by Matt Dunn
He braced himself, both dreading and desperate for the moment the wheels hit the tarmac – surely they were nearly down by now? – and in the split second before he shut his eyes tightly, he caught Izzy’s pitying look. Younger people were different. Fearless. And sometimes, the twenty-plus years between them felt like a lifetime.
Finally, to his relief, he felt the wheels make contact with the runway, so softly he barely noticed it, and he opened his eyes and peered out through the window into the morning sunshine. He hadn’t been here for a good few years, and the airport had changed. A modern, glass-and-steel terminal building now sat opposite the old one – evidence that the city was moving forward. Looking to the future. Patrick knew the feeling.
He’d always loved coming to Barcelona. Every time he landed here and saw the city’s name spelled out in that classic, widely spaced lettering on the side of the old terminal, he felt a wave of – what? A sense that he was where he belonged, perhaps. Something about the place – a small big city, with a beach, amazing architecture, a fantastic climate and great food and wine – made him daydream occasionally about moving here. He’d even considered it, after the divorce, after he’d had to sell the company to pay his wife what he owed her for her infidelity. Though he suspected it might be one of those things that was nice in theory, but maybe a bit difficult in practice. A bit like he’d feared dating a twenty-two-year-old might be. Though, so far, he’d been surprised to discover that had been the opposite.
They taxied towards their stand, Izzy already unbuckling her seatbelt, anxious to get off the plane and get on with the weekend, and Patrick smiled to himself. She’d been good for him, reminding him that life was for living – that his divorce, though it was the end of something, could actually be the beginning of something else.
He waited until they’d come to a complete stop, listened for the familiar, comforting ping, then double-checked the ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ light had gone out, but only when the captain announced they’d arrived did he feel safe enough to undo his buckle. Hauling himself stiffly up, he retrieved their bags from the overhead lockers, wincing at the weight of Izzy’s carry-on. At least they were here with hand luggage only, which in itself might be enough to limit her shopping, though he doubted it – Izzy seemed to see limits as a challenge rather than a recommendation. He preferred to travel with as little baggage as possible, and he’d already made sure he’d allowed some extra space for her. Patrick didn’t want to end up paying for Izzy’s excesses. Like he still was with his former wife.
No, he reminded himself, as she scampered off the plane in front of him, he wouldn’t make the same mistake with Izzy. Forewarned was forearmed, after all. Besides, the two of them were . . . well, to tell the truth, Patrick hadn’t yet decided what they were. A fling maybe, or simply (as a number of his friends had told him) a reaction to what his wife had done to him. In the meantime, a ‘bit of fun’ was how he saw the two of them. And how Izzy did too, he was sure, given the childlike joy she seemed to respond to every new experience with.
Then again, he’d been sure he and his wife were happy. And – as the same friends had often reminded him – look how that had turned out.
Six rows back, Rachel leant down and retrieved her handbag from under the seat in front of her, still a little miffed at missing the stunning city views everyone on the right-hand side of the plane had spent the last five minutes oohing and aahing at. It was just her luck to be sitting on the opposite side to where all the good stuff was going on – all she’d been able to see from her window had been the wide blue expanse of the Mediterranean. And while that would normally be something to behold, right now she could do without thinking about the sea – or more specifically, that there were apparently plenty more fish in it. Something she’d been told a little too often for her liking.
Still, at least they’d landed now, and she had something else to think about: her best friend’s wedding! Livia’s excited text last night – that Jed had said yes – meant it was all systems go. Though not for Rachel, sadly. Springing this weekend on Rich, her boyfriend, had turned him into her ex-boyfriend. When she’d told him about her plans, he’d told her he didn’t like where they were going, and while she’d assumed he meant the city (perhaps, Rachel had initially, naively believed, because he’d never forgiven Barcelona for knocking his beloved Arsenal out of the Champions League), it had turned out he meant with their relationship. She was ‘too set in her ways’, apparently. ‘Not impulsive enough.’ Which she found shocking and ironic: shocking that this had come from a man who planned his (and therefore their) weekends around the Premier League fixtures list; ironic how it had taken her booking a surprise trip to somewhere they’d never been before for him to decide to tell her that.
Though the real irony was, she’d seen this weekend as a ‘save-cation’ for the two of them. Things hadn’t been great recently, but Rachel had hoped a romantic city break to see two people in love make the ultimate commitment to each other might give their relationship a shot in the arm. Instead, Rich had freaked out, and her shot in the arm had become a bullet in the head.
After the ensuing argument, with Rich’s ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ ringing in her ears, an angry Rachel had decided she’d show him she could be impulsive by coming on her own – and as she’d shed a silent tear or two over the vacant seat where Rich should have been sitting, Rachel had vowed to herself she’d get him back. Though she wasn’t sure how yet.
There had been one upside to the space next to her. It had separated her from the thickset, bald, Chelsea-FC-tattooed, fifty-something man sat in her row who’d been trying to make conversation up until the drinks trolley arrived. Then, fortunately, and despite the early hour, he’d been more interested in seeing how many overpriced cans of lager and miniature tubes of crisps he could get through during the two-hour flight (answer: a lot), and though he’d been piling his empties on the seat between them – a seat Rachel had paid for, but she’d been too scared to point that out – at least it had meant she could just stick her earphones in and try to catch up on some sleep. To tell the truth, she’d been struggling to understand his strong Cockney accent: when he’d leant over and said ‘Pringle?’ she’d thought he’d been using some rhyming slang to enquire about her relationship status, before realising he’d simply been offering her a crisp.
She stared out of the window, pleased to see the sun glinting off the airport building. The hotel where Jed and Livia were getting married had a pool, and thanks to the flattering new bikini she’d ordered from Asos (though that had taken a fair few trials and errors – thank goodness for free returns), a visit to her local spray-tanning salon and a rather painful waxing session, the agony of which had at least taken her mind off the pain of her and Rich’s break-up, she wouldn’t feel too self-conscious to spend a good part of the weekend lounging around it absorbing some much-needed warmth.
As the plane continued its journey towards the terminal, Rachel pulled her phone out of her handbag and switched it from flight mode – after all, you couldn’t be too careful, and the last thing she wanted if they crashed was the black box to have recorded that it had been her fault. She stared at the screen, willing a message from Rich to appear, but instead the ‘Welcome to Spain’ text from her service provider merely informed her she should call 112 in case of emergency, though she suspected not having a date for Livia and Jed’s wedding didn’t count.
Rachel peered around the plane, careful not to make eye contact with Patrick, or even that woman – no, girl – he’d brought with him, desperate to avoid sharing a taxi into town with the two of them pawing at each other. She liked Patrick, as everyone did, but as for – Rachel couldn’t remember her name, but surely she was just a phase . . . Patrick’s mid-life crisis . . . a reaction to his wife leaving him – no, there was little point investing any time in her. She’d be gone soon. At least, that was what everyone hoped. For Patrick’s sake.
The loudspeaker above her head crackled into life and Rachel lo
oked up expectantly. ‘Welcome to Barcelona,’ said the pilot’s disembodied voice, ‘where the temperature’s an extremely pleasant twenty-two degrees. We’re just taxiing to our stand now, so please keep your seatbelts securely fastened until we’ve come to a complete stop.’
Rachel looked furtively to her right. Her row-mate had already unbuckled, and she tutted to herself disapprovingly. Why couldn’t people do what they were told? Rules existed for a reason. What if the plane suddenly lurched, and a suitcase – or even worse, he – fell on her?
Then, as if making some momentous decision, she took a deep breath, reached down and surreptitiously undid her own seatbelt, her breath quickening at the thrill, then she caught herself. If this was what she found exciting then Rich had been right. It was her. And there was no reason why that couldn’t change. Starting right now.
She stood up and reached for the overhead locker, only for the stewardess to hiss a sharp ‘Sit down!’ in her direction, so Rachel did as she was told, fastening her seatbelt again for good measure. ‘Right now’ would have to wait another few minutes, at least.
Jed awoke with a start, his first thought that yesterday’s proposal had simply been a bad dream, though when he swivelled his head to the right, the smile on a still-sleeping Livia’s face told him otherwise.
He watched her for a moment, struck by how beautiful she looked, even though the mouthguard she wore to prevent her from grinding her teeth gave her the air of an out-cold boxer. Jed had loved Livia since the first moment he’d seen her, though at the same time, he’d always been mystified as to why someone like her would be interested in someone like him. Had feared it would only be a matter of time before she saw through him, realised he wasn’t good enough for her and he’d be out on his ear. And while somehow he’d managed to survive a decade in the role of boyfriend, he couldn’t help but worry the promotion to ‘husband’ was way above his pay grade.
Careful not to wake her, Jed wrestled his way out from under the sheets, silently cursing the bed’s super-tight tucking-in at the corners. He often wondered why hotels insisted on doing this – it always made him feel like those mental patients you saw in films being strapped down for their own safety, or a prisoner restrained while waiting for their lethal injection. Perhaps the latter was an appropriate image, as given what was going to be happening later today and the way he was feeling right now – particularly with the hangover he was currently nursing – he could do with being put out of his misery. That was something else he didn’t dare admit to Livia, especially after the ‘skinful’ he’d had last night, as she’d pointedly described it when he’d eventually rolled into bed. Then again, as he’d tried to tell her, given her condition he’d been drinking for two, an excuse that hadn’t done him any favours, and it was only afterwards he’d realised that ‘celebrating’ might have been a more appropriate description. And rather more appreciated.
Gingerly, he hauled himself upright, and watched his fiancée for a moment, making sure he hadn’t disturbed her. It had used to be that she could sleep for England, and her napping abilities had been phenomenal – in the car with the roof down, on the Tube with her head on his shoulder, even once on a ski lift during the five-minute, windswept, icy-cold ride it had taken to get to the top of the mountain – but since she’d fallen pregnant, he’d often woken up in the middle of the night to find her wide awake and staring at him, something he’d begun to find disconcerting. And while Jed liked a lie-in – a thing he suspected would be a distant memory after the baby arrived – why he was awake so early this morning was beyond him. Usually he needed the sound of the alarm. Something to jolt him out of his slumber. A bit like Livia’s proposal had done yesterday.
He shuddered at the memory. It had been the biggest shock he’d had in a long time. Apart from coming home six months ago, when he’d been met by an anxious-looking Livia in the hallway, and his ‘How are you?’ had produced a one-word reply: ‘Pregnant.’ Though that had been something he’d actually felt like celebrating – once he’d got his head around it, which, admittedly, had taken a while. He was still trying to, if he was honest. Which was another reason why yesterday had thrown him.
Silently, he unplugged his phone from where it had been charging on the bedside table, tiptoed to the bathroom, softly closed the door behind him and checked his messages. He contemplated texting Patrick and Liam, and had even typed out the H, E and L of ‘help’, before he decided against it. They’d be making their way to the hotel right about now, and the last thing he wanted was for either of them – Liam, probably – to show Livia that. Besides, from what he could work out, they’d both been in on her plan, and he wasn’t sure he’d forgiven them for that yet. Or – where his brother was concerned – that he ever would.
In any case, right now Jed was worried he was somewhat beyond help. He was already committed to her – surely she knew that? They were having a baby. But how on earth could he possibly explain to Livia how he was feeling, what he feared about marriage, without risking this weekend – and everything else – coming tumbling down around him?
With a sigh, Jed stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, shocked at the tired-looking, hungover person he saw staring back at him, and tried fixing a smile on his face, hoping that if he at least looked happy, it might lift his mood a little. He still didn’t know what he was so upset about (though he’d spent a good part of the previous evening staring into his beer trying to work it out) – being blindsided, or the fear that this might be the beginning of the end. Of course he loved her – people didn’t stay together for ten years, and didn’t (or perhaps, shouldn’t) have babies, if they weren’t in love – but marriage . . . In Jed’s experience, that wasn’t always a positive step. Besides, it was what everyone did. And Jed had always prided himself that he and Livia wouldn’t be the ones doing what everyone did.
His stomach rumbled, but he couldn’t really go down to breakfast without Livia. And even if he woke her up now, it’d take her a good half an hour before she could even contemplate facing the outside world, especially today, with their closest friends due to arrive any moment. He could go for a swim, he supposed – the hotel’s pool had looked pretty inviting in the brief glance he’d got of it as they’d checked in yesterday – but it was more of a plunge pool than something for serious swimming, and what would be the point, particularly given the plunge he was taking later. Besides, he needed to get rid of his hangover, and a run was the surest way of making that happen.
Making his way quietly back into the bedroom, he found his running shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe, bristling at the sight of the dark grey suit and freshly laundered shirt hanging above them that Livia had packed for today’s ceremony without him knowing. He’d been about to complain yesterday, and tell her that she didn’t need to dress him, that he might not want to get married in that particular suit, but he’d decided against it. The fact that she hadn’t thought to check whether he wanted to get married full stop hadn’t prevented Livia from proposing, so why on earth would she care how he felt about what he’d be wearing? Besides, they were in Barcelona, not the back of beyond. He could just go out and buy something else if he didn’t like what she’d brought, as she’d oh-so-casually informed him in response to his raised eyebrows, though Jed had stopped short of telling her the only reason he owned that suit was for any potential funerals.
He checked his watch again, and wondered whether Livia’s undoubtedly militarily precise plans for the day meant he even had time for a run. Not that he knew what was going on. Aside from hanging round the hotel this morning to make sure everyone got here okay (though what he could do about it if they didn’t was beyond him), then a trip into the centre of town to run some errand that Livia had been very coy about, she hadn’t shared any information about their schedule, apart from the fact that everything was on a ‘need-to-know’ basis, and she had it all arranged. When he’d pressed her, she’d shared brief details about the officiant who was marrying them, the catering (t
he kitchen was providing a special menu, no doubt at some specially inflated price) and even the post-dinner dancing (the hotel had a DJ every Saturday, apparently, so there’d be no extra charge for that) – but stressed that all he needed to know was that everything was kicking off around six, so Jed hadn’t dared to ask further. When he thought about it, he was amazed Livia had managed to both find the time to sort this all out and be able to keep it from him. Though he didn’t really want to think about it. Which was another reason why a run was a good idea.
Retrieving yesterday’s T-shirt from the pile of clothes on the chair in the corner, he located his swim shorts in the depths of his suitcase, pulled on his trainers, then rummaged around in Livia’s handbag for the map they’d got from tourist information yesterday. A run along the beach, thought Jed, studying the glossy, department-store-sponsored fold-out. That was what he needed. As was some rehydration.
The minibar provided him with a complimentary bottle of ice-cold water, which he gulped down most of, though as he replaced it in the fridge door, the clinking of glass against glass stirred Livia awake.
‘Morning,’ she said, in a tone that immediately made Jed feel as if he was doing something wrong, before fumbling for her watch on the bedside table, then bringing it right up close to her eyes. Livia couldn’t see a thing without her contact lenses in, and for once, Jed was grateful, sure she’d immediately read something into his surly expression.
‘Morning,’ he replied, as breezily as he could, which, when he played it back in his head, wasn’t that breezily at all, though he hoped Livia might put his gruffness down to the hangover that she probably knew he had.
‘You’re up early?’