How Not to be a Bride

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How Not to be a Bride Page 15

by Portia MacIntosh


  Crap.

  ‘Awkwaaaard,’ Iwan says, doing some kind of gesture with his hands that I’m probably not nerdy enough to understand.

  I take the card from the envelope and read the message.

  ‘Please reconsider, I need you. D.’

  Leo sidles up next to me and reads over my shoulder.

  ‘Is this stuff from Dylan? What does he mean he needs you?’ Leo asks, little pricks of anger peppering his words.

  I look over at Rory and Iwan, who are just staring at us from their doorstep, probably wishing they had some popcorn and a blanket right about now.

  ‘No,’ I start. ‘Look, help me get this stuff inside, then we’ll talk.’

  Leo obliges, carrying the wicker baskets and the box while I stick to the balloons and flowers. We place everything down on the living-room floor.

  ‘Are you not going to open them?’ Leo asks, as though I might be keeping the contents from him.

  I pop the tops off everything before standing back to take stock: balloons, two large bouquets of flowers, a box full of expensive beauty products and three wicker baskets full of delicious-looking things to eat and drink.

  ‘So…’ Leo starts, more than ready for his explanation.

  ‘So, they’re not from Dylan, they’re from Donnie Skinner, my old boss in LA.’

  ‘Didn’t he sack you? Why would he be sending you such an elaborate Christmas gift?’

  ‘Because he wants me to work for him again. That’s what he means when he says “I need you” – he needs me to write a movie.’

  ‘Oh,’ Leo says. ‘The note asked you to reconsider – does that mean you turned it down?’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply.

  ‘Why?’ he asks.

  I’m confused. I thought turning down the job would be the thing that would make him happiest, but he seems upset.

  ‘Well, because my life is here now,’ I tell him. ‘We’ve got the house and the wedding coming up.’

  ‘Well, the house isn’t going anywhere, and as for the wedding – nothing is booked.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I ask him.

  ‘I’m saying that nothing is set in stone. Just because we’re together and we have this house doesn’t mean you have to reject the job offer. Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

  I slip off my coat and pull off my hat before sitting down on the sofa. Leo takes a seat next to me, ready to hear me out.

  ‘I didn’t want to put you in that position,’ I tell him. ‘Even if I just went to do this one project, I could be there for months, and what if they wanted me to stay for longer? What if I wanted to stay for longer? What would that mean for us?’

  Leo takes my hands in his.

  ‘Mia, I love you. I want to make you happy – whatever it takes. But you don’t talk to me. You never tell me what’s on your mind. You just bottle it up and stress yourself out and then we end up having a conversation like this. You should have told me.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I just didn’t want to cause any problems.’

  ‘So, are you going to reconsider the offer?’

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t want to go to LA, I want to stay here with you.’

  ‘Shall we at least talk it out?’ Leo asks.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’ve made my mind up. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you.’

  ‘I don’t want you turning down a job I know you used to love, just because of me,’ he says with real sadness, like he feels he’s holding me back.

  ‘I loved the job but I love you more,’ I tell him honestly.

  Leo grabs me and hugs me, squeezing me tightly.

  ‘I love you, Mia. And I can tell when something is on your mind – I could tell yesterday at the wedding venue.’

  I’m not sure I give Leo enough credit for his attentiveness and his perception sometimes. Of course the person who loves me, who knows me better than anyone else, can tell when I’m not right.

  ‘Is that all that’s on your mind?’ he asks.

  I pause for a second. There’s a voice in my head urging me to tell Leo the truth, about how I’m feeling about the wedding – but if he thinks I’m saying that I don’t want to marry him, it might break his heart. It would break mine to see him think that for even a second.

  ‘That’s all,’ I lie.

  ‘I’ll never hold you back, Mia,’ he says, finally releasing me.

  ‘I know,’ I reply.

  I know he won’t because he’s amazing. I’m so lucky to have him and I’m terrified that one day he’ll wake up and realise how much better he can do than me.

  ‘I thought it through, I really did. But this is my life now and I’m happier with it. Even if it might have been good financially, Dylan’s publishers are paying well and this might open the door to more books.’

  ‘I trust you,’ he assures me. ‘Just be more open and honest with me.’

  ‘OK,’ I agree, even though I’m keeping some pretty big doubts from him.

  Leo takes off his shoes and turns out his pockets, unbuttoning his jeans as he heads upstairs. He’s only been up there a minute or so when I see his phone spring to life with a message. I can’t help but eyeball it as I walk past, noticing he has a message from someone called Amy. I can only see the preview, but it says: ‘I still have your jacket from last night. Thanks f…’ The urge to open it is overwhelming. What was a girl doing on a stag do and why does she have my fiancé’s jacket?

  ‘Are we still putting the tree up tonight?’ he calls from upstairs.

  ‘Erm, maybe another night,’ I reply. ‘I’m not feeling very festive right now.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sitting in Dylan’s massive living room, waiting for him to get out of bed, I can’t help but notice that – while this room is stunning and beautifully decorated – there’s not much personality to it. It just looks like every other perfect celebrity living room you saw on Cribs – gorgeous, but soulless, like no one has ever really lived in it. I’ve only seen a few rooms of his massive house, but I get those vibes everywhere. He’s clearly spent a lot of money here, but not a lot of time.

  ‘Morning, Mia,’ he says as he makes his entrance.

  Dylan walks into the living room meaningfully chugging a cup of coffee. He’s wearing a black silk robe that’s… oh God.

  ‘Erm, Dylan,’ I say, averting my eyes, staring at the ceiling instead.

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘Erm, your robe is open.’

  And he’s entirely naked underneath it.

  ‘Sorry,’ he laughs.

  I give him a few seconds to close it before switching my attention from his ceiling back to his person.

  ‘Hey, don’t be embarrassed,’ he insists, which probably means I’m blushing. ‘Do you know how many people would do anything to see Little Dylan?’

  ‘Yes, I imagine I’m part of a very small club of about six thousand women now,’ I reply sarcastically.

  Dylan chuckles, sitting down on the sofa, carefully making sure he doesn’t flash me again.

  ‘Yeah, but I call very few of them back,’ he tells me with a wink, swinging the belt of his robe in faux seduction.

  I don’t struggle to understand what women see in Dylan. He’s gorgeous, charming and he just oozes sex. If he were a poster on my wall, I’d definitely have a crush on him. Maybe he’d even be my relationship ‘free pass’, who knows? But now that I know him, and can see the kind of person he is, I don’t fancy him. Instead, I feel like we’re friends, and that means so much more. To sleep with a person like Dylan would be easy, but to befriend him feels like something to be proud of. I have to admit, though, I do feel a rush of something when he flirts with me, even though I know he’s just joking. It just feels nice to be desired, after months of feeling like I’d slipped back into unremarkable territory. I feel like LA Mia again, who once shard a tipsy nightclub kiss with arguably the second most attractive professional male dancer from Dancing with the Sta
rs.

  ‘So, what’s happening?’ he asks.

  ‘I was just admiring your house,’ I tell him. ‘Well, what I’ve seen of it. Nice décor.’

  ‘Oh shit, is it showing again?’ he jokes, placing a hand between his legs. ‘Oh, décor. Got you. Thanks.’

  ‘Did you have much involvement in it?’

  ‘Zero,’ he laughs. ‘You want a tour?’

  ‘Of your house?’

  ‘No, of my body. Yes, of course of my house. Come on…’ he insists, jumping to his feet. ‘So you’ve seen the living room, the kitchen, the office, the hallway. Want to come upstairs?’

  ‘I’m not sure if you’re asking out of some sort of muscle memory because I’m female, or if it’s part of the tour,’ I joke as we linger at the bottom of the massive staircase.

  Dylan’s hallway is huge. Looking up from the bottom of the wooden staircase, you can see all the way to the ceiling. The stairs lead up to the mezzanine, which boasts views of both the hallway and the front garden, which can be admired through the massive window above the front door.

  ‘You could have one hell of a Christmas tree in here,’ I tell him.

  ‘Who would see it?’

  ‘You. Me. Mitch – you could even have a Christmas party.’

  Dylan ponders my words for a moment.

  ‘A Christmas party could be pretty cool,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Maybe over the next couple of days?’

  ‘You can organise a big party in a couple of days? Oh, of course, you’re Dylan King, you’ll have your minions do it.’

  Dylan laughs.

  ‘I’ll think about it. On with the tour.’

  I follow Dylan upstairs and admire the different rooms of his house one at a time, from his luxurious bathroom to his games room, which not only has a pool table and large cinema screen, but also boasts pretty much every games console from the past 25 years.

  The tour doesn’t last long and I can’t help but notice he’s skipped a few rooms.

  ‘And that concludes our tour,’ Dylan says with a loud clap of his hands, which echoes around the upstairs hallway.

  ‘So, I notice you didn’t show me your bedroom,’ I point out first of all.

  ‘Well, I could, but there’s a girl in there, and you’ve already seen one person naked today,’ Dylan laughs.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I reply quickly. I definitely don’t want to see any more naked people. ‘I also noticed you were very quick to steer me away from that room over there.’

  I nod in the direction of another door that remained closed through the tour.

  ‘Yeah, I mean no, I mean… there’s nothing in there. Just junk.’

  I raise my eyebrows in disbelief.

  ‘Suuure,’ I reply.

  ‘Come on, let’s go back downstairs,’ he insists.

  I’m about to persist when my phone rings.

  ‘Ergh, it’s my wedding planner,’ I whine, like I’m a teenager whose mum is calling to tell her she has to be home by nine because it’s a school night.

  ‘Don’t answer,’ he advises.

  ‘I don’t,’ I reply. ‘She just keeps calling.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ Dylan says, swiping my phone from my hand.

  ‘Dylan, no,’ I protest, but it’s too late.

  ‘Hello,’ he answers. ‘Ahh, Debbie, hello… today?… unfortunately we’re in London today… oh, I see… well, we can’t argue with that, can we?… OK, see you then… bye.’

  ‘See you then?’ I repeat back to him once he hangs up.

  ‘I think she thought I was your fella,’ he laughs.

  ‘You sound nothing like each other,’ I tell him. They really couldn’t sound more different. Leo is Orlando Bloom and Dylan is Danny Dyer – that different.

  ‘Anyway, she wants us to go to taste some cakes. I told her we were in London but she’s got your number. Said she knew you’d be here, so she’s organised a cake tasting in London.’

  ‘She doesn’t want us to go taste cakes, Dylan – she wants Leo and me. But he’s working today. I’ll have to call her to cancel.’

  ‘Ahh, I could go for some cake, though, babe. I’ll go with you, save your fella a job.’

  ‘That’s weird,’ I tell him. ‘You can’t come to my cake tasting because you fancy some cake.’

  Dylan thinks for a second.

  ‘OK, I’ll make a deal with you…’ he starts – he must really want some cake. ‘If you let me come with you today I’ll have a big Christmas party tomorrow night.’

  I remain expressionless. He’s going to have to do better than that.

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, Valentina. OK, fine. After the party we can talk about the shit I don’t wanna talk about, that you keep nagging me to talk about. We got a fucking deal or what?’

  ‘Deal,’ I reply, offering my hand for him to shake. He does, so hopefully that’s binding now.

  ‘You’re on party-planning duty, though,’ he tells me. ‘And you’d better not avoid it like you’re avoiding planning your wedding.’

  ‘I’m not avoiding planning my wedding,’ I reply, offended.

  ‘OK, OK,’ he laughs. ‘Then you’ll be gagging for this cake tasting as much as I am.’

  ‘I am. Let’s do this. And then we’re going to have a sick party, and then you’re going answer any question I ask you.’

  ‘This cake better be worth it,’ he replies.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘We’re supposed to be having a white Christmas this year,’ Eileen tells us, making small talk as we wait for Debbie to show up.

  ‘Cool,’ Dylan replies, before laughing at his own choice of words. ‘Literally.’

  Eileen laughs, entirely charmed by Dylan. What woman isn’t, though?

  We’re at the Bluebell Bakery in Kensington, waiting on Debbie to handhold us through our cake tasting – well, not our cake tasting, my cake tasting, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to get Dylan out of here until he’s in a coma.

  It’s a beautiful place, all decked out in lilac and white. The Christmas decorations are subtle, silver and white, with sparkles everywhere. There’s nothing subtle about their cakes, though. They look beautiful – in fact they’re practically art, and it doesn’t matter where you stand in the room, it smells amazing, like icing sugar and buttercream.

  Eileen escorted us through the shop and into the café where the tables were all full of people tucking into cakes and warm drinks, except for one free table at the back, reserved for the De Lucas.

  With Eileen headed into the back to prepare our samples, Dylan beings to fidget like a little boy. He picks up the name card from our table.

  ‘De Luca,’ he says out loud. ‘You’re marrying an Italian?’

  ‘I know, right? What will the neighbours say?’ I reply sarcastically.

  ‘Mia De Luca,’ he says out loud, to see how it sounds. ‘Wait, are you Italian? With a name like Valentina?’

  ‘No, I’m English. Valentina is my pen name, I was born Mia Harrison,’ I confess.

  ‘That’s nowhere near as sexy,’ he concludes.

  ‘I’ll be sure to pass your feedback on to my parents.’

  ‘Erm…’

  We’re interrupted by Debbie, who looks very confused.

  ‘You’re not the groom,’ she says to Dylan.

  ‘I’m not,’ he replies, all smiles.

  ‘You’re Dylan King,’ she tells him, just in case he might not be aware.

  ‘I am,’ he laughs. ‘Mia, you told me she was good, you didn’t tell me she was this good.’

  Debbie somehow overlooks his sarcasm and takes a compliment from that, but her smile only lasts a split second.

  ‘Well, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Cake,’ he replies simply. ‘On the phone you said something about cake.’

  ‘I thought that was Leo,’ she says angrily, before tuning to me. ‘Mia, you can’t just bring a random man to your cake tasting. You’re supposed to bring the groom.’

  ‘Well, he’s
working today,’ I tell her honestly. Well, so he tells me. Between all his overtime and his text from ‘Amy’, who he gave his jacket to during a lads’ night out, I’d be lying if I said my writer’s brain wasn’t in overdrive, daring to entertain the worst possible explanations. But I’ve always trusted Leo – he’s never given me reason not to – so every time my brain wanders off in that direction, I yank it back. ‘We’re here, though, so we can get on with it or we can reschedule.’

  We both stare at her blankly, Dylan with hope in his eyes.

  As Eileen comes out with a platter of different cakes, I see Debbie roll her eyes.

  ‘OK, fine, let’s do this now,’ she says, sitting down at the table.

  ‘We’re all set?’ Eileen asks her.

  ‘All set,’ she replies reluctantly.

  ‘So…’ Eileen says excitedly. ‘We’ve got your traditional fruit cake with white icing.’

  Dylan scoffs in disgust, which lands him a dirty look from both Eileen and Debbie.

  ‘Next,’ he says with a flash of his cheeky smile.

  ‘We’ve got a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, salted caramel cake with a caramel drizzle, lemon cake with lemon drizzle, and finally, a selection of vanilla sponges with fresh fruit and whipped cream. Enjoy.’

  Eileen disappears, leaving the three of us to our cake.

  ‘Mmm,’ I say, diving straight into the chocolate one. ‘This is amazing. Dylan, try this.’

  I delicately scoop up a little with my fork and hold it out for Dylan to try, holding my hand underneath to catch any crumbs.

  ‘Shit,’ Dylan says, banging his hand on the table. ‘That’s good cake, man.’

  He stabs his fork into a square of salted caramel cake and shoves it in his mouth, whole.

  ‘Mmm,’ he moans, sounding like he’s on the brink of an orgasm.

  ‘That good?’ I ask. Dylan nods, so I cut a little piece for myself to try. ‘Oh wow, that’s great. Do I have to pick just one?’ I ask Debbie.

  Now that I’m looking at her, I realise she’s staring at us, a combination of disgusted and confused.

  ‘What is happening here?’ she asks me.

  ‘Cake,’ Dylan replies. ‘Try some.’

  ‘This is wrong,’ she tells me. ‘He’s here and something very important is missing.’

 

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