At the Wedding

by Matt Dunn

  ‘Table for two?’ he said, glancing at her stomach, his English as perfect as everyone else’s in this most cosmopolitan of cities.

  ‘Not just yet. I hope!’

  He beamed at her, then led the way to a table in the corner, and Livia couldn’t keep the smile from her face. She loved the way the Spanish evidently adored children – from the moment they’d arrived, she’d been treated almost like royalty by everyone she’d met simply for being pregnant. To his credit, Jed had been the same, so excited when he’d realised what it meant, and not just that she was always the designated driver whenever they went out for the evening. When the baby came – and it wouldn’t be long now, Livia realised nervously – he’d melt. She just hoped that she would too.

  The waiter pulled the chair out for her, then offered her his hand to help her sit, and Livia took it gratefully. ‘Breakfast is a buffet,’ he said, indicating a long table against the far wall of the courtyard, which was piled high with plates of cold meat, cheese and fruit, and baskets of pastries in front of a selection of heated silver trays. ‘You can have everything you want.’

  ‘Gracias,’ said Livia, resting a hand on her belly. Finally, she was beginning to believe that.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Hola!’ said Liam, louder than perhaps strictly necessary, and, startled, the woman briefly glanced round at him before turning her attention back to her Kindle – an invitation, in Liam’s mind, so he quickly jumped onto the next-door bar stool. This was the problem with e-readers: you couldn’t tell what someone was reading, or – more importantly in this case – what language they were reading in, but sitting with one on your own suggested a lack of a partner, so it was definitely worth a shot.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ he asked.

  With a sigh, the woman adjusted her sunglasses. She was gorgeous, Liam thought – flowing auburn hair, olive skin and the kind of figure that he was sure got her a lot of attention, something she probably welcomed, given the low-cut, curve-enhancing dress she’d somehow managed to pour herself into. First the receptionist, now this beauty – Barcelona was going to become a regular trip for him, if all the women looked like this.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly, finally, without even turning round, and for the second time this morning, Liam’s confidence took a kick right where it hurt.

  ‘Ah. Right. Sorry to have disturbed you.’ He made a show of clambering dejectedly down off his stool, then he hesitated, one foot on the floor. ‘Hold on. If you don’t speak English, then how did you know to say no when I asked you if you did?’

  The woman sighed again, louder this time, and when Liam showed no sign of going anywhere, slowly shook her head. ‘What makes you think I was answering your question?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Or at least, that one.’ She reluctantly put her Kindle down on the bar, then removed her sunglasses, revealing her deep brown eyes. Which, Liam noticed, were narrowed at him.

  He made his best confused face. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t . . .’

  ‘You were trying to start a conversation, I think?’ she continued, her voice an exotic purr. ‘No doubt leading up to asking me if you could buy me a drink? Perhaps get to know me better? Maybe even hoping we could go back to your room?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ Liam thought about protesting, but the only grounds he’d have for that would be the fact he didn’t, as yet, have a room.

  ‘Whichever one, the answer would have still been no.’ The woman swivelled round to face him. ‘I was just saving us both some time,’ she said, slipping elegantly down from her stool.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘What now? Were you about to tell me you were sorry you disturbed me?’

  Liam nodded. He was sorry. Though not perhaps for the reason the woman might think.

  ‘Well, so am I,’ she said, picking her Kindle up before stalking off towards a sunbed in the corner.

  As he watched her walk away past the pool, Liam found his sunglasses in his shirt pocket and slipped them on, using the movement as an excuse to subtly check his breath in his cupped hand, then – slightly less subtly – sniff at his armpits. Oh well, he told himself, maybe she’s gay. Or married – though that wasn’t necessarily a problem where Liam was concerned. He’d dated all kinds of women – perhaps ‘dated’ wasn’t quite the right word – and it never ceased to amaze him how little the marriage vows meant to some of them, particularly when they realised he was famous. And while recently, perhaps, his standards had been slipping a little, Liam put that down to a lack of availability, rather than anything that was his fault. After all, he was getting older, and so was his ‘audience’.

  He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, still liking what he saw. He and Jed had been blessed genetically, he knew. And while Jed had perhaps let himself go a little since he’d been with Livia – preferring running at some ungodly hour before work (usually around when Liam was coming home from a night out) to sculpting the perfect six-pack in the gym, and paying less attention to what he wore (though he had Livia to do that for him now) – Liam still took pride in his appearance. Worked hard. And worked it hard too. Though that had become a little more difficult since he’d hit his late twenties. And since people seemed to be forgetting who he was.

  Or perhaps not. A couple of women – English, he’d guess, given how pink they’d both gone, and yet they were still sitting right in the morning glare of the hot Spanish sun – were perched on stools a few seats away from him, behind the kind of cocktails you’d get if you asked a child to design one: garish pink liquid with all sorts of cocktail umbrellas and sparklers, and obscenely shaped pieces of cucumber, sticking out of the glass (though it was more of a bucket, which was possibly a good idea, seeing as that was what you probably needed to be sick into after drinking the thing). One of the women was trying to take an ‘arty’ photo of him in between their two glasses, and the blonder of the two (though it was a close-run thing) seemed to be trying to attract his attention.

  ‘No photos!’ he said loudly, holding a palm up as if shielding himself from the paparazzi, then he grinned. ‘Actually, if you want one, you just have to ask nicely and I’ll—’

  ‘’Scuse me?’

  The other girl had swivelled round, and Liam took advantage of his sunglasses to give her a quick once-over. The two of them could be sisters . . . Now there was a thought.

  ‘If you wanted a photo, you only had to ask.’

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ said the girl with the camera, and Liam frowned.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I were just trying to get a pic of us drinks, and you were a bit in the way, is all.’

  Liam tried hard to keep his smile from flickering, wondering if he’d misunderstood, but it was still English they were speaking – if a very heavily Northern-accented one – and not Spanish.

  ‘Right. Still, photobomb!’ he added, making a ‘ta-da!’ face and adding a quick jazz-hands for extra effect.

  ‘That’s what we was trying to avoid,’ said the other girl.

  ‘Sure. Good one!’ Liam hesitated, then pulled off his sunglasses. He’d always thought celebrities who insisted on the cap-and-sunglasses combo when out in public just looked like themselves in a cap and sunglasses, rather than it acting as some impenetrable disguise, but maybe it did work. Either way, he didn’t want to take any chances. ‘Well, that’s kind of you. When you’re in the public eye, people usually just barge up to you without even asking, stick their phone in your face, and before you know it, you’ve got a million likes on Instagram . . .’

  The woman with the camera nodded non-committedly, then she did a double take. ‘Hold on. Aren’t you . . .’ She nudged her friend – or sister. Liam was still holding out hope. ‘Sooz. Look. It’s that fella.’

  Liam put on his usual ‘you’ve got me’ expression, though he didn’t have to maintain it for long.

  ‘What fella, Debs?’

  ‘The one from the telly.’

  ‘Maybe ’e’s t
hat dancer.’

  ‘Anton . . .’

  ‘Dec?’

  ‘That’s two people. They’re not dancers. And anyway, ’e’s not either.’

  ‘Hang on a mo . . .’

  Sooz peered at him, more closely this time, so Liam flashed her a smile. ‘I know, I know,’ he said, resignedly. ‘The guy from Big Brother.’

  Debs shook her head. ‘Nope. That’s not it.’

  Liam stared at her in disbelief, a little intrigued to see where this might go, although the last time he’d done that, someone had confused him with one of those posh twats from Made in Chelsea, and Liam had had to spend the rest of the evening (and an awkward hour or two the following morning) putting on his best upper-class accent and pretending that was exactly who he was.

  ‘It is, actually.’

  The two women looked at each other, then back at Liam. ‘Nah,’ said Sooz.

  ‘Maybe ’e’s one of them lookalikes?’ suggested Debs. ‘Like Sal down the caff’s boyfriend.’

  ‘’E’s good, ’e is. It’s like ’im and that Justin Bieber were separated at birth.’

  ‘Knows ’e’s good-lookin’, though.’

  ‘I’d snog ’im.’

  ‘Me too!’

  ‘You did. Last Christmas,’ said Sooz. ‘Sal were livid.’ She sighed. ‘I miss going to that caff!’

  As the two women cackled at each other, Liam contemplated slipping his sunglasses back on and withdrawing gracefully, though given that Sooz was climbing off her stool and making her – rather unsteady, Liam noticed – way towards him, he feared he was too late.

  ‘It is you, innit?’ she said, her face so close to his he could smell the alcohol – and whatever foodstuff laced with around a ton of garlic she’d consumed last night – on her breath.

  ‘It is,’ he admitted. ‘Liam Woodward. From Big Brother. I came second.’

  ‘Makes a change from most men,’ guffawed Sooz.

  ‘You’d know, you old slapper!’ said Debs.

  Liam laughed politely. It had been a pretty funny comment, after all. And one he could file away and use in the future, he knew. ‘So, like I said, I’m trying to have a weekend away from being a celebrity, so . . .’

  ‘What did ’e say?’ Debs had abandoned her stool now, and was staring rather aggressively in his direction, and Liam swallowed hard.

  ‘Sorry, I . . . I just wondered whether you could possibly keep your voice – well, voices – down a bit. I’m here for a wedding and I don’t want anyone recognising me. Don’t want to spoil the bride’s big day by being the centre of attention.’

  He winked conspiratorially at them, and Sooz narrowed her eyes at him – though one had narrowed somewhat more than the other, giving Liam an idea of just how drunk the women were. Impressive for this time of the morning, thought Liam, though given that they were dressed for a night’s clubbing rather than a morning by the pool, he decided they’d probably just got back and were here for a rather overdue nightcap.

  ‘Gotcha!’ said Sooz, after a number of seconds that Liam was sure stretched into double figures. ‘Say no more. Can I ’ave a pic, tho?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Liam, automatically.

  ‘Great! Debs?’ Sooz had marched up to stand next to him, and as Liam obligingly put his arm round her, Debs got her camera at the ready, though before he knew what was happening, Sooz had reached up and grabbed his cheeks in her palms, wrestled his face to within an inch of hers, and to his surprise Liam found himself being kissed – rather sloppily, and extremely unpleasantly – on the lips.

  ‘One for the grandkids,’ announced Debs, and as Sooz let him go, Liam hoped she hadn’t seen him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Whoa!’ he said, holding both palms up, as if trying to stop a rampaging bull. ‘Unexpected item in the gagging area!’

  ‘You never said no tongues!’ said Sooz, accusingly.

  ‘I never said “tongues” either, to be fair,’ protested Liam.

  As they studied the photo they’d just taken and erupted into fits of giggles, he climbed down from his stool and – careful to avoid eye contact with the woman he’d attempted to chat up earlier, who appeared to be doing her best not to burst out laughing – made his way along to the far end of the pool. The walkway was narrow, and he wouldn’t bet on Sooz and Debs being able to navigate it without falling in, so he suspected he was safe.

  He yawned, and looked at his watch. Still most of the day to kill before tonight’s main event, and no sign of Jed coming back from his run, though he had a feeling his brother probably needed a bit of time on his own right now. He could perhaps go and disturb Livia, nick some of her breakfast, but Sooz’s kiss – on top of his hangover – had made him feel a little nauseous. Plus, Livia would undoubtedly have things to do, which meant she’d probably try to find him things to do too, and right now, a nap by the pool was looking more of a sensible idea. Particularly given the way the loungers were beginning to fill up. And who they were beginning to fill up with.

  With a smile to no one in particular, Liam peeled off his T-shirt, dragged his sun lounger into a position where he could watch for women (and watch out for Sooz and her friend), laid himself down and promptly fell asleep.

  ‘Stop!’

  Patrick almost jumped out of his skin. Despite the fact that ‘go as fast as you can’ seemed to be what they taught you here on day one at taxi school, he’d been enjoying the familiar scenery on the drive in from the airport, but Izzy had just shouted so suddenly, so loudly, that Patrick feared they must have run someone over.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, anxiously bracing himself against the back of the driver’s seat as the black-and-yellow cab screeched to a halt.

  ‘Over there.’ Izzy was gesticulating excitedly out of the window, so he followed her gaze, half expecting to see some poor crumpled soul writhing in agony on the pavement. ‘On the corner.’

  ‘Aha.’ Patrick breathed a sigh of relief, and willed his heart to stop hammering. ‘Gaudí’s masterpiece.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The building. Casa Milà. Designed by Gaudí and built between 1906 and 1912. More commonly called La Pedrera, which means “the quarry”, because some people, perhaps rather unkindly, thought the stone facade looked a bit like a—’

  ‘Not that ugly thing.’ Izzy was already unbuckling her seatbelt. ‘Over there. It’s a Stella McCartney.’

  ‘Hold on. We have to get to the—’

  Too late, Patrick realised he was addressing an empty seat: Izzy had already leapt out through the door. With the word ‘hotel’ dying on his lips, Patrick climbed stiffly out of the cab, handed the driver a bundle of euros, extracted their luggage from the boot and set off in pursuit. He paused briefly to look up at the architectural gem in front of him, then, reluctantly, followed her into the shop.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The black-suit-clad assistant had addressed him in English, and Patrick immediately felt a bit put out. Did he look English? He hoped not. In his experience, the English abroad seemed to be a badly or underdressed bunch with too much fleshy white cleavage on show, and that was just the men. Then again, he supposed, it was probably the international language. Plus, judging by the rest of the shop’s clientele, mainly Asian or Arabic in appearance, there were very few Spanish people shopping here.

  ‘My . . .’ Patrick hesitated. ‘Girlfriend’ always sounded so childish, ‘partner’ made her sound like a colleague at the law firm he’d once owned, and he didn’t dare risk ‘wife’ in case Izzy overheard – not that they’d ever talked about it, but his refusal to even consider getting married again wasn’t something he wanted to risk an argument over, especially at someone else’s wedding. ‘The young woman who came in here a moment ago.’

  ‘Upstairs,’ said the man, then he nodded at Patrick’s bags. ‘You can leave them with me?’

  Patrick did as he was told, then made his way up the spiral staircase to find Izzy frantically rifling through a clothes rail in front
of the store’s large picture window. He watched her for a moment, her forehead furrowed in concentration in the same way a brain surgeon’s might be in the middle of a particularly tricky operation. Shopping was Izzy’s ‘thing’ – both personally and professionally. They’d met when he’d been for a personal shopper session in Selfridges – a birthday present from his daughter, perhaps despairing at Patrick’s recent purchase of what she’d described as a pair of ‘dad jeans’ – and while he hadn’t liked many of the items Izzy had suggested for him (and still hadn’t worked up the nerve to wear the majority of them), sensing the session might indeed get ‘personal’, he’d bought them anyway. Patrick hadn’t wanted to disappoint her, and his credit card had been an easy way to ensure he wouldn’t. And he’d taken pretty much the same approach ever since.

  He cleared his throat, and she looked up at him momentarily, as if he were disturbing something important. ‘See anything you like? And by that, I mean anything better than the three outfits you’ve brought with you?’

  He’d said it with a playful smile, but Izzy gave him a look. ‘This,’ she said, after a moment, reverentially holding up a scrap of material on a hanger like Indiana Jones might reveal some holy artefact he’d just unearthed. ‘It’s from the new collection.’

  ‘Right.’ Patrick squinted at the dress. Or blouse. Or it might even have been underwear. He wasn’t sure. ‘And how much is it?’

  Izzy shrugged. ‘I didn’t look.’

  Patrick didn’t dare. ‘Did you want to try it on?’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  She broke into a grin, and he swallowed hard. Her assumption that getting permission to try it on meant he’d buy it if she wanted it grated a little, but he feared the alternative was for her to pout and sulk all day. And it would be hard enough being at a wedding without that.

  ‘It can’t hurt.’

  As Izzy scampered off into the changing rooms, he sank into a nearby armchair and checked the time. Livia would be wondering where they were, plus they had to fit in the surprise city tour he’d arranged to show Izzy ‘his’ Barcelona, and then there was the small matter of lunch – Patrick had the venue (and the menu) all lined up – followed maybe by a bit of pool time. And, knowing Izzy, a bit of ‘room’ time too.