The Wedding Date

by Zara Stoneley

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  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperColl‌insPublishers

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

  Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2017

  Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right

  to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

  the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

  entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International

  and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

  the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

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  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

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  whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

  hereinafter invented, without the express

  written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008301033

  Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008301026

  Version: 2018-06-12

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Act One – The Invite

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Act Two – The Date

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Act Three – The Wedding

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Zara Stoneley

  About the Author

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  For my parents. With love.

  ACT ONE – THE INVITE

  Chapter 1

  Reasons I, Sam Jenkins, cannot go to this wedding:

  1. I’m too fat, and just don’t have time to get down to a look-okay-in-a-posh-summer-frock weight.

  2. Lemon is so not my colour (which is the colour theme – Jess knows my aversion to over the top dresses and so has gone for a theme rather than providing the type of dress she loves and I hate). Mum says it drains me.

  3. I have far too much work to do. And house-cleaning, and gardening.

  4. I don’t have a date.

  5. The last man I dated ripped my heart out, stamped on it and is going to be the best man.

  Reasons I have to go to this wedding.

  1. Jess was is my best friend.

  I could add ‘and my hair looks crap’ but that one is easily handled. Much more easily handled than losing the chocolate-cake-and-chips stone in weight that has very comfortably settled itself round my stomach like an unwelcome lodger who intends to stay. Healthy food is on my to-do list, it just hasn’t made it on to my shopping list yet. I mean, you have to prioritise, don’t you? And I’m not quite ready.

  Now don’t get me wrong, I can be pretty determined when I want to be, and show amazing self-control (last summer I lost 5 lb in weight the week before we went away, which meant the 7 lb I put on during the week was totally acceptable), but there are times in life when only a super-size bag of crisps and a bottle of wine will do, and the last few months has been one of those times. It has also been a time for espresso martinis and bumper bags of gin and tonic popcorn.

  I was dumped, and now this.

  A wedding invite. Well, advance warning of a wedding invite to be more precise.

  Normally I love a good wedding, who doesn’t? But, right now, cheering on any happy couple would make me feel slightly hopeless and weepy for all the wrong reasons. And this is worse. This is the worst.

  This isn’t just any wedding invite; it’s from Jess. My bestie.

  We’ve known each other forever. She told me some time ago to ‘save the date’ (when I was still the deluded half of a happy couple), and now she’s emailed to tell me why.

  She is getting married! The invite is in the post! It will be here any day! She is excited! Dan is excited! Everybody is excited! Her mum has already bought a hat!!! The wedding is going to be A-MA-ZING!! (The exclamation marks are hers, not mine – she is excited.)

  Normally I’d be pretty thrilled too – after all, I love her to bits. I want her to be happy, I truly, truly do, and she will be. But normally was the time before Liam shredded my heart, hopes, and the perfect future I’d created in my head, as thoroughly as he shredded his very private and confidential banking documents – and pretty much every other sheet of paper left carelessly lying around. And Jess is marrying Dan. Liam’s brother. And Liam will of course be the best man. Not that ‘best’ or ‘man’ are words I’d voluntarily apply to him.

  So I am not thrilled. I am imagining walking up the aisle behind my best friend towards the man who cheated on me. And everybody there will know he cheated on me. I will be the elephant in the room, the person that everybody stares at but avoids talking to because it is all so embarrassing and we are all so terribly British.

  And if I’m totally honest I actually feel like an elephant, as in big and an anaemic shade of grey - and I don’t have time to remedy the situation. I’m not sure any spray tan or control knickers are slimming enough.

  For the sake of my own battered self-esteem I need to be that kitten who looks in the mirror and sees a lion. Except in my case I need to see the sexiest pre-break up version of me possible. Liam and all our friends and family need to see that girl too. I need to be me, not the girl Liam dumped.

  And I do not have time.

  In two months’ time, Jess will be saying ‘I do’.

  I’m halfway to work when my phone starts beeping.

  Did you get my email? Isn’t it amazing?! Can’t wait to catch up with you, it’s been ages!

  It has been ages. Five months, three days, five hours and thirty-seven minutes (give or take the odd minute). That was when I’d waved goodbye to Jess and her boyfriend Dan, just five minutes before his snake-in-the-grass wanker-banker brother Liam dumped me.

  He’d put his hands on my waist and pulled me in for what I thought was a pre rumpy-pumpy kiss. Liam liked to work to a routine which could, if I’m brutally honest, be a bit long-winded and anti-climactic (though the last bit is only true for me, he peaked as regularly as clockwork). The foreplay started at the pub, lasted the entire walk home with increasingly amorous snogs and squeezes, there’d be a brief grope as we stumbled up the stairs, then it culminated in a five-minute shag, a groan of satisfact
ion – his, and only occasionally mine – before he collapsed on his back and fell asleep.

  Anyway, I thought that’s why he’d grabbed me, so I puckered up and closed my eyes. And nothing happened. I opened one. Liam was giving me his spaniel look. Beseeching. So I opened the other eye, wondering what could be so earth-shatteringly important as to disrupt his foreplay routine (those two words shouldn’t really sit side by side, even I know that).

  ‘Samantha—’ he only called me Samantha in front of my parents, his parents, and his boss ‘—you’re a lovely girl—’ I could feel my body stiffen, as though it was expecting a blow, though my brain hadn’t twigged why ‘—but this has started to feel like a habit.’

  Ahh, maybe at last my subtle hints about our all the way home warm-up session had sunk in at last. ‘I know what you mean.’ At last! A chance to add a bit of spice to life. Impulsive just isn’t a word you’d breathe in the same sentence as ‘Liam’, but maybe he’d seen the fun his brother was having with Jess, and decided to go for it.

  I loved Liam with all my life, he was kind and considerate, but we were in a bit of a rut. Maybe he had realised that a rut isn’t good when you’re not yet thirty. Perhaps it was time to buy some new sexy underwear, a little black dress, some slightly higher heels. ‘Maybe we should walk back a different way? Across the park?’ A fumble in the bushes would make a change, and Mrs Tribble from number 26 wouldn’t be able to peer out and tut. Why do people insist on watching things they know they don’t approve of? Pull the curtains, love. Watch the weather forecast.

  Anyway, we could even spend a romantic moment on the bench by the pond. But I was dying for the loo, so it would only be a fleeting stop.

  ‘I don’t mean the route.’ He gave me his sad smile, the one he normally reserved for customers he was just about to turn down for a loan. I half-expected him to start his next sentence with ‘regretfully’, but he didn’t. ‘I mean our relationship. It’s not really going anywhere, is it?’

  He liked his routines. He thrived on routine. We had our own sides of the bed, his toothbrush had its own side of the mug, every second of the day had its place in his organised life, and he was saying this as though it was my fault? He was saying he was bored? But I knew I could put a positive spin on this. Maybe I had been a bit lax, not determined enough to shake us both out of our complacent little life together.

  ‘We could have a mini-break, go to Spain, or Paris? Ooh la la!’ I did a wriggle which could have been sexy French, or the start of a Spanish flamenco. ‘Spice things up?’

  ‘I didn’t mean go anywhere as in travel.’ The sad look was now turning into one of annoyance, and he was gazing straight over the top of my head – not looking me in the eye. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, and you know I like to be straight.’

  I did. Liam wasn’t one to soften the blow – he liked to say exactly what he was thinking, which could be embarrassing at times. He was the man who’d agree with the hostess that the meat was on the tough side, and told my mother that yes, her bum did look a little bit large in her new trousers, but at her age it didn’t matter. She’d laughed it off, but the next time I saw those trousers they were in the charity shop – I swear they were hers, they had the faintest of stains from where she’d slopped the coffee she’d been passing to him.

  ‘I think we’ve reached the end of the road.’

  We’d not even reached the corner shop. ‘But we’re only…’

  ‘Samantha, I’ve met somebody else.’ The blood had the decency to rush out of his face at roughly the same speed the words shot out of his mouth.

  I stared in astonishment, pretty sure that my mouth was gaping open.

  ‘I’m sorry, I do wish you well.’ And he held his hand out. Held his bloody hand out! I suppose it was habit, the bank thing.

  I hadn’t seen Jess after that. We’d swapped texts, even had brief, slightly awkward phone conversations where she’d tried not to mention Dan in every sentence, and I’d tried to ignore it when she did, and to act normal and jolly. And not ask if she’d seen Liam.

  The trouble was, we’d been a foursome. For ages. And now we were a threesome and it didn’t quite work the same. We hadn’t had separate girly dates for years. Our social life had been double dating, and though she did sympathise, and she did call Liam several nasty names (she was actually far more inventive than me), I couldn’t expect her to join in a bitch fest about her boyfriend’s brother all the time, could I?

  I’d gone on a spectacular drunken bender with Sarah from work, then I’d booked some leave and sat in my flat for a week, because going out meant putting eyeliner on, and there is no eyeliner known to woman that could cope with the rate at which my eyes were leaking.

  The only thing I didn’t do was lose weight. I hate every woman who sheds the stones like a snake sheds its skin when they break up with a boyfriend. Because I pile it on. Wine, chocolate and every carb known to woman flock to my side to comfort me – then settle on my stomach, and under my armpits.

  Anyway, so that was then and this is now, post exciting-wedding-news email.

  Fantastic news! I text back to Jess. I’m so pleased for you!! You and Dan make the perfect couple!!! I always find exclamation marks can make up for any lack of enthusiasm when you can’t think of anything to say, and all you can think about is the groom-to-be’s bastard brother who will be at the wedding. Can’t wait to see you!!!

  A text comes back straight away, as though her fingers have been poised over the send button. Just so you know, but I know it won’t bother you seeing as you’ve got a new man (I’d lied – when Jess had texted me about ‘the break-up’ I’d told her I was over Liam, so over him, I had a new man, I was happy, deliriously happy!) Liam’s new girlfriend will be with him, she’s preggers. HUGE!

  Shit. My feet have become disconnected from my brain and stopped working, and the nearest wall looms towards me.

  Pregnant? How could she be even a teeny bit pregnant, let alone huge? It had only been five months and three and a bit days since we split, and Liam never rushes into anything. Anything. It took him half an hour (minimum) to get into bed, because the sheets needed straightening and his teeth needed brushing and his clothes needed folding. I’d never yet had a hot meal with him, because if the table wasn’t laid properly and the cutlery perfectly aligned then he couldn’t get stuck in. I mean, who needs fully coordinated tableware when you’re tucking into bangers and mash?

  Liam was a man of habit. The more I list his habits (which I do a lot these days), the more I wonder why I was so mad about him, why I went to bits when he dumped me, why I ever put up with him.

  But love’s weird like that, isn’t it? And I’m beginning to think there might be a tiny bit of hurt pride shoved in there as well. Dumping in your own time is one thing, being the dump-ee is altogether different. But I had been happy with Liam. Lazily happy.

  Jess has obviously got bored of waiting for a reply, or is worried I’ve gone off to top myself. He’s a prat, I wouldn’t have invited him but he is Dan’s brother.

  I know. It is the best response I can do under pressure. No exclamation marks.

  I’d known he’d be at the wedding. He’d told me he’d met ‘somebody else’ – met, not shagged. To be honest a tiny part of me wants to see this girl. The part that could scoff and say she wasn’t that pretty, that thin, that clever. A bigger part of me wants to run a mile in case she is all that and more.

  But pregnant? Huge?? No part of me had expected that.

  At least I wouldn’t have to look at some willowy beauty hanging off his arm, I suppose. Although, shit, don’t pregnant woman have this ‘glow’? I can’t stand next to a glowing girlfriend if I’m all fat and spotty. And alone. Everybody will be looking, nodding sympathetically at me, and whispering ‘you can’t blame him’ behind their hands.

  I can’t wait to meet your new man! Jess is still texting.

  Nor could I.

  How the hell am I supposed to hook up with somebody new before
the wedding? And the more excited texts I get from Jess, the guiltier I feel about even thinking about saying I can’t make it.

  Not long!!! See, what did I say about exclamation marks? I suppose between now and the wedding I could say my mystery man and I had split up, or I could actually find a real man, or the imaginary one could die, or rush off to care for an ill relative, or get run over by a bus. Or all of the above. The possibilities are endless. Sorry, got to rush, late for work. I do usually tell the truth. Call you back later for a proper chat xx

  My ‘reasons I can’t go’ list needs updating. There’s a new entry at number six.

  6. My ex has impregnated somebody else. Hugely.

  Shoving my mobile in my bag, and pushing my shoulders back, I paste a ‘happy as Larry’ grin on my face and throw open the door of the travel agency.

  Chapter 2

  ‘What’s up?’ Sarah, my other best friend, is sitting behind a desk that has two mugs of coffee, three Danish pastries, and several travel brochures open on it. She has pink hair (it changes regularly, I think she’s naturally blonde, but I can’t be sure, I’ve only known her three years), and a T-shirt that says ‘Windsurfers do it standing up’. Most travel agencies would insist on a uniform, but Sarah’s aunt owns this one and is as potty as she is. For her sixtieth birthday, she (the aunt, not Sarah) celebrated by going parasailing in Crete and taking the thirty-five year old instructor to bed. My mother celebrated hers with afternoon tea in a posh hotel. I fear that I am more like my mum than Sarah’s aunt.

  Sarah isn’t fooled by my radiant smile.

  ‘Here. Just what the doctor ordered.’ She pushes a coffee towards me, and holds out a sticky pastry. I’m not sure any doctor would order anybody to eat this. ‘There were only three left, so I couldn’t leave one on its own could I?’