Probably the Best Kiss in the World

by Pernille Hughes

  Yakob’s expression had changed from amusement to enjoyably challenged. “You think so?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “I know so.”

  “Maybe I was spying?” he said, leaning in towards her at the table. Oh, not him as well. Lydia would be delighted with this suggestion. Jen rolled her eyes. His tone was low so she was forced to lean in too. “Maybe I was conducting clandestine research to sell on to clients.”

  She looked in both directions, then back at him. “Maybe,” she agreed in a loud whisper, “but you’d be a crap industrial spy as everything on display here is for public consumption, so there’s nothing to sell. Not to mention decent spies probably don’t tap people on the shoulder to say hello.”

  “Only the polite ones.” That made her smile. She would have been gutted to learn he’d seen her and not said hello. They stayed still for a moment, both smiling at each other, faces not very far apart. And then on an unspoken beat they both sat back in a truce. Only their eyes were both firmly fixed on each other’s faces, specifically eyes and lips and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt that The Kiss was on both of their minds. So much for parking it in the back of her head, which was where she needed it to be, given it absolutely wasn’t something she could pursue.

  “So how’s the brewing?” he asked, just as she leapt into her question of “Which company are you here with?” There followed the polite negotiating of who should go first, although neither of them seemed willing. The negotiating evolved into a stalemate and eventually she caved.

  “The brewing’s fine.” He raised an eyebrow at her response, somehow able to see it for the lie it was. Perhaps it was the lack of her normal effusing. She knew the way she’d spoken about it in Copenhagen was a million miles away from this lame “fine”, and something about his generosity, both as a host in Copenhagen and a supporter made it impossible not to tell him the truth.

  “I’m um … I’m bringing it a close.” She took a long sip of her coffee, then instantly regretted it as the heat removed the lining of her upper mouth.

  He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “The brewing. I’ve got some life things going on, and the brewing has come to the end of its time.”

  He laughed, and then stopped when he saw she wasn’t joking.

  “What? Why are you here then?”

  She shrugged. “Final ingredients, kit, I don’t know, a last goodbye?”

  His eyebrows raised as he blinked several times and then shook his head in disbelief. “But you were just at the museum. It’s in your veins, Jen. That’s what you said. Your passion.”

  “Well yes, but there comes a time when some things have to be packed away, don’t they?” She hoped he’d understand, but he wasn’t nodding along. Not at all. She blew on the coffee and had another sip, hoping he’d do the same and they could change the subject.

  “It’s not a passion then, is it?” he said, sounding deeply disappointed.

  “What? Yes it is. I love it. But it’s a practical thing. I can’t fit it into my life anymore.”

  “Passions are things you cannot pack away, Jen. They are the things you shape your life around. They are the things that make your heart sing.”

  His disappointment was quite devastating. She opened her mouth several times but no words came out. But really, what was there to say?

  Keen to smooth things over and get them back on to amicable ground, Jen came back to her own question. “What’s got you here on business then, Yakob? I never asked you what company you work for.” It seemed like a much safer area of discussion than hers. She liked the idea that his employer had links to the brewing industry.

  His eyes lifted from the table to dart between hers. He took a breath to speak and – both their telephones rang at once, hers the most scorned of all historic ring tones, his some pop song she didn’t recognise and suspected was Danish. Jen evil-eyed her phone, and he appeared somewhat relieved at his, while both of them looked embarrassed at their respective tones.

  “Mine only comes with that,” she said, hating The Phone of Shame more than ever before, as much for the tone as the timing.

  “My nieces picked mine,” he said simultaneously.

  Reluctantly, they each took the call.

  “Jen, it’s me!” said Robert. Instinctively Jen looked about, in case she was in some film where the fiancé watches his bride-to-be have coffee with another man. “Hang on a sec, Jen,” Robert interrupted himself, before telling someone to go ahead and tee off, he’d just be a second. “About date night tomorrow. Mumsie’s hosting dinner for us.”

  Jen swallowed a groan. Dinner with Robert’s parents wasn’t quite how she wanted to spend her evening.

  “Ava and Rupert are coming too with the kids.” Jen’s groan now felt like a huge sinkhole in her gut. “It’s an engagement celebration. Isn’t that nice?”

  Jen considered what she was doing, spending time with a man she had kissed recently, on her hen-do. How exactly could she justify this to her moral code? She watched Yakob as his brow furrowed at whatever he was hearing.

  “Diarrhoea?” he asked his caller. “Really?” He listened and then looked at his watch. “Ah shit, I hate those things Dave … yes … yes … OK, I’ll do it, but you owe me. Next time don’t eat the kebab.” He looked at her as he hung up and got to his feet.

  “Jen, darling?” Her attention was drawn back to Robert, although her eyes remained on Yakob.

  “Yes, still here.”

  “Isn’t that nice? The engagement dinner.” Jen swallowed hard, as she saw Yakob search for the route he was about to take.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her in a loud whisper. “My colleague can’t do the panel thing he’s supposed to chair. I have to go, I’m sorry.” He rubbed his hand through his hair, then said resolutely, “The panel lasts an hour, Jen. Meet me after?”

  “Jen? Is the line dodgy? What do you think?” Robert tried again.

  Torn yet again and heart hammering, Jen felt her head moving in a nod to Yakob as her mouth finally gave its answer to Robert. “Sounds good.”

  She spent the next half hour trying to find the right bottle for her favours, in a fidgety daze, quite uncomfortable with her decision-making skills. Her conscience was decidedly unhappy with her. In the end she settled for a swing-top bottle, which she could get a design printed on to, saving her the faff of capping. It didn’t lift her spirits. Despite being early, she took herself off towards the conference room doors. Reading the signs for what was going on inside she saw most were marketing seminars, but the last was a panel, with the title of Brewing Giants; Corporate branding, expansion and domination. The sign listed the panellists, with Diarrhoea Dave noted as Chair along with his company name. It made her catch her breath.

  Sticking her nose inside the door, Jen saw Yakob up on the stage, holding court. Stand-in or not, the audience and other panellists listened rapt.

  “Sorry madam.” A steward blocked her view. “Do you have a ticket? It’s ticket holders only.”

  Jen backed away. This afternoon had offered her one surprise on top of another and as she’d always said, she didn’t like surprises. Yesterday, she’d wanted to know more about him, now she did she didn’t feel happier for it. Yakob, it turned out, worked for Kronegaard, something he hadn’t deemed worth mentioning the entire time they’d spent together, in spite of her mentioning the company a gazillion times. Jen turned The Phone of Shame in her hand, over and over, as she walked out of the show towards the train that would take her back home and to Robert, Robert who she knew everything about, who didn’t keep secrets other than hiding ugly rings in desserts. What the hell had she been thinking?

  Chapter 14

  Robert collected Jen on Wednesday evening to take her to his parents’ for dinner. She’d offered, his flat being on the way, but he’d insisted. Jen suspected he wasn’t a fan of her Ford Capri, her mother’s pride and joy – he didn’t seem to appreciate its retro charm. Or its quirky rattling. Or its pleather up
holstery. He couldn’t have an issue with the colour – his convertible Jag F type was racing green too, only without the speed stripe. He had aluminium trim instead, which wasn’t her cup of tea, so they were probably evens.

  Jen had worn another dress, anticipating Celia being the kind of woman who would expect it. Indeed, peering into the drawing room where the rest of the family, bar Zara, stood waiting for them, champagne in hand, Jen knew she’d been right. Celia was wearing a floaty chiffon extravaganza, featuring a riot of hibiscus and bird of paradise flowers. She clashed with the large print Laura Ashley curtains, which in turn were at odds with the busy carpet.

  “Jennifer darling sweetie,” Celia boomed as Jen took her first step into the room. “We have lots of wedding business to talk about. I’ve been so busy on your behalf and I need to update you.”

  Jen looked behind her, hoping for Robert’s assistance. And there he was, his calm hand coming to rest on her shoulder, a touch of support, showing them to be a team. As his thumb stroked the base of her neck, Jen knew he’d sense her need – their need – to wrest control of their wedding day. He was dependable, a quality she prided in herself too.

  “Oh look at you, Mumsie,” Robert grinned over Jen’s shoulder, “you’re in your element when organising a wedding.” He gave Jen’s shoulder a squeeze and let her go. “No need for a wedding planner here, Jen, Mumsie is on the case.” Jen didn’t know what made her heart sink more, that he was encouraging Celia, or his fake American accent for “on the case”.

  “Briefly darlings, I’ve spoken to the vicar at St Jude’s; he’s waiting for your call with the date and to set you up for your marriage class programme. There’s two folders on the hallway table with reception packages from both the golf club if you want a summer marquee or the manor if you want autumn/winter. I’ve booked some menu tasting dates with both of those and a caterer, remind me to give you the dates before you leave. Ava agrees her cherubs will make the most adorable pageboys, I’ve teed up Henry the photographer, he’s expecting your call too, as is the horse and carriage place, for transport to and from the church.”

  Jen had to admit Celia had been extremely diligent, but that didn’t help when the help wasn’t wanted. Jen struggled to formulate her answer but was thankfully saved by Giles Thwaites grandly presenting her with a glass of “champers”. Her weak thank you to him was taken as acceptance by Celia.

  Jen turned desperately to Robert. “Didn’t you mention a golf friend having got married in Calabria, Robert? The old monastery that was now a hotel? Think of it; just immediate family,” Lord knew her side of any church would be sparsely filled, “year-round warmth, dancing beneath the stars?” She’d only just thought of it, but now it sounded perfect.

  “Ha ha!” Robert laughed. “The women at the bridge club would have a field day if we did that and denied Mumsie her glory. Plus dancing is not in my skillset.” Jen wondered if she was the only one expected to take classes for this marriage, as Robert accepted his glass of champers, the subject apparently settled. Then she noticed how deeply happy he looked, surrounded by his family, seeing his mother so wrapped up in his nuptials. How lovely and kind was that? Jen chided herself. Perhaps weddings were really for the mothers. She didn’t have enough experience, of weddings – nor mothers, she supposed – to know. Perhaps she was being uncharitable; both Celia and Robert wanted the best for their day. She saw that. Only she didn’t find it easy to relinquish the control of it. Jen decided she needed to relax and that nature had invented champagne for a reason.

  Her glass was knocked out of her hand before she’d even managed a sip as Ava’s sons provided a military salute with their Nerf guns during the toast. Jen insisted it was fine, her dress was navy, so the champagne probably wouldn’t stain. She clenched her glass stem harder second time around, as the four boys deployed into a full-blown Nerf-war around them. It made it rather hard to hear what her future father-in-law beside her was saying, so she had to concentrate.

  “Celia and I are terribly pleased, you know. We know a good egg, Jennifer, and you’ll fit in beautifully.”

  “Thank you, Giles. That’s very kind.”

  “Robert’s been telling me all about your plans.”

  “Oh really?” She wondered which he meant. She’d only seen him three times since the proposal, and they’d only tentatively and unsuccessfully looked at wedding dates, navigating his many golf matches and trips.

  “A holiday home is an excellent investment, especially when you have rugrats.” Giles looked fondly at his grandsons, currently mounting a skirmish across the sofa and Celia who sat on it. Both Ava and Rupert appeared oblivious. Ava was FaceTiming Zara and Rupert was discussing cricket with Robert. “Once you pop out more than two, hotels are a nightmare. Ava and Rupert know all about that.” Jen suspected their boys were blacklisted from hotels the world over.

  Ava’s head poked up. “Was this the holiday home? Fabulous idea, Robert,” she said, sending her brother a smile, “but nothing too far away darling, or else it’ll be a pain for us to get to on a weekend. If they’re cooped up for too long the boys are hyper by the time we get anywhere.” In Jen’s view, the boys were currently hyper and they only lived five minutes away. Ava went back to Zara, while Jen fought hard to contain her shudder. A holiday home was very low in her priorities and now even more so if Ava was booking in.

  “The house hunting started, has it?” Giles asked with a nudge. “No doubt you’re both eager to get under the same roof?” She almost expected him to wink at her.

  “Well I … We haven’t … there’s Lydia to consider too, you see.” She really hadn’t got to this bit yet. She had no plans to leave Lydia alone, she simply hadn’t got to discussing it with Robert yet.

  “Ah yes, your sister. How is she, poor thing?” Jen hated it when people referred to her as poor anything. Lydia was doing all right, thanks very much. She was one of the most positive people Jen knew. Except regarding Jen’s marriage, of course, but otherwise.

  “Lydia’s fine, thank you,” she said primly, but getting distracted by Ava’s son Beckham standing next to them for no reason at all. He didn’t even look at them, concentrating hard instead on the floor. After ten seconds he scooted off again. Six-year-olds could be very odd.

  “I suppose being handicapped is difficult at her age.” Jen’s toes curled, knowing Lydia would have gone ballistic if she’d heard him. She saw herself as physically challenged, that was all. And Jen imagined it would be difficult at any age.

  “Lydia’s actually very active, Giles. She runs three times a week.” Once a promising gymnast, Lydia still took her fitness very seriously. “She does all sorts of regular things. In fact, she’s off camping with friends this coming weekend.” Jen’s nostrils began to twitch as they were attacked by a rank eggy stink. Holy crap, that was unnatural. Giles clearly didn’t have her finessed sense of smell as he wasn’t reacting at all, while she wanted to double over choking. Bloody Beckham. Little shit.

  Instead Giles’ eyebrows raised, impressed. “Good for her. Yes, bravo. Camping with just the one leg must be a struggle. But I suppose her friends will muck in and take up the slack.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what Lydia can do with her prosthetic leg,” she coughed, desperately trying to stop her eyes from watering at the stench. She turned to refill their glasses, keen to gasp in some non-farty air and drop the conversation. People like Giles only ever saw her sister with pity, but Jen was tremendously proud of Lydia. Her friends were a good bunch too and while she wasn’t going to say so to Giles, she knew Lydia would be safe in whatever field they’d picked for the weekend.

  “She’s an inspiration, that’s what she is,” Giles expounded. “If ever I’m feeling sorry for myself, I only have to think of your Lydia and I see life’s not so bad after all.”

  Enough! Lydia was not some base measure of how good other people had it and who was he to judge her life as worse than his? How dare he? Still struggling with the hideous reek, Jen opened her mout
h to say so, starting with the basics that Lydia’s life was not there to be an inspiration to others either.

  “Now then Dad, no more monopolising my bride-to-be.” Robert appeared at her shoulder. He didn’t mention the noxious odour either. What was the matter with their noses? He squeezed her in to his side for a kiss on the temple, only for Ferdinand to smash into him and it became more of a headbutt.

  “We were just discussing the house hunting, Robert,” Giles said, any thought of Lydia gone.

  “Ah yes, I’ve got plenty of particulars rolling in. I know the estate agents from the conveyancing, so they’re sending me the crème de la crème, hot off the press.” Both men laughed. It was exactly the same loud bark. Jen had never really noticed it when it was just Robert. Now, in stereo, it was quite alarming. Standing side by side, she could see how similar they really were. She wondered whether it was just in looks and lack of nasal aptitude.

  “What do you have in mind?” Giles was exclusively asking Robert now. Jen could only follow his lead and look at Robert. She too was curious what he had in mind, seeing she hadn’t been consulted.

  “Nothing too grand, but large enough for hours of hide and seek for the kids and running races on the lawns in the summer.” Robert suddenly looked wistful and nostalgic. Jen pondered whether he saw himself mowing those lawns and whether the labyrinthine house came with a cleaner. Robert abruptly looked at Jen and smiled. “And, of course, some space for Jen to have a hobby.”

  Giles turned to Jen. “Oh yes? What do you have planned? Women are happiest when they’re busy.” Annoyingly, Jen actually agreed with him – she hated having nothing to do – but she didn’t need him telling her so.