She may be hearing wedding bells, but I could see them and they were big red warning ones.
Dani let out another squeal. “You have to come home, because I want you to be my Chief Bridesmaid.”
“Really?”
I felt as if I’d followed Alice down the rabbit-hole. A few minutes ago I’d been stressing about how to keep Dani on the phone long enough to finish my apology. And now she was engaged to a virtual stranger and I was Chief Bridesmaid?
“Thanks, Dan. I . . . well, I’d be honoured.”
“You need to come down as soon as poss. This weekend, even, so we can organise your dress.” She spoke so fast her words ran together. “Jump on a plane. I’ll pay. Just do it.” More squealing. “Can you believe it?”
“No. Not really.”
“Love you! Thanks for ringing. Gotta go. Sebi’s here. Ciao.”
“Ciao,” I said, but she’d already gone. I flicked my mobile closed and collapsed in a chair.
What?
I felt like laughing and crying all at once. I’d spent months stressing about Charlie, knowing I’d made my own sister hate me. Months consumed by guilt, wishing I could undo what I’d done. And now—poof! Gone. As if it never happened. The wrong—righted. The guilt—wiped.
But in its place: disquiet.
In Dani’s head it was as if our rift had never been. She’d moved on. Fast. Crazy fast.
My relief and joy at having my sister back was overshadowed by concern. Dani didn’t know what she was doing. This Sebi scumbag must be running some kind of con. I needed to protect her.
But in one shameful, dark little corner of my mind, I wasn’t sure I wanted to protect her, because I also felt a bit peeved. Peeved at the months of guilt, and soul-searching, and self-imposed exile. Peeved at all the emotional energy I’d expended, none of which had apparently been necessary. Dani, after venting her anger at me so venomously, had gone home, slept like a baby, and got on with life as if none of it had happened.
Which was just so Dani.
And just so me to pull it apart, analyse it, and put it back together all wrong.
I shoved my petty annoyance back in the cave it had come from. Enough of the self-pity. Yes, it had been a hard few months, but they hadn’t killed me, and I’d learned a few lessons that would stand me in good stead.
I wiped my hands down my face. Back to the bigger issue. Dani. I needed to respect her decision to get married if that was what she really wanted.
But was it what she really wanted?
Only one way to find out. I had nothing else planned for the weekend. Guess I should pay my sister a visit.
Chapter Forty-One
“Ladies and gentleman, we will shortly be landing at London Heathrow. Please ensure your seatbacks . . .”
I tuned out, watching the murky pall part to reveal rooftops and roads and cars and greenery. A band of tightness formed in my chest. Was I ready for this? I wiped clammy hands down my jeans.
The wheels touched, bounced, and we were on the ground, hurtling towards the end of the runway. The brakes screamed, the overhead lockers shook so hard they threatened to spew luggage all over us, then we sedately approached the terminal.
I took a rallying breath. This was it. My first weekend in London since . . .
Since Dublin. That awful, hideous, never-to-be-forgotten week.
Christmas, New Year, Valentines Day, a new home and a career change later, yet that week still caused me pain.
But here I was, for better or worse.
The ‘fasten seatbelts’ sign finally pinged off, the doors opened, and we herded ourselves off the aircraft. People peeled off towards baggage claim. I kept walking and emerged into the Arrivals lounge.
I stood for a moment and looked around. Over there. That was where Dani had publicly disowned me. I took a couple of deep breaths to ease the pressure in my chest.
Smoggy, festering London.
Home.
“Becky!”
I turned and there was Liz, waving and grinning, pushing through the crowd towards me. She enveloped me in a hug. “You’re here.”
“I am. It feels a bit weird. Thanks for meeting me.”
Her eyebrows spiked. “My best friend finally comes home and I’m not there to meet her? Fat chance.”
A wave of emotion stole my words and I had to make do with a hand-squeeze. Good old Liz. I’d always been able to count on her, and here she was, making me feel like I belonged all over again.
She took my overnight bag from me and headed us towards the car park.
“You’re travelling light,” she said. “Not back for long, huh?”
“Not this time. I leave on Sunday.”
“But . . . maybe next time?”
I chuckled. “Or the time after.”
She stopped and searched my face. “Really?”
“Yes.” I grinned.
Her eyes shone. “Brilliant! When?”
“Soon. I’ve got to pack, give notice at work, that sort of thing.”
“Can’t you just cut and run?”
“No. I’m sick of doing that.”
She raised an eyebrow, nodded, smiled. “Good for you.”
We continued on to the car, and joined the traffic queue.
“What brings you down?” she asked. “Flat-hunting?”
“Catching up with Dani. She’s asked me to be bridesmaid.”
Liz gaped at me. “Bridesmaid?” The car pig-jumped and stalled.
I laughed. She looked every bit as astounded as I’d felt.
Liz hastily restarted the engine. “She’s getting married?” Then, “Hang on. She’s even speaking to you?”
“Amazing, eh?”
She blinked, frowned. “Miraculous. How did that happen?”
“I rang her. Very weird. She made like nothing had happened and suddenly I’m her bridesmaid and coming down for a fitting. But I think I’d like to check out her man while I’m here; make sure she’s doing the right thing. It all seems very sudden.”
“Knowing Dani, she won’t be taken for a ride.”
I raised an eyebrow at Liz.
She met my eye and grimaced. “Okay. You’re right. You’d better check him out.”
“Tomorrow. There’s someone else I’d like to see today.”
* * *
I stood at my front gate. Correction: Jim’s front gate. Anxiety washed over me. Would he even give me the time of day?
I hoped so. When all was said and done, he’d been throwing smelly socks and verbal abuse my way for close to a decade and, oddball beast that he was, I missed him.
But it wasn’t just a matter of getting past an argument. The day I’d left, he’d all but said he was in love with me, and now here I was, back on his doorstep. Not for love: for friendship. Would we be able to bridge that?
I walked up the path and knocked on the door. It swung open a little, so I poked my head through the gap. “Hello?”
Silence.
I pushed the door fully open. “Anyone home? Jim?”
I looked towards the kitchen, took in the piles of dirty dishes littering every surface, the frozen meal cartons, the empty bottles. Man, he’d really outdone himself on the hygiene front. I wandered through to the lounge.
He lay full-length on the couch, earphones in, one hand beating time to whatever-it-was. A half-empty maltezer bag lay in his crotch, his free hand ferreting for the chocolate balls one by one and lobbing them up to his waiting mouth.
For a moment I watched, smiling. Then I leaned into his field of vision. “Hey.”
His head jerked back. The maltezer missed his mouth and rolled down his cheek. He grunted, pulled out an earphone, fumbled for the lost chocolate. “You put me off.”
“Hi to you, too.” I came around the couch and stole a few maltezers.
He brought his knees up in reflexive self-defence. “Hey!”
“Hey, nothing. It’s not like I was after your balls.”
“You know you want to.” He
gave a Jim-ish hip thrust.
Thank God. He was still weird, but normal-weird rather than can’t-talk-to-you-weird.
“You wish.” I lay on the floor next to the couch and arced a maltezer. It sailed through the air towards my open mouth with Serena Williams precision. Here it came . . . I snapped my lips closed and almost choked the ball down whole. Eureka!
Jubilant, I nevertheless repressed my natural leap-and-shriek response and made do with a demure, “Mmm, yum.”
Jim turned to watch. I repeated my performance then waggled my eyebrows at him.
“You’ve been practising,” he accused me.
“No. Sheer talent.” I did it again.
He sat up, catching the bag of maltezers just as it upended, and stuffed a handful of chocolates in his mouth.
“What’s for lunch, BJ?” He chewed as he spoke, his mouth Mississippi-wide.
I smiled. The nickname didn’t annoy me anymore. In fact, I quite liked it. “Whatever you make.”
“Maltezers, then.” He tipped his head and opened his mouth, like a baby bird demanding food, then emptied the bag into his mouth.
“Got a room for rent?”
“Who’th ngookin’?” he mumbled as he chewed.
“Me. I’m shifting back to London.”
He waved a vague hand. “Room’th upthtairth. Firtht on the right.”
“You didn’t rent my room, then?”
He burped and shrugged. “Too much like hard work. Besides . . .” He paused to pick his teeth. “I knew you’d be back. You miss me.”
“Yeah, right.” I grinned, tossed a maltezer at him.
He caught it in his mouth. “See? You gave me your last maltezer. That’s love.”
* * *
Liz dusted off the bottle. “I knew there was another one in here somewhere.” She popped the cork and sniffed. “Mmm, shiraz.”
She leaned over and refilled my wine-glass.
“Stop!” I cried, too late. “That was white.”
“Oh.” She looked at the bottle in her hand, then at my glass. Shrugged. “Guess it’s rosé now.”
I giggled. “I like rosé.”
“You like wine.” She flopped back down at the other end of the couch. “I still can’t believe Jim never rented your room.”
“Me neither. Lucky, eh.”
“Or unlucky. Depends which way you look at it.” She leaned forward. “Cheers.”
We clinked glasses.
“He’s not that bad,” I said. “You just don’t understand him.”
“I bet he turned your room into a shrine. Lit candles, sprayed your perfume, pinned up your panties. Did you look in the wardrobe? That’s where they usually do it.”
I wrinkled my nose at her. “He’s weird, but he’s not psycho. I’ll have you know all my panties are accounted for.”
“Okay, maybe not the panties. But he definitely couldn’t bear renting your room out.”
“Couldn’t be bothered, more like.”
She held up her glass, inspecting the wine as if she’d spotted a dead bug in there. “No. He loves you.”
“Only ’cause I do his dishes.”
She sipped her wine, looked smug.
“Liz, this is Jim we’re talking about. He’s about as in love with me as . . . as . . .”
“As Matt?”
I glared at her. “Actually, yes.”
I shifted my gaze to the couch fabric. Stared at it, in all its threadbare 70’s glory. Drank some wine. Shot her a festering look. She pretended not to notice.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” I grumbled.
“Guess not. Did you call him?”
I twisted my lips, shook my head.
“You’re such an idiot, Becs.”
“Probably. But I’ve been waiting until I was back in town. I can’t just ring him. I need to see him for this.”
“So you’re going to visit him this weekend?”
“I won’t have time.”
“You’ll never have time.” She exhaled. “Whatever. Don’t call him. It’s your life.”
“Ooh, the old reverse psychology trick.”
She grinned. “Too obvious?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Worth a shot.”
I stretched out, wiggling my toes, “I’m over him, Liz. Time you did the same.”
She looked sceptical.
“No, really. I’ve done heaps of thinking these past few months. Yes, I want to talk to him, and I will, but only so I can move on.” I sipped at my faux-rosé, grimaced. “I’ve worked out what I want, and Matt’s not it. Sorry. I’m not chasing a guy who doesn’t want me enough to make an effort. Life’s too short.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I know. But it’s different now. I’ve worked out I’m an okay person.”
Liz looked at me with affection. “Very okay.”
“And you know what? I’d rather be happy on my own than unhappy with a jerk.”
Her expression changed. “You really mean it, don’t you?”
“Yep, I do.” Because this time it was my life, my decisions, my terms. Look out, London, I was back. Standing tall, feeling strong.
Chapter Forty-Two
I rang Dani’s doorbell then stepped back to wait.
This felt so wrong. In the past I’d have just walked in, or used my key. I couldn’t remember ever standing on her doorstep, waiting like a stranger.
I shuffled my feet, nervous. It was one thing to have a quick phone conversation, quite another to meet face-to-face. Still, she’d asked me to be chief bridesmaid, so hopefully she wouldn’t toss me out on my ear.
The door opened and there stood Hugh Jackman’s twin, wearing nothing but a hand towel.
I blinked, blushed. “Oh, I, uh . . .”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You must be Becky.”
Ooh! Hugh Jackman with a foreign accent!
“Dani told me all about you,” he added.
“Oh, I . . .” What had she told him? That I’d slept with her lover? That he should keep a firm grip on the hand towel? I kept my gaze strictly above-waist. “You’re Sebi, right?”
“I am.” He inclined his head, then stepped back. “Please. Entrez. Dani’s in the bedroom.”
No doubt. I glanced at his towel. “Is she decent?”
“Maybe.” He grinned, shrugged. “No matter. She’s very happy to see you.”
I stepped into the hallway, taking care not to brush against him. Heaven only knew what was holding that towel in place, and I didn’t want to be the reason it fell.
“Danielle,” he called. She hated her full name, hadn’t used it for years, but Sebi made it sound so god-damn sexy I suddenly had name envy. ‘Rebecca’ sounded prudish, and as for ‘Becky’ . . . whatever the accent, it was just plain old ‘Becky’.
I followed him into the living room.
“Can I get you a drink?” His accent made it sound as if he’d just suggested a hot tub experience. “Coffee, tea, something stronger?”
“I’d love a coffee, thanks.” Although I might have to resort to something stronger if he didn’t hurry up and get dressed.
I dragged my eyes away and made a beeline for the photos on the sideboard, giving them my full attention. Best I remember I was here to check Sebi’s credentials—and not just the ones beneath that towel.
“Becs!”
I turned and there was Dani, framed in the doorway, looking all sultry and Playgirl-of-the-week in a skimpy white silk kimono.
She skipped across the room and hugged me.
“You’re here! Perfect.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the door. “I need your help.” And, to Sebi, “Espresso for me, cappuccino for Becs. Be a love and bring them upstairs?”
He gave her a low, exaggerated bow and I watched, fascinated, as the hand towel somehow stayed there.
“Anything for you, Chérie.”
She blew him a kiss. “Make sure you knock first.”
&
nbsp; We climbed the wide, marbled staircase and I marvelled, as always, at the contrast between my slovenly flat and my sister’s white-walled, white-floored, minimalist upper-class apartment. How did she afford it?
“You didn’t tell me he was French,” I stage-whispered.
“Oh, yes, he’s all French.” Her voice was dreamy. “And everything you’ve heard about Frenchmen in bed? It’s true.”
“I thought you said Italians were the best lovers.”
She flashed me the dirtiest grin. “I changed my mind.” Then, as we reached her room, “Quick, shut the door.”
I closed it behind me. “Why so secret squirrel?”
She flung open the doors to her walk-in, careful-or-you-might-get-lost-in-here robe.
“It’s my wedding dress.” She sighed. “I think it’s all wrong.”
“Why?”
“I thought it looked good in the shop, but now . . .” She disappeared and started rustling around. “I’m pretty sure it makes me look like a giant puffball.” She reappeared, holding the dress against her. “What do you think?”
“No idea. Try it on and I’ll tell you.”
“Promise you’ll be honest?”
“Brutal.” I bared my teeth at her.
She bit her lip, looking so miserable with uncertainty I felt like a bitch.
“Aw, come on, Dan. You know I don’t mean it.” I crossed the room and hugged her. “I’ll tell you the truth, okay? That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Go on, then.” I gave her a gentle nudge. “Try it on.”
“Okay. Back in a sec.” She returned to the wardrobe.
I lay on her king-sized, four-poster, over-pillowed bed and watched shadows flicker across the ceiling. “Tell me about Sebi. Where did you meet him?”
“At the pub. Rossco introduced us.”
“Really?” I leaned up on my elbows. Rossco, the hot young bartender, had been chatting Dani up for months. “What did Rossco think about you and Sebi getting together?”
She poked her head out. “I didn’t ask. Why would I?”
A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 32