by Jenny Colgan
‘Hey!’ she shouted cheerfully as she got in.
‘Hey! How’d it go? Is she having me hunted down and shot?’
Posy rushed through the newly edited version she had put together in her head.
‘No, she ordered champagne, actually. I was quite squiffed by the time I got back to the office, I even asked Margie who does her hair.’
‘A drunken monkey. For a bet,’ said Matt automatically.
‘Really? She was pleased?’
‘Kind of. She asked if I was truly wife material.’
‘Who, Margie?’
‘My mother, dumbo.’
‘Huh, well, she should know.’
‘Exactly.’
Matt kissed the top of her head. ‘You’re my wife material.’ Posy smiled and pulled away.
But in the tiny galley kitchen of their minuscule one-bed-roomed flat, all Posy could think about was the message she’d sent Chris earlier when she got back to the office: How cold? And WHERE ARE YOU?
At three a.m., Posy’s insomnia moved up a gear. The lunchtime champagne hadn’t helped. Then it became horribly apparent that sleep, if it did come, wasn’t going to be enough. She couldn’t relax, there was no way around it: she was exhausted, grumpy, cross with herself, cross with her mother and every stupid thought that kept bouncing through her brain. She was even cross at Matt for . . . for nothing. For lying there so peacefully and sleeping so calmly. It was very irritating.
Posy could feel her brain shrinking through tiredness, her limbs begging and pleading for rest. But her mind, her pesky dancing mind, wouldn’t leave her the hell alone. Thinking things like, Did you really imagine you would end up with a man who cares a lot about folding his socks? and The wedding is going to be full of people looking at you guys and thinking it won’t last, because Posy isn’t wife material and he’s a jogging teacher and, Why is Chris cold? What is Adam doing? And what about . . .
Posy lay in the darkness, biting back the name she still couldn’t bear to even think of.
All her exes, parading in a row - the significant ones, not the two-week fling with the bicycle courier with very taut calves, or the identical twin who was a bit creepy. But all of them. What were they doing? Had they got married to people much better than her?
Will they care that you’re getting married? Will they be miserable? Will they wish it were them? Or did they know, too, that you’re not wife material? Did they know all along?
The voice couldn’t be stilled by a pillow over the head. It couldn’t be stilled by some quiet tears.
At half past four, Posy gave up the night for good and went and made herself a cup of tea to drink in the bath. She thought Matt might hear and get up and tell her to stop being so silly and make everything all right again.
He didn’t.
At half past five, it struck her.
Posy is completely wide awake. Anyone there?
Comment: Like.
Comment, Chris: Hello?
On the whole, decisions taken at half past five in the morning are rarely good ones. They say things like, ‘Hell yeah, let’s just go to that dodgy bar for another drink.’ Or, ‘Yes, why don’t I stay over?’ Or, ‘Let’s just go to the airport right now.’
Posy wasn’t going to go to the airport right away, she thought, clutching her tea. But she’d decided. She had to know. Was this wrong or right? And who knew better than the ones who hadn’t made it this far?
She had to see. She had to know if this was the right thing to do. Not just for her, but for the lovely, dear, sweet-hearted man lying completely oblivious in the next room. She didn’t want to upset him, she just needed to know a few things . . . She needed to ask Chris. And Adam, if he could spare five minutes in his hectic schedule to remember who she was. Face to face, not Facebook to Facebook.
And then, of course, there was . . . No. She wasn’t going to think about him just yet. Not when she couldn’t even say his name.
Chapter Seven
Posy is drinking a lot of coffee. Really. A lot.
Comment: Like.
Comment, Matt: You know, coffee isn’t very good for you.
She would tell Matt she was looking for wedding venues. That would work. That would definitely work. All men found wedding stuff unbelievably boring, didn’t they? He’d be totally desperate to close his ears and just go ‘Lalalala!’ She could get away with anything.
Posy sat at work suddenly feeling more excited than she had done for days. This was it! This was the right thing to do! She was going to grab the bull by the horns and do whatever it took to get rid of this tiny, silly, nagging voice in her ear that kept on telling her she was making a mistake. She was going to sort it out, get to the bottom of it, and then they could have a triumphant, wonderful wedding, something that didn’t have people gossiping in the aisles like some she’d been to, or brides overspending horribly on cake and favours and nonsense for an obviously doomed relationship to try and convince themselves that it was all real. Because hers would be real. Because she’d know, for definite.
‘What kind of wedding do you want?’ Matt had asked her, just after he’d proposed. And now she finally knew. An honest one.
‘You look knackered,’ said Fleur. ‘Letting yourself go already?’
Posy was regretting gathering Fleur and Leah to drink wine in the Slug and Lettuce and discuss her brilliant plan. Or, at least, a plan that had seemed brilliant at five o’clock that morning. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She bought the first bottle of rosé.
‘What’s up?’ said Leah. She was wearing a lime-green striped T-shirt, a vinyl mini-skirt and Doc Marten boots. She looked extremely cool, if slightly about-to-kick-your-head-in. ‘I’ve had a hell of a day. Our new fake fur line isn’t selling at all.’
‘That’s because you left the heads on,’ Posy pointed out.
‘It’s ironic. They’re not real heads.’
‘They look like real heads.’
‘Especially the blood,’ added Fleur, pouring out three huge glasses.
‘People are stupid,’ grimaced Leah.
‘How did your date go?’ asked Posy.
Leah made a low growling noise. She’d been asked out by a journalist when she was talking up her clothes over the phone. Posy had thought this was a good sign; he must already be at least passingly familiar with the kind of stuff she was likely to roll up in.
Not so, it turned out. They’d headed for a noisy city centre bar, where the journalist had attempted to get her as drunk as possible as quickly as possible during two-for-one cocktails, ignored everything she’d attempted to tell him about the direction of contemporary womenswear and said, ‘Have you actually got any tits under that thing or is that fashion, too?’ (In his very weak defence, she was wearing a ruff.) She hadn’t quite got up the courage to leave then, but one near-fatal-strength alcoholic margarita later he lurched forwards off his bar stool and said, ‘God, I wish my wife were as skinny as you.’ Then he fell down.
‘Oh,’ said Posy helpfully.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Leah, ‘but that’s actually the best date I’ve had this year. I’m chalking it up as a partial success.’
‘Are you seeing him again?’
‘No! He’s married.’
Posy gave it a second.
‘Maybe. It’s a horrible drought out there at the moment. A horrible, horrible drought! Honestly, you have no idea how lucky you are to have found Matt! None! They should clone him so we can all have one! A nice, sweet fit guy who wants to marry you. You’re the luckiest bitch in the whole world. It’s totally unfair. Anyway, what did you want to see us for?’
‘Ah,’ said Posy. ‘Well.’ She took a big slug of wine. ‘I’ve been thinking. About what Matt said and about what my mum’s said . . .’
‘Oh God, what has Mum said?’ said Fleur. ‘Whatever it is, do the exact opposite immediately.’
‘She thinks I should get married for the right reasons,’ Posy said. In the harsh neon light of the bar, this wasn’t c
oming across quite as she’d hoped.
‘Fear? Desperation? Being thirty-two?’ said Fleur.
‘True love?’ said Leah.
‘Well, yes,’ said Posy, feeling a bit desperate. ‘But also companionship. A sharing of life goals; a match of equals.’
‘Well, that’s no use to you, is it?’ said Fleur. ‘Matt is like a championship athlete and you won’t even take the stairs in John Lewis.’
‘Yes, and you read magazines and books and things and he reads Uncover the Fighter Within.’
‘And he applied for the SAS.’
‘And you like shopping and cocktails and parties and having a nice time and giggling and he likes riding a bike up a really fucking steep mountain.’
‘And you like to hide from your mother and he likes to go and see his ma and dad in Blackpool.’
‘And you love food and he eats those powder things that come in big tubs.’
‘And you used to go on marches and he isn’t registered to vote.’
‘And he’s got abs and you’ve got a supersized cupcake-y muffin-top thingy.’
‘And I like watching TV and DVDs and he likes running up cliffs,’ said Posy. ‘Hang on, why am I joining in with this? Forget about all that for a minute,’ she added, trying to get things back on track. ‘I was just thinking . . . do you remember Chris?’
Fleur widened her eyes. ‘That really boring old man you lived with at university?’
‘He wasn’t an old man,’ spluttered Posy. ‘He was my first love.’
‘He smelled old,’ said Fleur.
‘That was his tobacco,’ said Posy, reminiscing. ‘He rolled his own.’
Leah cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Oh, right, marry him. Didn’t he wear, like, sacking and stuff? And only own one pair of shoes?’
‘What about him?’ said Fleur. ‘Has he died of old age?’
‘OK, shut up, everyone,’ ordered Posy. ‘I just got a message from him, that’s all. And I ran into a friend of Adam’s at the station.’
‘Adam? Cocksucking hairy prick Adam?’ said Leah.
‘Well . . . yes. You forgot to add handsome.’
Leah looked exasperated.
‘Cocksucking hairy handsome prick Adam.’
‘So? Don’t you think that’s interesting?’
‘So nothing!’ said Leah. ‘You have true love. Stop mucking about!’
But Fleur was in rapture.
‘It’s a sign,’ she said. ‘These kinds of things are always a sign.’
‘It’s a sign you have too much time on your hands when you should be planning your wedding,’ said Leah. ‘You need a month by month countdown.’
‘Well, actually I thought I might scout one in particular,’ said Posy. ‘What do you think about me getting married on a Scottish island?’
‘Ooh, does it have a castle? That would be so romantic,’ said Leah. ‘Now you’re thinking about it properly.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Posy. ‘But also . . . here’s the thing. Chris lives there. So I thought I might just pop in and—’
‘This,’ said Leah, ‘is the worst idea you have ever had.’
‘Can’t you be more supportive?’
‘I can!’ said Fleur. Then she took on a concentrated look.
‘Oh no, hang on, I’ve just thought about it and it turns out I can’t. Sorry. This is a stupid idea. Maybe it isn’t a sign after all.’
Posy’s face looked set. ‘Well, I need to.’ She looked at Leah. ‘It’s all right for you. You’ve always had a mum and a dad who loved each other and looked out for you. You know what good relationships are meant to look like.’
‘That’s why I’ve found them so easy to come by,’ muttered Leah into her wine.
‘And you know how . . . Well, you know how I was after Thingy. I just want to make sure that Matt and I are doing the right thing.’
‘So you’re working up to confronting Thingy?’ said Fleur.
‘I’m closing the door on my past,’ said Posy.
‘It’s a terrible terrible terrible idea,’ said Leah.
‘Well, just as well I haven’t booked the tickets then,’ said Posy.
Chapter Eight
The tiny little plane bumped off the airstrip in Aberdeen. Posy looked out of the window at the sunset - at four o’clock! - and wondered again at how strange it was here.
The oddest, the worst, thing had been lying to Matt. Ever since they’d met she’d made a pact with herself to be honest with him, because as far as she could tell, he had always, always been honest with her. So when she’d announced that she was going to Scotland to scout wedding venues, he’d looked a bit furrowed - ‘How are you Scottish? Via Poland?’ - then offered to come with her. She’d had to swallow hard and lie again and say no, she wanted to narrow it down a bit before she got him involved. Well, she did want to have a look around while she was there, although frankly she was just hoping she could get their friends and family to come as far as London to get married, really; she certainly wouldn’t risk insisting they marched to Scotland.
‘Well, Madonna got married in the Highlands,’ Matt had said finally.
‘Yeah, and look how that turned out.’
The night before she left, still not sleeping, she’d lain on her side and stared at his profile, wanting to stroke it with her finger, although she didn’t want to wake him. She felt as if she were cheating on him, somehow.
Leah agreed.
‘Let me see, you’re sneaking off without telling him to see your ex-boyfriend. I just can’t see how it sounds good.’
‘How about . . . it’s a journey to find myself?’
‘Hmm.’
‘I just feel, Leah . . . Somehow it will make me feel ready for marriage.’
‘I am ready for marriage,’ sighed Leah. ‘You are an idiot.’
God, Chris had been right, she’d thought, hanging around Aberdeen airport for the connection. It was absolutely bloody freezing, easily ten degrees colder than London. She’d brought a big coat, but even with that the wind was raw, blowing even through the small terminal, with its Scottie dogs and haggis for sale in the gift shop. Obviously she was crazy.
The second plane was even smaller, just a little cigar shape sitting on wheels. Posy hadn’t been sure if she was going to fit inside or if she’d need to stand up on the wings. There was barely time to drink a cup of terrible coffee. Looking around, the flight was filled with men with beards and books on rare wildlife; a friendly American girl beside her was a geologist who enthused at length about Shetland’s extraordinary strata.
The tiny shed that served as Lerwick airport didn’t look like it had much extraordinary strata when the plane bumped down in the dark. It looked derelict and lonesome and flat - there wasn’t a tree to be seen in the moonlight.
Dismounting, scarcely able to believe she was in the same country technically as bus lanes and tube overcrowding and the Gherkin, Posy wondered if she’d recognise Chris when she saw him. After all, it had been more than ten years. People didn’t change much in ten years . . . did they? Maybe they did. Maybe she couldn’t see him through those eyes again, a naive college girl who’d never met anyone or been anywhere.
She hoped he wasn’t an idiot. She hated to think of herself as giving up three years of her life on a jerk. That would make her worry about Matt, and her judgement, even more.
He was, it turned out, completely unmistakeable. In fact, it couldn’t be, but . . . was he still wearing the same old coat? No. It couldn’t be.
Chris stood, broad, handsome and messy as ever, his face completely masked in a beard, at the back of the sparse crowd. She saw him first and felt her face break into a smile. In fact, a few years were nothing after all. She raised her hand to attract his attention and he returned her smile, shyly, and lumbered over.
They stood a metre apart, looking at one another. Chris was shaking his head.
‘What?’
‘Well. This is mad.’
‘Why? We’re two people who know ea
ch other, aren’t we? Meeting up?’
‘Well, yes, but . . .’
Posy’s face cracked into a smile. ‘Yes. I know. It does feel a bit mad.’
‘I mean, it’s so out of the blue.’
Posy looked out at the dark and ominous sky. ‘Actually it was more like out of the very dark grey.’
Chris shook his head again. ‘OK. You’re doing a crazy girl thing. I’m just going to accept that.’
‘I think that would be best,’ said Posy.
‘So, what . . . are we meant to hug, or kiss or what?’ said Chris, eventually.
‘You still haven’t changed your position on the old small talk, have you?’ said Posy, surprised to find she was nervous.
‘No. It’s a waste of time.’
‘OK. My flight was fine, thanks.’
They stood uncomfortably. Then Chris said, ‘You look posh.’
‘It’s Topshop.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
Posy felt this conversation slightly slipping out of her grasp, which, as she was planning on asking him some pretty personal questions later on, wasn’t exactly ideal.
‘Chris,’ she said finally. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘It’s good to see you, too, Posy.’
And they leant together for a very awkward hug. The warm musky smell of him instantly transported her to a world of single beds, of joss sticks burning, of dirty carpeting and cold mornings.
‘Hey you,’ she said.
He drove the world’s most beat-up Land Rover through the gravel roads. Neither spoke very much. Posy was taking in the bare landscape, outlined by the large moon.
‘There’s no trees.’
‘Not much of anything up here,’ said Chris. ‘It’s just a lump of volanic rock, really. Populated by Vikings.’
‘Are they all Vikings?’
‘Pretty much. You’ll hear it when they talk.’
Posy frowned. ‘Why is it so cold?’
‘Well, we’re near Iceland, and—’
‘No, I mean, why don’t you have heating in the car and things?’