At the Wedding
Page 1
ALSO BY MATT DUNN
Best Man
The Ex-Boyfriend’s Handbook
From Here to Paternity
Ex-Girlfriends United
The Good Bride Guide
The Accidental Proposal
A Day at the Office
What Might Have Been
Home
A Christmas Day at the Office
13 Dates
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Matt Dunn
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503902466
ISBN-10: 1503902463
For my nieces and nephews: Ida and Pål,
Trisha and Nikita, Keyur and Aman, Vinay and Shivani, Jay and Om. Hint, hint!
CONTENTS
At the Wedding
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
At the Wedding
‘Will you marry me?’
Jed froze, mid-chew, and stared at Livia across the table, not quite believing what he’d just heard. The restaurant, just off Barcelona’s famous Las Ramblas, was packed, full of tourists devouring plate after plate of delicious tapas, just like the two of them were – the perfect end to a perfect day’s sightseeing in this most perfect of cities. And while the place was noisy, it wasn’t so noisy that he hadn’t been able to hear his girlfriend clearly.
He swallowed his mouthful of patatas bravas, then washed it down with a large swig from the beer bottle he suddenly remembered he was holding and that he’d nearly dropped in shock. And then, and only because he couldn’t think how else to reply, Jed said simply, ‘What?’
‘You heard!’
‘Why on earth do we need to . . . ow!’ Jed rubbed the spot on his arm where Livia had just pinched him. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘Pinch you? Or propose?’
Jed had started to sweat, though he knew that was nothing to do with the spicy potato dish that he’d been happily working his way through. Livia’s proposal had come out of the blue – as much as these things did when you were in love, and had been since you’d first set eyes on each other, and had a baby on the way – and for a moment, he almost wished he had been expecting it. Because then, he’d have known how to respond. ‘The, um, second one,’ he said, though given how Livia was drumming her fingers on her heavily pregnant stomach, he suspected he already knew the answer.
‘It’s time, Jed.’
‘And they say romance is dead,’ he said, doing his best to make a joke, though he could tell Livia was serious.
‘You will be, in a minute, if you don’t hurry up and answer the question.’
‘Marry you?’ Jed stared at her, doing his best to ignore the sense of dread bubbling up inside him. ‘Do you mean, ever?’
‘I mean this weekend,’ said Livia, as if pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Then she reached across the table, placed a finger underneath his chin and shut his just-dropped-open jaw with an audible click.
‘Here?’ said Jed, after an uncomfortably long pause. ‘In Barcelona?’
‘Here in Barcelona.’
‘Just the two of us?’
‘I believe that’s the traditional number of people involved when it comes to marriage.’
‘No, I meant . . . what about our friends? And Liam. There’s no way I can get married without my brother there. And there must be a ton of stuff to organise before—’
‘Relax. They’ll all be here. Everything’s been arranged.’ Livia was beaming at him, as if she’d presented him with the keys to a Ferrari rather than what felt like a fait accompli. ‘All that’s left is for you to stand there and say “I do”. Or whatever the Spanish equivalent is.’
‘Oh-kay . . .’
‘I think it might be “Olé!”’
Jed forced a smile at Livia’s attempt at humour. A part of him was wishing this was all a joke, but after ten years together – ten years today, in fact – he knew her much better than that.
He glanced at his mobile on the table and double-checked the date on the screen, silently praying it might be April 1st, wondering why he couldn’t just come out with the answer Livia wanted. No, expected. And, in fact, deserved.
‘Oh-kay,’ he said, again.
‘Is that a yes?’ said Livia, so hopefully that Jed immediately felt terrible for not biting her hand off straight away. But there were rules for this kind of thing, weren’t there? Rules of engagement. The main one being, both parties had to think getting married was a good thing. Or, in the absence of that, could vocalise a reason why it wasn’t, and quickly. But Jed was too petrified to do anything quickly. Too scared of what this would all mean. Desperately worried about disappointing her. Both now, and as her husband.
It may not have been a leap year, but it was 2018, so he suspected any objections on the basis of her not being allowed to propose would probably fall on deaf ears. Besides, in true Livia style, everything had been arranged. Any issues anticipated. People invited. How could he possibly say no?
He told himself nothing had changed. She was still the same Livia he’d fallen for all those years ago. The same Livia he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. The same Livia who – up until about a minute ago – he’d assumed was fine with the way things were. And then, conscious she was still waiting for him to say something, he reached across the table and took her hands in his, though partly to stop his own from shaking.
‘Yes,’ he said, as sincerely as he could. And – though Jed loved Livia more than anything – a lot more cheerfully than he felt.
Chapter 1
‘So Jed didn’t have any idea?’ said Izzy, and Patrick looked up from the article on Barcelona’s best museums he’d been about to read to her from the in-flight magazine, then broke into a broad grin. His girlfriend was staring at him, wide-eyed, as if Livia’s ruse was the most audacious, ridiculous and amazing thing she’d ever heard. But, he supposed, if you’d only recently turned twenty-two, it just might be.
‘None whatsoever,’ he replied.
‘But what if he’d turned her down?’
‘Then we’d be flying to Barcelona for a dirty weekend, instead of their wedding.’
‘Fuck me!’ said Izzy, a little too loudly for Patrick’s liking given the young family sitting in the row behind them, and he winced. It was her go-to expression for surprise, anger, disappointment – even after the best part of three months together, he still hadn’t got used to the way she freely bandied it about. Although the amount of times she used the phrase as a request almost made up for that.
He rolled his eyes, then, as the ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ sign pinged on, indicated she should look out of the window. ‘And speaking of Barcelona . . .’ he said, fondly.
‘What?’
‘There it is.’
‘Cool,’ Izzy said, then she frowned. ‘It’s very . . . regular.’
‘That’s the
Eixample,’ he explained, pronouncing it ‘eye-sham-pla’, like a local might. ‘It’s Catalan for “extension”. One of the earliest examples of town planning. The grid design was intended to . . .’ Patrick stopped talking. Even in the indistinct reflection in the aeroplane window, he could tell Izzy’s eyes had glazed over. ‘You see that big street down the middle?’
Izzy stifled a yawn theatrically. ‘What about it?’
‘That’s where all the shops are.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Suddenly interested, Izzy leaned in closer to the window, letting out a louder-still ‘Fuck me!’ when she banged her forehead on the glass, and Patrick had to hide a smile. Already window-shopping, even from up here. Though the real thing, he knew, would come later.
He reached across and rubbed a thumb affectionately over the spot where she’d bumped herself, resisting the inclination to offer to kiss it better. Izzy loved shopping. This weekend had already cost him a fair bit and they hadn’t even landed yet. Patrick could almost feel his credit card running through a series of warm-up exercises in his wallet. He was sure the depth of his pockets was one of the reasons Izzy put up with a ‘granddad’ like him – her description whenever he refused to dance with her, or go to concerts to see bands whose members were younger than Anna, his daughter, or eat at restaurants where the music was so loud they had to shout at each other across plates of food presented as if they were some kind of porcelain catwalk, or eat anything served from the back of a van (or ‘food truck’, as Izzy would always correct him, as if that made a difference). But Patrick knew that if you wanted nice things, you had to pay for them, like the vintage Tag Heuer Monaco watch he sported on his wrist, or the classic Porsche 911 convertible he kept in the garage beneath his central London apartment and only ever drove when it wasn’t raining (which, in England, meant he didn’t drive it that often). But while the watch and the car made him look good, Izzy made him feel good. She put a smile on his face, gave him a spring in his step – apart from when he was too stiff after a night of their between-the-sheets exertions, that was. No, Patrick was sure she’d been a good investment. Even though – unlike the watch and the car – she might be a depreciating asset. Or at least depreciating his finances.
‘How do you know Jed again?’
‘Through Livia. She and I used to . . .’ Izzy’s raised eyebrow made him catch himself. ‘Livia worked for me, in answer to the assumption you look like you’re making. We were here in Barcelona for a conference, and Jed happened to be in the bar we all ended up in, and the two of them . . . I don’t know if it was quite love at first sight. Livia’s too . . . sensible for that. But that was ten years ago. And she’s a good friend.’
‘How good, exactly?’
Izzy was pouting at him, and Patrick sighed. ‘She’d hardly have asked me to give her away if we’d—’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Izzy, begrudgingly. ‘And who else will be there? Assuming this wedding actually happens.’
‘Why wouldn’t it happen?’
‘No reason,’ said Izzy, in the same innocent tone his daughter sometimes adopted, usually just as she was about to impart some bad news. Or ask him for money, which, since his divorce settlement, amounted to the same thing.
‘Well, it’s just a small affair. Eight of us, including the happy couple, I think.’
‘Why only eight?’
‘I guess it’d have been hard to get more than that out here and still keep it a secret from him.’
‘So nothing to do with in case Jed had said no?’
Patrick almost laughed out loud. ‘I don’t think there was ever any danger of that. The two of them are . . . well, there are couples, and then there’s Jed and Livia. You’ll see.’
‘I can’t wait.’ Izzy yawned again, then flung her arms up in an exaggerated stretch, nearly punching Patrick on the nose. ‘So the eight will be?’
‘Well, there’s us, and obviously Livia and Jed. He’s nice. Does something in IT.’
‘Tech.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not called IT nowadays, granddad. It’s tech. Short for—’
‘Information Technology. I know. Which, actually, so is IT.’
‘Was IT.’
Patrick sighed. ‘You’ll be telling me “wireless” isn’t the thing you sit around and listen to as a family next.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ said Patrick, quickly. Sometimes he forgot just how much younger than him Izzy actually was. ‘Sorry. Tech.’
‘Always happy to teach you new stuff.’ She leaned across, kissed him slowly on the lips and rested a hand suggestively on his upper thigh. ‘And not just in bed.’
Patrick gave her a look, though given the one she returned, he then had to do his best to think of something else, and quickly. The stewardess was checking everyone’s seatbelts were fastened for landing, and the last thing he wanted was for anyone to be staring at his lap right now.
‘Oh, and the best man is Jed’s younger brother,’ he said, gently but firmly sliding her hand away from his groin area. ‘He . . . actually, I’m not sure exactly what he does. But he’s famous. Or used to be.’
‘For what?’
Patrick thought for a moment. On the odd occasions he’d flicked through one of Izzy’s glossy magazines, it had seemed to him that nowadays you didn’t have to be famous for anything – and besides, he wasn’t sure what Liam’s talents actually were. ‘He was on Big Brother a couple of years ago. His name’s Liam . . .’
‘Not Liam Woodward?’
Izzy had widened her eyes, and Patrick fought to keep down what he was surprised to recognise was a pang of jealousy. He’d seen the way Liam was with women, and the last thing he wanted was for Izzy to fall under his spell this weekend. ‘That’s right.’
Izzy let out a squeal of delight. ‘He’s gorgeous. Though he’s also the kind of person who’d ask how much something cost in a Poundland.’
‘Pardon?’
‘That’s how one of the tabloids referred to him. It means—’
‘I can guess what it means.’ Patrick chuckled. ‘It’s actually a pretty good description.’
‘You didn’t tell me we were going to a celebrity wedding.’
‘We’re not. It’s Jed who’s getting married.’
‘His big brother!’ She mimed an exaggerated belly laugh, as if to underline how poor her own joke was, and Patrick couldn’t help but chuckle. Izzy’s sense of humour was one of the things he liked about her. One of the many things, he’d been surprised to realise the more time they’d spent together. Unlike Liam, she was more than just a pretty face. Or a killer body.
‘He’s very good-looking,’ she continued. ‘At least, he was. He hasn’t been on TV for a while, as far as I’m aware.’ Izzy narrowed her eyes. ‘And does Liam have a girlfriend?’
‘Liam always has a girlfriend. Sometimes more than one. Often someone else’s.’ He glanced around the plane, keen to change the subject. ‘Oh yes. And I mustn’t forget Rachel. She’s Livia’s best friend. And her boyfriend’s Rich.’
‘Coming from you, that’s quite a—’
‘No, his name’s Rich. I don’t know him that well. But she’s lovely.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And don’t look now, but she’s sitting about six rows back.’
‘Which one?’ Izzy had popped her seatbelt open, raised herself out of her chair and swivelled round, causing the returning stewardess to reprimand her sharply. Patrick shook his head, wondering which part of ‘don’t look now’ Izzy hadn’t understood. ‘The brunette,’ he said, taking a quick peek himself. ‘Staring wistfully out of the window. Next to the . . . oh.’
‘Oh?’
Patrick glanced round the rest of the plane and quickly put two and two together. ‘The vacant seat. Where Rich should presumably have been sitting.’
‘Oops!’ To his relief, Izzy had turned back round to face him. ‘She’s pretty.’
‘Is she?’
Izzy gave him a look. ‘Anything I should know?’
‘About?’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘History?’
‘Huh?’
‘Which of these women have you . . . ?’
‘None of them! I was married, remember?’
‘Hmm.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, though Patrick knew full well. After all, being married hadn’t stopped his wife from straying.
‘Nothing,’ she said, reaching over to grab his hand, a bit like his daughter had when he’d walked her to her first day at school. While he was a little nervous about introducing Izzy to his friends, surely she wasn’t feeling insecure about meeting them all for the first time? She was the most confident twenty-two-year-old he knew. The most confident person – outwardly, at least – he knew. He was sure they’d love her. Everybody did. Maybe, under different circumstances, and if he hadn’t just been chewed up and spat out by his ex-wife and her divorce lawyers, even he could.
His stomach rumbled, and he wished he’d had more to eat this morning than the on-board ‘hot bacon baguette’ that hadn’t actually been that hot (and Patrick wasn’t sure had been bacon, either) that’d had to serve as a substitute breakfast. But Izzy had made them late this morning – she made them late every morning she stayed over at his – though he knew he shouldn’t complain. The last two years of his marriage, he and his ex-wife had stopped having sex (or rather, his ex had stopped having sex with him) – something Izzy was more than making up for.
‘So, why didn’t Jed?’ she said, after a moment.
‘Why didn’t Jed what?’
‘Ask Livia. To marry him.’
‘You’d have to ask him.’
‘I will!’
‘Don’t you dare.’
Patrick ignored Izzy’s mischievous grin, and as she turned her attention back to the view through the window, he double-checked his seatbelt. The plane was making its final approach, its wings almost skimming the huge container ships sitting in Barcelona’s port, and he gripped the armrests tightly. He’d never been a big fan of flying – no, scratch that, he didn’t mind the flying, it was the landing that always got him spooked. Those people who applauded whenever a plane touched down safely? He’d lost count of the number of times he’d had to stop himself from joining in, or even leading a standing ovation for the pilot. Once you were allowed to stand.