Finding Felix

by Finding Felix (retail) (epub)

  He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket, closed the briefcase and returned it to the floor. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, while looking and sounding like it was definitely something.

  I sighed to myself. This was proving to be possibly the longest fifteen minutes of my life, and I wondered why, if he was so pressed for time, he didn’t just leave. I wished he would. But since he had now picked up his coffee again and was showing no sign of going anywhere, I decided to have one last go at engaging him in conversation. If after that he still refused to chat, then I would buy myself a Bakewell slice and entertain myself with that instead.

  I cleared my throat and, deciding that I might as well make the exchange a useful one, asked. ‘Do you have any questions about the wedding, Felix? I know we covered all the logistics by email, but is there anything else?’

  He looked up from his coffee, blinking slightly as if he’d forgotten that I was even there, before looking thoughtful. ‘Will there be many of your close friends at the reception?’ he asked. ‘Anyone who might think it’s strange that you haven’t mentioned me – or who I might be expected to know? Like Kate, for example.’

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. It was actually a very good question. I thought for a moment and then shook my head. ‘There’ll be a few cousins, but none that I’m in regular contact with. I know some of Becca’s friends, but only through her; no one I know in my own right.’ I smiled. ‘Anything else?’

  He shook his head and fell silent again, and I had just turned towards the cake counter and was wondering whether I would find a raspberry and white chocolate muffin more entertaining than a Bakewell slice, when a thought struck me. ‘Oh, hang on,’ I said, turning back to Felix and holding up a hand, ‘my ex-boyfriend will be there.’ Felix nodded but said nothing, and I felt a sudden awkwardness, as well as a need to take an extra breath, before adding, ‘His name is Alistair Burgess. We were together for two years and split up about eleven months ago. He won’t think it’s odd that I haven’t told him about you because we…’ I cleared my throat. ‘Well, we don’t have that kind of conversation. I mean, everything’s fine, but we’re not in touch very often. But you should probably know about him.’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Felix.

  ‘As I say, everything is fine,’ I repeated, forcing a smile. ‘It was mutual, all very amicable. You won’t have to deck him or anything.’ I turned away and looked at the cake counter again, despite now having no interest in either slices or muffins. ‘Those cakes look nice, don’t they?’

  He didn’t reply, and when I turned back around, he had taken his phone from his pocket and was looking at the screen, checking, I assumed, the recently arrived figures.

  Feeling inexplicably hurt, I stood up. ‘Thanks for coming, Felix. I know you’re really busy. It was great to have a chance to talk before Saturday, but I’ll let you get on with that now.’ I nodded towards the phone in his hands.

  He had the decency to look a little embarrassed but made no apology. Instead, he glanced in what seemed to be mild frustration at the phone, placed it face down on the table and then he too stood up. ‘I’ll see you at the church on Saturday,’ he said.

  ‘You will,’ I replied, hoisting my mouth into a smile. ‘And thanks again.’

  ‘What are friends for?’

  I looked up at him, resisting an urge to ask him whether he genuinely felt that we were still friends. ‘I can’t remember seeing pretending to be your boyfriend at your sister’s wedding on the job description. So this is really above and beyond.’

  His response was a polite smile, but as his eyes flicked downwards towards his phone on the table, I could tell he wasn’t really listening.

  ‘See you Saturday then,’ I said, unsure whether it was the company of my former friend or the conversation about my former boyfriend which had so suddenly flattened my mood to the point of tears.

  ‘Saturday,’ he echoed absently. Then he sat back down, picked up his phone and started to text.

  Chapter 8

  ‘And here’s Becca in her Hawaiian outfit at the school fete. Do you remember that, Becca?’ My mother passed the photograph to my sister, who was sitting to her left.

  Becca laughed. ‘How old am I here? Four?’

  ‘It was 1989, I think. So you’re five,’ said my mother, leaning towards her to peer again at the photograph. ‘It took me hours to make that crêpe-paper hula skirt and all those flowers for the lei and the headdress.’

  ‘It did,’ agreed Dad. ‘And then just three minutes for heavy rain to turn everything to mush and leave Becca in nothing but her vest and pants.’ He laughed loudly and I joined in, reaching for the photo.

  It had, against all my shameful expectations, been a lovely evening with my parents and Becca. We had met in the lounge of the Bear in Devizes marketplace for drinks at six thirty, before moving through to the cosy wood-panelled restaurant at seven. Mum told us that she had booked early so that we could all get our beauty sleep, although as I was actually staying at the Bear that night, I knew I could be in bed within fifteen minutes of waving them off.

  Mark was spending the night with his best man, and my sister had, quite valiantly I thought in light of my mother’s pre-wedding nerves, insisted that Mum and Dad stay with her. I was invited to stay too, but, as I wasn’t quite as valiant as Becca, I had declined, instead booking myself in for an extra night at The Bear.

  I smiled down at the glossy 6x4 picture of my little sister and then up at Dad, feeling grateful for his suggestion that Mum bring along the photographs she hadn’t found room for on the wedding reception storyboard. The snaps had been viewed between courses, prompting memories and anecdotes which had kept the evening firmly focused on Becca, which was just what I had hoped for.

  ‘You were beautiful from the off,’ I said to Becca, returning the picture to her. ‘And you’ll be at your most beautiful tomorrow.’

  She sighed. ‘I just hope I can make it down the aisle without tripping.’

  ‘It’s me you’ve got to worry about,’ said Dad. He reached out and took her hand. ‘But together we’ll make it,’ he added a little emotionally.

  There was a short pause, during which my mother murmured, ‘Oh Don,’ and dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.

  Becca looked at me across the table, offering me an affectionate eye roll.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Come on then,’ I said to Mum. ‘Show us the next picture. Dessert will be here soon.’

  ‘Ooh, yes,’ she said, returning her attention to the pile of photographs sitting next to her on the table. ‘Here you are on top of Cat Bells, in the rain, in the summer of ’91,’ she said, handing one to Becca. ‘And swimming in Derwent Water, in the rain, in ’92. And waiting for the launch at Hawes End, in the rain, in ’93.’ She paused, putting a hand to her mouth and giggling. ‘And oh my goodness, I’d forgotten I’d found this one. Just look at that, Becca!’ She laughed again, but my sister, although smiling, didn’t seem to find the picture quite so funny.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, smirking and holding out my hand. ‘It’s not Becca’s Hawaiian costume post-downpour, is it?’

  ‘No, no, it’s you, darling,’ said Mum. ‘You and Felix in the school play.’ She turned it over. ‘It says Christmas 1994.’

  ‘Oh.’ I stopped smirking and took the picture from her as she held it out to me.

  ‘Yes, just look at him. There he is. Such a sturdy boy.’ My mother leaned forward and tapped the picture. ‘Didn’t he make a marvellous Christmas pudding? And there you are, the candle, a good four inches taller than him, right next to him. See? You’ll have to show him that tomorrow.’

  ‘I will,’ I said quietly, extending the long list of falsehoods told to date, whilst retrieving my handbag from the back of my chair and slipping the picture inside without looking at it.

  When I looked up, my mother was still smiling broadly at me, increasing my sense of guilt.

  ‘I’ve forgotten what I’m having for dessert,’ I said. ‘Did
I go for the torte or the cheesecake in the end?

  ‘That was the only picture of him I came across. But I wasn’t really looking and you’ve probably got lots of him now, haven’t you?’ My mother looked at me expectantly. ‘On your phone,’ she added, nodding her head towards my bag, which was still on my lap.

  ‘I have a few,’ I said, wondering what number lie that was. I decided that I must have hit the high nineties by now.

  ‘I think you’re having the torte, Dot,’ said Becca. ‘I’m having the cheesecake.’

  ‘I’d love to see a picture of what he looks like now,’ said Mum, pointing at my bag.

  ‘You’ll see him in the flesh tomorrow, Helen,’ said Dad.

  ‘I know, Don, but I may not recognise him if he’s very changed, and how embarrassing would that be? Apparently he looks quite different now, doesn’t he, Dot? Shorter hair and less sturdy.’

  I experienced a sinking feeling. She actually had a valid point. ‘My phone is dead,’ I said desperately, and waited with grim resignation for her to insist that I check.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she looked over my shoulder towards the entrance to the restaurant, her eyes narrowing and her lips thinning. It was the kind of look she used to give me as a teenager whenever I mentioned Sean Dowse’s DIY tattoo in front of her sister-in-law, my Auntie Dawn, with whom she was fiercely competitive. I glanced at Becca and together we turned and followed my mother’s gaze.

  I saw Alistair just as he saw us.

  He smiled in surprise and then waved hesitantly. My father was the only one of us with the wherewithal to respond. ‘Alistair,’ he said, standing up and holding out a hand as my ex walked uncertainly towards us.

  ‘Hi, Don,’ he said, shaking Dad’s hand. ‘Helen, Rebecca, Dot,’ he added, smiling at each of us in turn.

  ‘Hello, Al,’ smiled Becca.

  My mother folded her arms. ‘Good evening, Alistair,’ she said coldly.

  I frowned at her before turning back towards him. ‘Hi,’ I said, trying to keep my voice light. ‘Are you here for a drink?’ I looked at Becca. ‘Is Mark coming here?’

  Alistair answered for her. ‘No, I’m meeting Mark in the Three Crowns at…’ he checked his watch, ‘just about now, actually. But I need to check in first.’ He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder while smiling down at me. I nodded and tried desperately not to miss him.

  ‘You’re staying here?’ asked my mother unsmilingly. ‘That’s interesting, because so is Dorothy.’

  ‘Oh?’ Alistair’s eyebrows raised slightly as he nodded his acceptance of the fact.

  ‘Yes. And so is her boyfriend, Felix,’ continued Mum, repeating an assumption which, for obvious reasons, I hadn’t bothered to contradict. ‘He’s a lovely accountant with his own business and he is completely smitten with her.’

  I closed my eyes briefly and heard my father murmur, ‘Helen,’ and my sister, ‘Mum,’ simultaneously.

  When I opened my eyes, Alistair was still smiling. ‘That’s great, Dot,’ he said, and to my devastation, he sounded like he meant it. ‘I take it he hasn’t arrived yet? Or is he having a drink with Mark?’

  ‘He doesn’t get here till tomorrow,’ I said quietly.

  ‘OK, I’ll look forward to meeting him then,’ said Alistair. ‘And now I’ll leave you to your meal, but I’ll see you all at the church tomorrow. Especially you,’ he added, pointing at Becca. ‘Don’t keep the man waiting.’

  ‘I won’t,’ laughed Becca. ‘He had just better turn up.’

  ‘He’d have to be mad not to,’ smiled Alistair. ‘Right,’ he checked his watch for a second time, ‘I’d better run.’

  ‘Good to see you,’ said Dad. ‘Hope we’ll have a chance to talk tomorrow.’

  Alistair’s smile broadened and my heartache increased. ‘I’d like that,’ he said, and, after offering us a general wave, he left the restaurant and headed back to reception.

  Dad reached out and patted my arm. ‘Well done, Dottie,’ he said, meaning well, but making me want to yell at him and sob on his shoulder in equal measure.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ exclaimed my mother. ‘She doesn’t give a fig about him, do you, Dorothy?’

  ‘Mum,’ said Becca gently, ‘Alistair is Mark’s friend. I’d really like you to try and be nicer towards him.’

  ‘I was nice,’ protested my mother, turning to Dad for support. ‘What did I say that wasn’t nice?’

  Dad said nothing but looked disappointed.

  ‘Well, he broke my daughter’s heart,’ said Mum, her voice wobbling slightly but her chin jutting defiantly. Dad still didn’t speak, and, after a moment, with a tear escaping, Mum added, ‘And that breaks my heart.’ I reached for her hand across the table, while Dad put an arm around her and Becca kissed her cheek.

  ‘I love you very much, Mum,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘But it would actually be easier for me, as well as for Becca and Mark, if you were nice to him. He didn’t do anything wrong. It just wasn’t meant to be.’

  Mum bit her lip and nodded as my father reached into his trouser pocket and passed her a handkerchief. ‘Sorry, everyone,’ she said quietly. ‘I promise to behave myself tomorrow.’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Dad, patting her shoulder. ‘None of us believe you, but good girl for saying it.’

  ‘Oh you,’ said Mum, laughing through her tears and flicking him with the handkerchief. ‘I’ve said I’ll behave and I will. And besides, I probably shan’t even notice him, and neither will Dottie, will you?’ she added more brightly. ‘Not with Felix around.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said briskly. ‘I won’t even notice him.’

  And that, I thought to myself as the waiter finally arrived with our desserts, was probably my biggest lie to date.

  Chapter 9

  I awoke the next morning not to my alarm, but to the sound of an incoming text. Deciding not to read it immediately, I instead lay completely still, enjoying the quiet calm of my cosy, quaintly furnished hotel room as the light leaked in through the heavy floral curtains. Today was Becca’s wedding day, and, if the forecast was to be believed, it was going to be a sunny one. I smiled at the thought and, propping myself up on two of the four large white pillows on my bed, retrieved my phone from the small, round bedside table.

  It was 8 a.m., half an hour before my alarm had been due to go off. The wedding was at two, and I had told Becca that I would be with her by ten thirty, by which time Mum and Dad would have left to pick up Nanny Flo from Dad’s brother and sister-in-law, Uncle Geoffrey and Auntie Dawn, in Avebury. From there, Mum, Dad and Nanny Flo would travel on to Shieldhill Manor, the reception venue, where they had rooms booked for the night, and where Mum and Nanny Flo would change into their finery. Dad had told me with a knowing wink that they would stop for a bite to eat in Avebury and so wouldn’t be back with us until one thirty, just in time for collection by the wedding cars. We all knew that the less time Mum had to cry and fuss around Becca, the better.

  I sank back onto the pillows and opened my texts to discover that there were three awaiting my attention: one each from Felix and Alistair and the most recent – the one which had woken me up – from Becca. The text from Alistair was the biggest surprise and the one which I was, quite pitifully, most desperate to read. But with my finger hovering over his name on the screen, self-respect, together with a sense of indebtedness to Felix, caused me to give his text priority over Alistair’s. I tapped the message.

  It was a photograph and had been sent at midnight, without comment, in response to my own text, requesting a recent photo in which he was easily identifiable, and explaining that Mum was worried that she might not recognise him at the church. However, as I now stared at the picture he had sent, I frowned in disbelief and mild despair.

  He was easily identifiable; I couldn’t fault him there. And I knew that the photo was a recent one because his appearance was identical to that during our coffee two days earlier, even down to the same immaculately tailored grey suit. So tha
t was another ten out of ten. Where Felix had fallen down in his approach to the task, however, was that the photograph also featured an attractive blonde in a silver top and black leather trousers. She was laughing, her right arm draped around his neck, her head resting against his chest and her left hand raised as she saluted the photographer with a cocktail. Felix was also clutching a drink, although his, I noted, was held at a lower, less attention-seeking level.

  I rolled my eyes and began to compose a reply.

  Hi, looking forward to seeing you in a few hours’ time. Sorry to be a pain but do you think you could send another picture with just you in it? Otherwise my mother will be asking all sorts of awkward questions about

  I hesitated, uncertain how to describe the woman in the photograph: your friend? Your girlfriend? Your work colleague? I supposed she could be his secretary, Linda. In fact, it was perfectly possible that Linda was both his girlfriend and his colleague; after all, she had been extremely reluctant to give me his phone number. I zoomed in. They were clearly very relaxed together, and I now saw that his left arm was wrapped around her, his fingers just visible on her leather-clad hip. But if she was his girlfriend, why hadn’t he mentioned her before? And why hadn’t he thought to explain who she was when sending the picture? And who in their right mind would judge it an appropriate photograph to show to the mother of your supposed new girlfriend?

  I sighed and told myself, not for the first time, that I simply had to accept that the current Felix was a very different person to the one with whom I had grown up. And I also had to accept that the new version was a bit of a moron.

  I looked at my unfinished text, and then, deciding against prolonging what was turning out to be a surprisingly painful process, I saved the photograph and began editing it to cut out the woman – whoever she was. As Felix’s chin was touching the top of her head, I eventually had to crop out everything except his face in order to remove all trace of her. The resulting picture was undoubtedly less than ideal, with a distinct head-on-a-plate quality to it, but I saved the edits and sent it to my father anyway, along with the word Felix, followed by an exclamation mark and a smiley emoji.