Leonardo, Leo’s dad, was a fireman too. One day, back when Leo was eight years old, his mum and dad took him to the park. It was the perfect hot, sunny day – Leo told me how vividly he remembers eating ice cream, and playing football with his dad, just like it was yesterday. On their walk home, as they approached the convenience shop at the end of their street, Leo told me his dad just stopped dead, like he knew something was up – then they smelled the smoke. Leo’s dad wasn’t on duty, but if there’s one thing Leonardo believed (and that Leo has learned from him) it’s that firemen are always on duty. There was a woman screaming that her little boy was in the flat upstairs, so while everyone else was running out of the shop, Leonardo ran inside. By the time the fire engines arrived, it was too late. Leonardo was a true hero, though, saving the little boy’s life. Once the boy was well enough, he and his mum went to visit Maria, Leo’s mum, and Leo to tell them what a hero his dad was. Part of the building collapsed, and the little boy would have died if Leonardo hadn’t pushed him out of the way, but saving the little boy cost him his life. That’s a true hero, and we’re lucky to have people like that in the world, but Leo is just like his dad, and I know that, if it came down to it, he’d give his life for a stranger too, and that petrifies me. I don’t ever want to lose him. I don’t ever want to get that call to say he’s not coming home.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asks me. ‘You look intense.’
‘It’s just my headache,’ I reply. If he knew just how much I worried about him, he’d probably feel bad.
‘I know a cure for that,’ he says, walking his fingers from my thigh, up to my collarbone. Laying me back on the bed, Leo gently climbs on top of me, very respectful of my hangover. As he kisses me I lock my legs around his waist, only for our moment of passion to be interrupted by my ringtone.
‘Ouch,’ I cry as each beat of the shrill chime chips away at my brain. ‘If this is the sexual deviants at Houdini’s again…’
Leo leans over to grab my phone, to stop it ringing.
‘It’s your agent,’ he tells me, quickly passing me my phone. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
I sigh. Blue-tubed again.
‘Hello, Lindsey,’ I say brightly. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, Mia. You?’
‘Can’t complain,’ I lie. I can complain, about so many things, but I won’t, because when people ask how you are, they don’t actually want to know, do they?
‘Well, I have some good news… you got the job.’
‘Which job?’ I ask.
‘The ghostwriting job. I put your name forward for it and it’s yours… if you want it.’
‘No way! That’s amazing. You said it was nonfiction, though?’
‘Yeah, so… have you heard of Dylan King?’ she asks.
Have I heard of Dylan King? Who hasn’t! Dylan used to be in this huge band called The Burnouts, along with his brother Mikey. But then they had this huge argument, the band broke up and they haven’t spoken since. Dylan is a huge solo star now, whereas Mikey has just kind of dropped off the face of the earth. It’s fair to say Mikey was the talented guitarist and Dylan was just the hot frontman, but women adore him and men want to be him, so he’s just gone from strength to strength since going it alone musically.
‘I have,’ I reply, waiting with bated breath to find out what this job is and how it involves Dylan King.
‘So, the job is ghostwriting his autobiography,’ she tells me.
‘What? That’s awesome,’ I squeal. ‘But how did you swing that? I have no experience…’
‘Erm, well, it’s important to remember that two authors with lots of experience have already pulled out of this project, so perhaps a different approach is what it needs. But, erm, well, Dylan asked for your Instagram handle, looked you up and then said he wanted you for the job.’
Back when I was living in LA, I was vaguely Instagram famous. I’d post lots of poser-ish selfies and pictures of all the fabulous places I’d go. I don’t post nearly as much these days, but all my followers are still there.
‘That’s… unusual?’
‘It is,’ she replies. ‘But you have a job and… check your emails.’
I quickly load up my inbox and read the project brief Lindsey just set me.
‘It pays how much?’ I squeal, my eyes widening so much my headache kicks up a notch.
‘I know, right?’ she laughs.
‘Why am I wasting my time writing novels?’ I ask, semi-seriously.
‘Two people have already quit,’ she reminds me. ‘I don’t think it’s easy money. Still, congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ I squeak, hurrying off the phone to tell Leo.
I find him downstairs in the kitchen, measuring where the cupboards are going to be.
‘You know, I think I can get this finished in no time at all – especially if we get Dan and Belle over. Dan can help,’ he says, looking around at everything that’s still to do.
‘Maybe just Dan,’ I say, quickly moving on. ‘Anyway, forget kitchens for today, I have some good news… I have a new job and it pays this much…’
I show Leo the email.
‘Wow… that’s like… you definitely don’t need the threesome job.’
I laugh.
‘Nope. I’d need to sell a lot of novels to make this kind of money,’ I tell him. ‘Thing is, it sounds like it might be tricky. I’ll be ghostwriting an autobiography for a musician, and apparently two people have quit already…’
‘You can wrangle celebrities. I’ve heard your stories from before we met,’ he laughs. ‘Which musician?’
‘Dylan King.’
‘Oh shit. He’s a real celebrity… and a dick, if everything you read in the news is true.’
‘I guess we’ll find out,’ I say.
‘Right,’ Leo says, clapping his hands. ‘Put that phone on silent and get back up those stairs. We’ll make it a full day of celebrating.’
My sexy fiancé chases me halfway up the stairs before grabbing me and throwing me over his shoulder, carrying me the rest of the way, dumping me down on the bed.
Leo is the sexiest man I have ever laid eyes on – and Henry Cavill once asked me to help him practise his lines, so you know my boy is gorgeous. It comes with the territory, being a fireman, but for as long as I’ve known him, I don’t think I’ve seen him with more than fifteen per cent body fat. He’s strong – so strong, I think his muscles have muscles and sometimes I just stare at them because they’re so perfect, they look sculpted.
I watch him, standing over me, as he removes his vest, messing up his dark hair that’s usually perfectly blown back. He gives me that cheeky smile that emphasises his delicious dimples and I see that glimmer of mischief in his green eyes that I love so much, the one I saw the day we met. When Leo looks at me, I see something light up inside his eyes, and it makes me feel amazing.
He climbs on top of me, scooping my body up from the bed with one arm, just enough so that he can unhook my bra before laying me back down. Then he takes hold of both my wrists and holds them firmly above my head.
‘My God, I love you,’ he blurts out. ‘Look at you. Look at that face.’
As he gazes into my eyes, I swear I can see him welling up a bit.
‘I love you too,’ I say.
I don’t think I could be happier right now if I tried.
Chapter Twelve
‘Italian restaurants always make me think of our last holiday to Italy,’ Leo says, swigging his beer.
‘That was a great holiday,’ I reply. ‘The sun, the sea… all the sex.’
‘Those things were great,’ he laughs. ‘I think the bit that meant the most to me – and I know I’ve never told you this, and I probably should have – was that last night at my Nonna’s apartment when we were all sitting out on the balcony, drinking ice-cold drinks and eating taralli, and she turned to me and she said: “this one is a keeper.” I knew then that I needed to ask you to marry me.’
‘Th
at was a year ago,’ I laugh, sipping my cocktail.
‘Well, it took me a little time to build up the courage,’ he laughs.
‘That was a great holiday,’ I reply. ‘The pizzas at that place on the beach – my God. Best thing about that trip, though… none of my family was there.’
‘Your lot aren’t that bad,’ Leo laughs.
‘Erm, they’ve invited themselves on our date tonight,’ I point out. ‘That’s too much.’
I was so hyped to go on a romantic date with my wonderful fiancé that when my mum called and demanded we go over for dinner, I told her we had dinner reservations we couldn’t cancel so late in the day, at which point she called the restaurant, amended my booking to accommodate four more people, and then called me back to let me know it was all sorted. So, here we are, sitting at a table for six, waiting for my parents, Belle and Dan to arrive.
‘Look at it this way, you can share your news with everyone now, and they’ll all think you’re amazing and talented…’
‘You’ve known them for over four years, Leo. Even you can’t believe what you’re saying,’ I laugh.
Tonight we’re dining at Carlo’s, an Italian restaurant in town. After Belle’s wedding I went straight back to LA to sort things out there before moving back to England, but when I did finally get back, this restaurant was where Leo and I had our first official date. It’s just your typical Italian restaurant. There’s nothing overly special about it (unless you count the courgette fries, they’re too good), but it’s special to me.
‘Hello, hello,’ my mum mumbles as the Harrison-Ryan rabble arrive and take their seats. ‘You’re here before us, Mia, it’s a miracle.’
‘I mean, it’s my date…’ I start before giving up.
I give the waiter a chance to take the newcomers’ drinks orders before getting down to business.
‘So, seeing as you’re all here, I have some news,’ I start, pausing until I’m sure I have my parents’, Belle’s and Dan’s full attention. ‘I’ve landed a new writing job, ghostwriting Dylan King’s autobiography.’
‘Whose?’ my dad asks.
‘Ghostwriting?’ my mum echoes back. ‘So, you mean doing the hard work and not getting the credit?’
‘Well, yes, that’s what ghostwriting is, mum. It pays really well, though. It pays for house stuff and wedding stuff – and more.’
‘Speaking of the wedding, have you started making arrangements?’ my mum asks. ‘Belle says you’re refusing.’
Leo looks at me.
‘I didn’t say she was refusing. I just said she wasn’t bothering,’ Belle adds, talking about me, not to me.
‘I’ll get more done now I know I can afford it,’ I reassure everyone.
‘So, will you get to meet Dylan?’ my sister asks.
‘Yeah, I have to shadow him for a while,’ I explain. ‘I need to find out all about him, listen to his stories, observe his lifestyle and turn it into a book about his life. I’m so excited.’
‘Wow,’ Belle says, seeming genuinely impressed. ‘That’s pretty big news. I’m not sure anyone could top that… except…’
Oh God, is she really going to try and upstage me?
‘We’re pregnant,’ she squeaks at the top of her voice. Diners and staff all around the restaurant hear her news and applaud.
‘Both of you? What a funny coincidence,’ I reply.
‘Well, just me, silly,’ Belle says. ‘It’s still early, so we were going to wait, but seeing as how we’re sharing news…’
‘Oh my goodness, Belle, that’s fantastic,’ my mum cries, not only showing an emotion, but projecting it at a person too. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d had therapy.
I cannot believe my sister. She just couldn’t stand me having good news to share. She just had to go and upstage me, and she’s certainly found a great way to do that – even my dad is crying!
As if it wasn’t supposedly bad enough, having my little sister get married before me, now I’m getting married and she’s one-upped me with baby news. It doesn’t matter how many steps I take, my sister is always ahead of me.
‘Let’s just keep this between us for now,’ my sister says. ‘Early days.’
‘Well, congratulations to you both,’ I say. I’m pleased for them, I really am. I’m just annoyed at her timing, but I’m sure she wasn’t trying to upstage me.
‘This is wonderful, just wonderful. We have so much to look forward to,’ my mum says. ‘Presumably the wedding will still happen before the baby? Still planning it for the summer?’
‘We can race,’ Belle giggles.
‘We might just get in there first,’ Dan says, suddenly interested because now there’s something he can win.
‘I’m getting round to it,’ I tell them. Again. Not that it’s anything to do with them, all they have to do is attend.
‘Are you letting Leo be involved in the planning?’ my mum asks.
‘Am I letting him?’ I repeat back to her. ‘Hey, Dan, which bits of your wedding did you plan?’
‘Well…’
‘Your suits, presumably – at least,’ my mum chimes in, jogging his memory.
‘No, well, Belle picked those to match the dresses, which I wasn’t allowed to look at…’
‘What about you, dad, what did you bring to the table for your wedding?’ I ask.
My dad pulls a face.
‘I don’t know. It was years ago, Mia,’ he replies. Solid input from my dad there. Now he’s in his sixties, he’s quieter and duller than ever. He’s basically furniture at this stage, the amount he socialises with people.
‘See, men don’t give a shit,’ I say.
‘Language,’ my mum says. I may be 33 years old, but ticking me off for swearing is a reflex I don’t think she’ll ever shake.
I’m not wrong, though. Men very rarely give a shit about the finer details of the wedding – I hardly give a shit myself.
‘I’d actually like to be involved,’ Leo says.
My mum and Belle look on, smugly. I try to give my fiancé a subtle kick under the table, as though to say: shh, you’re not helping, but I miss and end up kicking the table leg, causing a loud bang.
‘Oops,’ I say, trying to cover it up. ‘Clumsy me.’
‘Do you remember Mrs Turner?’ my mum asks me.
‘Erm…’ I wrack my brains.
‘Old Mrs Turner,’ my mum adds. ‘Purple rinse.’
Still nothing.
‘Her husband, Malcolm, got an award from the council for going around all the parks, picking up the dog mess during the school holidays so the kiddies didn’t paddle in it.’
‘I’d definitely remember that guy, I’m sure,’ I laugh.
‘They lived two houses up from your gran and granddad, until they moved – they used to let you play on their tree swing when you were a kid, long before Belle was born,’ my mum continues. ‘Remember?’
‘I don’t think so…’
‘You must,’ my mum insists.
‘OK, sure,’ I lie. ‘I remember.’
‘Well, Mrs Turner has a daughter called Deborah. She’s a wedding planner. I could ask her to give you a hand,’ my mum says.
Wow. I had to get lost down memory lane just so my mum could tell me she knows a wedding planner. I’m pretty sure she could’ve told me without my recalling some old lady’s house I played on a swing at when I was three.
‘I don’t need a wedding planner, I’m going to do it,’ I reply. ‘But thank you for the offer,’ I add, not wanting to throw kindness in her face – y’know, just in case that was kindness.
Why is everyone so concerned about my wedding? I’m going to plan it, I really am, but what’s the rush? We’re aiming for next summer. If places book up, we’ll just do it when the place we want is free – we don’t even know where we want yet.
I know there’s so much to do. I know there’s the venue, the food, the dress, the suit, the cake, the photographer, all the dumb extra shit you’re supposed to have, an
d the small but very real issue regarding the bridesmaids, and how I don’t have any because I don’t really have any close female friends, and my female family members all said no… I’ll panic about all this later, though, because right now I have a job to think about. I’ll get around to wedding stuff eventually.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Are you pregnant?’
I blink at Rita, my new hairstylist, in the mirror.
‘Hmm?’ I say.
‘Are you pregnant?’ she asks again.
‘No. Why, do I look it?’ I ask defensively.
‘No, no,’ she replies quickly. ‘It’s just, your blonde has come out quite brassy in a couple of places…’
Oh God, this has happened to me before, except it was my entire head of hair that went orange. Why is it so hard to find a hairdresser you can trust? Since my chemical cut, courtesy of a local hairdresser, I’m finding it harder and harder to trust people with my locks.
‘Don’t look so worried, it’s fixable,’ she assures me. ‘But are you sure you’re not pregnant?’
‘I’m sure,’ I tell her with an awkward laugh.
I mean, I’m not trying to get pregnant, and Leo and I are always careful, so it’s very unlikely, isn’t it? As a person who has always suffered with bouts of anxiety, rather than spend my time being constantly petrified of getting pregnant, I googled the heck out of all things period and pregnancy, so I knew exactly what I was up against. These days I use an app that keeps tabs on my period for me – one quick glance while my hairdresser is off mixing more colour confirms exactly when my next one is due.
Leo calls me Web MD, because I’m for ever googling health matters and symptoms online, but I like to know what I’m dealing with. I’ve always worried about stuff like this, and it seems crazy to me that there are people who don’t actively worry about their health. I seem to worry more when I’m stressed about other things, but sometimes life just feels like a series of close shaves before I finally encounter the thing that’s going to be serious. So I’m either not worrying about anything at all, or I’ll just be in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, and I’ll feel a sharp pain somewhere and think: ‘this is it, then’ – because it’s absolutely appendicitis, and not just trapped wind. Of course, it never has been appendicitis, my appendix is still in there – but it’s just one more thing to worry about, right?
How Not to be a Bride Page 7