‘I’ll shut up. Safer.’ I need to change the conversation here, I glance round, desperate for inspiration. Then spot my case. Ha-ha! ‘We need to talk about Brighton, what the hell are we going to do about Brighton? They’re all coming!’
He shrugs, takes the one and half strides it takes to reach the sofa, and switches the TV on. Then he pats the sofa, inviting me to join him. ‘We need Mission Impossible – Tom would know what to do!’
We’re cool.
Chapter 7
I am in shock. The whole ‘no New York’ thing rattled my cage, and after that wedding announcement I feel like Rach has dropped a bloody big boulder on me and left me feeling totally flattened. I can’t get my head round everything.
I feel like my best friend is heading for a car crash and 1 can’t do anything about it. Feeling helpless and out of control is so not my thing.
I should have told her, I know I should have. Ages ago. When it happened.
But if I sow the evil seed of doubt in her mind now, then everything could be off – our friendship, and her wedding. I know what that feels like. I went to pieces and I’ve always thought of myself as a strong person, so what would it do to Rach?
And I could be wrong. Saint Michael might have cast off his sins and been reborn. Now all I can think about is St Michael’s mount, and it’s the word mount that is bouncing around in my head. Eek, bounce was so the wrong word.
This could all go horribly wrong and I could let her down. Andy is bound to be there, because he knows Michael, and so will lots of other people who were supposed to be coming to our wedding. And she’s asked me to be her bridesmaid! I think I’m fine, I think I’m totally over it, but what if the whole walking down the aisle in a pretty dress brings me out in hives and makes me puke? Or yell blue murder at an inappropriate point, such as when the vicar asks if anybody sees any reasons why they can’t be married. Or bump the bride out of the way and yell ‘it should have been me’? Or (and let’s face it, this is most likely), just look glum and tearful on what is supposed to be the happiest day of Rachel’s life.
Note to self: not only do I not make an appealing enough bride, I also do not make a good best friend.
I need her to get married on a desert island with only a monkey and coconut tree in attendance.
Or I need to develop some kind of lurgy that is non-life-threatening but highly contagious. I could say I’ve caught ringworm off the kittens (sorry kittens). Nobody likes a fungal infection, do they?
I spend the first couple of days in Brighton licking my wounds, and many slices of pizza, and quite a lot of fish and chips with Freddie and then I realise that I really do need a kick up the arse. This is because, 1. It isn’t fair on him that I’m such a miserable git, 2. My jeans will burst if I don’t quit eating so much crap, 3. The girls will arrive soon and I have to put on a happy face for Rach and, 4. being here is actually fun. Though I am very sad that I can’t post my hilarious photos of us on Insta.
The one I got of him with a seagull hovering six inches above his head is a classic. And our selfie with the top of the Royal Pavilion looking like it’s a crown on my head is pretty good, even if I say so myself. And so is the sunset, and the one of Freddie snogging the giant terrapin in Sea Life – honestly, you’d really think they were puckering up for real.
Okay, the sunset wasn’t hilarious, or even funny, but it was beautiful. We’d sat side by side in silence, in awe, and I’d really wanted to reach out for a hand to hold.
But that was fantasy Freddie. The version of him that somehow manages to occupy my brain every now and then (and sometimes brings on a hot flush).
Real Freddie is different.
There is no hand-holding involved. He is a friend. Just a friend, who turned to look at me just as I’d turned to look at him. For a second, we’d shared a look, then we’d both glanced away, back out to sea and been disproportionality interested in the waves.
‘Thanks for this.’
‘The ice cream?’ Freddie grins.
‘No, you idiot, for everything. Bringing me here, cheering me up.’
‘That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?’
I smile. I’ve never had a male friend like Freddie before. He’s currently nearly on a par with fantasy Freddie, the one who (in my head) is currently walking with me barefoot on the sand, rubbing that spot between my thumb and forefinger that makes me go all tingly.
I mean, we all need dreams, don’t we? And dreams are a safe option – no disappointments, no ugly reality, just pure unadulterated pleasure and total control.
‘Cockle?’ He dips his cocktail stick into the tiny tub and lifts the ugly little mollusc into the air. My tingles stop.
I grin and shake my head, thinking of my gran’s old saying about ‘warming the cockles of your heart’. Freddie warms mine. At least I think it’s my cockles. ‘Yeah, but it’s kind of going above and beyond …’
He shrugs. ‘I was due some holiday anyway, and I like coming here.’ He stares at me, and for a moment his gaze locks with mine. I’d never noticed how beautiful his eyes were before, how intense and dark. I feel a brief shiver of some feeling I can’t pin down, then he glances away and points at the seagulls. ‘Hurry up and eat that or they’ll be dive bombing you.’
I am about to hurry up, when my phone pings. ‘It’s Rach!’
Freddie nods, waits, as I look at the text.
‘How’s Brighton?’
‘Great.’
‘How’s Freddie?’
‘Rach! Will you stop it?’
‘Ha-ha just wondering. We’re all set for the bridesmaids booze up – see you Friday!’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me who’s coming?’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh, come on, can’t you give me at least a hint? I’ve spent all my spare time scouring your Facebook and Insta feeds for clues!’
‘No way, I want to see your face!’
This is a teensy bit worrying. I have, in between ice cream eating with Freddie, been wondering why my best friend cannot tell me who am I going to be walking down the aisle with.
There are several worrying scenarios: 1. One or more of the girls were supposed to be my bridesmaids. This thought makes me a bit queasy; 2. Some of Rachel’s gang are girls that really didn’t like me at all at school; and 3. A combination of both.
‘See you Friday, can’t wait! Love you Rx’
I know they say that your school days are the best days of your life, but how often is that true? I spent a huge proportion of mine worrying about not being liked, not being kissed and not wearing the right gear.
And, as far as friends go, well, I trusted Rach … but the rest? Girls can be bitchy, cliquey and spiteful, as well as supportive, lovely and generous. And there’s often a fine line …
I frown at Freddie, well, not at him. Past him. ‘At least I know it won’t be Andy!’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘Sorry, Rach was talking about the bridesmaids.’
‘True, he’d look rubbish in a dress, not got the legs.’
We grin at each other, mine a bit strained, his soft at the edges. ‘Stop worrying.’
‘I can’t help it. What if they’re people I hate?’
‘Is that really what you’re worried about?’
‘Yes. Well, no. Gawd, it’s the whole wedding thing, Freddie.’ I bury my head in my hands for a moment, which is better than in the sand I guess. ‘Why does all the crap stuff come at once?’
‘It’s to test your mettle as one of my up-themselves teachers used to say.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘You are okay, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, yeah, groovy, babe! I’ve got a rubbish job, got ditched just as I was about to go to New York, and now I’ve got to be thrilled for Rach with all this wedding stuff, and I’ve got to go to her hen party! Arghh.’ I pretend to tear my hair out and he laughs, then hugs me.
‘I mean it Jane. Are you sure you can do this?’ The concern in his eyes brings a lump to my throat. ‘The
wedding I mean.’
‘She’s my best friend, Freddie. I can’t not do it.’
‘You haven’t got to do anything. She’ll understand if you say you can’t cope.’
‘I can cope.’
‘It’s not going to send you loopy again?’ His voice is light and his words funny, but I know that he’s bothered. Oh, sweet, sweet Freddie, where would I be without you?
‘Look …’ I’ve got to be honest with him. I’m never anything but, we’ve always been able to talk, and after I’d poured out my heart (and most of my insides) after Andy had dumped me, there’d been no going back. I’d not wanted to go back. ‘Okay, part of me is dreading this.’ He nods. ‘But I’m excited for her as well. I’m just a bit nervous about what it will be like, doing all the stuff I did.’ Our gazes lock. ‘It’s the hen party that’s going to be the weird one, I mean, I never actually walked up the aisle, did I? So that can’t be such a biggie.’
‘It can.’ He smiles, a soft smile that reaches his eyes – and my heart.
‘Okay,’ I sigh, ‘it can, it is. I think I need to know that these other bridesmaids are going to be there to pick me up if I fall.’
‘I’ll be there, if they’re not.’
‘You’re too nice for me.’ I kiss him on the cheek, and the roughness of the slight stubble against my lips sends a shiver down me that I didn’t expect.
‘Hmm, I’m not sure nice is what my manly side needs to hear!’ He chuckles, then gives me a brief tight hug. ‘You’re not going to fall.’ It’s odd, but just for a second, with his warm hand on my shoulder, I totally believe him. I can do this.
‘Come on, eat up, before—’
Right on cue a seagull swoops down and it’s heading right for my nose. ‘Shit!’ I scramble up and take a couple of steps back, and it swoops back. I run, dodging the benches, dashing round the bus stop and the damned thing is preparing to dive bomb. Jumping in the air, I fling the ice cream Freddie’s way (it’s all me, me, me it appears when I’m under attack). He swerves, my lovely cornet goes splodge and the bird lands next to it and stares. Giving me the beady eye and a squawk.
I double up, hands on knees, panting from the unexpected exertion, and shock. ‘Bugger, I was enjoying that.’
‘Told you! Never fling food around in Brighton, they’re the food police.’ He nods at the bird.
‘Mafia more like. That bird looks evil.’
We share a look. The dangerous intense-stare bit has been forgotten, which is good. Lick the icing off the cake and you risk ruining the lot, don’t you? Then feeling sick and wishing you hadn’t.
I reach for my camera, but the seagull has scarpered, and Freddie is laughing. ‘You always did take photos of everything, didn’t you? I remember at school.’
‘Everything!’ It’s cute that he remembers, but a bit embarrassing. I don’t remember much about him at all. I guess I was one self-obsessed teen who didn’t look beyond my groups of girlfriends, and the odd show-off cocky guy who was hot. I don’t think Freddie was hot back then, he was the quiet, geeky type.
But as I think about it, something deep in my memory stirs. Freddie helping us set up our photo exhibition for our GCSE exam, Freddie embarrassed when we both reached for the same picture, then more embarrassed when we dropped it, and both bent down to pick it up.
Freddie who painted the unassuming black-and-white still-life pictures that made something catch in my throat, even though I was a brash teenager who couldn’t explain why.
‘Your pictures were ace.’
‘Pretentious, “chocolate box” was how one art teacher described them, I think,’ he says without a trace of rancour.
‘They were good.’
‘They wanted Banksy and anger, not broken hearts and whimsy.’
‘They were wrong.’ I snap a picture of him, then one of our feet on the sand, so that I don’t have to look him in the eye and be embarrassed. ‘You’ve got quite big feet, haven’t you?’
‘You know what they say?’ He jiggles his eyebrows, then glances down, a cheeky grin on his face.
‘No, what’s that then?’ I try to keep a straight face and fail.
He colours up, a slight tinge of pink along his cheekbones, then suddenly laughs and sweeps me off my feet. The whole world is whizzing round, I can feel the warm imprint of every single one of his fingers, especially the one that has somehow slipped under my T-shirt, and it could be awkward.
‘Bugger.’ He staggers off balance, does a daft pirouette and we collapse to the ground. ‘Oof.’
I think that noise is because a fair bit of my weight landed on his stomach.
‘God, you’re a weight.’
‘Your own fault.’ I wave a finger at him, secretly, smugly glad that he did his silly dance so that I’d be the one that landed on top, and he’d be the one that was crushed.
We dust ourselves down, avoiding eye contact. Rolling on the beach isn’t exactly standard flatmate stuff, is it? And even if it was, I wouldn’t be doing it, because I still haven’t figured where I want to fit in the whole relationship arena. Not since Andy did what he did. I think I need casual, except I always seem to duck out of actual dates – because what’s the point, if you know from the start that it’s never going to work out?
‘At least it stopped you taking photos.’
‘You’ve done it now.’ He’s not looking, he’s bent over, so taking his feet from under him is easy. So is planting one foot, warrior style, on his chest and taking a photo. ‘When this is all over, that is going viral!’ I glance at the picture on my phone, check it’s not blurry. It’s not. He’s laughing, a hint of white teeth between his parted lips, lines fanning out from his eyes which are looking straight into the lens. There’s a single strand of honey-brown hair on his brow, curled by the sea air. I want to reach out, brush it away. So instead I stare at my screen. ‘I’ll have to do some retouching of course, sex it up.’
He laughs, then, with one sweep of his long leg, he’s taken mine from under me and I find myself sitting on damp sand.
As I go down, he gets up, and strides away before I can retaliate. He’s grinning though as he looks over his shoulder. ‘First one back gets to pick the movie.’
‘That’s cheating!’
‘Says she. Come on, you’ve got to get your latest dose of Ibiza online.’
I struggle to my feet as he jogs on the spot. But the second I’m upright, he’s off.
Bugger. He’ll pick some really gory, scary, film and I’ll have to spend the evening peeping out from behind a cushion or googling the ending.
Chapter 8
‘Surprise!’ Rachel leaps up and waves madly as I walk into the dimly lit bar. It’s not so dimly lit that I wouldn’t have spotted her though. ‘We’re here! We’re in Brighton!’ She makes a whoop noise before launching herself at me for a mega hug. And she looks so happy, I immediately resolve to never even think about not liking Michael ever again. Once I’ve warned him that castration is still on my agenda. And as long as I don’t have to sit next to him. ‘Look who’s here!’
Rachel is grasping my arm and has moved to one side so I can see who is behind her. I look, and forget all about Michael, and cutting his balls off.
Surprise is the understatement of the year. I’ve been swept back to my days of spots and teenage angst.
‘Remember Maddie?’
‘Oh my God! Of course I do! What a brilliant surprise, how long has it been? You’ve not changed a bit!’ She hasn’t. Maddie has still got the neat, glossy swinging hair, kitten heels and matching accessories that she’s always had. Her perfection could be annoying. But it never has been. She’s too sweet, kind and considerate, and for want of a better word, nice. She is the Audrey Hepburn of the modern day.
Maddie waves wildly with both hands and looks genuinely pleased to see me. In fact, she looks relieved, if I’m honest, which is odd. I don’t ever remember being her favourite. We got on fine, but when we were at high school I drank, smoked and laughed too much for u
s ever to be bosom buddies.
‘Hey, stranger! You’ve changed lots … in a totally good way, though!’ Her smile and tone is so warm that I get all choked up inside. I think I’ve forgotten what is was like to spend proper time with real friends. Apart from Freddie. But time with girlfriends is different, isn’t it? ‘Look at you, all super star and you’re looking amazing. Those photos on Instagram are fab, you always were dead artistic! Rachel told me they were yours really, not that woman you work for. I look at every single one, I’m so pleased for you!’
I blush and feel guilty. Not out of false modesty (I am quite chuffed with my work for Coral), but because while Maddie has been following my career, I haven’t got a clue what she’s been up to since she picked up her exam results and walked out of high school for the very last time.
Maddie wasn’t a high achiever at school, all she’d ever wanted was to get married and be a stay at home mum. She’d been a natural when it came to looking after people. She cared. Out of Rachel’s group of friends, she had been the one that had welcomed me in without question, even though we were so different. She was the one that didn’t raise an eyebrow because I was in the year below them, the kid that Rach found behind the bicycle shed.
She was also the only girl I knew at school who never dated wildly. While the rest of us were oozing an hormonal smog and snogging in all directions, she only had eyes for one boy: Jack. Jack was her first, her only and I bet you any money they married the moment they left school and have a mini-Maddie and a mini-Jack and live in one of those semis on the new estate by the park, with perfectly manicured lawns and carefully trimmed shrubs. And a hybrid car. And I bet they never accidentally put stuff in the wrong recycling bin.
‘Wow, thanks … and how is—’
‘Jane, Jane, look, Sal is here as well!’ Rachel spins me forty-five degrees with some force.
I don’t get chance to find out what Mads has been up to, or how Jack is, or how many children they’ve got, because I’m trying not to fall off my heels. But I will do later. Definitely.
Bridesmaids Page 6
