At the Wedding

by Matt Dunn

  After a few more songs, just as Liam seemed on the verge of knowing when he was beaten, the music changed – a slower number – and before he could head back to the safety of the speakers, Izzy had fastened her arms around his neck and pulled him close.

  It was almost comical. Liam was doing his best to angle his body away from her, as if trying to avoid a judo takedown, while Izzy seemed set on grinding her hips against his. Then – and Patrick couldn’t tell whether he or Liam was the more surprised – she leapt up, and in one fluid movement wrapped her legs around his waist, as if performing some weird, vertical rodeo ride.

  In an instant, Patrick was out of his chair and steaming towards the two of them, though to his credit Liam was pulling away, a horrified look on his face almost as soon as Izzy had made contact.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I . . . Patrick . . .’ Liam had both hands up, as if ready to fend off an attack, but Patrick just shook his head.

  ‘Don’t worry, Liam. You’re not the one who’s got anything to apologise for.’

  ‘Relax!’ said Izzy, mischievously, climbing off him like a small child ordered down from a tree. ‘We were just dancing.’

  ‘You call that dancing?’

  ‘Yeah, granddad. And seeing as you wouldn’t dance with me . . .’

  Liam had taken the opportunity to sneak away, so Izzy slinked her arms round Patrick’s waist and began grinding against him, but he shook her off.

  ‘What’s wrong, baby?’

  ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’

  Izzy shook her head. ‘No. I’m embarrassing you!’ she said angrily, and Patrick stared at her.

  ‘And that’s the last time you will, if you’re not careful!’

  ‘Finally!’ Izzy rolled her eyes. ‘A reaction!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I told you I loved you, Patrick!’ she said, her voice a little too loud for his liking. ‘And you were out of the door like the hotel room was on fire. And then all that stuff about not wanting to get married again. Not wanting kids . . .’

  Patrick glanced across towards the speakers, where Liam was doing a bad job of trying to simultaneously hide and not listen in on their conversation. ‘I’m sorry, Izzy. But how does that relate to you . . . dry-humping Liam just now. And in front of everyone?’

  Izzy was watching him intently, though Patrick couldn’t interpret her look. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘What you said.’ Izzy ran her hands through her hair. ‘I needed to know if it was because of me.’

  ‘Izzy . . .’ Patrick stared at her, dumbfounded, wondering how on earth she’d got the wrong end of the stick, though he realised almost immediately it could only be his fault. ‘Of course it isn’t.’

  ‘And the love thing?’

  ‘Well, I’m flattered, obviously . . .’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Izzy stormed off the dance floor and into the poolside toilets, slamming the door behind her, and Patrick winced. Given how his wife had left him, and now this, he was starting to suspect relationships weren’t his forte. Ignoring the stares from the hotel’s other guests, he followed her to the toilet and knocked softly.

  ‘Izzy?’

  There was the sound of some rummaging, then a couple of sharp bangs, and Patrick started to get worried. ‘Izzy,’ he said again, a little louder this time, his knocking more insistent.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come out.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Hey . . .’ He glanced around, conscious he appeared to be having a conversation with a toilet door. A few people were watching him intently, but he was past caring. ‘You can’t stay in there all evening.’

  ‘Why not!’

  ‘Well, for one thing, you’re in the gents.’

  ‘Just leave me alone!’

  ‘Come on. Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘I think I already did. Earlier.’

  ‘Izzy, let’s just talk about—’

  ‘What is there to talk about?’ Izzy had cracked the door open, and her tear-stained face peering through the gap wasn’t something Patrick was ready for. ‘I open my heart to you, tell you how I feel and you say . . . nothing.’

  ‘Just calm down, come out, and we’ll—’

  ‘We’ll what? Have sex again? That’ll shut Izzy up, because she knows she shouldn’t talk with her mouth full.’

  Patrick shook his head, though partly because after their earlier marathon session, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to. ‘Like I said. Talk. I need you to understand . . .’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘If you come out, I’ll tell you.’

  Izzy stared at him for a moment longer, then slowly, reluctantly, padded out from the toilets and flopped down onto a bench set against the wall. ‘Well?’

  ‘Not here,’ he said, reaching for her hand. ‘Let’s walk and talk.’

  She stared up at him for a moment, then wiped her eyes on the back of her arm. ‘’K’, she said, quietly, allowing herself to be helped up.

  ‘Good girl.’

  Patrick slipped an arm around her shoulders, steered her from the terrace and back out through reception. If she was going to make a scene – or rather, more of a scene – he didn’t want it to spoil Livia and Jed’s evening.

  Wordlessly, they headed out of the hotel’s front door, and along the dark, paved street towards Las Ramblas. The boulevard was busy – stag and hen groups moving excitedly between Barcelona’s many bars and clubs, tourists on their way home from dinner, locals just heading out for theirs – and as Patrick led Izzy down towards the port, she cleared her throat.

  ‘Las Ramblas isn’t just the one street, you know?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s a series of shorter streets that run into one another to form one long one, hence the plural.’

  ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘That stupid woman on the satnav this afternoon. I was listening, you know?’

  ‘But why . . . ?’

  Izzy looked up at him and forced a smile. ‘We seemed to be doing a lot of walking, and not that much talking. I thought I’d better get the ball rolling.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He mouthed a ‘No, gracias’ as they sidestepped someone selling animal balloons, hoping Izzy hadn’t understood their ‘For your daughter?’ in Spanish. ‘This . . . us . . . it’s difficult for me.’

  ‘Difficult?’

  Patrick noticed Izzy’s expression darken, so he hurriedly corrected himself. ‘New, then. It’s just so different. In a good way, I mean. You just . . . took me a bit by surprise earlier. That’s all. And that stuff you said about me always trying to teach you things – remember, I’m learning from you too. All the time.’

  ‘Learning what?’

  ‘All kinds of things. How not to be so inhibited, for one. To live for the moment, for another. What selvedge jeans are.’ Izzy smiled at this last point, so Patrick soldiered on. ‘You’re twenty-two, and you’ve been in love how many times?’

  Izzy thought for a moment. ‘A dozen or so.’

  ‘A dozen?’

  ‘If you count all of One Direction. Except for Niall.’

  Patrick nodded, hoping Izzy wouldn’t know he didn’t have a clue who she was talking about. ‘Well, I’ve been in love once. With Sarah. For twenty-three years. And look where that got me. What she did to me . . . I thought we were compatible, thought she loved me, but we evidently weren’t, and she obviously didn’t. And now . . .’ He stared up at the night sky as they walked, resisting the temptation to point out the constellations. ‘When someone does that to you, cheats on you, when you divorce them, you’re supposed to forget just like that.’ He clicked his fingers loudly for added effect. ‘And that’s hard. It’s not like an on-off switch.’

  ‘So you still love her?’

  ‘No,’ said Patrick, quickly, aware that would be a very dangerous direction for the conversatio
n to take. ‘But when you go through something like that, it makes you question what love is. Whether you got it right the first time. It’s not a word you – anyone – should just bandy around willy-nilly . . . What’s so funny?’

  ‘Willy-nilly?’

  ‘Anyway, my point is, something like that means you need to be doubly sure when – if – you ever say it again. So I suppose what I’m trying to explain is – and believe it or not, I’ve only just realised this – it’s not you, it’s me. I’m dealing with twenty-plus years of emotions, of incidents, of life. So much of what we do is new for you. But for me, it’s . . .’

  ‘Boring?’

  Izzy had found his hand with hers, and he took the opportunity to give it a squeeze. ‘No – I don’t mean that at all. It’s just . . . I’ve had someone tell me they loved me, and look where that went. And I know it might not seem fair, but . . . saying you love someone . . . it’s not like it’s some password that automatically gets you into the members’ area, or a handshake that secret societies do to identify . . .’ Not for the first time that day, Izzy’s eyes had begun to glaze over, so Patrick decided to change tack. ‘All I’m saying is . . .’ He stopped to think. Izzy had swivelled around to face him, and was looking at him so expectantly he knew one misspoken word here could be a very big mistake. But fortunately – and at that precise moment he almost did love her for it – she put him out of his misery.

  ‘Baby, the reason I told you I loved you was simply because it’s how I feel. You’re funny, and sexy, and smart, and generous, and clever, and kind . . .’ She reached up and tenderly rested a hand on his cheek. ‘And the Porsche’s pretty cool too.’

  ‘So it’s not just because I, you know, buy you stuff?’

  Izzy gave him a look. ‘I let you buy me stuff because you seem to like doing it. Not that I’m saying you should stop . . .’ She grinned. ‘And I’m not expecting you to say you love me back. Not right now, at least. I just need to believe that there’s the possibility that, one day, you might. Otherwise . . .’ She sighed. ‘Well, we’d just be wasting our time.’

  ‘Well, that’s . . . I suppose . . . it’s not beyond the realms of . . . I mean, I possibly could . . .’

  ‘Just let yourself feel it, Patrick. All this stuff about compatibility, suitability – whether, I don’t know, you’re a dog person or a cat person – is shit. There are loads of different types of dogs. And cats. Don’t get me started on those Egyptian hairless things . . .’ Izzy shuddered theatrically, then she grabbed his shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. ‘You’ve got to believe it can be different. Each time. And that it’s going to work, despite – or even because of – your differences. Otherwise you might as well go up to Jed and Livia and tell them not to bother.’

  Patrick looked down at her with a new respect. He had to admit, Izzy had a point, though he didn’t want to admit it just yet. Or that, when it came to Jed and Livia, the thought had occurred to him.

  ‘So, do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  Izzy angled her head, the way a cute puppy might. ‘Think you might? Feel it? One day?’

  Patrick realised they were standing at the end of the road. Though as Izzy had reminded him, Las Ramblas was a series of roads, one after the other. And while he’d walked down it before, there was no reason he couldn’t try going in a different direction.

  He took her in his arms, and gave the only possible answer he could; though this time, he was sure he meant it.

  ‘I do,’ he said.

  Liam checked over his shoulder that Izzy wasn’t waiting to pounce on him again, then he finished putting together his ‘smooch’ playlist, hit ‘Add to queue’ and peered out at the dance floor. Most of the guests had gone now, though Livia and Jed were still dancing, holding each other close, and Liam smiled at the sight. Jed’s back was going to be sore in the morning, given how he was having to work around Livia’s distended stomach, but by the looks of him, he didn’t care.

  Liam had done a good job as stand-in DJ, he reckoned – although DJ-ing at this particular wedding had pretty much been compiling a list of his favourite tracks and hitting play. And while it had meant he’d had plenty of opportunities to dance himself, to be honest there hadn’t been that many eligible women to dance with. He’d spent a considerable amount of time trying to hide from Sooz and Debs: they’d ended up getting so drunk that they’d marched straight up to him to ask outright if he fancied a threesome, and even if he hadn’t replied ‘You’re about twenty-nine stone short, love’ when Sooz had indicated herself and Debs and said ‘Two birds, one stone,’ he didn’t think it would have happened. Right now they were both asleep on a nearby sun lounger. And looking like they’d be spending the night there.

  He’d had a bit of fun earlier, he had to admit, with that girl from the gym, and while that had been a bit one-sided, that hadn’t been his fault. Livia had been in trouble. And he’d more than made up for it by playing the hero this evening. Stepping in to save the day when the original DJ had run off – and when his playlist had looked like making everyone suicidal. Though what was his reward? Being the last man standing. Alone.

  He’d thought he might have had a chance with that Rachel girl, but she’d disappeared off with some guy he didn’t recognise, and while Patrick’s bit of fluff had virtually tried to have sex with him in front of everyone, he suspected that hadn’t been for his benefit.

  He looked at his watch. Just gone midnight. The pool bar looked like it was shut, so Liam scanned the room, wondering if there was any point in doing a minesweep of any half-drunk glasses of wine on the tables, then decided against it. He’d drunk enough today, and he was already dreading his hangover.

  He supposed he could head out to a club, but to be honest he wasn’t in the mood. Today had given him a lot to think about, and he might just need to think about it sooner rather than later. Besides, he’d promised Jed and Livia he’d clean up his act. Turn over a new leaf. And right now was as good a time to start as any. With a wistful sigh, he made his way over to where the newlyweds were dancing – well, swaying gently, to be exact – and tapped his brother on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m off.’

  Livia wrinkled her nose. ‘You don’t smell that bad to me.’

  ‘Ha ha. To bed.’

  ‘On your own?’ Jed was peering over Liam’s shoulder, evidently wondering where the girl was who he was perhaps anxious to be with, so Liam smiled.

  ‘Yeah. One night off won’t kill me, eh?’

  ‘I’m surprised all the nights “on” haven’t.’

  Liam rolled his eyes good-naturedly at Livia’s comment. ‘Anyway . . . I just wanted to say . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘You know, if I hadn’t said it before . . . I, ahem, um, love you both, and I’m made up that you and Jed have, you know, made up, and . . .’ Jed was giving him a look, and Liam suddenly remembered that Livia had no idea about Jed’s ‘missing’ period earlier. ‘I mean, Jed’s made an honest woman of you, and like I said earlier, it’s made me think that, well . . .’

  His voice trailed off. Jed was smiling at him. ‘We get it, Liam. And thanks again. Like I said earlier, you’ve been the best best man a brother could ask for. Even though he didn’t ask for – or know he was going to be needing – one.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’ll be doing the same for me one day. Hopefully sooner, rather than later.’

  Jed slipped an arm round his shoulders. ‘I can’t wait,’ he said, and Liam grinned sheepishly. Neither, he realised, could he.

  ‘Anyway,’ Liam said again, then he leaned across and gave Livia a hug, and kissed his brother on the forehead. ‘Like I said, I’m out of here.’

  ‘I’m liking this new Liam,’ said Livia, then she winced, and both Liam and Jed looked concerned, but then she smiled. ‘It’s okay. It just kicked me.’

  ‘What did?’ said Liam.

  ‘The baby, Liam,’ said Livia, then she widened her eyes. ‘Baby Liam. How’s that for a name?’

  Jed laughed. ‘I thi
nk one Liam Woodward is already more than enough, thank you.’

  Liam grinned, and gave them both one of those salute-waves he’d seen people do in films (and that he’d practised in front of a mirror because it always looked pretty cool), then he headed out through reception and made his way back to his room. He’d be sad to be leaving Barcelona tomorrow. It had been an eventful couple of days. Perhaps a little too eventful, given everything that had happened today, but as Liam thought about it, he decided he wouldn’t change a thing.

  The lift doors pinged open, and he stepped out into the corridor, trying to remember which way to turn for his room, when he spotted a devastatingly pretty girl in a hotel uniform walking towards him.

  ‘Well ho-la!’ he said, before remembering he was trying to have what was left of the night off.

  ‘Como puedo ayudarte?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Liam flashed her his best smile. ‘I don’t speak Spanish. And to be honest, after the amount I’ve drunk this evening, English is proving a bit tricky.’

  The woman smiled back. ‘It means “Can I help you?”’ she said, her voice heavily – and to Liam’s ear, sexily – accented. ‘You look . . . lost.’

  Liam stared at her. That was exactly it. He was lost. Or at least, he had been. Then he realised he was, in fact, standing right in front of his room. ‘No. Thank you. I’m fine. This is me.’

  The girl – Margarita, according to her name tag, and Liam had to stop himself from asking whether she was named after the pizza – looked him up and down. Or was she checking him out? He’d have bet money on it being the latter.

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘No. It’s an English expression. It means . . . never mind.’ He pointed to his door. ‘My room. Number thirteen. Unfortunately.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The number. Thirteen? It’s bad luck.’

  Margarita smiled, and Liam couldn’t help but stare at her mouth. Her plump, kissable lips. The slight dimples that formed in her cheeks. Her perfect white teeth. How he’d love to . . .