Читать книгу The Time of Our Lives - Portia MacIntosh - Страница 12

Today is not the day I thought it was going to be – not at all. I had no idea Tom was going to be here. I had no idea Cleo would be with him – with him and pregnant, no less. I haven’t really thought about Tom in a long time. Well, I haven’t seen him in ten years, and he isn’t on Facebook, so it’s not like I see his face everyday, not like I do with the others. When things went bad between us, sure, I moped for a while, but then I picked myself up and I moved on. What else could I have done? Of course, I didn’t think I’d ever have to see him again, and yet here he is. Here and looking gorgeous as ever, and Cleo still looks perfect too. She’s pregnant and somehow still petite. Her impossibly shiny brown hair is pulled into a ballerina bun on the top of her head, with the exception of a few, small, perfectly formed curls that hang down, framing her cute little face.

I try to push it out of my head, because another thing I didn’t anticipate today was that I would have to take over for one of the bridesmaids – and I’m not only having to take her place walking down the aisle, but it turns out I’m taking over her duties too. While the marquee is being prepared for the wedding breakfast, everyone is gathered in the hotel gardens, enjoying drinks from the outdoor bar, sitting in the sunshine, posing for photos. Except me; I’ve been given the job of going around with the guestbook, with the impossible task of making everyone sign it. People seem to hate signing guestbook for some reason, I think maybe they panic because they don’t know what to write in them, but I need them to write something so that I can get this over and done with as soon as possible, so I can go back to being a regular guest.

‘Can you write for me, dear?’ a little old lady asks. ‘If I dictate?’

She’s a sweet old dear, with a pink rinse to rival my own hair do. I feel a bit sorry for her, sitting here on her own while everyone else busies themselves socialising, but she seems happy enough taking in view, relaxing in the sunshine.

‘Of course I will,’ I reply, writing down the lovely – but long – message she dictates. At least it will take up some of the space left by the guests I haven’t been able to pin down.

‘That’s so kind of you,’ she says. ‘So, how do you know Katherine?’

‘I don’t really know her that well,’ I admit. ‘I’m just filling in. One of her bridesmaids went into labour.’

The old woman laughs wildly.

‘I did warn her not to have three pregnant bridesmaids,’ she insists. ‘I’m Joan, Katherine’s grandma.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. ‘I’m a friend of Matt’s.’

‘Oh, Matt is such a lovely young man,’ she says. ‘And speaking of lovely young men …’

Tom leans forward to kiss Kat’s grandma on the cheek.

‘Now then,’ he says. ‘Are you causing trouble? You haven’t written anything naughty in that book, have you?’

Ergh, I’d forgotten about Tom’s charming way with the ladies.

Joan cackles.

‘Let’s see,’ he insists. ‘I need to sign it anyway.’

I know he does, because I’d been doing an excellent job of avoiding him up until now.

I hand Tom the book, unable to resist holding eye contact with him for a few seconds. I can’t help but stare at him. When you think about your past, you always remember things fondly, don’t you? You remember things being better than they were. I think, over the years, I’d managed to convince myself that Tom wasn’t all that. I’d question what I ever saw in him and tick myself off if I dared to think any different. But seeing him here today, ten years older, but somehow even better looking than when he was 21, makes me remember just how attracted to him I was.

Tom is a big guy. He’s tall, broad, and strong to go with it. He has neat, short dark hair, and a neat, short beard to match. He looks like the very definition of the strong silent type, and yet somehow there’s this comforting warmth to him that makes you just want to curl up on his big chest like a little kitten and go to sleep, because you just know that no harm can come to you on his watch. Well, physically at least. If we’re talking emotional hurt, that’s a whole different story.

‘Did you write this?’ Tom asks her with a faux gasp.

‘This young lady wrote it for me,’ she insists, sounding a little concerned. ‘Why, what does it say?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m just teasing,’ he insists with a smile, squeezing her shoulder. He turns back to me. ‘Can I borrow you for a minute, Luc?’

This is the first thing Tom has said to me in ten years, and it sends a shiver through my body, as though it were a ghost standing before me, saying my name.

‘Sure,’ I say as confidently as I can, trying not to sound too rattled, before walking over to one of the spare wicker tables with him. He pulls out my chair and nods for me to take a seat before sitting down next to me, placing the open guestbook on the table in front of us.

‘Did you write this?’ he asks pointing at the page, turning the book for me to get a better look.

‘I did,’ I reply cautiously. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, but I know how this goes. Should we not be politely but awkwardly making small talk, before resolving to politely but pointedly avoiding each other for the rest of the day?

Tom reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and removes a receipt. He hands it to me.

‘Why are you showing me that you bought three bags of Haribo?’ I ask him, confused.

‘I didn’t buy three bags of Haribo,’ he tells me. ‘You did.’

Confusion consumes my face as I think for a moment. Oh my God, he’s right, I absolutely did. On the drive down here. Well, it’s not that I thought I could eat three bags, but they were on offer in the service station so it seemed dumb not to buy three for the price of two – do you know how ridiculously expensive Haribo is in service stations?! Anyway, how on earth does Tom have this?

All becomes clear when Tom takes the receipt from me, turns it over, and hands it back. That’s when I see my angry note scribbled on the back.

‘No one is impressed by your driving or your car,’ he reads out loud.

Shit, it was Tom’s car that I left that note on.

‘Hmm?’ I say innocently, trying to disguise my guilt.

‘You wrote this,’ Tom laughs. ‘Look, the way you write an “i”, with the little flicks, dotting them with a little circle. It’s so distinctive.’

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I don’t know what to say.

‘Hey, I’m not mad,’ he laughs reassuringly. ‘I’m just surprised. I didn’t think you were the note-leaving kind.’

‘I’m not,’ I insist, laughing awkwardly.

Tom smiles widely at me and those gorgeous brown eyes of his look straight through my thick skin, just like they used to. He’s always had this way of looking at me knowingly, making me feel like he’s reading my mind. No matter what my mouth would be saying, I always knew he was peering into my head, seeing exactly what I was thinking and feeling, even if I didn’t want him to. This doesn’t seem to have worn off with time and, today especially, it feels like a huge invasion of my privacy. It annoys me that he still has that effect on me, and even more so that I still find his eyes so mesmerisingly gorgeous.

‘Really, I’m not,’ I say again, changing my tune. ‘But if you’re going to drive like an arsehole, on a narrow country road, late at night …’

‘OK, calm down, I get it. Wow, when did you become such an adult?’

‘When didn’t you?’ I snap back.

‘I am genuinely sorry,’ he says softly, like a ticked off child who has just been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin just before dinner. It might be cute, if I weren’t so annoyed. ‘It’s an occupational hazard.’

‘Why, are you a Formula One driver?’ I ask.

‘No, an automotive journalist,’ he says with a laugh.

‘Right,’ I reply. Well, that doesn’t excuse it, does it? ‘Listen, I need to go finish getting people to sign this, so …’

‘OK, sure,’ he replies. ‘Can we have a catch up when you’re done then?’

Ergh. Do we really have to? I don’t want to hear all about his amazing job, and his pregnant little missus, and his fast, flash car, and how is life is just better than mine in every possible way.

‘Luca, there you are,’ Pete says as he approaches us.

‘Pete, hello,’ I reply, delighted to see him – especially at this particular moment in time.

‘You didn’t tell me you were a bridesmaid,’ he laughs, nodding at my dress.

‘I didn’t actually know I was a bridesmaid when we met last night. It was definitely a last-minute change,’ I tell him, before turning back to Tom briefly. ‘I’d better go.’

I notice Tom look Pete up and down, his eyes narrowing as he tries to suss him out. He doesn’t look impressed, but why would he? Pete is basically Tom’s opposite.

‘OK then,’ he says. ‘Well, can catch up later then, I guess.’

‘Yep,’ I reply, although I am absolutely going to avoid doing this if possible.

As I walk off with Pete, I take his arm and lean in closer so that I can whisper into his ear.

‘Thanks for saving me,’ I say.

‘Not a problem,’ he replies. ‘That looked a little intense. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Please,’ I reply. ‘Just an orange juice.’

‘Are you sure that all you want?’ he asks.

I smile and nod.

‘Coming right up then,’ he replies. ‘Find us somewhere nice to sit.’

I make my way over to a wicker sofa, hiding in the shade of a beautiful willow tree. From here, I have a great view of the gardens, the massive lake, and even my hotel room window. I like knowing that, if it all gets too much here, I can escape to my little hotel room and hide, while still technically feeling like I’m at the wedding. I sit and admire the view until Pete sits down next to me.

‘So, what’s the story?’ he asks.

‘The story?’

‘The story with the guy,’ he says. ‘There’s always a story with a guy when there’s a girl with a look on her face like you have.’

‘Ah, you don’t want to hear all about that,’ I tell him with a bat of my hand. ‘It’s nothing. Ancient history.’ I’m trying to play it down as best I can because I really don’t want Pete to think I am a dramatic woman with a dramatic life.

‘Of course I want to hear all about it,’ he replies. ‘It sounds like it might be an interesting tale.’

‘We went to uni together,’ I tell him, getting the ball rolling. Perhaps I’ll only tell him as much as I need to, even if it would be nice to tell an outsider all about it.

‘Something happen between you?’

‘Yes … well, no … sort of.’

‘That sounds complicated.’

I smile at him. I can’t tell if he’s humouring me, just to be kind. I doubt he actually wants to know about something that happened to me ten years ago, does he?

‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’

‘Every word of it,’ he insists.

I’m really not used to getting attention from men, I’m not quite sure what to do with it.

‘OK,’ I say, taking a deep breath. ‘Tom and Matt were best friends when we were at uni. So when I moved in with Matt I started seeing more and more of Tom, and we grew quite close. We finally made plans for a date … but then he met someone better, so …’

‘Cleo?’ he asks, with an understanding nod.

‘Erm, yes,’ I reply. It didn’t occur to me that Pete might already know her.

‘Not that I’m saying she’s better than you or anything like that,’ he quickly says. ‘But I know her through Kat. I knew about her and Tom being together, but I’d never actually met the guy until now.’

‘How does Cleo know Kat?’ I ask him curiously.

‘They’re sisters,’ he says. ‘Didn’t you know that?’

‘I didn’t,’ I admit.

‘Yeah. Kat met Matt through Cleo and Tom. I suppose if you and he had got together, Tom wouldn’t have ended up with Cleo, Kat wouldn’t have met Matt, this wedding wouldn’t be happening and you wouldn’t have met me.’

I think about the chain of events for a few seconds.

‘I suppose I wouldn’t have,’ I say, smiling at him.

‘I thought maybe they might’ve sat us at the same table but I checked and no such luck,’ Pete says, changing the subject.

‘That’s a shame.’

Not just because I would have loved to sit with him and talk more, but because it means I’ll be sitting with Fi and the boys. I don’t mind sitting with Fi, I could easily talk to her all day, but I remember all too well what the boys are like, especially at mealtimes.

There’s this unidentifiable energy between Pete and me. A tension, since the kiss we shared last night. I might be momentarily rattled by Tom being here, but I can’t let my past distract me from what is happening right now. Instead, I should let my present distract me from everything that happened back then. Perhaps Pete can distract me with another kiss, if I’m lucky (read: don’t ruin things – or allow my old friends to ruin things for me).

‘Well, I think we’re about to sit down to eat, but after that,’ Pete says, ‘we can sit together, have a drink, maybe have a bit of a dance …’

‘I’d really like that,’ I reply sincerely. ‘Well, if we’re eating soon I’d better get a move on and get around everyone with this book.’

‘Yes, don’t let me distract you from your newfound bridesmaid duties,’ he laughs. ‘That’s a great dress, by the way.’

‘Thanks. If only it were a different colour, I wouldn’t be saddled with bridesmaid duties. It was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

Which is pretty much the story of my life …