by Laura Carter
I feel like a babbling mess, but she nods like she understands. She looks so despondent I want to reach out and give her a hug. “He’s just mentioned you before, that’s all. He talked about you sometimes, and he mentioned you the night before the wedding. I just thought… oh I don’t know. I guess I’m just wondering how he is, how he seems.”
“Constance, I can assure you that there’s nothing romantic between Clark and me, if that’s what you’re really asking.”
There’s a flicker of acknowledgement before she curves her lips into a fake smile. “No, that’s not it. I’m sorry. I’m just a bit of a mess, that’s all.”
“Not at all. I’m sorry…” I want to say I’m sorry that it didn’t work out, but the words just won’t form. “That he hurt you.” I know exactly how that feels.
Her eyes cloud, and she excuses herself to the ladies. Afternoon tea is announced.
“That went well,” Rachel says as we make our way to the dining hall.
“Don’t start, Rach.”
“I’m not starting anything, I’m just wondering why he talked about you and, in particular, why he was talking about you the day before his wedding.”
“I’m the best friend of the best man,” I say, thinking quickly. “My name could have come up quite easily. Now, can we eat this godforsaken cake and get out of here?”
“I’ll eat super quickly if you’ll come out tonight. Let’s dress up, go big, go VIP, go flaming sambuca.”
“Fine. Deal.”
I spend the next hour over-indulging in Michelin-standard cakes and dessert-flavoured teas, all the while trying to calm my heart rate and beating myself up for wondering why he was talking about me.
I’M SITTING IN my Audi R8, parked on the driveway of my parents’ home in Richmond, West London. I’ve been sitting here for six minutes, according to my dashboard clock, reminding myself that I’m here to see my brother and sister. Trying to convince myself that sitting around a table for Sunday lunch with Penelope and Frederick Hamilton, as well as Mother’s other ‘friends’ Martin and Sara Wiltmore, won’t be hours of torture. It’s not working, but it doesn’t matter because the female version of me is stepping out of the old stone house, carrying Isabella, my cute-as-hell two-year-old niece.
“Who is it, baby?” my sister asks my niece as I step out of the car.
“Ucca Cark.”
“Hey pretty girl,” I say, bending to my hunkers, arms outstretched.
Kathryn sets Izzie down on the ground and she runs, that waddling toddler kind of run, into my arms. I pick her up and turn us in a fast circle, planting my lips on her soft cheek and inhaling the sweet smell of talc and flowers.
“I meant you,” I tell Kathryn as she slips under my free arm.
“Of course you did, charmer.”
I squeeze her tightly to me and bounce Izzie into a more comfortable spot on my hip. “How are you?”
“Forget that. How are you? And don’t spin me a lie, Clark. Remember, when you hurt, I hurt.”
“Don’t expect your psychobabble about our twin connection to work on me, Kathryn. I’m thirty-two, not two.”
“It worked when you were thirty-one,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Talk to me, Clark. I know you, and I don’t believe all that rubbish about you wanting to play the field again. You changed; I saw it. So what really happened?”
Izzie grabs my lips with her chubby fingers, and I pretend to bite them, which makes her giggle and do the same thing again. “I’ll pinch your nose,” I tell her.
“No, no, no, no.”
I nip the end of her nose between my knuckles then push my thumb between them to show her the nose I stole.
“No, no, no.”
“Do you want it back?” She nods vigorously. “Will you be nice to me? Alright then.” I put the tip of her nose back where it belongs.
“Tell me,” Kathryn presses when we’re standing on the porch.
I sigh. “Have you ever had one of those moments in your life where suddenly everything becomes clear? That’s what happened. I realised that I wasn’t marrying Connie because I was in love with her. I love her, and I respect her, and I want us to be friends again someday, but…”
“You’re just not in love with her.”
God, things are so easy with Kathryn. “Right.”
“What happened to make you have your epiphany?” She folds her arms across her chest, which could be a sign that she’s cold. Or, more likely, that she doesn’t intend to go anywhere until I answer her question.
“I hope you’re not asking if I went with someone else.”
“Clark, that might be what other people think, but not me. Never me.”
I step towards my twin and kiss her brow. “Thank you.”
“But I’ve got to tell you, Penelope is in there telling the others that you ended things because you have feelings for someone else. She said you told Constance as much.”
I lift Izzie off my hip and into the air, kissing her cheek when I pull her back down to my chest.
“I said it. I meant it. But I’m not with anyone else.”
“Dayna.”
My heart leaps at the sound of her name. “It took me four years and an engagement to work it out.” I hand Izzie back to Kathryn. “She won’t have anything to do with me, and I don’t blame her. But I can’t get her out of my head. I should never have left her four years ago, and I’m damn sure I should never have listened to him.”
Kathryn rubs fine blonde strands of hair back behind Izzie’s ear. “For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing. I’m proud of you.”
Her words physically wind me. I stare at my sister and swallow the enormous lump in my throat. “I’ll be in shortly.”
She nods, presses a hand against my shoulder and takes Izzie inside. My favourite girls. Somehow, my father didn’t manage to ruin them. If taking the heat from him all my life helped with that at all, I wouldn’t change a second of it.
I sit on the wall of the porch, my elbows resting on my jeans, my hands pulling at my tousled hair, trying to counter the headache that’s building at the base of my skull. Eventually, I give in and open the door to the lions’ den.
The hallway has been painted since I was last here a few weeks ago. The top and bottom are teal, separated by a white dado rail. The wall mirrors and photographs have been replaced by silver frames, and the chaise longue has been reupholstered in cream fabric. My mother has a wholescale interior makeover whenever there’s change in her life, the same way normal women might get a haircut or buy a pair of new shoes. This could be pre- or post-wedding decorating. I stop in front of one of the mirrors. I adjust the hair I just messed up then pull my shirt straight and tuck it back into my jeans. Here goes.
I open the door to the lounge and find the room is full of people. Kathryn and Izzie are on one of three sofas next to my brother-in-law, Joe, who dips his head in greeting. Martin Wiltmore is standing in the middle of the room. He’s so tall his head is close to grazing the crystal chandelier, which hangs low despite the high ceilings. His wife, Sara, sits close by on the end of another sofa. She reaches for her glass of champagne when she sees me, blatantly uncomfortable and looking for something to do with her hands. The room is silent but for Izzie shouting, “Ucca Cark.”
Frederick Hamilton meets my eye with a look of sheer disappointment. He’s treated me as his own for years, as long as I’ve been good friends with Jay. A week ago I was supposed to become his son officially. Now, I’ve upset his entire family, and I don’t know what I can do or say to make it any easier. Penelope stands from the sofa closest to me and walks in my direction, pausing just inches from me. I know what’s coming. It happens in slow motion, yet I don’t try to stop it. Penelope’s flat palm strikes my cheek. Damn, that woman can slap.
She raises her hand for a second time, her expression full of venom, and I grab her wrist as lightly as I can while stopping her impending blow. “Penelope, I never set out to hurt Connie,
you know that.”
“You did hurt her, Clark. She’s at home, alone, because she thinks the world is laughing at her. You broke her heart and her self-esteem.”
“And I’m sorry, Penelope, so, incredibly sorry. But we aren’t right for each other. I know that now, and she will too.”
There’s a shift in her demeanour, subtle though it is. “I hope you’re right.”
“Big man!”
My younger brother, seven years my junior, rescues me. It’s never been confirmed for the record that Spencer was an accident, but I like to tell him so regardless. With affection, of course. He pulls me in to a masculine, back-patting embrace, and conversation resumes in the room behind us. “Fucking saved me, kiddo,” I say for Spencer’s ears only.
“How you holding up?”
“Besides getting a bollocking or a beating every time I step foot out of my apartment, not bad.”
He laughs and grips my shoulders. “Man up, Layton. How’s work?”
“Trade you for your job in a heartbeat.”
“No chance, man. I’ll take being ignored because I make documentaries for a living over being Harold’s bitch, any day. You’ve been hit with the older brother curse.”
My kid brother really has no idea how jealous I am of his life. He flies under the radar. He gets a say in how his own life goes. A freedom I never had. Then there’s Kathryn. She’s the star of the Layton show, having already borne a grandchild and being a senior financier. Me, I’m the biggest disappointment in the family.
“Yeah, well I got to drink before you,” I tell him.
“And bang birds before me.”
I quickly glance around the room to confirm we’re out of earshot. “Come on, Spence, pick your company.”
“Sorry, man. Right, I’m going to steal some meat before it hits the table.” With that, he leaves for the kitchen and abandons me on the wrong side of enemy lines.
I play with Izzie, bouncing her on my knee, talking to her despite rarely receiving a response, and I count down the minutes until lunch. At the table, I sit next to Kathryn, flanked, in accordance with Izzie’s orders, by a high chair to my left. That suits me fine. Entertaining Izzie has meant I haven’t had to speak to my father. My mother is still sour with me, so her conversation is mostly directed at the Wiltmores and Hamiltons.
I catch Frederick’s eyes more than once, and I’m racked by an overwhelming sense of remorse each time. He’s a good man. The Hamiltons are a nice family, and now I don’t think things will ever be the same between us. When our parents first talked me into going on a date with Connie, Kathryn warned me that it could end badly, that I could lose close friends. I didn’t listen. As ever, she was right.
When Frederick excuses himself before dessert, I follow and stop him by the lavatory door. “I am sorry, Fred, genuinely. I wish I’d never started up with Constance, because then I’d never have hurt her. But I want what you want, really. I want to see her happy. She wouldn’t have been happy with me, not in the long run.”
His thick grey-black brows scrunch, almost touching in the middle. “In some way, Clark, I’m pleased you ended it. She still has a clean slate to meet the man she should be with.” He pats my cheek, and there’s still a trace of paternalism in his touch, no matter how small. “You’ll be a good man one day, Clark, and Constance will get the life and husband she deserves. But she’s my little girl, so don’t ask me to forgive and forget just yet.”
“I can understand that. Listen, I want to see her. Do you think she’d be okay with it?”
He tuts and drags air through one side of his mouth. “She might. Her mother won’t be.” He looks back along the hallway to the dining room. “I suggest you take off now. She’s staying at home with us. I can buy you an hour, but if Penny catches you there she’ll be reddening your other cheek.”
“Thank you.”
“And, Clark, if you do or say anything to hurt her…”
“I won’t.”
LESS THAN TEN minutes later I’m pulling up outside the Hamiltons’ house. The iron gates open when the cameras recognise my registration plate. I climb out of the car and rap on the front door. Connie knows it’s me; an alarm bleeps inside the house whenever visitors arrive. She chooses to ignore me.
I knock again. “Connie, come on, let me talk to you.”
I thump three times, each louder than the one before. “Connie, please. I know you’re in there.”
She either throws something or bangs herself against the back of the door. “Go away, Clark. You’re an arsehole.”
She’s talking. It’s a start. I lean forwards, bracing both palms on the door. “I know I’m an arsehole. Let me in. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
The door flies open, and I stumble into the hallway. I save myself from falling and shift so I’m looking at her, standing by the open door. Her eyes are red and swollen, her hair is scraped back in a ponytail, and her already oversized jumper is drowning her. Feeling crushed, I let my arms sag by my sides.
“Connie,” I whisper. Her lips twist and her eyes glaze. I don’t know what else to say, so I take two steps towards her and fold her under one arm as I push the door shut with the other. She fights against me, pushing me away, thumping my pecs.
“I’m not okay, Clark. I’m humiliated.”
I hold her head to my chest until she relents, and her anger turns to sobs. “Shhh. You shouldn’t be humiliated, you did nothing wrong. It’s me who should be ashamed.”
I walk us into the lounge and settle her onto the sofa while I make tea. I return to see her tucked into the corner of the sofa: small, fragile. I am ashamed of myself.
“It’s Earl Grey,” I say, handing her a drink, which she grabs with two hands. I take a seat on the coffee table facing her and rest a hand on her knee. She flinches but doesn’t move her leg from my reach.
“I went to a birthday party yesterday,” she says, her words weak and cautious. “It was Anna Leonard’s birthday. Dayna Cross’s stepsister.”
I try not to respond, but I know my eyes flicker with interest. “That’s good, that you went out.”
She shakes her head then takes a gulp of hot tea. It’s a trait of hers, guzzling boiling hot drinks. She has a mouth like asbestos. We’d go to cafés together, just a couple of weeks ago, and she’d have finished her coffee before I’d even managed to take the first mouthful of mine.
“Dayna was there.”
I open and close my mouth silently, wanting to know more, knowing I can’t ask.
“I mentioned you to her, that you talked about her sometimes, that you talked about her on Friday, before… She said there was nothing going on between you.”
“That’s true. Dayna really can’t stand me.” I hide how much I hate that truth.
“But there was this look in her eyes. Something I can’t quite describe.” She stands and walks to the bay window looking out across the lawn, still clutching her cup. “You told me you gave your heart away, Clark. Is that who you gave it to? Is she that much better than me?”
I put down my cup and move to stand behind her, trailing my fingertips down her arm. “Connie, you are amazing. You’re beautiful, smart and sweet. This isn’t about anyone being better than you. I’ve loved you for years, as a friend, as a sister.” She leans back into my chest. “Somewhere along the line that got muddled, but I realised last week — too late, I know — that you could have everything. Someone who loves you as a best friend and as a lover, and that person isn’t me. You deserve everything.”
Out of habit I drop my chin to the crook of her neck. She leans her head back, giving me access to her throat, and she moans when my lips meet her skin. She turns quickly and holds my cheeks in her palms, her mouth taking mine fiercely. I kiss her back, parting her lips with my tongue, relishing the familiar taste of Earl Grey. In the last few days, I’ve missed having someone who gives a shit. Someone who knows me. She moans and bends her body into mine. I can feel my cock harden and push against the barrier of m
y jeans.
This is fucking selfish.
“Connie, stop. This isn’t right. This isn’t why I came.” I grip her wrists and push her back from me. The look of pain and rejection on her face floors me.
“Did you ever want me?”
“Jesus, Connie, yes. Who wouldn’t want you?”
“Then why?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Because it’s not enough. I don’t want to marry you and realise five years from now that we’re not right for each other. That you need more than I can give you.” I put some distance between us. “I don’t want to have kids and have them growing up messed up because their parents aren’t in love with each other. I don’t want you to divorce me ten years from now and have to find someone else then.”
She snarls at me, a look I’ve rarely seen on her. “Such a fucking martyr.”
“Connie, please, I’m trying to explain.”
“Get out. Get out!”
I nod and do as she asks, hearing her sobs as I close the door behind me.
Fuck.
I start driving, to where I don’t know, I just drive until daylight falls to early darkness.
YVETTE OPENS THE door as soon as I get out of the car outside her and Teddy’s white Notting Hill terrace. She smiles as I walk the path to the house, but it’s a smile of pity that tells me how shit I look. Her dark hair is in tightly scrunched curls, the way it always is without product.
“I’m sorry, Yvette. I shouldn’t have come; this must be awkward for you.”
“Hey, you come here.” She pulls me into her arms, her winter-knit jumper warm and soft. “Constance is nice, but you’re our number one, Clark, alright?”
I squeeze her tight. “Thank you. I just couldn’t face my apartment.”
“Hey, hey, hands off my wife, big man.”
I wink at Teddy across Yvette’s shoulder then let her go.
“Beer?” he asks.