by Shari Low
The rest of us were back in the hotel bar now. I was happy. Drunk. Having fun. It had been a long time since I’d experienced those three things at the same time and it felt great. Sexy, even. Which presented an obvious problem given that Richard was AWOL and there was no one else here that could potentially fill his shoes.
My wine-fuddled brain decided that this was a good time to call it a night. Chloe was sitting on Connor’s knee, smooching and laughing, so I didn’t interrupt her. Sasha and one of Nate’s remaining workmates had left ten minutes before, off in search of late-night food. At least, she said it was food. I had my suspicions it was probably a detour on the way to the One Night Stand Motel. And Nate… I couldn’t see him anywhere. Probably just as well. I might blurt out something derogatory about Janet omitting our group from the hen night.
Definitely time for bed.
The lobby was fairly empty, the lift came in seconds, and I channelled Fergie from the Black Eyes Peas and sang ‘Let’s Get It Started’ all the way to the fourth floor. There may also have been dancing – which explains why I had my back to the elevator doors when they opened, and took a few seconds to turn around and see Nate, sitting on a fancy velour Chesterfield chair by the floor-to-ceiling window of the landing, an incredulous grin on his face. Granted, Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas never swung her hands in the air while doing some kind of ill-advised pelvic thrust thing. Goddamn wine.
I’d forgotten how much I used to love his laugh back in the day, when we were young and I was intoxicated by this gorgeous man who was never the loudest, or the funniest, or the highest achiever in the group, but he was absolutely the sweetest, most laid-back and most decent.
‘Still got it then,’ he said, trying and failing to make that sound like a compliment. His amusement was contagious.
‘Don’t think I ever had it,’ I replied, giggling. ‘And if I did, it was only after a bucket of wine and it usually involved Take That.’
I plonked myself down on the chair that was opposite his, mainly because my wobbly legs were protesting at remaining upright. Through the window, the whole of the Grassmarket was still a beautiful blaze of lights, with people mingling along the street, lovers snogging in doorways and a group of men in rugby jumpers tossing an Irn-Bru bottle between them as they charged along the road.
There were a few moments of silence, which would probably have been awkward if I were sober, but in my current condition it was just the perfect space for my drunken self to formulate a response to the current situation.
‘So are you going to tell me why you’re sitting here? Shouldn’t you be drinking yourself into a coma or doing something with strippers?’
‘Nah, did all that last time.’ That made me laugh again because it was so untrue. We both knew that for his stag night before we got married, he’d gone out with all the guys for a game of snooker and ended up in bed with me by midnight, watching old reruns of The Sweeney.
‘Tell me what you’re doing here then.’
He took a slug of his beer. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’
‘I do!’ I had a sudden thought. ‘So you are waiting for a stripper then?’
‘Nope, no stripper.’
‘Ah, right then.’ I liked this game. Next guess. ‘Are you having second thoughts? Is it because Janet didn’t invite us to her hen weekend and we think she’s a boot?’
One of my greatest failings is that I think I’m hilarious when I’m drunk. This was a prime example of that flawed personality trait. I knew I was being ridiculous. Of course he wasn’t having second thoughts. He was Nate. He thought everything through a gazillion times and didn’t do anything until he was absolutely sure it was right. I blamed the alcohol for my ludicrous suggestion.
‘Yes. Not about the hen weekend. But about the second thoughts thing.’
‘Oh.’ Bloody hell. Somewhere in my inebriated haze, this had just gone from a daft, drunken quiz to a life-defining moment. I wasn’t sure I was the right person for this job. Shouldn’t it be a pal? I’d have thought ‘ex-wife’ would be pretty far down the ‘appropriate confidante’ list. Okay, right things to say in this moment?
‘I’m sure it’s just cold feet. Everyone gets them,’ I offered.
‘I didn’t when I was marrying you.’
Fair point. I went back in for a second try.
‘It’s because you’ve been married before and it didn’t work out. You’re more cautious this time because you don’t want to make another mistake.’
‘Last time wasn’t a mistake.’
Oh. That took the wind from my attempting-to-be-pragmatic sails. Somewhere inside, it made me warm and fuzzy to think that he didn’t regret marrying me, even though it hadn’t lasted forever.
I mentally swatted away the distraction. Back to the matter in discussion. My heart was breaking for him. What a nightmare. I kept going back in with more attempts at reasoning, while realising that the conversation was definitely having a sobering effect on me.
I took a deep breath and came up with my next possible explanation. ‘It’s the drink. It always makes you maudlin.’
‘I’m not drunk.’
‘Right. Look, it’s just a temporary mind-blip. You’ll wake up in the morning and you’ll remember all the reasons that you want to be with Janet.’
There. That was a great line. I gave myself a congratulatory nod for that one.
‘But tonight I just remember all the reasons I wanted to be with you.’
Ah, shite.
He stood up. ‘I need to go.’
I knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to call her and offload all this on her. He couldn’t! Not a week before the bloody wedding.
I jumped to my feet, ‘Noooooo. Don’t do it.’ Unfortunately, my body wasn’t ready for the change in position, given that, while my brain may have sobered with the conversation, my bloodstream was still ninety-five per cent vino. The sway took me by surprise, the lurch forward almost floored me.
Until Nate caught me.
And then there I was, in his arms, looking up at that gorgeous face, swept up in the moment, feeling exactly like I did when I was twenty-one and every bit of me wanted to be touched by him. My arms went around his neck, my fingers went into his hair, his mouth was hard on mine. He groaned in a totally sexy way as his hands reached my arse and he lifted me. My legs went around his waist, my back was against the flocked wallpaper, and there were tongues. Probing, sexy, nipple-raising tongues.
We bumped off every wall and door as we staggered down the corridor, his legs probably straining under the weight. The key card worked first time (and in my blissful delusion I decided that was a sign) and then we were on the minibar, across the table, perched on the trouser press, straddling the sink, in the shower, and finally… oh God, the shame… on the bed.
That plan to have sex with an ex?
Right plan, wrong ex.
Chapter Seven
Chloe and Connor’s Wedding
November 2005
The bridal party was camped out in a two-bedroom suite, with two make-up artists, three hairdressers and a waitress who very helpfully kept replenishing the drinks. Chloe’s mum, Verity, and six aunts were already fully preened and prepped, and looking resplendent in outfits that were gloriously colourful and evocative of their Jamaican roots. With them sat my mother, who was gloriously colourful because she had a policy of never leaving the house unless she was wearing at least five clashing shades of the rainbow.
I was the first to be ready, so I was sitting next to Sasha as she applied a final coat of lip gloss. We were both wearing gorgeous, one-shouldered, pale pink dresses, both of us with our hair pulled back in the kind of elegant chignon that I’d never be able to recreate by myself.
‘Do you love me?’ I asked her.
‘Of course,’ she replied.
‘So you’d do anything for me?’
‘Absolutely.’
I made a subtle head gesture in the direction of my mother. ‘T
hen promise me on your life that if Ida goes anywhere near a microphone you’ll take her out in a rugby tackle. And don’t let her get up until someone supplies gaffer tape.’
‘I’m on it,’ Sasha promised, but I didn’t have time to make her swear with the locking of pinkies, because she stood up and checked out her reflection in the huge, silver gilt, full-length mirror, perusing the dress with very vocal distaste. ‘Pink. Honest to God. I haven’t worn pink since primary school,’ she groaned. ‘I look like Bad Bitch Barbie.’ Her comparison wasn’t far off the mark. With her dramatic mane of ebony hair and trademark red lips, she did look like the evil villain in a Disney movie, crossed with a pageant queen who wanted to save the earth and put an end to world poverty.
‘Sasha, stop your moaning, girl. No one will be looking at you because they’ll all be blinded by the beauty of my gorgeous Chloe,’ Verity chided with a raucous chuckle. Chloe’s mum could get away with any amount of cheek because, firstly, we all loved her, and secondly, she and her sisters – accompanied, of course, by my mother – were the warmest, loveliest, most gregarious, naughtiest crowd at any party.
Sasha sighed. ‘You’re lucky I love you, V. I’m saving up the biting retorts until either you or Ida see sense and adopt me.’
‘I’ll adopt you, pet,’ my mum offered. ‘But only if you’ll come with me to get Botox because our Liv point-blank refuses.’
I sighed and shook my head. It was her latest thing, one of many ideas that I filed under ‘Are you sure she’s my mother?’ There was the naked yoga holiday. The single-and-ready-to-mingle cruise. The hair extensions that gave her the coiffure of Cher in her ‘Turn Back Time’ years.
‘No problem Ida,’ Sasha agreed, laughing. ‘You’ll be so happy that I’m yours. Although, obviously, you won’t be able to show it because your face won’t move.’
That earned another raucous chuckle from both Ida and the mother of the bride, who was – understandably – relishing every single moment of today.
Chloe was getting married. After all these years, she was finally getting hitched to the love of her life, the guy she’d met in university fifteen years ago and loved ever since. If there was ever a personification of sheer bliss, she was it.
All chatter faded away when she stepped out of the bedroom into the lounge, the seamstress who’d made her wedding dress walking behind her carrying her train. The white lace was cut in a perfect heart-shaped neckline, with a boned corset that flared into a mass of pearl-embellished tulle. On her head, a simple band of glistening diamantés. The cries that went up from Verity and her sisters could have been heard four floors away. The sight of her even made Bad Bitch Barbie stop moaning.
‘Chloe, you look incredible,’ I said, happiness and emotion choking my words. In my peripheral vision I saw Sasha’s eyes mist over – an event that was up there with a solar eclipse and the sighting of a blue moon. I knew it must be hard for her. All those years spent with Justin, only to discover it was all a lie. And while she’d never been one to dream of her wedding day, she’d assumed – we all had – that they’d be together forever. She still wasn’t over it. Two years later and she’d traded a long-term relationship for no-strings sex with whoever took her fancy. She claimed it was the way forward. ‘No lies, no cheating, just the good bits and none of the crap,’ she’d said.
‘But wouldn’t you want to have a relationship again if you met the right guy?’ I’d probed, hoping to soften her approach. It didn’t work.
‘I’d rather remove my internal organs with a hoover,’ was the reply.
‘Okay, people, let’s move this along,’ Chloe exclaimed, after her mum, each of her aunts and Ida had smothered her in hugs and kisses.
Although my mum did accompany her hugs with, ‘Och, Chloe, love, you’re stunning. This is a marriage made in heaven and it’s going to last forever.’ I thought that was beautifully poignant until she added, ‘Unlike my Liv’s,’ and gave me a disappointed glance. I ignored her. If I challenged her it would only set her off on a rant that would rue my break-up with Nate, and then move on to her pain and suffering caused by the fact that I let Richard go too. There wasn’t a person in the west of Scotland that she hadn’t told about her daughter’s ‘gorgeous doctor boyfriend’. ‘George Clooney couldn’t shine his stethoscope,’ she’d boast with glowing pride. It had taken her six months to admit to her chums at the bingo that we’d split up. I was considering getting her counselling for her loss.
I switched my focus back to the bride. When the mums and aunts had cleared the way, Sasha, Chloe and I converged in a group hug.
‘Have a wonderful day, my darling,’ I told her. ‘I’m beyond happy for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing us tightly. ‘Okay, bridesmaid instructions. Sasha don’t be sad, because we all love you and your happiness will come back. But, in the meantime, even if you’re really tempted, do not punch Justin. Especially in front of the minister.’
‘Instructions understood,’ Sasha confirmed.
‘And Liv,’ she finished softly. Aw, I was going to get a special comment just for me. ‘Two things – do you have a battle plan to stop your mother singing?’
‘I do. Either Sasha or I will wrestle her to the ground.’
Chloe seemed reassured by our strategy. ‘Excellent.’
‘The other thing?’
Perhaps a declaration of love. Maybe an acknowledgement of all we’d been through together in the fifteen years of our friendship. Maybe a…
‘If you’re going to have sex with an ex, make sure he’s single.’
The others found this hilarious, as I flushed a deeper shade of rose than my dress. They’d never let me forget it. One drunken mistake. That was it. And no one would even have known if Nate hadn’t called off his wedding. The morning after the stag night, I’d begged him not to tell Janet all the gory details. I’d also sworn him to secrecy about what happened, making him promise to tell no one, not even our friends. He’d stuck to his promise. Chloe reported (learned via Nate) that he’d just, really apologetically, told Janet that he was having second thoughts. Unfortunately, I hadn’t kept my side of the secrecy deal. The combined interrogation forces of Sasha and Chloe had cracked me and I’d confessed all.
He’d appeared at my flat a few days later and told me the wedding was off. I’m not sure what he was expecting, but there was never any possibility of us getting back together. We’d been there. We’d tried. We’d somehow survived as friends with an episode of benefits. That was enough for me. Despite the odd wobble, I knew deep down that nothing had changed, so we’d decided to move on with friendship status intact. He’d reluctantly agreed, but I could see he knew I was right.
I was wracked with guilt for months afterwards, so much so that I’d ignored his calls and completely avoided him. What had I been thinking? Nothing. That was the point. Complete mind bloody blank. In the moment, it felt amazing – it was Nate, whom I’d loved for so long, but there was a new excitement there, a thrill, a… I stopped trying to rationalise it. I was a terrible person and that was the end of it.
Now, thankfully, that was all in the past and today I was going to think of nothing other than Chloe’s happy future.
After a flurry of kisses and tears, we made our way downstairs, where Chloe’s mum and aunts were waiting for a final glimpse, before they headed to their seats. We gave them a few minutes then followed them. The string quartet played the wedding march, as Sasha and I made our way up the aisle, lined with beautiful white roses, towards Connor, and his best man, Nate. I avoided eye contact. The symbolism of me walking up an aisle towards him was just too much. Instead, I glanced around the crowd at all the beaming faces. I loved a wedding. Especially if it wasn’t mine.
I was almost at the front when I spotted Richard, in the second row of Chloe’s side, three of her aunts on one side of him, a woman I didn’t recognise on the other side. I sent up a silent prayer that it was one of Chloe’s long-lost cousins. I’d missed him. Not enough to pa
ck up my life here, move to Manchester and resume our relationship, but I missed those moments, the laughs, the love, and, yes, the sex.
I dismissed the thought. Today was all about Chloe and Connor. Nothing else mattered.
At the top of the aisle, we stood to the side and then watched as the exquisitely beautiful bride made her entrance to a chorus of cheers. I’m not sure that the minister knew what to make of it.
‘Dearly Beloved…’
The beauty and emotion in the vows were enough to defy any mascara. Chloe and Connor were just meant to be together, end of story. Maybe that just wasn’t in the plan for me, and perhaps I was okay with that. Perhaps. Okay, I admit it – days like this made me think it would be great to have someone in my life that I felt that way about.
‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’ Another cheer and it didn’t stop until the bride and groom had danced – yep, danced – all the way back down the aisle and out into the reception hall.
The photographs took so long, my cheeks ached with smiling. Eventually, dismissed from the final shots of just the bride and groom, I headed to the bathroom.
I was at the marble sinks when a face I’d spotted earlier joined me. ‘Liv, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said warmly, trying my very best to be gracious.
‘I’m Charlotte. My boyfriend, Richard, pointed you out earlier.’
‘Ah,’ I said, trying to take a mental video of this moment so that I could relay all the details to Sasha and Chloe later. Actually, not Chloe. I was fairly sure she’d be busy. First point to note? Given the evidence in front of me, I’d say Richard definitely had a type. Charlotte looked like… well, me. A little shorter, a little slimmer (damn her), but the same green eyes and long, red hair. We could be sisters. I wasn’t sure if that was flattery or weird. If she noticed, she chose not to mention it. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ I lied. I’m a terrible person.