Lindsey Kelk 5-Book 'I Heart...' Collection (162 page)

‘But there isn’t anything about this wedding I’d change,’ I countered. ‘If I’d had ten years to plan it, what we’ve decided on is exactly what I want.’

‘Really?’

I stopped for just a second. I definitely liked the dress. And the cupcakes were still in play as far as I knew. And I had seen a couple of sacks of tealights in Dad’s shed. So far, so Angela.

‘Do you even know what’s happening at your wedding?’

‘Uncle Kevin is officiating, and my dad’s brass band is playing.’ I took a long sip of champagne. ‘And my ex may or may not be in attendance.’

‘Sounds amazing.’ James looked into his glass. ‘Dress?’

‘The most amazing dress ever,’ I rallied. ‘It’s a Sarah Piper. We managed to get one off the rack. It’s being altered right now.’

‘You’re wearing a store sample dress to your wedding?’ He looked horrified. ‘That hundreds of other people have tried on? Dozens of sweaty brides-to-be who have tainted your dress and then had their own, very own, no-one-has-ever-touched-it-but-them version made for their big day?’

Oh. I hadn’t thought about it that way.

‘Their big day that was not happening in their parents’ garden to the soundtrack of Brassed Off in front of an audience of shitty exes?’

Bugger.

‘And Jenny is allowing that to happen?’

‘It’s the dress I want,’ I replied, silently changing the tense of my statement. It was the dress I had wanted. ‘Stop being a dick.’

‘I’m not being a dick.’ James reached over, shaking his head earnestly. ‘Angela, Angie. I think everyone has got a bit carried away with this and someone needs to give you some perspective. This. Is. Your. Wedding.’ He enunciated each syllable as though I was struggling with the English language. ‘This is the day of your dreams. From what you’ve told me so far, it does not sound like the day of your dreams. It doesn’t sound like the day of anyone’s dreams. Maybe your dad’s. Maybe. If he didn’t like you very much.’

I retreated into the back of my seat and stared straight ahead.

‘What has Jenny got planned for the food?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I answered stiffly.

‘But it’s going to be sit-down service? Or a buffet? Or appetizers?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said again.

‘You don’t know who’s catering?’

‘I’m just going to the bathroom, I’ll be back in a minute,’ I said, standing up. I walked blindly down the bar with no idea where the bathroom was and kept going until I couldn’t hear James shouting after me.

Instead of finding a toilet, I found myself out on the street, hyperventilating ever so slightly. I looked at myself in the window and breathed out slowly. I was overreacting. James was being dramatic and overly romantic and ridiculous. But if anyone was supposed to be dramatic and overly romantic and ridiculous about my wedding, shouldn’t it be me?

I thought about my beautiful dress and the moment we’d met. She was so beautiful and white and virginal, but now … all I could think about was all the other girls she’d whored around the store with. How many other brides-to-be had she twinkled and winked at before me? What a slut. And I couldn’t believe James had even brought up the ‘b’ word. As if Jenny would subject me to a buffet. This was a classy, elegant wedding. With a brass band. And a shop-soiled dress. And my ex. And God knew what else.

There had definitely been moments when I’d questioned my sanity over the wedding, but this was the first time I could say hand on heart that I was regretting my decision. A powerful punch hit my stomach as I thought about what that meant. What would happen if I went home and told everyone I’d changed my mind?

No. I shook myself down and glared at my reflection. He was just being a drama queen. It was all going to be absolutely fine. Better than fine. It was going to be wonderful. And he was missing the point, which was that, at the end of it all, I was going to be married to Alex. If that wasn’t enough for me, I didn’t deserve any sort of wedding. I ought to be married in a hessian sack outside a McDonald’s with four half-eaten McNuggets for a wedding breakfast.

‘I’m sorry.’ James stood up when I got back to the table. ‘I’m being a tit. A horrible tit. I just want you to have a perfect wedding, that’s all. After the Vegas debacle, I just want things to be perfect for you.’

‘I know.’ We sat down and I emptied my champagne flute and nodded. ‘I do know.’

‘But you know me. Westminster Cathedral wouldn’t be good enough as far as I’m concerned.’ He emptied the champagne bottle into my glass. ‘And I’m sure your dress is nicer than Middleton’s.’

‘It is,’ I sniffed. ‘Loads nicer, actually.’

‘I didn’t care for hers.’ He looked around, waiting for the Beefeaters to carry him away to the Tower. ‘And I bet it was a right pain in the arse to get in and out of.’

‘Probably.’ I agreed with him, but I wasn’t in the mood to let him know.

‘Angela, I’m sorry,’ James whined. ‘I am. Your wedding is going to be amazing. If only because I’m there. I’m kidding. It’s going to be brilliant and you’re going to look spectacular and there’s no way on God’s green earth Jenny would subject you to a buffet.’

The bar seemed to get very close and quiet as my resolve crumbled.

‘But what if she would?’ I burst out, completely incapable of holding the words in. ‘What if it’s shit? What if it’s pickled onions and cheese on sticks and music on a ghetto blaster and hot orange squash in plastic cups?’

James turned to me and gripped both my arms in his hands.

‘Angela Clark. We both know those things will never happen. But if they did −’ he cut off my whimper with a raised voice. If people hadn’t been looking at us before, they were now − ‘If they did, they would be fabulous. Ghetto blasters are very retro, and plastic cups are kitsch. And don’t pretend you’re above a pickled onion cheddar cheese hedgehog, because we both know that’s not true.’

‘It’s true,’ I lamented. ‘I ate nearly an entire jar yesterday when no one was home.’

‘Your wedding will be the proverbial shit,’ James said, raising his glass and necking it in one gulp. ‘So let us celebrate that fact by getting shmammered.’

‘And so I basically have a live-in puppy sitter,’ James said, picking up one of several shots of tequila from the table. We had realized it was much quicker to order them four at a time than to keep bothering the waitress. We were so polite. ‘I just couldn’t send them back to the shelter.’

His eyes glazed over and he burped loudly. And then he giggled. How he’d managed to stay in the closet so successfully for so long was beyond me.

‘You’re so drunk.’ I took my lip balm out of my handbag and attempted to apply it to my lips. It took me two passes but I eventually made it. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ James slurred, slamming a shot glass down on the table. ‘You’re more drunk than me.’

‘So not even,’ I replied, hoping I wouldn’t have to prove it. ‘I’m just tired.’

‘Whatever.’ He stretched up his arms, waving at the waitress and revealing his abs to the bar. The collective swoon was audible. ‘You’re going to have to improve your stamina before Saturday night.’

‘Will you stop making wedding-night jokes?’ I asked, rolling up the arms of my sweater. It was really warm in the bar. That or I was, in fact, drunk. ‘I’ve totally done it already. Just don’t tell my mum.’

‘I’m just saying.’ He gave me a goofy grin. ‘Who knows what kinky shit he’s been saving for married life? Most men wouldn’t rush down the aisle just because their fiancée’s mum suggested it. I reckon he’s dying to start demanding his messed-up maritals.’

‘You’re a knob,’ I declared with the utmost eloquence.

‘Dungeon, maybe.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Or maybe he’s a cross-dresser.’

‘Shut. Up.’

‘If you won’t, I will,’ he said. ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again − I would break that boy of yours in two.’

‘I’ll be sure to let him know in case I get cold feet,’ I hiccupped. ‘I’m sure if I rejected him, he would be so devastated he would have to resign his heterosexuality, so you might be in with a chance.’

‘So I’m going to go for a slash.’ James stood up and every girl (and half the guys) in the bar fainted. ‘And then we need more champagne. That one’s dead.’

Our waitress had turned the empty bottle upside down in the ice bucket, confirming we had run dry. I tried to signal at someone to get another, but strangely enough, without a movie star sitting beside me, I was invisible.

Or at least I thought I was.

‘Hi.’

I looked up to see a strange man smiling at me. Instinctively I looked around to see who he was talking to, but nope, it was just me and hippo head.

‘Hello,’ I replied when he sat down next to me.

‘Your friend gone for long?’ he asked, taking James’s seat.

‘Oh,’ I said, eyes widening in realization. ‘James.’

‘James?’ The guy stretched out an open palm to shake my hand. ‘I’m Lewis.’

I shook back. Good handshake − firm, solid, backed up with good eye contact. And he was cute. Not as cute as James, but then very few people were. I wished I’d seen the forty-seven-year-old mystery man so I could make a call. ‘I should tell you, James has a boyfriend.’

‘He does, does he?’ Lewis moved the chair a little bit closer to me. ‘Is he here tonight?’

‘Oh no.’ I shook my head a little bit too hard and had to wait for the room to stop spinning. ‘Not here.’

‘Do you think James would mind if you and I had a bit of a dance?’ He stood up, still holding onto my hand. I looked over at the bar. A spontaneous dance party had sprung up around us, presumably because someone somewhere had seen fit to play Papa Don’t Preach and therefore there really was no choice but to dance. ‘I’ll bring you back in one piece, I promise.’

I followed him out to the makeshift dance floor, laughing. Gay dating rituals always seemed a bit odd to me. Guy likes guy. Guy approaches guy’s girl. Guy charms socks off girl. Girl then approves guy-on-guy communication. Girl ends up doing shots at the bar on her own. The girl really never won in these situations unless you counted one turn around the floor to classic Madonna as winning. Which I did. Lewis was a good mover, spinning me carefully, wheeling me in and out of his arms. I tried desperately not to bump into people around us, not to stand on his feet and generally to remain upright. I wished Jenny and Louisa were with me. I made a sketchy mental note to put this bar on the agenda for my hen, but since I’d already forgotten what it was called, that was going to be a bit difficult.

‘You didn’t tell me your name,’ Lewis shouted into my ear, spinning me in close and swooping me low to the ground. ‘Or do I have to ask James?’

‘It’s Angela,’ I shouted back. ‘But if you just need an excuse to talk to him, you can ask him anyway.’

‘I’d much rather talk to you,’ he said, wrapping his arms around my waist and coming in very close. ‘Actually, I’d much rather not talk at all.’

For the second time that day, an unwelcome tongue stuck itself down my throat, forcing me to resort to bag-related violence. Lewis was the worst gay ever. I squirmed out of his arms, gave him a filthy look and turned on my heel to march back to the table. Except that I couldn’t quite work out where the table was.

‘Angela?’

I turned around, trying to match James’s voice to a face in the crowd, but I couldn’t make him out. I brushed my fringe out of my face and squinted, determined to find my man.

‘Oh shit, Angela. How drunk are you? Jenny is going to kill me. Probably.’

A pair of strong hands wrapped themselves around my waist and hoisted me up off my feet.

‘James, I want to go home,’ I groaned. Dancing had been a bad idea. Lewis had been a bad idea. ‘That man tried to kiss me.’

‘I saw, and we’re going home,’ he confirmed, hoisting me into a fireman’s lift. ‘Thank God you’re wearing jeans.’

‘I thought he was gay,’ I shouted over the music. ‘But he wasn’t.’

‘Your gaydar is about as good as Elton John’s wife’s,’ he replied, patting me on the legs. ‘You probably think that kid on Glee is just going through a phase.’

James called over a waitress and ran his credit card through the machine, adding a healthy tip to our bar tab, all while I stared at the floor over his shoulder. The ends of my hair swayed gently, creating a fringed curtain of blurriness around all the pairs of shoes that passed me by.

‘Now.’ We walked outside and the cold night air hit me like a cold kipper in the face. ‘Remind me where home is.’

‘Kent and North Eighth,’ I muttered as he lowered me down to the ground and wrapped my arms around his neck. A big black car stopped in front of us and rolled down its window. ‘Take the Williamsburg bridge and then it’s the first exit.’

‘Oh dear.’ James opened the car door and rolled me inside, hopping in after me. ‘This is going to be fun.’

‘I’m going to have a little sleep,’ I said, lying down across his lap. ‘Do you want to sleep over?’

‘No, I do not,’ he said, combing my hair off my forehead. ‘I’m totally leaving you on the doorstep. As soon as I find the email with your address so I know where that doorstep is.’

‘James?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think I should get married?’

He didn’t reply.

‘James?’

‘Since you won’t remember this anyway, married in general, yes,’ he said quietly. ‘On Saturday, no.’

‘I think you’re right,’ I yawned. ‘It’s Kent and North Eighth. Night, Jim.’

‘Night, Angela.’

Wednesday began just like Monday and Tuesday had begun. With my arms wrapped around a toilet bowl and my face a delightful shade of green and grey with a hint of purple under my right eye. I had a vague memory of James delivering me into Alex’s arms embarrassingly early, blaming my incapacitation on some dodgy shumai for the sake of my mother. It would have been cute if it weren’t so sad − I was almost thirty and still worried about getting grounded. Ten years ago, she’d have grounded me. Today she’d be cancelling my hen night.

Stretched out on the bathroom floor, my stomach twisted at the thought of a hen night. Firemen and L-plates and sugary cocktails and assorted penis-decorated accessories − no thank you. But that wasn’t me. And it wasn’t Louisa or Jenny. This was going to be a hybrid bachelorette bridal shower hen do with my mother in attendance. And the bride-to-be was incredibly, incredibly hungover. How bad could things get?