If We're Not Married by Thirty

by Anna Bell

  ‘Like this?’ he asks, before he leans over and kisses me once more.

  This time he takes hold of my waist and his fingers brush my back. I’m tingling all over with anticipation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, when finally he pulls away again. ‘I know this is really bad timing, what with me going travelling for the summer . . .’

  ‘Travelling?’ I say. This time it’s my turn to scrunch up my face.

  ‘Oh yeah, didn’t I tell you? I’m going to South East Asia for a few months before I start my graduate scheme. I leave on Monday.’

  ‘As in this Monday?’

  ‘Uh-huh, as in tomorrow’s Sunday, then Monday evening I fly out to Thailand,’ he says, wincing.

  I look at Danny. We’ve been friends for years, why the bloody hell did he have to kiss me hours before he flies ten thousand miles away? We’ve been at the most boring family parties where a snog or a fumble would have made it far more entertaining. Why did he have to wait until now?

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’ I say, not understanding.

  ‘Come with me, to Thailand,’ he says, his face lighting up.

  I start to imagine it, lolling about in the waves with him. It’ll be just like The Beach. Although without all the scary stuff that happens at the end. And most importantly I’d get to find out where that kiss was leading. I’m just wondering where I’m going to buy my backpack from when I think back to my temp job.

  ‘I can’t, I’m heading back up to Newcastle for the summer. One of my lecturers has pulled some strings and got me a job at an events company for the summer.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to come to Asia?’

  ‘Danny, you’re far too impulsive for your own good. Of course I’d love to come, but I can’t. My lecturer did me a huge favour and I can’t turn down a job.’

  I let out a long sigh. ‘So how long are you away for?’

  ‘Three months.’

  ‘Well, that’s not so bad,’ I say, thinking that’ll pass quickly when I’m working.

  ‘And then I start my graduate scheme in London, so maybe once your summer job is finished you could get a job there?’

  Thoughts of the kiss linger in my mind and for a moment I’m tempted.

  ‘There’s talk that the temp job could lead into something permanent. I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep.’

  ‘So you’d be in Newcastle and I’d be in London?’

  ‘I guess there’s always long distance,’ I say, unenthusiastically. I’ve never known anyone to successfully have a long-distance relationship.

  ‘There is, but my graduate scheme is going to be relentless. Apparently, I’m going to be working ridiculous hours.’

  ‘Which would make a long-distance relationship a tad tricky,’ I say sighing. ‘You bloody arsehole, Danny Whittaker. Why the hell did you go and kiss me like that? Why flipping now?’

  ‘I’m sorry. You were going on about not being kissed and not being loved, and all that talk of marriage.’

  ‘Bloody weddings,’ I say, half laughing. ‘It brings out the horn in people. Look at Monica and Chandler.’

  Danny’s face is blank.

  ‘Come on. You’re telling me still, after all these years, despite all the repeats on E4, you haven’t watched Friends?’

  He shrugs his shoulders and gives me a look. A look which suddenly makes me want to jump his bones. That kiss has changed everything . . .

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I practically whisper.

  ‘I don’t think there’s much we can do. I’m going travelling and then I’ll be in London and you’ll be in Newcastle.’

  I nod. ‘Bastard timing.’

  ‘But hey, we’ll always have our pact, right? Maybe I’ll kiss you again in nine years when we get hitched.’

  ‘Don’t laugh about that,’ I say, prodding my finger into his chest. ‘I’m going to need that pact. So if you could just stay single until then.’

  He laughs and I feel my heart burning a little, which is ridiculous as up until ten minutes ago this was Danny, and now he’s Daaaaaaaaaanny. It’s like I could cope with my crush when I thought it was unrequited, but now that there’s a hint that he likes me too, it’s become unbearable.

  I look at my empty glass suddenly needing more to drink. ‘Same again?’ I ask.

  ‘We should get back to the wedding. People will be wondering where you are.’

  He’s right. I snuck out of the marquee well over an hour ago. I’m sure that Kerry’s bladder is almost at bursting point given the rate she was drinking her vodkas earlier.

  ‘I guess we should.’

  I squeeze his hand and he squeezes mine back.

  ‘Are you staying over at the hotel?’ I say, a fleeting thought popping into my mind.

  ‘I’m sharing a room with Stuart. How about you?’

  ‘My cousin, Clara.’

  We groan again. Destiny is not on our side.

  Reluctantly we stand up and weave our way through the pub and back to the little fence.

  I’m pleased the courtyard’s empty and I turn back to face Danny.

  ‘You can’t kiss me at the wedding,’ I say, firmly – more to myself than to him. ‘If either of our mothers saw, you know what they’d be like. We’d never hear the end of it.’

  He nods his head.

  I can’t resist him now, though, and I lean up and kiss him. I grab hold of his suit jacket and he wraps his arm around me. I hear the whizz of fireworks going off round my ears. Fucking hell. First butterflies. Now fireworks. He’s like the don of kissing.

  ‘Fireworks,’ mutters Danny as he pulls away.

  ‘You felt them too,’ I say, as a massive bang goes off and I look up to the sky to see twinkling red lights.

  I close my eyes, feeling like such an idiot. Of course they are actual fireworks. My sister planned them for ten-thirty.

  ‘I felt it too,’ he whispers against my ear, before he pulls out of the embrace and gently drops my hand. ‘We’ll always have our pact. It’s only nine years away.’

  ‘Nine years’ time,’ I say, and we both laugh, although the laughter doesn’t reach our eyes.

  He pushes the fence panel and holds it open for me to squeeze through before he follows me. We stand there looking at the marquee, neither of us making a move towards it. I look at him trying to convince myself that he’s just the same old Danny he’s always been. I need to forget how that kiss made me feel if things are going to go back to how they were before. Only I wonder if they ever can.

  Chapter One

  My mum told me on the phone tonight that it’s Kerry and Jim’s first wedding anniversary. This time last year, huh? Who’d have thought I’d be living in a tiny apartment in Tokyo with a toilet that squirts warm water and you’d hobnobbing with celebs at your fancy job in London. Don’t think that just because we live in different time zones I won’t be invoking the pact, only another eight years to go . . .

  Email; Danny to Lydia, June 2010

  23rd December 2018

  I’m scanning Instagram, as I always do in my break, wondering why I do it to myself. I mean, I love looking at all the beautiful photos, yet it always leaves me feeling a little bit empty. Why is my version of real life nowhere near as glossy?

  With only two sleeps till Christmas nearly every photo on my feed is themed appropriately with copious amounts of glitter and sparkle and there’s always a perfectly decorated Christmas tree in the background.

  I study an old school friend’s photo. She’s surrounded by a large group of girls, their arms draped around one another, and they’re all dressed in knitted Christmas jumpers. I read the hashtags and groan: #besties #LoveMyFriends #blessed #SquadGoals #LivingMyBestLife – I don’t know which hashtag offends me the most.

  I plump for #LivingMyBestLife; what does that even mean? Who knows, if she hadn’t routinely bunked off business studies to fool around with Matthew Cook, she might ha
ve ended up as some hugely successful CEO. And by who’s yardstick are we measuring this ‘best life’? To some, spending an entire Sunday morning watching Sunday Brunch rather than going out for actual brunch with real-life people might be sad, but to me there’s nothing I love doing more than curling up on the sofa and vegging out after a long week at work.

  I quickly google ‘How do you know if you’re living your best life’, wondering if there’s a quiz I can do. Bingo! Found one, what a perfect way to spend my break time:

  Question 1: Do you love your job?

  I poke my head round the corner of the giant lollipop that I’m hiding behind and look out across the sea of guests who are being offered canapés by waiting staff wearing Oompa-Loompa costumes. It makes me smile and reminds me I have the potential to love my job. I just wish I was managing these events, not spending most of my time pushing the paper behind the scenes.

  Question 2: When was the last time you did something spontaneous?

  Let’s see now, last Tuesday I ordered a Chinese from a different takeaway to the one that I usually use. That’s got to count for something, right?

  Question 3: Are you happy in your love life?

  What love life? Since I broke up with my long-term boyfriend Ross five months ago, things have been a little quiet in that department – make that non-existent. Next . . .

  Question 4: Have you ever taken a risk and completely changed your life?

  Aha – now this I have done. In my early twenties I moved to London to work at a swanky events company. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the best life decision I’ve ever made. The job was awful, I was flat broke (not that it mattered, as I had no time off to spend money) and to top it all off the guy who had been a huge factor in me taking the job moved to Tokyo before I even got to London . . . I’m not sure that’s the best advert for taking a risk.

  Question 5: When was the last time you tried something new?

  Since I broke up with Ross I’ve tried to do new things as I’m searching for something that’s going to put the sparkle back into my life. I’ve done a taster pottery lesson, played one game of netball and found a Pilates class. The fact that I didn’t go to any of them more than once isn’t really the point.

  Question 6: When was the last time you ticked something off your bucket list?

  Is it wrong to admit that I don’t actually have one? Maybe that’s my problem; I don’t know what I really want out of life.

  I sigh heavily and I put down my phone. I’m clearly not quite living my best life. I broke up with Ross because I had the feeling that it wasn’t right and that something was missing from my life, and yet in the five months we’ve been broken up I’ve not been able to work out what would make me happy.

  It’s New Year next week and I’m quite looking forward to seeing the back of 2018. I usually love making New Year’s resolutions – but I never stick to them. Perhaps this year I’ll think of things to do that’ll sort my life out that I will absolutely, 100 per cent, definitely stick to. I mean, I have to, or else I’m going to have to stop using Instagram once and for all.

  ‘Lydia, we need some ice over at the factory gates,’ comes a crackle in my earpiece. I guess that time’s up on my break.

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ I say as I push the button on my lapel to make my walkie-talkie work.

  I always feel terribly important when I’m wearing the earpiece and in my head I imagine my role to be as important as a secret service agent guarding POTUS, rather than a lowly event co-ordinator usually guarding the alcohol-supply cupboard should guests mount a daredevil raid on it.

  I climb out from behind the giant lollipop and straighten myself up as I slip back into work mode. I jump over the river that’s supposed to look like chocolate and navigate my way through guests who are already well on their way to being wasted. I smile as I walk past the waitresses dressed as Oompa-Loompas, relieved that I’m dressed in a black top and skirt so I can blend into the background. Or at least I could, if the background wasn’t bright pink and orange.

  Charlie and the Chocolate Factory might not have been the most obvious choice for a Christmas party theme, but the guests here seem to be lapping it up.

  ‘You’re just in time,’ whispers Helen as I find her over by the faux factory gates. I see just why she needed ice. There’s a man who looks like he’s stepped off the front cover of GQ magazine getting dressed up as Willy Wonka in the photo booth. Hmm, if he’s Willie Wonka – where are those golden tickets . . .

  ‘I mean,’ Helen says, fanning herself with her hand and wafting alcohol at me in the process. At first I don’t believe the fumes could be coming from her. There’s so much booze in this place that the smell could feasibly be coming from anywhere, but as I edge closer to her, the smell gets stronger. There’s no denying it’s on her breath.

  We don’t drink when we’re working events. OK, correction, we don’t drink very much when we’re working. We have been known to have the odd little glass of wine or bubbles to get us in the party mood, but we never ever get over the drink-drive limit. Helen must have had quite a lot for me to be able to smell it.

  I look at her a little bit more closely and she’s actually swaying along to ‘Driving Home for Christmas’. This is not good. Helen’s the event manager and she’s supposed to be alert during the whole event to do as her title suggests – manage it. She’s got to orchestrate the running order as well as insure that the performers, caterers and guests are all in the right place at the right time. Which means reacting to any little problem as well as acting as babysitter to the adults. She needs to be able to think quickly on her feet, like last year when the theme was Winter Wonderland and the CEO of a large multi-national got his tongue stuck to a giant ice sculpture in the most inappropriate place, or the year before that when the aerial acrobat’s ribbon snapped and she ended up kicking a man in the head and knocking him out. Whilst on big events like this there might be more staff around to help, the buck ultimately stops with her. Only right now I can’t imagine she’d even know what a buck is.

  ‘Here you go,’ says Tracey, the Operations Director (aka our big boss) as she walks up to us with a bucket of ice. ‘Is this going to be enough?’

  Helen and I stare at the bucket in confusion before it dawns on me that she’s on the same radio channel and heard our conversation.

  I don’t think Helen has made the connection. She wrinkles her face up and opens her mouth to say something and I grab the bucket before she can. I don’t want Tracey to realise that Helen’s been drinking.

  ‘Um, yes, thanks. It’s just to put under the chocolate sculpture in the lobby as it seems to be melting under the lights.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ she says. ‘Have you seen Willy?’

  Helen points, open mouthed, at the GQ model.

  ‘The real Willy? I wanted him to do a photo op before he does the call to dinner and he seems to have gone AWOL.’

  ‘Um, I did see him a while ago in the shrinking space,’ I say, thinking that, of all the parties we’ve thrown, this Charlie and the Chocolate Factory one seems to be the most surreal.

  Tracey gives a little nod of the head in appreciation and clip-claps off in her skyscraper heals.

  ‘Ice?’ I say, holding the bucket with a smirk. ‘I forgot she was on the radio loop tonight. I guess we better watch what we say.’

  Helen and I only work together if it’s one of our large events, like this one where we’ve got almost two thousand guests on site. It means that the two of us get a bit carried away with our headsets and over the years we’ve honed a discreet radio code. I need some ice over here is code for this guy is so hot I need some ice to cool down. The hotel has confirmed the reservation is for people who are getting down and dirty and are in danger of needing a room imminently. Time for the rubber gloves means that someone’s about to throw up. Have you seen Mary Poppins is for when someone’s as high as a kite.

  It might sound a bit childish, but it helps get us through the
night. And when we’re managing fifteen nights of work Christmas dos, we need all the help we can get.

  I spot a man crouched on all fours bending down towards the chocolate river.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, pulling him slowly up to standing, ‘it’s not actually chocolate. But if that’s what you’re after, we’ve got a chocolate waterfall near the entrance, or the chocolate liqueur luge by the fairground rides. They taste much better.’

  The man nods and staggers off in the opposite direction to where I pointed.

  ‘I can’t say I blame him. It does look delicious. This whole place does. It’s giving me the right munchies tonight,’ says Helen, and I grab her arm as I think she’s about to make a lunge for the river herself. The company that supplied it have done too good a job with the clever lighting projected onto water – it really does look like chocolate.

  ‘Have you eaten tonight? Maybe you need something more.’

  I don’t know what’s got into her. It might be our last Christmas party of the year, and the event staff know what they’re doing blindfolded by now, but that’s no reason to be slacking off.

  ‘I was on my way to get something from the kitchen, when I bumped into Willy Wonka – not that man obviously, but the real one. Well, not the real one, as the old guy died, didn’t he? And Johnny Depp’s not here. But the Willy Wanker from here. Oops! Willy Wanker – ha! That so would have been a better character name for him –’

  ‘You were on your way to get food when you saw the guy who’s acting as Willy,’ I say trying to follow the babble and keep her on track.

  ‘Right. Willy W-O-N-K-A’, she says, enunciating it carefully and suppressing her giggles, ‘was drinking this cocktail. Of course I told him that he shouldn’t be drinking on the job.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, wondering if that was before or after she’d drunk the rest. I just hope that he’s in a better state than Helen, who’s turned away from me and is licking one of the fake giant candy canes. I don’t want to point out that she’s probably not the first person to have done that this party season.

  ‘They look so real, don’t they?’ she says, as if she’s surprised that they’re not, despite the fact that she was the one who came up with the concept and sourced the props.