Читать книгу The Pieces of You and Me - Rachel Burton - Страница 17

‘Don’t be mad at me,’ Gemma said in the voice of someone who had done something that would make me mad.

The two of us were lying on our backs listening to soothing music as two beauty therapists performed a procedure known as Billion Dollar Brows on us.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What have you done other than make me undergo this torture?’ I wasn’t sure I was a Billion Dollar Brow sort of person. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d set foot in a beauty salon. It must have been over six years ago and I was sure eyebrows had been much less complicated back then.

‘You’ll thank me for it,’ Gemma said.

‘For what? The eyebrows or whatever else it is you’ve done?’

‘You’ll thank me for both in the end,’ she said.

‘Gemma, what have you done?’

‘I invited Rupert to my wedding and he’s RSVP’d yes,’ she replied very quickly, the words tumbling out of her mouth.

‘You’ve what?’ I felt my stomach lurch at the thought of it. After spending the last few nights going through my old diaries, reading through my memories of Rupert as a child, a teenager, our first kiss and everything that happened afterwards, I had been trying not to think about him at all. I had been failing spectacularly but seeing him at Gemma’s wedding wasn’t going to help. I’d worked so hard at moving on that this felt like a setback.

Except the part that felt like a second chance.

‘He’s coming to the wedding,’ Gemma said. ‘And he’ll dance with you and realise what a terrible mistake he made and …’

‘Gemma, stop,’ I said. ‘Stop getting carried away. If you’ve invited him because he’s an old friend and you’d like him to be there then that’s fine.’ I was being much more reasonable than I felt, mostly due to the presence of the two eyebrow technicians. ‘But if you think there’s going to be some great reunion, you’re mistaken.’

‘I just want us all to be together again,’ she said. ‘Well, except Camilla of course.’

‘And Dan,’ I replied, wondering what he was doing these days. Gemma didn’t say anything.

‘When did you invite Rupert?’ I asked, changing the subject.

‘I sent an invitation to his department at the university. He replied with his address and telephone number, if you’d like them.’

I was tempted. More than tempted. I wanted her to put the number into my phone so I could call him the minute I got out of the beauty salon. But I ignored that feeling, took a deep breath and tried not to think about the fact that in just over a week I’d be seeing him again.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gemma said when I didn’t respond. ‘I wanted to do something nice for you. You were always meant to get married first – you know that.’

I didn’t know what to say to that because it was true. It should have been me first. It should have been me ten years ago. Rupert and I should be celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary instead of being forced into some awkward situation at Gemma’s wedding. We could have had a house together; we could have had a family. I could have avoided Dan and never got ill. I could have been happy for the last decade instead of wasting my time thinking about what might have been.

‘It’s OK,’ I said.

‘So you don’t mind?’

I sighed. Gemma and Rupert had always got along well. They had the same sense of humour, even though Rupert’s was far more restrained. They spent years as teenagers ribbing each other and I knew that she had missed him when he left. He was one of the few people who stuck by her, who didn’t try and encourage her to go to university when she hadn’t wanted to.

‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘But don’t try and matchmake. Just leave it OK?’

‘I told you he was single, didn’t I?’ she carried on regardless. ‘And his first question was whether you were seeing anyone.’

‘Really?’ I asked, despite myself.

‘Yes, he seemed quite keen to know that.’

My heart skipped at the thought of that, although I tried to put it out of my mind.

‘Look, Gemma,’ I said. ‘It’ll be lovely to see Rupert again at the wedding, but it doesn’t mean we’re getting back together. It was a long time ago and we’re different people now.’

‘I’ll sit him next to your mum,’ Gemma said, ignoring me. ‘She can write a poem about it all.’

‘What do you think?’ the eyebrow technician asked suddenly, holding a mirror above my face. It took me a moment to recognise myself. I looked ghastly and had to bite my lip to stop myself saying so. I could hear Gemma gushing about her amazing new eyebrows in the background, so I forced a smile and told the therapist that they were perfect. I actually wanted to cry. I was still so pale and thin, and the sudden encroachment of dark oppressive brows just didn’t look right. Brows like this suited women like Gemma, with her tanned skin and good bone structure. On me it looked like a five-year-old had got into her mother’s make-up bag.

I managed to keep quiet as we paid and left the salon. I didn’t want Gemma to realise how upset I was but she knew me too well.

‘Shall we go for a coffee?’ she asked.

I made a non-committal noise. All I wanted to do was go home and scrub my forehead for the rest of the evening until I looked less ridiculous.

‘Jess, what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ I replied in an attempt to sound breezy.

‘Don’t lie to me, Jess. What’s wrong?’

I sighed. ‘I look like Noel bloody Gallagher,’ I said. It was ridiculous to be this upset about eyebrows, but honestly, they looked dreadful.

Gemma started laughing to herself and headed off down the street. I followed her, brushing my fringe down in an attempt to hide my brows.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I know it was meant to be a treat but I hate them. They don’t suit me like they suit you.’

Gemma looked at me then, still smiling. ‘They’re fine,’ she said. ‘They always look a bit alarming when you first have them done, but they’ll fade and you’ll thank me when you see the wedding photos.’

‘Will I?’

‘Eyebrows are the windows to the soul,’ she said.

‘I thought that was eyes?’

‘Window frames then.’ She laughed, linking her arm through mine. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to feel as carelessly happy as Gemma.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and get that coffee.’