ACT THREE – THE WEDDING
Chapter 11
As it turns out, Jake and I do not get a chance to meet my parents again. I have a real, valid, honest excuse. Well, Jake does.
He has a job that doesn’t involve making coffee, being a pretend date, being an alien, or walking dogs. Jake has to stand in for the lead in some stage play where he was understudy. The guy broke a leg (I always did wonder about how wise it was to wish that on people, maybe understudies say it and it qualifies as a lucky break. As in career, not leg, obviously), and so Jake has been rehearsing and acting, until there are only two days before we go to Scotland.
Not only does he not get to meet my parents again, we haven’t had much chance to get to know each other in a non-sexual way. It’s been limited to a few snatched coffees, before he’s rushed back to rehearsals, and we really haven’t made as much progress as I had planned.
I realise that I really want to see more of him, he’s good company, and it’s weird when we’re not meeting up for a chat. Or a pizza. I miss him.
Our meetings have been brief, but better than nothing. He’s been distracted though, asking me to test him on his lines, and I’ve gone on about Liam, and Jess, and Jess’s mum, and how I’ve completely failed on the losing weight front and at the last dress fitting everybody else’s dress needed taking in, and I kind of took up the slack. I remember at school being told in a science lesson that energy cannot be created or destroyed. It is there, somewhere, transferred or in a different form. Well, I am fairly certain this applies to fat; one person might lose it, but it goes to another person.
Luckily my diet plan and the gym sessions have had some effect, so I’ve not got fatter, I just haven’t got thinner. And Jake has said he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, I look fine to him.
On top of all of this, on his first free day Jake has ‘stuff’ to sort, and I need my roots doing and a last minute pep talk from Tim.
‘You are so not fat, gorgeous lady. Is she girls? You are statuesque, Rubenesque, burlesque.’ I think he ran out of valid ‘esque’s’ at this stage, but whoever it is that said gay men only like stick insects is wrong. Or maybe they said gay fashion designers? Either way they are wrong, or Tim is an excellent liar. I don’t care – I’ll take it. ‘Now give Jake a kiss from me and strut your stuff!’ I definitely wasn’t going to start kissing Jake on behalf of anybody, but the round of applause did rather go to my head (or that could have been the Bailey’s iced coffee that came free with a cut and blow) and I practically strut down the high street.
Then I get home, see my suitcase and it really hits me that tomorrow is the day and I feel like Jon Snow in Game of Thrones – ‘I know nothing’.
I still don’t know why Jake needs a distraction, but I have now got the most healthy bank balance I am ever likely to have. I am going to stare at my statements and wallow in my pretend wealth – until I have to hand it over to the man who is about to demolish or help me build my self-esteem and reputation to incredible heights.
I’ve been a bit worried that at this rate he’ll be the only person at the wedding who does not know much about me at all – apart from the fact that I like chocolate brownies, and am not good with dogs (though he thinks I am). And he does know a lot about Liam. And Jess. And the fact that when I am unhappy I seem to lose my last vestige of self-control where food is concerned.
This is good in some ways (stops him pulling out), but very bad in others (increases the risk of being found out).
So the day before we’re due to head across the border and the far north I’m knocking at his door in a state of mild panic.
He ruffles his fingers through his hair, so that it sticks up in all directions and he looks like a confused puppy that’s just woken up. Cute, and mildly disturbing. I must be crazy. It’s late and I’m door-stepping a hunk of a man I hardly know.
A near-naked hunk, who is standing in front of me in trackie bottoms and very little else.
I have never seen him nearly naked. And it is distracting. Very distracting.
And I’m in my pyjamas.
It was a sudden, impulsive decision. Mum had rung not long after Tim had massaged my scalp and my ego.
‘You are still coming to see us in the morning, darling?’
Sugar, I’d forgotten about that bit. ‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Early. You know your dad likes to allow plenty of time.’
‘Early.’
‘Such a shame we couldn’t get to see Jake again before the wedding.’
‘Yes I know but…’
‘We were so looking forward to finding out more about him. He seems such a nice young man, and I never got a chance to ask him about his acting. I’m sure with all my experience I could give him some useful tips. We all need to start somewhere.’
‘It’ll be fine, Mum. We’ll come round half an hour before your taxi is due, and then you can have another little chat.’ This had seemed a good idea when we’d agreed it. I’d thought the fact that they’d already met him, and seemed to know him would add authenticity. Thirty minutes had also seemed long enough for pleasantries, but well short of what was required for a full-blown Miss Marple style interrogation.
‘Such a shame we aren’t travelling up together.’ Her sigh was that old familiar sound of disappointment in me, of ‘oh well, I’m sure you’ll do better next time’.
‘I know. But Dad doesn’t like driving that far, it’s a long way, and my car isn’t big enough for all of us.’ There are times when I am SO happy I have a two seater, even if it is old and crappy. It had made sense for my parents to fly, less stress all round.
‘Well, I’m sure Jake has got a car big enough for all of us, hasn’t he?’
She said it in a way that suggested if he hadn’t, then he was lacking in some way. It was a question I couldn’t answer though. I didn’t know if he had a revved up engine and was firing on all cylinders, or if he had an environmentally friendly, but far less impressive, push bike. ‘I think his is electric.’ Which I think was a pretty inspired thought, given the pressure I am under.
‘Oh, are those tiny, dear?’
‘No, but the battery might run out.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a long way to Scotland.’
‘Those Duracell batteries are supposed to be very good darling, they last all day and night so I’m told.’
‘It’s a car, Mum. It’s different.’ Any minute now she’ll be offering to pop down to Aldi and buy a bumper pack of AA’s.
I haven’t asked Jake whether he has a car because I had said we would go in my car – after all, I’m the boss here. But I can’t own up to that.
‘Or we could have all flown together, Samantha. That would have been nice.’
Excruciatingly nice. There can only be one thing worse than being stuck on a country estate for a week with a fake date wondering if it’s all going to go wrong, and that has to be being stuck in a tin box at thirty-five thousand feet with a fake date and your parents. ‘Yes but we thought…’ I was struggling, we’d actually thought a few hours stuck in a car together might help us get to know each other. ‘We thought it would be romantic, a little road trip.’
‘Oh.’ That does the trick. ‘Well, don’t put the roof down, it makes you look wild with your hair blowing everywhere. Men don’t like wild.’
I don’t know what planet my mother grew up on, but I’d beg to differ on that one. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘You have packed that pretty dress, haven’t you? I like you in that. It shows off your figure, I don’t know why you young girls insist on wearing jeans all the time these days. When I was your age I…’
‘Look Mum, it’s late, I’ve not packed yet. Can we chat tomorrow?’
So I’m standing outside Jake’s place. With a jacket over my PJ’s, and a taxi waiting, with its clock ticking over.
He frowns. ‘What’s up?’
Well, his bare chest is up for one thing, and the fact that he’s got that dark sha
dowy stubble effect which means he hasn’t shaved for at least twenty-four hours. See, I don’t know exactly how long because I don’t know how often he shaves. As a girlfriend I should. It is little things like this that worry me.
‘I can’t do it.’ I must add that the half a bottle of wine I downed after I’d finished my call with Mum hasn’t steadied my pre-wedding jitters at all. It has set them into overdrive. I now have hyper-fidgets, which could be nerves, or could be partly down to staring at that chest. I want to touch it. Just a quick fondle.
‘It’s the bride or groom that are supposed to get cold feet, not the maid of honour.’ He’s looking bemused.
‘Mum and Dad will realise, everybody will realise.’
‘Did everybody realise Liam was a jerk?’
‘Well no, but…’ I bite the inside of my cheek as this thought sinks in. It is true, they had never noticed. Well, not until fairly recently, Dad said. But then neither had I.
‘There you go. So why should they realise that we’re not an item?’ He opens the door a bit wider, and steps back, and I kind of fall in. I think my eyes are so focused on his body that when it moves, so do I. Which could have been embarrassing, but he sidesteps neatly and steadies me with a hand on my elbow.
‘I thought I could tell them you’d stood me up?’ This thought had occurred to me while Mum was going on about pretty dresses and wild hair.
He shakes his head, and looks disappointed. ‘I have not stood you up.’ He’s still holding my elbow, which is rather nice.
‘Yes, but, hypothetic—’
‘I’d never stand you up. Never, not even hypothetically.’
His tone has softened and I really do want to touch that slightly hairy chest, to sink against his warm body (I just know it will be warm), to somehow believe him. Believe this can work.
The wine has obviously gone to my head.
‘I’m not going to let you give up, Sam. We can do this.’
I get it. He’s broke. That’s why he took this job, and he wants to see it through. ‘Don’t worry about the money, I’ve got it, I’ll pay you even if we don’t go. I mean you should get at least some of it, for inconvenience and well, whatever.’
‘There’s no inconvenience. But you’re going to get your week in Scotland, you’re going to be there for your best friend, and you’re going to show the world that you don’t give a monkey’s about that arsehole.’ He brushes his knuckles against my cheek. ‘I told you, this isn’t just about the money Sam. I like you, you’re mega brave and gutsy and prepared to do this for Jess.’
‘It’s not just for Jess, it’s for me.’
‘Good. I don’t like the way you’ve been treated. I know how it feels.’
‘And I am over him.’
‘I know you are.’
‘But everybody knows he used to be my arsehole and now he has—’
He puts his spare finger on my lips.
‘Now he has screwed his own life up, and you should be very grateful he didn’t screw yours up too.’
I hadn’t thought about it like that before. Did Liam want to be a dad? He hadn’t even wanted joint ownership of a goldfish when we were together. Too much mess, he said.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m totally shagged, I need to sleep, Sam.’ He lets his hand drop, and my poor cold elbow is abandoned. ‘I’ve had a hectic few weeks and we’ve got an early start tomorrow. Go home, get your head down. Go on, bugger off.’
Now he’s trying to send me away. We’ve only been talking for ten minutes tops, and he’s bored. ‘Mum wanted us to fly with them.’ For some reason I don’t want to go. Talking is an excellent way of delaying things.
‘The drive will give us time to chat, get to know each other, and it’ll mean we’ve got a car handy when we get there. And I, er, well, I might have a bit of a problem, a minor complication.’
‘Complication?’ Problem? Complication? I thought we had a deal. I could give in to hysterics now, or I could take deep breaths. More of them. At this rate there won’t be enough oxygen left for everybody else.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I can sort it. Honestly. Forget I said anything.’
Only a man could put the words ‘complication’ and ‘don’t worry’ together. How can I not worry?
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it, should I?’
‘Yes, yes, it’s fine.’ No, he definitely shouldn’t have mentioned it. Now I will sleep even less than the not-sleeping I was expecting.
‘Hang on.’ He turns around and I’m treated to a view of his back, which is nice and broad, and hair-free, and kind of muscled but not too much. And tapers down to his bum, which I already know is quite pert but solid looking.
Solid-looking. That about sums him up; not too slim, or jeans hanging off jutting out hipbones (or groin, I mean who thinks hanging your clothes off your groin is a good idea?). Just all round solid.
‘Here.’ He holds out an envelope.
‘I’m not going by a post—’
‘Read it, Sam.’
I read it. The bold, slightly flamboyant writing leaps out at me: I CAN DO IT.
‘You can.’ He’s studying me, and nodding.
‘I can.’ I nod back. Tim told me I could do it. Everybody has told me I can do it. I can.
‘Stick that up above your desk, or your mirror, or in your handbag or whatever. Read it whenever you have doubts.’ He gives a slightly self-conscious shrug, which is SO cute. ‘It worked for me.’
‘Oh.’ I look at him more closely, and wish I was sober. ‘But you never have doubts, you’re an actor, you were in the third bed along, and you’re going to be in a film.’ I can’t imagine he ever needed to tell himself he can do anything. He is Mr Quietly Confident.
He laughs. ‘It took me three years to get into stage school, then a few more before I got even a crappy little part. I’m no overnight sensation, Sam. My uncle had little signs scattered round his study, with words of wisdom like this. He gave me a plaque with these words on when he told me about the fund he’d set up. He said that some people are lucky enough to have a special somebody in their life who will tell them they can do it, but the rest of us need to tell ourselves.’ He held a hand up to stop me speaking. ‘He also said that self-belief is the strongest gift you can have.’
‘But you don’t have somebody else to…’
‘I had my uncle, and then…’ His gaze drifts across my face, as though he’s trying to imprint it in his mind. ‘I did have somebody else for a while, but what you see isn’t always what you get, is it Sam? Sometimes it’s all just skin deep.’ The tips of his fingers cascade over my cheek and I want to grab his hand, but it’s gone before I can. And so is the serious, thoughtful look on his face. He smiles, a bit lopsided, but a smile. If I’ve ever really wanted to hug him it’s now.
‘Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are, but sometimes…’ I pause, feeling all philosophical in the way I often do after a few drinks. ‘But sometimes I think they’re who they were all along. We just didn’t want to look too closely.’
‘You could be right. Which is why I guess I’ve decided it’s easier not to get into anything heavy.’
‘But wimpier.’ Good God, what am I saying? I don’t want heavy. Definitely not.
Jake just laughs though, a deep-throated chuckle. ‘You’re funny. Call me a wimp then.’
But I don’t think he is, not really.
‘Which is why you want a distraction…’ I hold up the envelope in front of me, as though I’m meeting somebody at the airport.
‘I want a distraction from something I can’t do anything about. It is out of my hands.’
‘Which is?’
He is still chuckling. ‘Go on, go! Before I drag you off to bed, rules or no rules.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders and spins me round, then pats me on my bum to send me on my way. Which is rather nice. But distracting. God, he’s cute. Or did I say that already?
Which reminds me.
I don’t know
what his complication is. And I definitely need to find out why he needs a distraction.
Chapter 12
It’s a good job I’ve been keeping a lookout, because Jake turns up indecently early at my parents’ house. And from my spot by the window the first thing I notice is that there is something wrong. Very wrong. He isn’t carrying a bag, or any luggage at all.
I glance down behind his feet, check out his back. Not the teeniest-weeniest rucksack in sight. And from the fit of his chinos and shirt I’d say there isn’t a place suitable to smuggle even a toothbrush in.
He’s changed his mind. It’s the only answer. He’s decided he doesn’t need a distraction, or his complication is just too big to ignore.
He’s reaching out to push the doorbell when he spots me. It’s hard not to really because I’m frantically rubbing away on the glass to clear up the steamed-up bit, as my nose has been pressed against it. Mum hates smudges.
I’m considering climbing out of the window so that I can frisk him and demand co-ordinating travel accessories. He freezes, arm outstretched, a welcome grin on his face.
‘Stay!’ I’m not sure if he can lip read or not, but I’m out of my seat like a whippet from a trap. Okay, maybe not a whippet, but for me I’m fast, out of the lounge, and tripping over the suitcases that Mum has strategically placed in the hallway before she’s had time to take a bite out of her toast. I know she’s done it on purpose, it’s a trap. Nobody is getting in or out of this house without her noticing.
Which is why I’m rubbing my elbow when I open the door.
‘You okay?’
‘Slipped.’ I point at the cases, which are now not so strategically placed, or so artistically piled up.
‘Ouch.’ He winces.
All I can do is point to his feet, where his own luggage should be, then back to the scattered pile. My parents have two large wheelie cases, one cabin bag, a couple of those posh suit bags, a small bag with emergency rations in (they like to be prepared) and what looks like Dad’s old briefcase. For a moment I’m distracted, why does he need a briefcase? Are we going to be tested when we get there? Should I have packed a laptop, or pen and paper?
The Wedding Date Page 10
