Читать книгу The Wedding Favour - Michele Gorman - Страница 9

It turns out Matt doesn’t need the whole week to decide our future because two days after our call, he emails me.

Email! The flippin’ coward.

He understands, he says, if I want to go on with my life. What’s that supposed to look like anyway?! Telling everyone I know that I’ve been jilted? Going to debtor’s prison for not being able to pay back the magazine advance? Wallowing until I’ve cried so much that I actually die from dehydration? He says that since he can’t make a decision in the time I’ve given him, he’ll need to say no for now. Like I’ve offered him a second helping of peas, not my heart.

So that’s it. I am officially a dumped woman. I’d love to say it’s not as bad as I feared, but it’s actually worse. My double-crossing mind keeps replaying our greatest hits to maximise my misery. Thanks, brain, for reminding me of all the times he turned up after work with a picnic so we could sit in the park on warm summer evenings or the way his face looked extra gorgeous when he was sleeping. And I’m ever so grateful to have his proposal on loop, like some sick-making ride I can’t get off.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, I’m going to have to face my family next week at my dad’s birthday party. They’ll definitely ask where Matt is. What am I supposed to say, that he’s got food poisoning again? They’ll think I’m marrying someone with serious digestive issues … when, actually, I’m not marrying anyone at all, am I? #dumped.

Meanwhile, I’ve had to keep posting on my Instagram account every day as if nothing has happened. Believe me, that’s not easy with all this crying. I’ve resorted to taking selfies with dark sunglasses on. It’s only a matter of time before people start thinking I’ve had glaucoma surgery.

‘How are you doing?’ my co-worker Jenny asks as she stops by my desk. She’s making a remarkably ugly sad face. Her eyes practically close as she scrunches up her expression, and I can see the remnants of a cold sore when she juts out her bottom lip. Normally she’s the prettiest one here, so I’m touched that she puts herself out like this for me.

I’ve only told my office about me and Matt because they’re a safe audience. Other than fearing that I’m going to blub all over them in the corridor, most of them have no skin in this game. I’ve been practising on all the non-essential people I can find – colleagues, one of my neighbours, the guy at the café around the corner who makes my tea just the way I like it. I’ll work my way up to actual friends and, oh, God, my family.

‘How long till I can go home?’ We both look at the wall clock.

‘I’m sneaking off early to meet a friend,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you come? It’ll be fun.’

With the way I’m feeling, she could have asked me to join her for a two-for-one smear test and it would’ve been infinitely preferable to sitting at my desk right now with thoughts of Matt running around my head. Besides, I don’t want to be at work this week even more than I usually don’t want to be at work.

I don’t hate my job, per se. Like almost everyone who has to get up for the Monday morning commute, I just wish I didn’t have to do it. But those insurance claim forms won’t process themselves, will they? You can only aspire to imagine the glamour of my work week.

‘Let’s go,’ I tell her, shoving my phone into my handbag.

I don’t know who I expect Jenny’s friend to be, but it isn’t a six-foot-something Colombian who looks like he’s on the national volleyball team. Once he’s kissed Jenny’s cheeks, Rafael flashes me the friendliest smile I’ve ever seen. ‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘Please, let me get the next round in.’

‘Wow, he’s …’ I say after he goes to the bar.

Jenny nods. ‘I know. His accent makes me think of piña coladas.’

‘Was that penis coladas? Did you and he ever …?’ Supposedly she’s got the perfect boyfriend, but I thought the same thing a month ago. One never knows.

‘Nah, definitely not,’ she says. ‘He’s friends with Ed, for one thing, and, actually, Rafael got me my job. He works upstairs in account management. Haven’t you ever seen him in the building?’

‘Uh-uh, not that I remember.’ Though, staring at his broad back now, how could I have missed him? Love must have blinded me … No, stop that, Nelly. You will not think about Matt now, not when this is your first time out since The Email. Let’s try to have one snot-free hour, shall we?

‘You said for one thing,’ I point out to Jenny. ‘What’s the other thing?’

‘There’s no other thing. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? I can’t, but you definitely should.’

This is a strange conversation to be having with a work friend, especially since, other than Jenny telling me that she has a boyfriend, we’ve never really talked about relationships before. Our social interaction hasn’t progressed much beyond rubbishing colleagues who leave the milk out of the office fridge.

‘You know that the best way to get over a bloke is to get under another.’ Her smile is pure smut.

Rafael joins our laughter as he approaches the table. ‘What are we talking about?’

‘Home truths,’ Jenny says. When I clink my gin and tonic with their drinks, Jenny catches my eye. ‘Nelly is recently single,’ she says.

I kick her under the table. Hard.

Rafael trains his deep brown eyes on mine. ‘Recently? I’m sorry to hear that, if you’re sad.’

We all stare at each other. ‘Well, this isn’t awkward at all,’ I finally say.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’ Then Jenny turns to Rafael. ‘Onto safer subjects, I hope. How’s the visa hunt going?’

He shrugs. ‘Nothing so far. There’s no way to extend my work permit. They got a solicitor to look into it.’ His sigh is monumental. ‘I’ve got nine more months. Then …’

‘But you can’t leave when your whole life is here!’ she says. ‘That’s not fair. You’ve been here, what, ten years?’

‘Almost nine. I wish it was ten, then I could apply for settlement. It’s not looking good.’ He sips his pint. ‘I don’t like thinking about what will happen. My friends are all here, my career, my kids.’

‘Oh, you’ve got kids?’ I ask.

‘Rafael is a football coach,’ Jenny explains. ‘Where is it? Hackney?’

‘Yeah, Dalston,’ Rafael says. ‘And Kensal Rise. Of course they can replace me, but I’d hate to leave those kids.’

‘Oh, you’re only being modest,’ says Jenny. ‘You started the programme.’ Then, to me she points out, ‘He started it as an after-school thing to keep teenagers occupied and off the street. Didn’t you win an award for that? He won an award and everything.’

Rafael looks embarrassed. ‘It was very much a joint effort with the youth centres. Anyway, Immigration doesn’t seem to value my local community award as much as you’d imagine.’

‘Well, they should! You contribute to the country, plus you pay your taxes, which is more than a lot of foreign companies do. Not to mention that you always get your round in. Rafael, you’re an asset to Britain.’

He laughs. ‘I’ll be sure to add that to my application. I probably wouldn’t have minded so much five or six years ago, but Bogotá doesn’t feel like my city anymore. I think of myself as a Londoner.’

‘That would be hard,’ I say, ‘When you’ve spent so long in a place, made it home. I can’t imagine having to leave the country.’

‘Thanks, now I feel loads better,’ he says. But he’s smiling.

‘And you definitely couldn’t marry Mabs?’ Jenny asks. Then she turns to me. ‘That’s Rafael’s best friend.’

‘Unfortunately not,’ says Rafael. He looks so sad. ‘She’s on the same visa as me. If you hear of anyone, though …’

Wow, marrying for a visa. You hear about this kind of thing, but I’ve never actually met someone in that position. Though I suppose he’s not the kind of person the Daily Mail likes to talk about. He’s got a better job than me, and if he’s starting up youth clubs and such then surely it’s a benefit to have him here.

The plan starts forming in my mind before I’ve finished my drink. If Rafael needs someone to marry, and I’ve got a groom-shaped hole in my wedding plans anyway, then why couldn’t we? It could – if I’m very smart about it – solve both our problems. I wouldn’t even have to pay the advance back to the magazine if I’ve still got a groom-to-be. And a very photogenic one at that. It’s not like I’d be giving anything up with Matt to do it, now that the bastard has done a runner.

It’s either the gin or the idea that’s making my tummy fizz. Nobody needs to know that it’s just a business transaction.

Who says that Matt was the one to call things off anyway? Except for Matt, admittedly. I can tell my side of the story whatever way I want, so why couldn’t I have finally ended things with Matt after Rafael and I met a few months ago? A little back-dating won’t hurt. It might even help his case with the Immigration people. We won’t seem quite so whirlwind that way. Lots of people meet and marry within a year. My parents did.

It would mean that people would think I was a cheater, though. I guess I can live with the reputation, given that my other option is for everyone to think that I’m too sad to marry.

I know I can trust Rowan with my secret. Jenny might be a problem, though, if she knows I only met Rafael tonight. I’ll have to think about that.

But would Rafael really do it? He might be all talk and no walk.

Well, you know what they say. Only one way to find out.

***

‘How nice to hear from you,’ he says when I ring the next day.

It was simple to find his office number, given that he works for our company. Luckily, there’s only one Rafael in the account management department. Otherwise I might have been about to proposition a fifty-something bloke with chronic bad breath and a squint.

‘You too. I mean—’ Crikey, I’m nervous. ‘I’m ringing because, well, this would probably be better in person, but I don’t want to take up your time and, well, this is quicker. Like ordering a takeaway.’ Ordering a takeaway?

‘How can I help you, Nelly?’

‘I could marry you,’ I blurt. ‘I mean, I’m British and single, so if you needed me to … to stay here, then I could. If you wanted.’

‘Uh … you’re right, that is a surprising phone call. I’d hate to see how you order a takeaway.’

‘I don’t offer marriage in exchange for a side of garlic bread, if that’s what you mean. It’s a straight business offer … unless you were joking about getting married.’ Thank goodness this isn’t a FaceTime call. He can’t see my face burning.

‘I didn’t imagine becoming a mail-order groom,’ he says, ‘but it would solve my problem. You’d do this for me?’

‘I’d do it for me, actually.’ Then I tell him my situation. I mean the whole truth, without holding anything back. ‘So, you see, it would be good for both of us. If it works.’

I can picture his smile as he laughs. ‘I don’t have much choice at this point. I’m pretty desperate.’

‘Thanks. That’ll make the perfect wedding vow on the day.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … I’m sure you’re a reasonable person to marry.’

‘Stop spoiling me with all these compliments or my head won’t fit through the door. Besides, recent events would suggest otherwise.’

‘That was a pretty shitty thing for your ex to do,’ he says. ‘No matter what, you didn’t deserve him to end things like that.’

‘Thanks. The point is that we’re in the same boat, for different reasons. I haven’t got much choice, either, since I can’t pay back the magazine advance. I’ve been working out a few details. There’s lots more, obviously, but it seems like the big thing is how and when we met, since it would come as a surprise to everyone we know.’

‘And how it would work practically too,’ he says. ‘It would look odd if we didn’t live together after we’re married, no?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ To be honest, there’s a lot I probably haven’t thought of. Walking up the aisle with Rafael is one thing, but how are we supposed to carry on after we’ve cut the wedding cake? ‘Maybe it’s a stupid idea.’

‘Let’s see if the details could work,’ he says. ‘I could meet you tonight if you’re free. Nelly, you might be my saviour. Thank you for considering this. It would mean the world to me.’

‘That’s me, Saint Nelly. I can meet you any time from six-thirty.’

This is crazy. Absolutely crazy.

***

By the time I reach the pub where we’re meeting, I’m actually starting to believe that this isn’t the most off-the-wall idea in the world. Right? Right?! I mean, it’s not as off-the-wall as contact-lens jewellery, two-person jumpers or entire Christmas dinners in a tin, and people actually buy those. This isn’t as daft as sharing a jumper. This is … let’s call it a creative solution.

So, I shouldn’t really be this nervous when I catch sight of Rafael already waiting for me outside the pub. I hope his being even earlier than me means he’s starting to believe in the idea too.

‘Hi!’ we both say at once. He leans down to kiss my cheek just as I lean up to kiss his. Unfortunately, he goes for the wrong cheek, which leaves us having to duck and dive to avoid a snog.

‘Do Colombians go to the right?’ I wonder as we make our way inside. Oh, God. That sounds like I’m asking about the way he adjusts his bits in his pants. ‘Kisses, I mean.’

‘I never really thought about it,’ he says. We’re both trying to look as if we haven’t just nearly mashed lips. ‘But I can’t speak for my entire country. I’m right-handed, does that make a difference?’

He’s smirking. I hope he’s not thinking about his bits.

‘It’s just that it’s left first, then right,’ I say.

‘I did kiss your left cheek first.’

‘No, I mean you have to go left first. You kiss this side first.’ I tap my right cheek. That just calls attention to the fact that I’m blushing. ‘That’s the way it’s done.’

‘Are you always this bossy?’ he asks.

‘Do you always kiss wrong?’

His smile is devastating as he slowly shakes his head. ‘No complaints so far.’

I bet.

I’ve recovered some composure by the time we wedge ourselves into one of the corners. It’s near the loos, but at least we’re away from the main part of the busy pub. The rain lashing the windows is keeping everyone from spilling out onto the pavement like they probably usually do in nice weather. It’s got that kind of drinking-on-the-pavement feel to it, with its rounded bar and dark wood trim, high panelled ceiling and hanging baskets outside.

‘So, you want to marry me,’ Rafael says, too loudly judging by the way one of the blokes beside us looks over.

Lowering my voice, I say, ‘I feel like there’s an opportunity to solve both our problems. If you were serious about it.’

‘Serious as a heart attack,’ he says. ‘But what about you?’ He sips his pint. ‘Is this really worth it for you?’

‘I don’t have much choice,’ I tell him, ‘unless I want to pay all the money back. I mean, if I could pay it all back. Which I can’t. So I’m stuck.’

He taps his pint to my glass. ‘Then it’s just what I’ve always wanted. A woman who’s got no choice but to marry me.’

‘Talk about a fairy tale,’ I answer. ‘I’ve always dreamed of being married for my passport. We’ll make a fine pair. If we can work out the details.’ As I catch sight of us in one of the old-fashioned advertising mirrors on the wall, I think: we do look like a fine pair.

I wish I’d spent more time touching up my make-up.

‘So how are we going to do this?’ he asks. ‘It’s easy for me. Well, easier. My family are all in Colombia. I only need to let my parents know. They’re more efficient than the postal system there. But you might have to deal with questions in person, no?’

‘We might have to,’ I correct. ‘My parents will never go for this if they don’t meet you first. Not that they need to give their permission. I just mean that they’ll be suspicious.’

I haven’t historically been known in my family for restraint when it comes to romance. I’ve practically asked new boyfriends to meet my parents before we’ve finished the first date. As it is, they’re going to have a hard time believing that I’ve hidden Rafael for this long.

‘I’m happy to meet your parents,’ he says. ‘Parents love me. And our friends? We’ll have to tell them too.’

‘It’s a lot to sort out. Let’s approach it logically. One step at a time.’

We both sip our drinks. Then we get down to the business of inventing the lie of our lives for everyone we know.