.’
‘Who am I going to play wedding bingo with now?’ I ask.
‘It’s finally happened,’ Scarlet says mournfully. ‘We aren’t plus-one-ing each other to weddings. That’s it. It’s ended.’
‘No, don’t say that. There are always more weddings. Always.’
Why Max has chosen to have his wedding in between Christmas and New Year is beyond me. It’s a ridiculously busy time of year for most people. I’ve personally got to get from Edinburgh to my mum’s in Berkshire, then to my dad’s in Hertfordshire and then catch a flight on 27 December from Heathrow. I’m only in the US for two days and then I’m heading home. It’s going to be a fast turnaround, but I suppose it’s nice to have all these places to go to. And when the time comes, I’m bubbling with excitement to return to New York and celebrate Max’s wedding. Although I won’t have anyone to play wedding bingo with this time.
As I exit the terminal at JFK the ice-cold air hits me like a tidal wave. Christmas in New York is as exuberant as I remember it, but the weather is no joke. Seeing the twinkling lights and skyscrapers of Manhattan, I can’t work out if it’s the change of location, the fact that I’m hardly ever here and excited to be back or whether I’m bowled over by New York generally, but I feel so buoyant about everything. Life is good. I love it here. I love my life in Edinburgh. I think of Chris and how easily he moved from England to New York five years ago. And then back again a few years later. I wonder if I could do the same thing with New York. Maybe I’ll move from Edinburgh in a few years’ time. Who knows? I’m enjoying the not knowing.
I haven’t spoken to Chris much since the last time I saw him at the hotel opening in March. That’s about eight months, but who’s counting? We said goodbye over a long call when he was sending out his farewell emails during his last day at work. I wished him luck for his leaving drinks, and thought then how strange it would be not knowing what his new office would look like, where he’d sit or how he’d spend his days. I couldn’t picture him any more in his daily environment and it bothered me. I don’t know how or when we’ll speak properly again. He’s gone a bit off-radar – has activated stealth mode.
I found him on Instagram and followed him. Chris followed me back. We’ve liked each other’s posts a few times. And that’s as far as it’s gone. I miss him, though. I miss his conversation, his sense of humour, his openness. I wondered about messaging him, but decided against it. I’ve been in too strange a place emotionally, after everything that happened with Josh, to consider talking to Chris at the moment. And he hasn’t messaged me, either. But I hope we will soon.
Men and women being friends is kind of weird if there’s an added layer of obvious chemistry. And he’s got a girlfriend. I am not stupid enough to be mates with someone I fancy. I can’t be mates with someone I want to kiss every time I see her. I can’t be mates with someone I can’t stop fucking thinking about.
I think about what Chris said at the last wedding we were at together. I think about a lot of things he’s said over the years. The intense words he and I have shared are the kind that Josh and I should have been exchanging. Josh rang me again this morning. But I can’t talk to him. I don’t want to. What is there to say? I let it ring and ring. He’s tenacious; he hung on for ages. But he ended it with me. I’ve moved on. We got together so immediately and fell into being a couple so quickly, so easily. There was physical chemistry between Josh and me, and I wonder now if that was the main cut and thrust of our relationship.
But Chris … we barely even touched, never kissed. Our connection was based on a personality fit. You can’t fake that. You can’t replicate it with another person, either.
Most of our recent interactions before he went off-radar were work-related, but Chris was there, in my life, hovering in the background. And now he’s not. At all. I really miss him.
Max’s wedding is at Glasshouse Chelsea, a high-rise building where views of the winter sunset across the city are a thing of wonder. The light is so red, setting across the buildings in a horizontal bright flame. It takes my breath away.
He and his partner Michelle are having a glamorous but laid-back sort of wedding. While the venue is stylish, the atmosphere isn’t staid, or as formal as I’m used to in the UK. Max is very ‘New York’ and so is his wedding. He and Michelle wrote their own vows, including how he promised to refill the coffee machine with water each night, and how she promised to stop putting the remote control in random places. Michelle is wearing bright red rather than white, and she’s sporting a baby bump. There’s so much happiness in the air, there’s no formal seating plan and the pianist is playing Billie Eilish. If I was playing wedding bingo today, I’d have lost as I’d have had none of this on my grid. The wedding’s fabulous and it’s proof you can get married and enjoy the happiest day of your life however you want.
My jet lag is catching up with me. It comes in fits and starts and, to counteract it, I’ve been drinking Espresso Martinis all night. The mix of caffeine and vodka is making me feel wired, but mellow at the same time. My eyes are wide open, but my brain is exhausted.
I reflect on how another wedding has been ticked off a seemingly endless list. Each one I’ve attended over the years has been different, but only one of them do I live over and over again in my mind. Only one of them was truly standout. I found Chris and then lost him, all at once. And then I met Josh. Which, in hindsight, I really wish I hadn’t.
I did wonder if Chris would come to this wedding, but there’s no sign of him, and I felt strange grilling Max about Chris in the run-up. He had more important things to think about as the happiest day of his life loomed. Chris not being here takes the shine off this trip, dulls it in some way. But I put a huge, happy smile on my face, congratulate Max and his new wife and enthuse wildly about their cool, fun wedding. Max confirmed excitedly what I’d already guessed, that they’re expecting a baby, before being ushered off to speak to other guests.
I make small talk with the colleagues I rarely see and then, when that’s run its course, I hang out at the bar and try to order a final drink before I leave. I might not make it an Espresso Martini. But I’m struggling to get served – it’s so busy.
I glance at my watch. It’s half eleven and I wonder if there’s any point going to sleep now, given that my flight is so early. I should think about going back to my hotel to start packing. I’ll count to ten and, if I don’t get served, I’ll take that as my cue to say goodbye and thanks to Max, give him the biggest hug I can and leave.
Ten, nine …
‘Can I get you a drink?’ a man asks me. ‘I’ve got the bartender’s attention and you’ve been standing there a while.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply quickly, all thoughts of counting down my exit gone. ‘Vodka tonic, please.’
He echoes my words to the bartender, who mixes my drink. I pull out some dollars and try to hand them to the man, but he politely declines.
‘I’ve wanted to introduce myself to you all evening, but I didn’t know how,’ he confesses coyly. ‘This seemed like a good way.’
‘Sneaky,’ I say, immediately drawn in.
He smiles, looks down at his drink, glances back at me and we’re suddenly jostled out of the way by a couple who clearly want to get to the bar. I’m pushed into him and he looks shocked, but catches me. ‘You OK? You want me to say something to them?’
‘No, it’s fine. They didn’t do it on purpose. They’re drunk. They’re happy,’ I tell him. ‘I’m Lexie by the way.’ I extend my hand and he shakes it. His grip is warm, his eyes blue.
‘Xander.’
‘Nice to meet you, Xander. Shall we move away from the drunk people, so we don’t get caught up in the fight that’s probably about to break out?’
‘Good idea,’ he says.
All good weddings end in a fight. I smile to myself.
‘You’re English?’ Xander asks.
‘Was it the accent that gave it away?’ I tease.
‘It was, yeah. It’s a cute accent. You live here or are you just over for the wedding?’
‘I’m over for the wedding. Max is my boss.’
‘Oh, cool. Max is my best friend’s brother.’
‘Oh, brilliant,’ I say conversationally and then try to work out that line of connection – best friend’s brother. OK, I’m there now.
‘Where are you staying?’ he asks.
‘At The Curated. The rooms are heavily discounted.’
‘How come?’
‘Because I work for the company.’
‘Right, yes,’ he replies. ‘That makes sense. If Max is your boss, then of course you work for the company.’ I can see him clawing around for something else to say. I’m doing the same.
‘Is this the most boring conversation you’ve had all day?’ I ask and then smile wide in recognition as I remember this exact line from another conversation, soaked in so much small talk we were in danger of drowning until we cleverly lifted ourselves free. I’m in danger of drowning in small talk now.
But Xander isn’t smiling. He looks affronted.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ I continue quickly. ‘I’m implying that I’m boring.’ I’m not implying anything like this, actually. I’m implying that our conversation is boring, but Xander looks even more startled at my words and now I don’t know how to bring it all back to normality. I toy with the idea of suggesting we ditch the small talk and start on Big Talk, but I don’t. I don’t want Big Talk with this man who is devoid of humour. It wouldn’t be the same. And deep down, I don’t want it to be the same.
This is going to look like the quickest about-turn in history, so here goes, I think, steeling myself. ‘Xander, it was so lovely to meet you,’ I say. ‘But I need to drink this swiftly and then say bye to Max. I have a flight to catch in …’ I glance at my watch, ‘a matter of hours.’
‘Oh, right. I see. OK. No problem. It was nice to meet you, Laura.’
‘Lexie,’ I reply.
‘Lexie,’ he repeats. ‘Have a great flight.’
‘Thank you.’ I give him a polite smile, neck half my drink and go in search of Max, so I can say goodbye and make my way home to Edinburgh.