by Matt Dunn
The worst bit was, Jed hadn’t known how to respond. He’d thought he and Livia had an understanding. But she’d cornered him, put him on the spot, and in the end, he’d said the only thing he could have said, then put a face on and finished his dinner as if being proposed to was an everyday occurrence, when he should have simply told her how he felt. And he was regretting not doing that now.
They’d ordered cava – well, for him, and a sparkling water for her – and had toasted the ‘good’ news, then Livia had needed a lie-down, so he’d left her in the room with a curt ‘Just going for a walk’, and had in fact only walked as far as the hotel’s bar for an ice-cold glass of cerveza or six (which hadn’t done him any favours, either when he’d arrived back at the room a couple of hours later, or this morning). And when he’d protested that sitting on his own at a hotel bar hadn’t been much of a stag night, Livia had teased him that for someone who’d seemed quite happy to never get married, Jed should think himself lucky to have had that. Besides, she’d told him, he could celebrate properly tomorrow, with his brother and their friends, after they’d made their vows. He’d bitten off his response to that.
He slowed down, wary of bumping into any oncoming tour groups, and jogged round the corner. The hotel was up ahead, where Livia was no doubt simultaneously wondering where he was while demolishing the breakfast buffet, but instead of hurrying inside to meet her, he found himself continuing on past and into the Gótico’s main square. He could sneak up to his room, grab his passport, hightail it to the airport – right now, that felt like a much easier option than just sitting down and opening up to her. But running out on Livia would mean running out on their unborn child . . . His heart swelled with pride at the thought he was going to be a dad soon. Why couldn’t he find it in himself to feel the same way about Livia’s proposal?
He double-checked his watch against the clock on the front of the town hall and forced himself to stop running. In a few hours, he’d be married. In a few months, he’d be a father. Either of those things was scary enough on its own, but thinking about them both . . . Jed was all for new beginnings, but why did he suddenly feel his life as he knew it was coming to an end instead?
As he performed a few perfunctory stretches against the wall of the building, an uneasy feeling began spreading through his stomach. Perhaps it was last night’s spicy patatas bravas coming back to haunt him, more likely it was nerves, but either way, Jed decided the best thing to do was to try to walk it off. Once more round the block, at least. He’d cool down, calm down, then he’d head back to the hotel, take Livia to one side, and tell . . . no, explain to her why this was all such a bad idea. Maybe she’d understand. Get that this wasn’t something he’d be good at. Marriage was . . . well, if you had a history of alcoholism in your family, and someone was forcing you to work behind a bar, you’d be nervous. Convinced you’d do a bad job. Sure you’d fail. Wouldn’t you?
With a last, guilty glance at the time, he took a deep breath, then set off past the hotel and back in the direction he’d come from.
Rachel rode the elevator up to her floor, smiling neutrally at the male hotel employee standing uncomfortably close to her in the cramped lift who’d insisted on helping her with her luggage, despite it simply being a wheelie, and one that she’d managed to transport here all the way from England on her own. Surely the final fifty or so metres were the least of her worries, and especially since the lift was doing all the work?
At first she’d been flattered when a tall, not-bad-looking man dressed head to toe in black had rushed to hold the lift doors open, then taken her case from her, even asking for her number in a rather sexy Spanish accent. Then she’d noticed several other people milling round reception dressed in similar outfits, so she’d asked her companion whether he was here for a funeral at the precise moment she’d spotted his nametag and realised they – and therefore he – worked here, and that it was her room number he’d been after, simply so he could show her to it. Still, she conceded, despite her mortification, in the absence of Rich to carry her bag it was nice to see someone being the gentleman, even if they were only doing it through professional obligation.
Obediently, she trailed after the man along the corridor to her room, relieved to find it wasn’t right by the lift – being woken during the night by the sound of other people coming back from having a good time was the last thing she wanted.
‘Aquí,’ he announced, producing a key card from his pocket with a flourish.
‘I can see that,’ said Rachel, sniffily. ‘And they already gave me one at reception, so . . .’
‘No – aquí. Here.’
Rachel held up her own key card. ‘And here. A key. I already—’
‘You don’t understand. Aquí. It’s Spanish. For “here”.’
‘I knew that,’ said Rachel quickly, awkwardly trying to recover some composure, even though she didn’t actually speak a word of Spanish. ‘So, thanks, but I’m fine, if you could just . . .’
She made to push past him, but the man was too quick for her. ‘I show you your room,’ he insisted, clicking the lock open and leading her inside.
He hoisted her case onto the luggage stand at the end of her bed, wincing slightly at the weight, then strode across to the other side of the room, turned round and looked at her earnestly, as if about to divulge some great secret. ‘The bathroom,’ he said, opening a door which Rachel would probably have guessed led there anyway, before marching in and briefly turning on the taps on the various fittings as if to prove they weren’t an optical illusion. ‘The shower, the bath, and . . .’ He cleared his throat, as a tour guide might before pointing out the Mona Lisa. ‘The toilet.’
‘Got it,’ said Rachel, grateful for the lack of a demonstration, not knowing what the appropriate response to him pointing out the bleeding obvious might be.
The man beamed at her, then strode back into the room, picked up the TV remote control and pointed it towards the set hanging on the far wall. ‘The television,’ he said, as some inane-looking Spanish gameshow appeared on the screen.
‘Really?’
The man nodded – obviously her sarcasm had been lost in translation – clicked the set off again, and peered around the room as if looking for any more hotel ‘mysteries’ he might be able to shed light on. Rachel folded her arms. She’d been in a hotel before. Most people had. And in any case, even if you hadn’t, it wouldn’t be that difficult to work out what was what.
‘Aha!’ said the man, as if he’d just remembered the most important thing of all, and Rachel sighed to herself. Why wouldn’t he leave?
‘Aha?’
‘The air conditioning!’ He picked up another remote from beside the bed and aimed it at a unit above the door, which sent an icy blast in Rachel’s direction.
‘And where exactly do I sleep?’ she said, giving the man a look that she hoped matched the air temperature.
The man pointed at the bed, then pulled his hand back as if he’d accidently stuck it into a fire. ‘I think you are having a laugh, yes?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘Well, one of us is,’ she said, moving across to the door and opening it, though instead of leaving, the man simply stood in front of her, his hand out at waist height, palm upwards, as if waiting for a low five.
Rachel rolled her eyes. He may have been expecting a tip, but she was damned if she was going to pay him to leave. ‘I don’t have any change,’ she said after an awkward moment, though his ‘I do’ in response threw her a little.
‘Thank you,’ she said, as cheerily as she could muster, then she disappeared into the bathroom, waiting until she heard the shutting of her door – though it was more of a slam – before coming back out again. Rich could be like that, she reminded herself – expecting a medal for simply putting a cup away, or washing up a teaspoon, not that she’d had many occasions to award him one. But whenever she’d tried to take him to task about it, he’d just flash her that mischievous smile of his, say something charming and she’d turn t
o putty in his hands.
Men! she thought, exasperatedly. She’d be better off without them all. Maybe she would get that cat and . . . Rachel puffed air out of her cheeks, not liking the mental picture of her life-to-be that plan painted. She sniffed hard, then unzipped her wheelie and peered at the wardrobe, debating whether to unpack, even though she was only here for the one night, and only had the one wedding outfit with her (well, two – a girl always needed a spare, just in case of any last-minute accidents, or clashes with other guests. Though given how this was possibly the smallest wedding she’d ever been to, that was unlikely).
She collapsed onto the bed and stretched her arms out, instantly regretting booking a ‘king deluxe’ – all that extra space just seemed to rub her nose in the fact that she was here alone – and tried to stop herself from bursting into tears. Not at the room – it was beautiful, with the comfiest bed she’d ever lain on, but the views of Barcelona’s gothic streets from her balcony were so stunning she immediately wished she had someone here to share them with. And later, after the wedding, when it was supposed to be the eight of them on the top table . . . Well, now it was just the seven: Jed and Livia, Liam and whoever it was he’d brought, Patrick and his ‘child bride’, and her, with (for the second time today) an empty seat next to her. But the alternative had been to not come, and to let her oldest friend down. And Rachel would never do that.
She pulled out her phone and checked the screen. No text messages apart from Livia earlier, and nothing from Rich, though she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. They’d hardly parted on the best of terms, and besides, he’d rarely messaged her when they’d been together, apart from the odd ‘running late’ message (which usually meant the match he’d been watching was). Had hardly ever called. Though some people were just like that, she knew. Weren’t the romantic type. Rich had been more . . . macho. Old-fashioned. Her ‘bit of rough’ (as he’d liked to describe himself) – into football, and going to the pub, and . . . just those two things really.
In truth, she’d seen him as a bit of a project. Thought he’d had potential. But he’d turned out to be a little too ‘rough’ for things to go as smoothly as Rachel had wanted, which was possibly why her plans to make everything right between them here in Barcelona had ended up having the opposite effect.
With a sigh, she hauled herself upright, found the information card on the bedside table, logged onto the hotel’s Wi-Fi and checked her emails, but there was nothing from him there either. Perhaps the Rich chapter of her life was over.
She strode to her balcony, and peered down at the couples seated at the various tables in front of the café opposite, then caught sight of Patrick getting out of a taxi and waved. Patrick gave her a cheery smile, whereas Izzy – or Dizzy, as Rachel would forever think of her, thanks to Livia’s comment – responded with a suspicious glance. Rachel thought about heading downstairs to say hello, but she’d just have to run the awkward gauntlet of more ‘where’s Rich?’ questions, and quite frankly she could do without that. No, she decided, the best thing would be to head out into the city. See Barcelona, and without Rich constantly demanding they stop for a beer, or complaining that the museums were boring, all the time with one eye on his watch, anxious not to miss kick-off. Besides, she reminded herself, absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder. So maybe she would take Livia’s advice, post as many photos as she could of her having a good time – or at least, pretending to – without him, and then . . . he’d be putty in her hands when she got back.
She hoped.
And if not? Maybe the single life wouldn’t be too bad. At least if you had no one there to constantly disappoint you – well, you wouldn’t feel constantly disappointed, would you? Besides, meeting someone new was exhausting, and right now, Rachel wasn’t sure she had the energy to go through it all again. In any case, this was . . . whatever the decade after the noughties was called. Life was different now. Lots of people lived on their own. Had babies on their own. A friend of hers at work had done it – and finding a suitable donor had seemed like less hassle (and been cheaper!) than when Rachel had bought her new iPhone. Besides, she had to face facts: most of the other men she knew – Jed and Patrick aside – were like little boys. Maybe Patrick was too, seeing as he was dating a little girl. And even Jed – someone Rachel thought was probably as good as it gets where men were concerned – still hadn’t been mature enough to get down on one knee in front of Livia, despite that being what Livia quite plainly wanted and she was pregnant.
Though if Livia could take matters into her own hands – and didn’t care who knew it – then surely Rachel could do what she liked. Live how she wanted. Have a baby if she decided to (though she would probably start with a cat. It made more sense). And all of that would begin with her embracing the single life while she was here.
So she’d quickly unpack, put on some make-up, change into her comfortable shoes and spend the next few hours happily taking in whatever Barcelona had to offer, followed by a late lunch in a restaurant of her choice rather than Rich insisting they found a pub where the football would be on, back here for a relax round the pool, then she’d change into her evening’s finery and watch – no, help – her best friend get married. All in all, that sounded like a pretty good plan.
With a newfound resolve, she stepped back into the room, shut the balcony doors behind her, hung her dress(es) carefully in the wardrobe and got herself ready to face the world, determined not to waste another second. This was Barcelona. Exotic, trendy, hip, beautiful, romantic and the sun was shining . . . How could she not have a good time?
A leaflet on the desk beneath the TV was advertising ‘Hop on, hop off’ bus tours, and Rachel scanned through it, deciding this would be perfect. With a last quick check of her reflection in the mirror, she grabbed her sunglasses, slipped her copy of Lonely Planet Barcelona into her bag, hurried back downstairs and out into the street, and made her way excitedly towards the bus stop.
Chapter 3
‘You made it!’ squealed Livia, embracing Patrick tightly.
‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ he said, then he stood back, took her by the shoulders and looked her up and down. ‘You look . . .’
‘Huge?’
‘Well, yes, there’s that, obviously. Though “radiant” was the word I was originally gunning for.’ Patrick smiled affectionately. ‘We ran into the blushing groom in the taxi.’
‘Not literally, I hope?’ Livia grinned at him. ‘He was heading back, yeah?’
Patrick laughed. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘No reason,’ she said, doing her best not to sound guilty but – judging by Patrick’s expression – failing miserably.
‘Hey – good on you for asking.’
Livia shrugged. ‘Don’t ask, don’t get! I think you taught me that.’
‘Well, now the pupil has overtaken the teacher.’
Patrick took a step back as Izzy cleared her throat behind him. ‘Is this a private love-in, or were you ever going to introduce me?’ she said.
‘Sorry.’ He slipped an arm around Izzy’s shoulders. ‘Livia, this is—’
‘Izzy. Of course.’ Livia smiled warmly. ‘Welcome to the Hotel Catalonia.’
‘Such a lovely place,’ sang Patrick, and Izzy frowned.
‘It’s a song,’ he explained, embarrassed. ‘By the Eagles . . .’
Izzy wasn’t looking as if that information had helped, so Livia leant over and gave her a hug. ‘Patrick’s told me all about you.’
‘He has?’ Izzy shot him a suspicious glance. ‘When?’
‘Whenever,’ said Patrick, in an end-of-conversation tone.
‘Right. Well, congratulations,’ said Izzy, grabbing hold of Patrick’s arm.
‘We’re not married yet.’
‘I meant for getting him to marry you. And having his baby. That’s pretty mega . . .’
‘Well, technically, it’s our baby.’
‘Even so,’ continued Izzy. ‘Girl power!�
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‘Right,’ said Livia, wondering if Izzy had even been born when that was a thing. ‘When did you get here?’ She addressed the question to both of them, but Izzy seemed distracted by the view of the pool though the double doors.
‘A couple of hours ago.’ Patrick stifled a yawn. ‘Same crack-of-dawn flight as Rachel.’
‘Who beat you here, by the way.’
‘We went for breakfast.’ He pointed at the Stella McCartney bag balanced on top of his wheelie. ‘Plus Izzy wanted to go shopping. On the way in from the airport.’
‘I needed something to wear for tonight.’
Patrick lowered his voice to a stage whisper. ‘The three outfits she brought with her obviously weren’t appropriate.’
‘I won’t wear it if you’re worried I might upstage you.’
For a moment, Livia wasn’t quite sure how to answer that, though she couldn’t detect any malice in Izzy’s tone. Wasn’t this how the youth were nowadays, though? Used to just telling it like it was? Though in Izzy’s case, Livia feared she could turn up this evening dressed in a bin bag and she’d still upstage her.
‘No, please do. In any case, I’ll be walking down the aisle with a stomach with its own gravitational field. Everyone will be upstaging me.’
Izzy smiled politely, then glanced back towards the double doors, as if anxious to be outside, and Patrick laughed. ‘You’re acting like you’ve never seen the sun before.’
‘Hello?’ Izzy made a kooky face. ‘I live in England, remember?’