by Alam, Donna
‘Think that’s true?’
‘Er, yeah. Why not?’ My eyes follow the path of hers, and the look that passes between both her and Rory is almost pornographic. No, that’s not right—it’s intimate. So intimate I feel like I’m trespassing. ‘Anyway.’ I clear my throat. ‘Little Vlad will need a playmate, so do me a favour and get on that quick.’
Before she can answer, Natasha appears on my left, handing me a glass of orange juice and a paper napkin concealing a tiny pastry tart.
‘It’s like I’m seeing double,’ she says as I run an index finger under my eyes one more last time.
‘True story,’ agrees Fin, following the direction of her gaze. ‘It’s like the genetic unicorn was in the room at their conception.’
‘Yeah, shaking its magical tail and sprinkling the room with magical, glittery ejaculate.’
‘Have you two been drinking while I wasn’t looking? I almost choked on a tart.’
‘That’s what he said! ’ Nat raises her hand preparing to slap my back, but I ward it off by taking a sip of my orange juice.
‘In this witty riposte, am I to suppose that I’m the tart?’ asks Fin.
‘Take it any way you like. Just take it well, if you know what I mean?’ Nat ends her statement with a bawdy wink.
‘Oh, God. I think my morning sickness is coming back again. If it’s not you making horrible jokes, it must be the looks between the pair of them.’ I point my thumb at Fin, twisting my wrist to point it to the front of the room.
‘Vomit on my shoes and you’re paying for them,’ retorts Nat. ‘And she can’nae help it; just look at them. The odds of creating two people that beautiful must be about the same as gettin’ all numbers and the Powerball.’
As I place my glass on a passing tray, Kit taps his champagne glass with a piece of silverware. The murmur of conversation around us peters out as all eyes join Fin’s, the genetic unicorn offspring now the focus of the room. Rory stands slightly to the right of his brother, and it’s just so weird seeing them side by side. Yes, they’re incredibly handsome, but the fact they’re almost a mirror image of the other is so trippy, I’m pleased I can’t currently drink champagne. They have the same thick chestnut hair, gorgeous grey eyes, and cheekbones that could probably slice ham. Ah, ham . . .
Pregnancy is proving a trial to my vegetarianism the last few days.
‘What happens if you get in’tae bed with the wrong brother?’ asks Nat.
Fin sniggers, and I tell them to shush. ‘People will hear!’
‘So?’ Nat snorts. ‘Seriously, though,’ she asks, her head turning to Fin again. ‘How’d you tell them apart?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she demurs, smiling. And still looking at him.
‘Would I be asking if it was,’ Nat answers in the same simpering though slightly sarcastic tone. ‘Are you gonnae tell me Kit has an unsightly freckle on his left ballock, or something?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘That there is a cryin’ shame.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. He’s gay, not dead,’ I interject.
‘You’d better ask him about that because I watched him flirt with a waitress at dinner last week, and I’m pretty sure the way he looked at her made the girl pregnant.’
‘He was probably being smart; it pays to be nice to the wait staff.’
‘He wasn’t being nice. Seriously, he looked like he’d eat her, if you know what I mean.’
‘So he’s bi, then?’ Nat pipes up, excitedly.
‘Hush!’ Fin responds, unable to conceal her laughter.
‘Bi. Fancy that.’ Nat’s eyes all but glaze over with smutty daydreams before she comes back to us. ‘No, really, I fancy that. You’d still need to make them wear name tags, though.’
‘Yeah, like I have any intention of a threesome with the man I love’s brother.’
‘Why not? I would. Though I’d still need some way to tell them apart.’
‘It’s easy,’ Fin responds, ignoring my rolling eyes—hard rolling eyes—and cheesed off tone. ‘Rory is the more handsome of the two.’
This time, we turn to examine the brothers simultaneously.
‘They look the bloody same,’ grumbles Nat.
‘Well, I suppose,’ Fin replies airily, ‘you could just ask them to take off their shirts.’
‘Now, you’re just teasing.’ Nat pauses for a beat before asking, ‘So Kit has no ink at all?’
‘I guess you’d have to find that out for yourself.’
‘Mute.’ At my interjection, both women turn to me in confusion. But I can feel my cheeks physically reddening, my concern for nearby flapping ear-lugs real. ‘What? It’s a mute point, because he doesn’t have enough facial fuzz for her.’
‘Moot, y’bampot.’ Nat shakes her head just as Kit’s deep baritone rings across the room.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Ladies, gentlemen, and Natasha.’ I cackle. Just a little. And quietly.
‘Shut it, tubby,’ Nat whisper-hisses over me.
My giggling instantaneously halts, morphing into a sharp intake of breath.
‘You . . . you absolute cow!’ As well as crying so much I no longer perspire, hormones have induced what Nat calls my temper coaster. Apparently, mood swing doesn’t cover my ups and downs, which can be so fast and fleeting, she’s likened my state of mind to a roller coaster ride. Yes, a ride .
‘Ooooh! Better not let June hear you swearing,’ crows Nat. It’s okay to say cock in her granny’s earshot, but heaven forbid anyone utter the most terrible of Scottish female insults. Shock—horror—I called her a cow!
‘I asked you if I looked like a pig at a festival in this dress—a fat pig with flowers in my hair—and you said no!’
I almost didn’t come today; I couldn’t find anything to wear and had a mini breakdown at the thought of buying maternity clothes. Big knickers are one thing but tents? Then I’d remembered this dress; hanging on the back of my bedroom door, covered by all the stuff I don’t have hanging space for. It’s a bit too Coachella —Bardot shoulders, shortish, swishy, and white with embroidered flowers—but I thought it’d do. And in for a penny, in for a pound, I’d gone the whole hog and woven a few meadow flowers from the gardens into my heavy braid. ‘Call yourself a friend?’
‘I do. And you’re not fat. You’re pregnant,’ Nat retorts.
‘Like I need a reminder because I’m having a really good time sipping on orange juice while you’re on the wine.’
‘Face the facts, Ivy; there comes a time in a girl’s life when only big knickers will do.’
My knickers are a little bigger, granted, but it’s not like they come up to my boobs!
‘I’ll give you big knickers,’ I spit back. ‘Next time you ask me to colour your hair, I’m stripping it back to ginger!’
‘For the love of—will you two just shut the eff up ? I’m trying to listen,’ says a clearly exasperated Fin.
‘What for?’ we both ask at once.
‘Because some of us aren’t here for the free bubbles’—Fin looks at Nat pointedly—‘or canapes.’
Along with the chastisement, she adds the stink eye in my direction, and I find myself frowning at the used napkins crushed in my hand. I have eaten quite a few in the last half hour—that’s canapes, not napkins—but my appetite this past week has gone wild. For meat, too. I think I might’ve ingested a bit of ham in the wee morsel I devoured. And what’s worse is I went back for another, just to be sure.
Just as delicious the second time.
‘No, seriously, what for?’ deadpans Nat.
‘This is a momentous occasion in my boyfriend’s life. And I want to hear what Kit has to say.’
‘Blah, blah, blah. Thanks for coming, now bugger off and eat some grub,’ Nat gripes. ‘Those trays look full of grubs, anyway. I’ll probably need to order room service later.’
Grubs. Yeah, small morsels . My grip loosens a touch on the wad of napkins. See, I haven’t eaten that much, afte
r all. And a burger . . . yum. I don’t think I’ve had anything but the tofu kind since I turned twelve.
‘This place looks great, though. Very avant-garde ,’ I pipe up, my eyes scanning the room for a member of the wait staff to take these soiled napkins. And bring me a new one. Concealing more canapes.
‘She means a bit mad,’ says Nat.
She’s not exactly wrong. This room is quite tasteful with lots of exposed stone and glass. It’s a newly built extension to the house in a sort of orangery effect. The glass walls at the far side of the room allow for views over a stone terrace and lawn, past sand dunes, and to the ocean beyond. It’s a gorgeous space and will lend itself wonderfully to wedding receptions, parties, and the like. There’s even an outside fireplace, which would be lovely to sit around on a cool evening. Though I’m not sure what use they’ll get from the croquet lawn.
While this space is very elegant, the main house—beyond its traditional façade—is a bit out there. Lots of colour and contemporary art. The interior designer was obviously very talented. Yes, my lovely friend, even if she seems to have developed a thing for stag heads—both the ancient taxidermy and manufactured kind.
‘Have you seen the bedrooms?’ Natasha asks.
‘Not since they’ve been finished,’ Fin answers, her gaze unable to stray from Rory for very long.
It’s so lovely to see them happy. And to think, we—I —could’ve buggered it all up for them. Since they got back together, Fin tells me she’s had a blast hanging out with Rory, and that he’d arranged to take her out on dates. It’s so freakin’ cute, especially as she’d missed out on the earlier and more typical dating stage by getting married so young.
She looks so happy. I’m so pleased Marcus didn’t get to put her through any more pain.
‘When did you see the bedrooms?’ she asks absently.
‘When we arrived. I just popped up for a wee keek. Did you know,’ Nat says, her eyes sparkling with mischief, ‘there’s a room up there called the Master’s Suite.’
‘Yeah,’ replies Fin, frowning a touch. ‘It’s the hotel’s main bedroom.’
‘Well, the name’s pretty apt.’
‘What do you mean?’ The crease between Fin’s brow deepens. ‘Specifically. Because that’s the suite Rory and I are staying in later.’
‘I’m saying nothin’,’ Nat responds, sniggering. ‘Except I saw something lying on the dresser. Something that looked like a cheese board. It wasn’t, by the way, though it was wooden. And long.’ Her brows lift almost into her hairline. ‘I’d say someone might be in for a skelped arse tonight.’
‘Give over,’ I scoff. ‘It’s not that kind of hotel.’ My gaze slides to Fin’s for confirmation. She looks a little pink. Maybe the pair are into that sort of thing? As she opens her mouth to answer, we’re distracted by a sudden round of applause. We’ve missed Kit’s speech, blethering as normal, but at least we haven’t missed Rory’s, and that one’s going to be way more interesting. I know. Kit begins to introduce his brother, and the beaming smile Fin sends their way is almost dazzling. As wonderful as it is to watch my bestie almost bursting with love, I turn to face the front of the room.
‘Thank you,’ Rory begins, his voice ringing confidently through the room. ‘If I could just ask my lovely partner in crime to come forward. Fin?’ As his eyes scan the crowd, seeking her out, Fin seems to shrink inwardly. She’s not a fan of any sort of attention; being hounded by tabloid journalists for a time will do that to a girl. For a moment, I think she’s considering using me as a human shield.
‘That is,’ he continues, ‘if she’s not too busy yammering to her friends back there.’
Warm laughter ripples through the crowd, the modest but select group of people turning to find Fin.
I grasp her elbow before she manages to disappear behind my back. ‘Continue, then. Go see your man.’
‘Did you know anything about this?’ She’s the proverbial bunny caught in a pair of powerful full beams, but through her painted-on-grimace-come-smile, I detect curiosity, which gives me all the feels as I know what’s about to happen. I still have a hard time believing Rory not only forgave me but also included me in his secret project.
Tears of happiness blur my vision as I place my hand at the small of her back, giving her a small push.
She takes one trepidatious step after another, and how can she not? She’s walking towards her man. A man who looks at her like she’s his world. Rory holds out his hand, pulling her off balance and into a hug. Those standing around make murmurs of appreciation as the tears making my vision glassy drip and run down my cheeks. I wonder what he’s whispering in her ear—wonder exactly. Will he confess his eternal devotion, or will he just ask her to simply spend the rest of her life with him?
He cuts such a handsome figure as he steps back, a million miles and almost a broken heart away from when he first appeared in the salon those months ago. Jeans and chequered shirt soaked to his skin, hair plastered to his head, and his trademark cheeky grin undampened by the awful weather as he looked at Fin.
In front, Fin slaps both hands quite suddenly over mouth, and my tears turn into a small, hitching sob. Nat wraps her arm around my shoulder, pulling me into the side of her body as though she doubts I can hold myself up or together.
Rory smirks, clearly aware of what their audience is imagining, especially as they begin to applaud when he lowers himself to one knee. Through my tears and sniffling, I also can’t help but giggle. History and social custom might suggest Rory’s about to propose, and while that’s not necessarily untrue, it’s not quite the proposal people are imagining.
His right hand feeds into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
‘Fin,’ he says, that smirk unrestrained and reining free.
‘Oh, Rory.’ She gasps out her admonishment. ‘You’re not—’
‘I’m afraid I am,’ he replies, his eyes sparkling. ‘I’m honoured to be yours,’ he states, more than loud enough for those nearby to hear. ‘And I know you value your independence. I want you to know that I’ll never take that away from you, but darlin’, I’m tired of traipsing between Waterloo and my place. Put me out of my misery, Fin.’ He begins to pull his hand from his pocket. I know what’s in there. Both things. Through tears and smiles, my heart pitter-patters so fast, anyone would think he was about to ask me. ‘I was daft enough to let you go the first time. I’m not risking it again.’
Asking . . . though not what you might think, yet exactly that because, there, balanced on his index finger is a keychain; silver in colour and sparkling. ‘I’m going to ask you again,’ he utters, one brow cocked. ‘And if you say no, that’s fine. I’ll just ask you another time. And another, until you give me the answer I want to hear. Fin, will you move in with me?’
As a mixture of sniggers and more heartfelt awws break out around us, Fin reaches out with one shaking hand to take the keychain from Rory’s finger. She folds it into her palms, hugging both tight to her chest.
‘I could murder you right now.’ Her voice has a water quality, even as she tries to cover it with a scowl. As Rory opens his mouth to speak, Fin gets there first. ‘Yes, Rory. Yes, I will.’
‘You will?’ He stands abruptly, his hands pressing down on her shoulders as though the weight of them could prevent a change of mind. And the look on his face? It’s profound surprise—ecstatic delight. ‘You make me the happiest—’ He may be looking at her, but she’s no longer looking at him, a small crease between her brows as she pulls the keyring from her chest.
There are no flies on my girl. I knew he wouldn’t be able to sneak that past her.
‘What’s this hanging from it?’ Fin lies the keyring flat against her palm, her expression morphing through a range of expressions; confusion to consternation, consternation to . . . is that tentative joy?
I helped him choose that bauble, and let me tell you, you could buy a car for what he paid for those carats. That bling is enough to make any girl smile.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he replies, laughing softly. ‘All at your own pace.’
This is his oft-quoted mantra since the pair got back together, allowing Fin to take things slowly after their whirlwind of a beginning. It’s all at her pace, and he’ll follow her lead, at least, up until now. But he told me he didn’t care if she wore the token of his devotion on a ring of keys, only that she was happy. And that she was his.
But happy doesn’t cover the expression on my friend’s face. I’m not sure enough joyous adjectives exist to describe her massive smile. I love that she looks so bloody happy—love that not every whirlwind of a relationship is doomed to fail. Adore that the pair has fought their way to a well-deserved second chance.
I push the back of my hand under my eyes, wiping away tears again, but I don’t care. My friend is in love, and I’m filled to the brim with happiness on her behalf. I giggle, for no other reason than the sight of these two in front. Nat’s arm falls from my shoulder, and I notice her own eyes are also brimming with happy tears.
‘Aw, are you crying?’ I softly taunt.
‘No,’ she responds through a soggy sounding laugh. ‘The glue from my false lashes must’ve leaked.’
False lashes, my bum . . . not that she isn’t wearing them in some shape or form. Extensions, I think; massively curled and long. To be honest, I’m surprised she can keep her lids open under the weight. The nearby clink of glasses makes me realise my throat is parched. I turn slightly, my gaze searching out one of the wait staff.
‘I think this calls for a wee toast, and maybe a mouthful of champagne because . . .’
The end of my sentence trails off as the canapes ingested earlier threaten a return. Maybe I don’t need wine; maybe what I need is a lie-down. My mind begins reeling through a slew of explanations as to why I’m seeing things—of why my knees are weak, and my body’s currently shaking. And then it comes to me: I’m a horrible person. What kind of friend am I? Why can’t I just be happy for Fin and Rory without feeling bad for myself? Why must I conjure the phantom of my own failing?
