Читать книгу The Perfect Christmas - Georgie Carter - Страница 14

By half ten I’ve drunk my way through a bottle of Blossom Hill, the table is littered with crisp packets and Bradley’s becoming more and more attractive by the sip. OK, so he can’t discuss Chekhov and once said that his greatest fantasy was Jordan naked on a trampoline, but you can’t have everything.

And, anyway, with a body like that who cares about conversation?

I knock back the last of my wine. I’m going to ask him to come home with me. This is what feminists burned their bras for!

I am strong! I am woman!

And maybe a teeny bit pissed?

‘Darling,’ Gideon says, shrugging on his coat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? I’m going to walk Faye to the tube and then head home for tea and toast.’

At the mention of toast my stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. Gideon and James will cosy up and I’ll feel like a spare part. They see quite enough of me as it is.

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll stay here and chat to Bradley.’

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ sighs Gideon.

Faye gives me a hug. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she promises. ‘We can have a chat about some ideas for Saffron Scott before your meeting on Friday. I’ll ask Si if Davie has dropped any hints.’

‘Thanks, babes.’

‘And Robyn,’ she whispers. ‘Give him one from me!’

Blushing to the ends of my hair I hoist myself onto a bar stool, wishing that I had the kind of endless legs I could cross elegantly rather than short ones that just dangle in mid-air. Catching sight of my flushed face in the chrome beer pumps I decide to order Diet Coke from now on.

‘Diet Coke?’ echoes Bradley, when I place my order. ‘With Bacardi?’

‘No!’ I laugh.

As Bradley serves and chats, I’m distracted by the enormous flatscreen TV at the end of the bar. It’s showing one of those late evening chat shows and Patrick has just loped across the studio and is shaking the host’s hand. I still get a little jolt whenever I see him. It’s weird to be close to someone, to have shared their life in every way, and then be relegated to the position of stranger. I know Pat always cleans his toothbrush under the hot tap and likes the left side of the bed, but none of the other viewers are privy to these details.

Although, knowing Pat, maybe I shouldn’t bet on this.

Repositioning my bar stool so I’m spared watching Patrick charm the socks off the audience, I turn my attention back to Bradley. Physically he looks nothing like Pat. Bradley’s tall with sun-bleached hair and so gym-honed that even his muscles have muscles, whereas Pat’s tall and rangy and hasn’t been to the gym in his life. Running a double love life is enough to keep him fit. Both guys have green eyes but Bradley’s are like rock pools, clear and honest, whereas Patrick’s are the shadowy hue of his beloved Irish peat bogs.

I’m through with complicated men. Who wants to discuss Yeats in bed when they could be having amazing sex?

Time to see if Bradley’s in the mood for a coffee …

‘How was your trip home?’ I ask.

Bradley runs a hand through his thick blond mane. ‘Awesome! I’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel warm.’

I flick my hair back from my face. ‘So are you sad that you’re back?’

‘No. There’s lots to keep me here.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Such as?’ I’m more pissed than I thought.

But Bradley just smiles his dazzlingly white smile. ‘It sounds really lame but I came back because of a Sheila.’

A Sheila? Isn’t that Australian for a girl?

‘I was thinking about staying in Brisbane but she’s here and I’m useless without her.’

My chardonnay-saturated brain is a bit slow but I think he’s just told me that he’s come back because he wants to be with someone. Someone who lives in England …

Oh. My. God.

I clutch the bar because I’m in serious danger of falling off my stool.

‘You’ve come back to be with a girl?’

Bradley’s cheeks are as pink as my Cath Kidston mobile. ‘Yep. She’s right here. In this pub.’

‘She is?’ I stall for time. Is my Christmas wish list about to get one item shorter?

Bradley nods. ‘Over there.’ And rather than peering deeply into my eyes and dropping a bombshell, he points towards the blonde Australian barmaid who’d joked with me earlier. ‘Her name’s Julia.’

Oh.

‘I’ve known Jules for years,’ Bradley says, as he pulls a tray of glasses from the dishwasher. ‘She was dating a mate of mine so I never dreamed we could be anything else. But when I went home she was single and,’ he looks bashful, ‘we kind of got it together, you know?’

I’ve got it together with Bradley a few times myself so, yes, I know.

‘But Jules was about to go travelling,’ he continues, ‘and I couldn’t bear to lose her so she persuaded me to go traveling with her.’

Julia looks over and smiles at him, a smile of such joy that it lights up the room.

‘Isn’t she great?’

‘She’s beautiful,’ I say honestly.

He reaches across the bar. ‘You and me have been really good friends, Robyn, chatting over crappy love lives, so I thought you’d like to know: before we flew here I asked Jules to marry me. And guess what? She said yes!’

‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Congratulations!’

‘Thanks. You really do know when you meet the right one. Everything just falls into place.’

‘I’m really pleased for you,’ I lean across the bar and kiss his cheek, a very different kiss from the last one we shared. ‘You deserve to be really happy.’

Bradley brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. ‘And so do you, Robyn,’ His jerks his head in the direction of the television where Patrick is flirting with a stunning actress. ‘Especially after your narrow escape from that idiot.’

It’s really late by the time I finally leave the pub after buying champagne and listening to Bradley and Julia’s excited plans. She’s lovely, laid-back and funny and we really click. Brad’s obviously told her exactly what our relationship once was because Jules is careful to reassure me that she doesn’t have a problem with any aspect of her fiancé’s past.

‘After all, I was with Shane,’ she says, flicking her blond mane behind her smooth tanned shoulders. ‘It’s not as though Brad and I were together then. The past is past, yeah?’

I gulp. In spite of the fact that they weren’t even together the last time that Brad and I hung out, I still have a horrible sense of guilt. Thanks a lot for sending me to a convent school, mum! How can I show Brad and Jules that I really am genuinely delighted for them? Then I have a brilliant idea.

‘How about I help you plan your wedding?’ I say slowly. ‘Perfect Day at your service. And I’ll do it for free.’

Jules’s eyes widen. ‘Really? You’d do that for us?’

But Brad looks worried, probably thinking that having his ex arrange his wedding is far from normal.

‘You don’t have to do that, Robyn,’ he says.

‘I know I don’t have to,’ I reply. ‘But you were a good friend to me when I had a tough time and I’d like to do something for you both. Seeing a couple as loved up as you guys gives me hope for the future!’

A frown crinkles Bradley’s brow. ‘Are you really sure?’

I nod. ‘Totally. Besides, budget weddings are my speciality. Just ask Hester Dunaway!’

Opening my purse I pluck out a card, which I give to Jules. ‘Give me a call when I’m slightly more sober! Then we can start making plans.’

Jules is grinning from ear to ear. ‘Cool! Thanks, Robyn. You’re a dahl! If only all Brad’s exes were like you.’

‘All?’ I catch Brad’s eye and a blush creeps up his neck. He looks so awkward that I can’t help but start to laugh.

When I leave the bar and head for home the laughter slips away and is replaced by a creeping sense of desolation.

I’ve offered Perfect Day’s services for free as a wedding present and I’m over the moon for them, I really am. The tears that slide silently down my cheeks aren’t because I want Bradley for myself, or wish that I were in Julia’s Uggs. No way. I’m just so sad at always being the one left behind. Everybody is moving on but I’m always left alone, standing on the shore and watching them sail over the horizon to new and exciting lands. I realise I’m not jealous of Bradley and Julia but I am jealous of what they have.

I’m tired of being on my own. Part of me worries that I’ll never meet the right man to settle down and have children with. And another part of me wonders if that’s my fault.

I’m just pushing open the gate to Gideon’s garden, and peering carefully at the path just in case Poppy’s been out for a late night loo visit, when my phone beeps from deep within my bag. I root around and fish it out, trying not to scatter sweet wrappers and fluffy Tampax onto the grass.

That’s strange, I don’t recognise the number.

I open the message and scan it. When the words sink into my wine-sodden brain I’m taken aback because the text is from Jonathan Broadhead. He’s signed me up for the swing dancing course just like he promised.

A thoughtful man who keeps his word too? No wonder he’s married. Who wouldn’t want to keep hold of a man like that?

I unlock the front door and switch on the light. I re-read the message and in spite of myself, I find that I’m smiling.

I may be an old spinster of the parish, gathering dust on her shelf, but things are looking up.

Robyn Hood is going swing dancing!