Call Me, Maybe

by Call Me, Maybe (retail) (epub)

  ‘Oh, Cassie,’ he sighs.

  ‘He was meant to come to the wedding with me, Dad.’ I sob, ‘I don’t know how I am meant to deal with any of this. I can’t see how I am ever going to get over this.’ He rubs my back as it heaves up and down.

  ‘There, there, lovely girl. Give yourself a bit of time.’ He pulls a hanky out of his shirt pocket and holds it out for me. ‘It’s clean,’ he says.

  * * *

  I pull up outside Rachel’s parents’ house soon after eleven. She takes one look at me and decides it’s probably best not to ask why I am late. We pick up the dresses and stop for a coffee in a café close to the shop.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s up?’ she asks.

  I stir my cappuccino before I talk and I look down at the table, unable to meet her eye.

  ‘I found a box of Franko stuff this morning. All my posters, everything, basically, that was on my wall. Then I looked at it all and got upset.’ She nods over her coffee cup. ‘Dad found me weeping over a Smash Hits interview.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘He didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘No, I’m sure he didn’t.’

  ‘No one knows what to say, do they? Mum said I’ve lost weight.’

  ‘You have.’

  ‘People screw up relationships all the time.’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘And they get over it. Why am I no closer to being over this?’

  ‘Because you guys were crazy. Most people don’t cram an entire relationship into a holiday. And then it all came crashing down unexpectedly. No wonder it’s all caught up with you. It was bound to eventually.’

  ‘I read somewhere that a relationship takes half of its length to get over.’

  ‘Yes, but Cassie, this is something that you’ve been harbouring since you were a teenager, whether you admit it or not. Don’t you see? If you had really and truly got over it when Franko broke up, then you wouldn’t have added him on Facebook. You’d have just thought, meh, he’s on Facebook, big deal, so are millions of other people. So you’re not just trying to get over your two weeks in California, and whatever you had going on before that, you’re actually trying to get over the last thirteen years of your life and all these dormant feelings you had for him.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I say. ‘You missed your calling. You should have been a shrink.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she continues, ‘you did actually have a love at first sight moment all those years ago. Maybe that’s why it’s never worked out with anyone else, because subconsciously you’ve compared every single boyfriend you’ve ever had to Jesse, and none of them ever matched up. None of them could ever match up.’

  ‘You sound like you’ve given this a lot of thought,’ I tell her.

  ‘Well, as it happens I have. And I have to tell you that I feel partly responsible for this.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘No, it’s true. It was my idea to look them up that night. If I hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t have been crying over your posters this morning.’

  I take her hand across the table.

  ‘Rachel. You mustn’t feel guilty. Because up until… all that, I was having the best time of my life. It was so intense. He told me things that he hasn’t told anyone else. When it was good, it was magnificent. It was tremendous. There are people who go through their entire lives not even coming close to feeling the way I did in America. So don’t feel like this is your fault, because all this shit… well it’s just really shitty and unfortunate. And I should have handled it better.’

  ‘I think you handled it the same way a lot of people would have done.’ She looks me straight in the eye. ‘Look, Cassie, you should know…’ She stops midway through the sentence. Chews her bottom lip and looks contemplative. ‘I really think it’s going to get easier.’

  ‘So people tell me,’ I sigh.

  ‘Yeah, but it will,’ she says.

  I look down into the dregs of my coffee. There is chocolate smudged around the inside of the cup. Foamy bubbles pop.

  ‘Let’s talk about your wedding,’ I say, squeezing her fingers again. ‘How excited are you?’

  When I get home, there is no sign of my Franko box. Nothing is mentioned.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Cassie

  Friday morning starts in much the same way as Thursday. Mum’s made bacon sandwiches for breakfast and Dad snaffles his up in a way that suggests it’s not their normal fare. I wonder if it’s Mum’s way of trying to cheer me up, so I eat what she serves me, despite the breakfast meeting Rachel and I have with Eloise the wedding coordinator at Latimer Abbey.

  Rachel is bristling with excitement as I pull into the gated entrance.

  ‘You’re going to love it, Cass,’ she says.

  ‘I’ve always been kind of curious about it,’ I say, driving slowly up a long, gravel road, lined with spherical outdoor lamps. If I get a chip in the windscreen from a rogue stone, Mum will not be impressed. ‘I used to think it was one of the Queen’s houses when I was a kid,’ I admit. Rachel smirks.

  ‘It’s basically a hotel with a spa, mate,’ she says. ‘I bet the Queen hasn’t even heard of it.’

  The road twists and turns and eventually opens out into a huge driveway with a flower bed in the middle of it. There are immaculate lawns stretching all around the grounds with enormous trees dotted across the land. A woman in a trouser suit with very neat hair is waiting just outside the main entrance and Rachel waves at her and tells me it’s Eloise. I park in the car park and we traipse back around to where she is still waiting.

  ‘I’m afraid George couldn’t get the day off work for this,’ Rachel explains. ‘So I’ve brought Cassie. She’s my maid of honour.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Eloise beams. We shake hands. She turns to Rachel, ‘So, tomorrow is the big day.’ She bounces on her sensible heels as she speaks. ‘I wanted to make sure we have everything you need here at Latimer to make it spectacular.’

  The car is loaded with Rachel’s fishbowls and bag after bag of glass pebbles and floating candles, as well as tiny drawstring bags of bonbons and colouring books for the kids. The seating plan, too, although I’ve made a point of not looking at that in case I get upset about not seeing Jesse’s name on there.

  Eloise leads us past a long mahogany reception desk and through grand wooden doors. There’s an imposing staircase with swirly banisters and brass stair rods. We end up in a large, bright room with French doors that open out onto a patio, a rose garden, and a croquet lawn. Beyond all that, Eloise explains, flicking her wrist down a gently sloping hill, is a lake with reeds and wildlife. It’s a great location for photos.

  Light streams into the room. Twelve circular tables, each with ten chairs around it, are laid out and one of them has been made up with pressed white linen and formal place settings.

  ‘So these will obviously all be made up tomorrow,’ Eloise says. ‘But this was just really to give you a feel of how it’ll look.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Rachel beams, stroking the table cloth, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so enthused by white linen and multiple forks in my life.

  ‘Shall we discuss the final details over a coffee?’ Eloise asks, gesturing back towards the door. We follow her into a tearoom where she makes a signal to a waiter who takes our drink orders and brings a tray of miniature pastries. We discuss where the receiving line will be, the order of the speeches and where The Highly Strung will be playing. Eloise finds the idea of a ukulele band being called The Highly Strung hysterical.

  ‘I’ve been at Latimer for eight and a half years,’ she muses, ‘and in all that time, I’ve never had a couple have a ukulele band as their entertainment. We get a lot of tribute acts, especially Robbie Williams and Michael Bublé, but never, ever, a ukulele band.’

  ‘Well, George and I got engaged in Hawaii,’ Rachel says. Eloise sits forward in her seat; she knows there will be a story here, and she's right, and it’s a lovely one. Maybe she'll relay it to o
ther prospective couples when they come to look around. She laps up the details as Rachel continues. ‘The evening he proposed, we were in an amazing restaurant, eating the freshest seafood I think possibly in the world, and these four ukulele players come over and start playing at our table. They performed a cover of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”, in the style of some really famous Hawaiian ukulele player and singer, and it was just gorgeous. I was enthralled by them and when I looked back at George, he was on one knee with this,’ she rubs her fingers over her ring. ‘So ukuleles are pretty special to us. He’d planned the entire thing.’ She shakes her head and looks wistful. Eloise looks like she might well up.

  ‘That’s just such a wonderful story,’ she says. Her hand is resting on her chest. Her eyebrows are slanted downwards, and I think hearing all these stories must be one of the best parts of her job.

  ‘It really is,’ I agree.

  When we are finished, Eloise comes back out to the car and helps us to unload everything. It takes multiple trips. I do not carry the seating plan.

  ‘So we’ll be welcoming you tonight,’ Eloise smiles as our meeting ends. ‘And I believe you have dinner reservations with us this evening?’ Rachel nods and turns to me.

  ‘You’re sharing with Lauren,’ she says, and honestly, I’m pleased to get out of my old bedroom, if only for one night.

  * * *

  Dad drops me back at Latimer Abbey soon after five, and I check into Lauren’s room and sit down on the bed. There’s a big window that looks out over the land we could see from the dining room; a pretty view of lawns and gardens and woodland and that lake. A sweet wooden bridge arches over one section of it and briefly, it reminds me of the bridge Jesse and I walked over in Venice, but I push that memory aside and turn away from the window.

  I hang our dresses, in their bags, in the wardrobe and wonder what to do before dinner. There isn’t really time to visit the spa, and sitting in a steam room isn’t much fun when you’re on your own. Neither is going to the bar. Rachel still hasn’t arrived, and Lauren and Marie won’t be turning up for another hour. I could have a nap, but that feels like a waste of time, and besides, I’m not tired. Eventually, I decide on a walk.

  Mum was right. It is beautiful here in October. The leaves on the trees rustle, yellowing and curled up at their edges, drying out ready to fall off the branches. Soon, the trees will be bare. It’s not just how it all looks though; the silence of the place is beautiful, too. And the clean, grassy-smelling air. I bet the stars are mesmerising out here, twinkly and abundant, hanging in the sky. It won’t be tomorrow, but for now the place is tranquil. I pull my cardigan around me to ward off the breeze as I walk across the lawn to one of the gardens. There is no one else here and I sit down on a bench and look back at the abbey. The problem with being alone is that it gives me time to think, and I don’t want to do that. Not really. I don’t want to feel maudlin and sad anymore. I want to get on with things. I want to celebrate my best friend's wedding. I don’t want to wake up in my old bedroom on Sunday morning, nursing a hangover and knowing I have nothing to look forward to besides going back to work on Monday. I don’t want to be thinking that I should have been at Heathrow this morning, waiting at arrivals, jittery and excited. And yet that’s precisely what is stuck in my head, like a roadblock that I can’t get around, or a CD that skips, jarringly.

  I need to know, one way or another, what the outcome is. Fred was right, the insightful bastard; I’m never going to truly be able to put myself back together if I’m still clinging to those what ifs. I pull my phone out of my pocket and tap the Facebook icon. Type his name into the search box. Jesse Franklin, Freelance Musician. The results load and he’s halfway down the page. The photo’s the same, but now I recognise that it was taken in the living room. The shelves in the background are the ones behind the sofa. The plant is the one on a console table near the back doors. It’s like I’ve passed through his life and nothing has changed for him. It’s like I was never there. I tap his name, and the profile loads. I can’t see much. It’s exactly as it was that evening back in April. My heart’s racing now, my fingers are trembling. I click to send a message, but I don’t know where to start. The lack of response to my email spoke volumes and no words come. Instead, I stare at the screen until it times out and fades to black.

  Calmly, I close the app and put my phone down next to me on the bench. This needs more time and consideration than I can devote to it now. I force it all out of my head and amble back towards the hotel.

  Dinner is civilised. Far more so than the last time we all ate together – what with there not being any phallic straws or obscene confectionery. Rachel thanks us all for being great bridesmaids even though I feel like I’ve been anything but, and we call it a night just after ten. Marie is flagging and Rachel wants to cram in as much sleep as she can before tomorrow. After they have disappeared I make eyes at the lumbering, unfortunate looking barman for something to put in my hip flask and Lauren buys another bottle of wine which we take up to our room. She conks out the minute her head hits the pillow, so I drink it by myself whilst watching repeats of American sitcoms, and I allow myself just a few minutes to wallow and pine. Niles loves Daphne. Frasier is hapless. I am not with Jesse.

  Chapter Fifty

  Cassie

  The alarm on my phone jolts me awake, and I slowly look around the room, pushing hair out of my face and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. It’s dark in here, only cracks of light creep around the edge of the curtains. There are scatter cushions all over the floor and the TV is still on mute. The almost empty wine bottle is on the bedside table with my glass next to it and beside me, Lauren is still sleeping like the dead, her leg hanging out of the bed. There’s a sharp rap at the door and I get up and pad over. Marie is on the other side of the peephole, and the fish-eye lens distorts her, making her head look enormous whilst the rest of her is tiny. She raises her hand to knock again but I pull open the door before she can.

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘You’re up.’

  ‘Well, one of us is,’ I say. Marie peers around the door at the lump in the bed that is Lauren. She sighs and pushes past me into the room and over to the window, yanking open the curtains. Light streams in. Lauren groans and pulls a pillow over her head.

  ‘They are bringing breakfast up in ten,’ Marie announces. ‘The hairdresser has already put Rachel’s hair in rollers, and Mandy should be here in a bit. You can shower in my room if you like.’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ I say, as cheerfully as I can manage through my foggy head. Marie touches my arm.

  ‘Cass, she’s very on edge,’ she whispers. ‘Can you come now?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Give me two minutes.’

  The phone rings. The florist is here. I greet her in my pyjamas and we carry the boxes of flowers up to Marie’s room. I flip one open and inside are three identical miniature bouquets of dark purple freesias, interspersed with flawless cream roses and a few sprigs of gypsophila and dark green leaves, all tied together with cream satin ribbon. They are true works of art. Inside the other box is Rachel’s bouquet, a larger version of ours, round and blousy.

  Marie wasn’t kidding; Rachel is agitated and fraught, decidedly different to the poised and composed bride she’s pretended to be in front of everyone but me. She paces around Marie’s room in her fluffy robe and slippers and I perch on the bed.

  ‘Lauren is showering in her room,’ I say, ‘but she’ll be here in a while, and she’s bringing a bottle of champagne.’ Marie nods and disappears into the bathroom. I turn to Rachel, ‘Shall I get you a hot drink?’

  ‘Yes but not coffee,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I’m already jittery enough as it is.’

  ‘I have some Rescue Remedy,’ I say, ‘in my Bag of Brilliance,’ and she stops pacing and smiles.

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My Bag of Brilliance,’ I repeat. ‘It’s that little clutch jobby that came with our dresses. I packed it full of everything you might possibly need today
. Even one of those mini sewing kits you get in Christmas crackers. Oh, and a full hip flask, obviously.’

  ‘Let’s hope you don’t need the sewing kit,’ she says. ‘You can barely even do a running stitch.’

  ‘I know. So don’t rip your dress!’ I go to the breakfast trolley and pick up a pain au raisin. ‘Have a nibble on that,’ I say. She does as she’s told.

  ‘We really ought to start on your hair,’ the hairdresser says, and Rachel flops onto a chair. The rollers are removed. Sections of hair are backcombed and volumised and held in place with pearly pins. Finally, two front sections are curled into ringlets, and with a final spritz of hairspray, Rachel’s hair is finished.

  We are helping her into her dress when there’s a knock on the door. Marie runs to open it and Mandy bustles in, all business, in platform Louboutins, with a big metal make-up case in each hand. Her hair is piled high on the top of her head and she’s done flicky wings of eyeliner on herself.

  ‘So sorry,’ she breezes,‘I got a bit lost. Forgot my satnav.’

  ‘You’re here now,’ Rachel says, and I hurry to do up the last few hook and eye clasps on the back of the dress. Then she’s back in her chair and Mandy whips around her with primer and powder, mascara and lipstick, a look of sheer concentration on her face. She doesn’t let Rachel look in the mirror until she’s finished and Rachel concedes, which I consider pretty brave and trusting of her, given the hen night make-up. When she’s finished, she steps backs and spins the chair around to the mirror.

  ‘Tah dah!’ she says, pleased with herself. Rachel gasps. The rest of us coo, and I feel a little mean for ever doubting Mandy’s abilities. She might be loud and a little unrefined, but she certainly knows her way around a make-up bag. Rachel has perfect dramatic Disney eyes and almost nude lips, with just the subtlest hint of pink. Almost as if she’s just bitten them rather than had any make-up applied at all. It’s flawless. She’s beautiful.