Wedding Night Page 7

  “We were together for two years.” The pale girl gives another sob. “Two whole years. I did half his coursework for him. And now he’s all like, ‘I need to focus on my career.’ I thought he wanted to be with meeee.…” She dissolves into prolonged weeping and I stare at her, tears starting to my eyes. I know her pain. I know it.

  “Of course you’ll get the credit,” I say warmly. “In fact, I’ll give you a special mention for turning up when you’re clearly in mental distress.”

  “Will you?” Cindy gives me a watery smile. “Will you really?”

  “But you have to listen to me, OK? You have to listen to me.”

  I’m feeling a gathering urge to speak off-topic. To convey a universal truth, not about pensions, not about tax breaks, but about love. Or not-love. Or whatever limbo place we’re both in. I know it’s not in my remit, but this girl needs to know. She needs to know. My heart is beating strongly. I feel noble and inspirational, like Helen Mirren or Michelle Obama.

  “Let me say one thing to you,” I begin. “Woman to woman. Professional to professional. Human being to human being.” My eyes fix on hers intently. “Don’t let a breakup ruin your life.” I feel so galvanized. I feel so sure of myself. I’m burning with my message. “You’re strong.” I tick off on my fingers. “You’re independent. You have your own life, and you don’t need him. OK?”

  I wait until she whispers, “OK.”

  “We’ve all had breakups.” I raise my voice to take in the whole room. “The answer isn’t to cry. The answer isn’t to eat chocolate or plot revenge. You need to move on. Every time I’ve had a breakup, do you know what I’ve done? I’ve taken my life in a new direction. I’ve found myself an exciting new project. I’ve changed my look. I’ve moved house. Because I’m in charge of my life, thank you.” I pound my fist in my palm. “Not some guy who can’t even do a smoky eye.”

  A couple of girls break into applause, and Cindy’s friend whoops supportively. “That’s what I said! He’s a waste of space!”

  “No more crying,” I say for emphasis. “No more tissues. No more checking your phone to see if he’s called. No more stuffing your face with chocolate. Move your life on. Fresh horizons. If I can do it, you can.”

  Cindy is gawping at me as though I’m a mind reader.

  “But you’re strong,” she gulps at last. “You’re amazing. I’m not like you. I never will be, even when I’m your age.”

  She’s looking at me with such wonder, I can’t help feeling touched, even though she doesn’t have to behave as though I’m such a dinosaur. I mean, I’m only thirty-three, not a hundred.

  “Of course you will,” I say confidently. “You know, I was like you once. I was quite timid. I had no idea what I would do in life or what my potential was. I was an eighteen-year-old kid, floundering around.” I can feel my All-Purpose Motivational Speech coming on. Do I have time to give it? I glance at my watch. Just about. The short version. “I was lost. Exactly like you feel now. But then I went on my gap year.”

  I’ve told this story many, many times. At student events, at team-building seminars, at preparation sessions for personnel going on sabbaticals. I never get bored of telling it, and it always gives me a tingle.

  “I went on my gap year,” I repeat, “and my whole life changed. I changed as a person. One pivotal night transformed me.” I take a few steps forward and look directly at Cindy. “You know my theory of life? We all have special defining moments which set us on a path. I had my biggest defining moment on my gap year. You just need to have your own big moment. And you will.”

  “What happened?” She’s agog, and so are all the others. I can even see someone switching off their iPod.

  “I was staying at a guest house on Ikonos,” I explain. “It’s a Greek island. It was packed full of gap-year travelers, and I was there all summer. It was a magical place.”

  Every time I tell this story, it brings back the same memories. Waking every morning to the Greek sun dazzling my eyelids. The feel of seawater on sunburned skin. Bikinis hung over peeling wooden shutters to dry. Sand in my trodden-down espadrilles. Fresh sardines grilled on the beach. Music and dancing every night.

  “Anyway. One night there was a fire.” I force myself back to the present. “It was terrible. The guest house was packed with people. I mean, it was a death trap. Everyone came out onto the upstairs veranda, but no one could get down; everyone was screaming; there weren’t even any fire extinguishers.…”

  Every time I remember that night, it’s the same flashback: the moment the roof fell in. I can hear the thunderous sound and the screams. I can smell the smoke.

  The room is utterly silent as I carry on.

  “I had a vantage point. I was up in the tree house. I could see where people should be heading. You could jump off the side of the veranda onto the top of a nearby goat shed, only no one had realized. Everyone was panicking. So I took charge. I started directing people. I had to yell to be heard, and wave my arms, and jump up and down like a mad thing, but finally someone noticed me, and then they all listened. They followed my instructions. They all jumped off the veranda onto the shed one by one, and they were all OK. It was the first time in my life that I realized I could be a leader. I could make a difference.”

  The room is absolutely still.

  “Oh my God.” Cindy exhales at last. “How many people?”

  “Ten?” I shrug. “Twelve?”

  “You saved twelve lives?” She sounds awestruck.

  “Well, who knows?” I try to lighten the atmosphere. “I’m sure they would have been saved anyway. The point is, I realized something about myself.” I clasp my hands to my chest. “From that moment on, I had the confidence to go for what I wanted. I changed course, changed all my ideas. I can honestly say, it all dates from that point. That was my big defining moment. That was when I became the person I am. And you’ll all have your defining moments. I know you will.”

  I always relive the moment and feel a little overcome when I tell that story. It was so terrifying. That’s the bit I never put in: how scared and panicky I was, shrieking through the breeze, desperate to be heard, knowing it was all down to me. I blow my nose and smile around at the silent faces. I made a difference. That mantra has stayed with me all these years. I made a difference. Whatever else I do that’s crap and stupid, I made a difference.

  There’s silence in the room. Then the blond girl in the front row stands up.

  “You’re the best careers adviser we’ve ever had. Isn’t she?” To my astonishment, she leads a round of applause. A couple of girls even cheer.

  “I’m sure I’m not,” I say hastily.

  “Yes, you are,” she insists. “You’re ace. Can we say thank you properly?”

  “You’re absolutely welcome.” I smile politely. “It’s been a pleasure to be here, and good luck with your careers—”

  “That’s not what I mean.” She approaches the platform, brandishing a massive black roll of brushes at me. “I’m Jo. Fancy a makeover?”

  “Oh.” I hesitate and glance at my watch. “I couldn’t. I mean, that’s very kind of you—”

  “Don’t take this personally,” says Jo kindly. “But you need it. Your eyes are dead puffy. Did you get enough sleep last night?”

  “Oh.” I stiffen. “Yes. Yes, I did, thanks. Plenty of sleep. Loads.”

  “Well, you need some different eye cream, then. Whatever you’re using really isn’t working.” She’s peering closely at my face now. “And your nose is red. You haven’t been … crying?”

  “Crying?” I try not to sound too defensive. “Of course not!”

  Jo has ushered me into a plastic chair and is gently patting the skin round my eyes. She sucks in breath, like a builder assessing someone else’s dodgy plastering job.

  “I’m sorry, but your skin’s in a terrible state.” She beckons over a couple of friends, who pull equally dismayed faces at the sight of my eyes.

  “Ooh, that’s painful.”


  “Your eyes are all pink!”

  “Well, I’ve no idea why that is.” I aim for an easy smile. “None. None at all.”

  “You must have an allergy to something!” says Jo in sudden inspiration.

  “Yes.” I seize on this idea. “That’ll be it. An allergy.”

  “What makeup do you use? Can you show me?”

  I reach for my bag and pull the zip open, but it’s stuck.

  “Let me,” says Jo, and reaches for it before I can stop her. Shit. I don’t particularly want anyone seeing the massive Galaxy bar I bought in WHSmith this morning and half consumed while waiting for Steve (moment of weakness).

  “I’ll do it,” I say, grabbing it back. But her hand is already wrenching open the zip, and somehow the whole thing gets jostled and jerked, and before I know it the half-Galaxy has been tossed out of the bag, together with a mostly drunk miniature bottle of white wine (further moment of weakness). And the shreds of a ripped-up photo of Richard (even further moment of weakness).

  “Sorry!” Jo says in horror, gathering the shreds. “I’m so sorry! What’s—” She looks more closely. “Is that a photo? What happened to it?”

  “Here’s your chocolate,” volunteers another girl, holding out the Galaxy.

  “And I think this might be an old Valentine?” says her friend, gingerly picking up a charred piece of glittery card. “But it looks like it’s been … burned?”

  I did it with a match in a coffee cup in Costa before they told me to stop. (Ultimate moment of weakness.)

  Richard’s eye is staring at me out of a fragment of photo, and I feel my insides heave with sudden grief. I can detect a few meaningful looks passing between the girls, but I don’t have any words. I can’t find a noble and inspirational way out of this one. Jo turns and surveys my bloodshot eyes again. Then she springs into life and starts stuffing all the things back into my bag.

  “Anyway,” she says briskly, “the most important thing is making you look totally fabulous. That’ll show … whoever.” She winks at me. “Or whatever. It might take a bit of time. Are you up for it?”

  This is the answer. I don’t know what the question is, but this is the answer. I’m sitting in a chair with my eyes closed, in a state of near bliss as my face is brushed and penciled by my new best friend Jo and her fellow students. They’ve sprayed my face with foundation and put rollers in my hair and they keep changing their mind about which eye look to give me, but I’m barely listening. I’m in a trance. I don’t care if I’ll be late back to the office. I’m zoned out. I keep drifting off to sleep and half waking up and my mind is a swirl of dream and color and thought.

  Every time I find myself thinking of Richard, I wrench my mind away. Move on. Move on, move on. I’m going to be OK, I’m going to be fine. I just need to take my own advice. Find a new mission. A new track. Something to focus on.

  Maybe I’ll redecorate my flat. Or maybe I should take up martial arts. I could start a course of intensive training and get super-fit. Cut all my hair off and get amazing biceps like Hilary Swank.

  Or pierce my belly button. Richard hates pierced belly buttons. That’s what I should do.

  Or maybe I should travel. Why have I not traveled more?

  My thoughts keep drifting back to Ikonos. It was an amazing summer, until the fire happened and the police arrived and everything disbanded in chaos. I was so young. I was so thin. I lived in cutoff shorts and a string-bikini top. I had beads in my hair. And of course there was Ben, my first proper boyfriend. My first relationship. Dark hair and crinkly blue eyes and the smell of sweat and salt and Aramis. God, how much sex did we have? Three times a day, at least. And when we weren’t having sex we were thinking about sex. It was insane. It was like a drug. He was the first guy I ever felt so hot for that I wanted to …

  Wait. Wait a minute.

  Ben?

  My eyes pop open and Jo cries out in dismay. “Keep still!”

  It couldn’t be. Surely.

  “Sorry.” I blink, trying to stay composed. “Actually … can we pause a moment? I need to make a call.”

  I turn away, rummage for my phone, and press Kayla’s speed dial, telling myself not to be stupid. It can’t be him. It’s not him.

  Obviously it’s not him.

  “Lottie, hi,” comes Kayla’s voice. “Everything OK?”

  Why would he be phoning me after all this time? It’s been fifteen years, for God’s sake. We haven’t been in touch since … Well. Since then.

  “Hey, Kayla. I just wanted the number of that guy Ben.” I try to sound relaxed. “The one who called yesterday while I was out, remember?”

  Why am I clenching my fingers together?

  “Oh yes. Hold on … Here we are.” She dictates a mobile number. “Who is he?”

  “I’m … not sure. You’re positive he didn’t give a surname?”

  “No, just Ben.”

  I ring off and stare at the number. Just Ben. Just Ben.

  It’s a cheeky student candidate, I tell myself firmly. It’s a careers officer who thinks we’re on first-name terms. It’s Ben Jones, my neighbor, ringing me at work for some reason. How many people are there in the world called Ben? About five zillion. Precisely.

  Just Ben.

  But that’s the thing. That’s why my breath is coming just a little short and I’m instinctively sitting up straight in a more attractive manner. Who would call himself that except my old boyfriend?

  I punch in the number, close my eyes tight, and wait. The ringing tone sounds. And again. And again.

  “Benedict Parr.” There’s a pause. “Hello? It’s Benedict Parr here. Is anyone there?”

  I can’t talk. My stomach is doing a little dance.

  It’s him.

  4

  LOTTIE

  The first thing to say is that I look fabulous.

  The second thing is, I am not going to sleep with him.

  No. No, sirree. No, I am not.

  Even though I’ve been thinking about it all day. Even though I’ve been gently fizzing just at the memory. Him. How it was. How we were. I feel surreal and a bit light-headed. I can’t believe I’m going to see him. After all this time. Ben. I mean, Ben.

  Hearing his voice was like some sort of time-travel trigger. At once I was sitting opposite him at that rickety little table we used to commandeer in the evening. Olive trees all around. My bare feet resting in his lap. A can of ice-cold Sprite. I’d forgotten about my Sprite addiction till that very instant.

  Since then, memories and images have been resurfacing all day, some vague and some fully composed. His eyes. His scent. He was always so intense. That’s what I remember most. His intensity. He made me feel as though we were starring in our own movie, as though nothing mattered except him and me and now. It was all about sensation. The sensation of him. Of sun and sweat. Sea and sand. Skin and skin. Everything was hot and heightened and … incredible.

  And this, fifteen years later, this is—well. Bizarre. I glance at my watch and feel a little shiver of anticipation. Enough loitering in shop entrances. Time to go.

  We’re meeting at a new fish restaurant in Clerkenwell which has had good reviews. Apparently Ben works nearby, doing something or other—I didn’t ask, which was stupid, so I had to resort to a hasty Google when I finally got back to the office. I couldn’t track him down on Facebook, but there was some website about a paper company, which apparently he’s a director of. I’m kind of surprised—he wanted to be an actor when we were together, but I guess it didn’t work out. Or maybe he changed his mind. We didn’t talk too much about careers or jobs back then. We were pretty much just interested in sex and how we were going to change the world.

  I do remember lots of late-night discussions on Brecht, who he was reading, and Chekhov, who I was reading. And global warming. And philanthropy. And politics. And euthanasia. We were a bit sixth-form debate-y, now that I look back. A bit earnest. But, then, fair enough. We’d only just left the sixth form.

  I a
pproach the restaurant, teetering a bit on my new high heels, feeling my hair bounce around my shoulders and admiring my immaculate manicure. As soon as Jo and her friends heard I was going on a date with an ex-boyfriend, they launched into a whole new level of activity. They did my nails. They dyed my brows. They even offered me a bikini wax.

  Of course, I didn’t need that. I’d already been to the salon three days ago, to get prepared for hot, joyous, post-proposal sex with Richard, much good it did me. Total waste of money.

  I feel a painful, humiliated pang. I should invoice him for the salon bill. I should send it to him in San Francisco, together with a dignified letter saying simply, Dear Richard. When you get this letter—

  No. Stop, Lottie. Do not think about Richard. Do not compose a dignified letter. Move on. Move on, move on.

  I grip my clutch bag more tightly, willing strength into myself. Everything is meant. It all has a pattern. One minute I’m at my lowest ebb—the next, Ben is contacting me. It’s kismet. It’s fate.

  Although I am not going to sleep with him.

  No. I’m not.

  As I reach the entrance to the restaurant, I whip out my handbag mirror and check my reflection one last time. Bloody hell. I keep forgetting how amazing I look. My skin looks radiant. I have stunning new cheekbones, which Jo somehow invented with blusher and highlighter. My lips look fresh and luscious. To sum up: I’m gorgeous.

  It’s the opposite of that nightmare scenario where you bump into your ex-boyfriend, wearing only pajamas and a hangover. It’s the dream scenario. I’ve never looked better in my life, and I’m fairly sure I never will again, not unless I hire ten makeup artists. This is my pinnacle, looks-wise.

  With a sudden little burst of confidence, I push open the restaurant door, to be greeted by a warm, inviting smell of garlic and seafood. There are leather booths and a massive chandelier and the right kind of hubbub. Not show-offy and obnoxious but civilized and friendly. A mixologist is shaking a cocktail at the bar and I have an instant, Pavlovian desire for a mojito.

  I’m not going to get drunk, I hastily resolve. I’m not going to sleep with him and I’m not going to get drunk.