by Matt Dunn
‘Women!’ he said, to no one in particular, then he gritted his teeth, put the vehicle in gear and drove angrily back to the hotel.
Rachel climbed down from the open-topped bus and gazed up at the stadium. She hadn’t planned to get off here, wasn’t at all a football fan herself, but given the excited way everyone else on the bus seemed to be chattering in anticipation at seeing the Nou Camp, Barcelona’s famous football ground and the first stop on the tour, she’d thought she should at least take a quick peek.
Rich wouldn’t have wanted to do this, of course; the idea of going to see anything related to the team that had so humiliated his beloved Gunners would probably have sent him scurrying to the nearest bar (if he hadn’t been in it already), though he’d probably even turn his nose up at the local cerveza, Estrella, seeing as it was the club’s official beer. Then again, Rich probably wouldn’t have wanted to come on an open-top bus tour in the first place. It would have cut into his ‘valuable drinking time’, as he was fond of describing any weekend lunchtime before a game. But now, as Rachel took in the huge structure towering over her, a thought occurred to her: they’d been at a party recently where – not knowing she was with someone – some guy had tried to chat Rachel up, and while she hadn’t responded in kind, Rich had seen what was going on and . . . well, suffice to say, once they’d got back to her place he’d been more attentive than she’d experienced in a long while. And though it perhaps wasn’t quite the same thing, being here might just have the same effect – if not, it’d be a great way to stick two fingers up to Rich in the most effective way possible. To kick him where it would really hurt – right up the Arsenal. And make him see she wasn’t the walkover his football team had been.
She hurried round the outside of the building, past the dozens of souvenir stands selling breathtakingly expensive commemorative shirts, ‘official’ calendars, postcards and even (despite the midday heat) thick woollen red-and-blue scarves, until she saw what she was looking for – a huge photo of the team’s stars, emblazoned on the stadium wall next to a large ‘FCB’ logo. It was perfect, Rachel thought, pulling her phone from her pocket and taking a succession of photos.
She reviewed the images, then frowned at the screen. Something was missing. Despite having lots of shots of the stadium, she only had one shot at this. And she needed it to really hit home.
Rachel peered at the crowds thronging around outside the stadium, searching for inspiration. Behind her, a group of teenagers were gathered at one of the souvenir stands, excitedly trying on all manner of FC Barcelona paraphernalia, from tracksuit tops to caps, hoodies and bags, and even cardboard masks of the players. Now that was an idea – maybe not a mask, but she could certainly use a couple of props.
She strolled casually across to the stand and idly picked up one of the shirts, the name ‘Messi’ emblazoned across the back in bright yellow letters above a large number 10. It couldn’t be more perfect, she thought. Well, unless the player’s name ended in a Y, because that’s how it might get once Rich saw her wearing it.
‘Can I try?’ she said to the man behind the counter, miming pulling it over her head in case he didn’t understand her, and when he nodded, Rachel slipped it on. It was a little tight, perhaps, but at least that would accentuate her figure. After all, she also wanted to show Rich what he was missing. If not that she’d been missing him.
Scanning the rack in front of her, she picked up a scarf and – doing her best to ignore the sweltering temperature – draped it round her neck, then located a cap with the club’s logo on the front and tried that on too. There was a mirror to her left, so she stepped over and checked her reflection, then had to stifle a laugh. Rich had raged at the TV when Barcelona had thrashed Arsenal. Now he’d be raging at his phone when he saw the picture she was about to send him!
She glanced up at the stallholder, but he was too busy checking the group of teenagers weren’t trying to steal anything to be watching her, so she took a step back from the mirror, as if actually considering buying the whole, lurid combination, then turned around so the rear of the shirt was visible, looked back coquettishly over her shoulder, quickly raised her phone and snapped a selfie, careful to get the stadium and the photo of the players behind her in the shot. It was a little difficult, given the length of her arm and the amount of references she was trying to get in, but Rachel had always hated those ridiculous selfie sticks everyone seemed to be using now (and that had nearly taken her eye out on a number of occasions already today), and besides, she hadn’t thought she’d be needing one. Normally, when there were two of you travelling, there’d always be one to take the photo while one was in the photo, and any selfies would be more of the close-up, just-the-two-of-you, intimate variety.
She checked her phone, and to her amazement she’d got the shot she wanted first time. As she admired the photo, she heard a gruff Spanish voice behind her.
‘Is good?’
Rachel wheeled round to find the stallholder looking at her with raised eyebrows. ‘Oh yes, perfect,’ she said, before realising he was referring to the items she was wearing. ‘I mean, no. Sorry.’
As he scowled at her, she quickly put the cap and scarf back where she’d found them, then tugged the shirt off and handed it back to him. The day was getting hotter, so she walked over to where the stadium could provide some shade, and double-checked the photo. Then she took a deep breath, hit ‘Share’, tapped the WhatsApp icon and scrolled through to Rich’s number.
Wish you were here, she typed, followed by a series of question marks, and hurriedly pressed send before she lost her nerve. Then – to ensure she wouldn’t spend the rest of the day obsessing about whether he’d seen it and (more importantly) whether he’d replied – she blocked his number, slipped her phone back into her pocket and – with a huge smile on her face – made her way back towards the bus stop.
Chapter 4
Patrick was marching crossly back through the hotel’s reception when Livia’s ‘On your own?’ took him by surprise. She was sitting on the sofa opposite the lift, and when she patted the cushion next to her, he fixed a smile on his face and made his way across the lobby.
‘It would seem so. Izzy’s gone—’
‘Shopping?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Lucky guess.’
‘I fear my attempt to play tour guide was . . . unappreciated,’ he said, sitting down next to her, and Livia sighed.
‘I’m hoping that’s not how Jed feels about all of this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. I’m sure I’m just being silly. You’d be flattered, wouldn’t you, Patrick, if Izzy . . . ?’
‘Steady on! I’m very fond of her and everything, but it’s a little too early to—’ Patrick caught himself. Livia seemed a little on edge, and he reminded himself that her comment wasn’t really about him. ‘Of course I would. And I’m sure he is.’ He patted the back of her hand supportively. ‘What are you doing down here on your own?’
‘Just waiting for Jed,’ said Livia, glancing towards the lift. ‘I’m taking him into town to get the rings.’
‘Convinced him to get you an engagement ring, have you? Because it’s possibly the shortest engagement I’ve ever—’
‘Nope. The ones we’re exchanging later.’
‘Exchanging?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Um . . .’
‘What?’
‘The watch incident?’
‘What about it?’
‘Jed hates jewellery.’
‘This is a wedding ring.’
‘Right.’
‘Besides, he doesn’t have to wear it on his finger.’
‘Through his nose?’ Patrick had been joking, but Livia’s expression suggested it wasn’t his best attempt at humour. ‘Oh. Right. Well, if you happen to bump into a lost-looking Izzy when you’re in town . . .’
‘Midlife crisis going well, then?’
Patrick gave her a look. ‘Some d
ays, I wish I’d stopped at the Porsche.’
‘Turning out to be rather high-maintenance?’
‘The Porsche, no. Izzy . . .’ He sighed. ‘There are times I think she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But there are also times when I look at her and wonder what on earth she’s doing with me. And who I’m trying to kid.’
‘“Kid” being the appropriate word?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I always used to laugh at those older men who paraded around with these much younger women, but now I’m one of them.’
Livia smiled sympathetically. ‘And you’re worried people are laughing at you?’
Patrick thought for a moment. ‘I wasn’t. Though I am now!’ He forced a grin. ‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Thinking you’re a perv, then?’
‘No! Well, perhaps a little. But surely I deserve a little fun? After—’
‘Of course you do!’ Livia gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Only . . .’
‘What?’
‘This is fun, is it?’
‘Yes, it is. Most of the time.’
‘So, what are you going to do?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘Why do I need to do anything?’
‘Because, right now, you don’t seem particularly happy.’
‘That’s because we’ve just had an argument. And I know I’d be even more unhappy without her.’
‘You sure you’re not just trying to rub Sarah’s face in it?’
Patrick laughed. ‘This would be a pretty extreme way of doing that, wouldn’t it?’ He shook his head. ‘No, this isn’t about revenge, Liv. It’s more . . . I don’t know what it’s more of, to be honest. Sarah left me. Had an affair, remember? And because of that, she got to keep the house, and look after my daughter . . . It was almost as if she got rewarded for the shitty way she behaved. And that makes me feel pretty shitty, you know? Izzy . . . doesn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact. We have – what is it the youth say? – lots of LOLs. It’s fun. There’s no pressure. We’re both having a good time. And it turns out we’ve actually got a lot more in common than I first thought.’
‘I don’t dare ask what that is!’
‘Plus my ego needed a boost.’
‘And is it getting one?’
‘You bet it is!’ he said. Walking round with someone who looked like Izzy on his arm, incidents like the man in Stella McCartney, and then Liam by the pool . . . Men were always flirting with – or, at least, leering at – Izzy. He felt the same sense of pride when people admired the Porsche. Though, admittedly, that didn’t come with a helping of jealousy. Or was it insecurity? ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘what’s the alternative? I try to find someone my own age, someone who doesn’t have all the baggage you accumulate when you get to this stage in life, all the bitterness and mistrust that going through betrayal and a divorce can give you . . . ?’
‘Good luck with that!’
‘Or I spend my time with someone a bit less . . . cynical.’
Livia shifted her position on the sofa so she could look at him directly. ‘Did it ever occur to you that the reason she’s with you is because she is cynical?’
‘Huh?’
‘Why isn’t Izzy with someone her own age?’
‘Thanks very much!’
‘No, I mean . . . what issues does she have that you help her with?’
Patrick thought for a moment. ‘Cash flow, perhaps?’
‘I’m sure that’s not all . . .’
‘Come on, Liv. I’d love to think she was with me for my looks and sparkling personality . . .’ He paused. ‘In fact, that’s what I am going to think.’
‘Patrick . . .’
‘Hey – not everyone’s lucky enough to have what you and Jed have. Some of us . . . we just go with what’s in front of us. I tried the road you went down, and for whatever reason, it didn’t work out for me. So can you blame me for wanting to take the path less travelled?’
Livia made a face as if to suggest that Izzy was hardly ‘less travelled’, and Patrick laughed, despite himself. ‘There’s a reason that route doesn’t get a lot of traffic, Patrick. And it’s usually because the people who take it end up getting lost.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘And, you know, the money thing . . .’
Patrick shrugged. ‘Everything costs. My divorce certainly did, and that wasn’t even my fault! So if you’re going to be paying, you might as well get what you want.’
Livia nodded contemplatively. ‘Is Izzy what you want?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Maybe.’
‘And is Izzy getting what she wants?’
‘She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t. She’s a grown woman.’
‘Only just!’
‘Even so. She can make her own choices.’
‘What if her own choices include wanting to get married? Having kids?’
‘Well, I’m afraid where I’m concerned, that’s not on the table. Besides, she’s much too young.’
‘You might think that. She might not.’
‘Why? What’s she been saying?’ Patrick gave her a look of mock horror, then he shook his head. ‘Does she really look like the kind of person who’s ready for the school run?’
Livia laughed. ‘Only if she’s the one being dropped off!’
‘Ha ha. Besides, she knows the score.’
‘Does she? Have you actually told her?’
Patrick looked over his shoulder towards the lift, willing Jed to appear like he had earlier and bring this uncomfortable conversation to a close. ‘As I’m sure you can imagine, we don’t tend to have a lot of deep and meaningful conversations.’
‘That’s because you’re too busy having—’
‘Fun! And no, it’s because we don’t need to.’
‘Hey!’ Livia reached over and patted him on the knee. ‘As long as you’re happy.’
‘Who is happy, Liv? Look around you. Rachel’s got a face on her like it’s the end of the world. Rich obviously wasn’t happy, or he’d be here today. And Liam . . . to be honest, it’s hard to tell how he feels about anything, but that smile on his face quite often seems to be as fake as whatever lines he uses on those women of his. Besides, even if you think you’re happy, it’s only a temporary thing. No, as long as you’re not unhappy – I think that’s as much as you can ask for.’ He stopped talking abruptly when he saw Livia’s face had fallen. ‘But hey. Don’t listen to me. We’re here for your wedding. And that’s a happy thing, yes?’
‘It is.’ Livia looked exasperatedly at her watch. ‘Assuming Jed gets his backside in gear.’
Patrick nodded, then his expression changed, as if a thought had just occurred to him. ‘Speaking of knowing the score, Liv, tell me something . . .’ he said, his voice a few decibels quieter than normal. ‘Jed’s aware this whole thing isn’t legal, right?’
‘What? Me press-ganging him into marrying me? Like when you beat a confession out of a prisoner?’
‘No, the actual marriage. In England, I mean. The first thing Jed knew about this was when you popped the question yesterday, so I’m assuming you haven’t given notice or anything?’
Livia looked at him guiltily. ‘Um . . . no. We’d have had to do that twenty-eight days before this. Which would have meant him knowing what was going on, obviously.’
‘So he has no idea that what he’s going to be doing later doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It means something to me!’
‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’
Livia glanced towards the lift again, a little anxiously this time, in case Jed might suddenly appear and overhear them. ‘It’s symbolic, though, isn’t it? As far as Jed’s concerned, he’s marrying me. The fact we’ll have to get actually married back in England to rubber-stamp it is neither here nor there.’ She let out a nervous laugh. ‘Well, it’s here and there, of course.’
Patrick harrumphed, provoking a ‘What?’ from Livia.
He held his hands up. ‘Okay. Tricking him into marrying you is one th
ing, but tricking him into thinking he’s marrying you when actually he isn’t is something completely different.’
‘Why? Perception is reality and all that.’
‘Except it’s not in this case, is it?’
‘Well . . .’
‘How do you think he’s going to feel when he finds out?’
‘If he finds out.’
‘When he finds out. People always do, Liv. And trust me, there’s nothing worse than secrets to wreck a marriage. Even when it’s not a legal one.’
‘So you think what I’m doing is wrong?’
Patrick reached over and patted the back of her hand. ‘Not necessarily. I just think you might be going about it in slightly the wrong way.’
‘But I’m doing it because I love him, Patrick. Because we love each other. Even if I am tricking him into it, surely that justifies . . .’
Livia’s voice had trailed off, so Patrick folded his arms. ‘There’s tricking, and there’s presenting someone with a fait accompli . . .’
‘That’s just how we are, though! When we’re back in England, I’ll tell him we simply have to get it “ratified”.’ Livia made air quotes around the last word, then she sat back on the sofa and nodded, as if pleased with her plan and her explanation. ‘And besides, who’s going to tell him?’
Patrick pursed his lips. That sounded too much like a warning.
‘Liv . . .’
‘Please, Patrick. I asked you here to give me away. Not the game.’
‘Take it from me, Liv, men don’t like to be made fools of, especially in public. Jed might already feel like an idiot because you’ve done this to him, and in front of everyone . . .’
‘But it was supposed to be a surprise. Jed likes surprises. Tonight’s going to be fun.’
‘He needs to know. Because if he ever finds out that he’s stood up in front of us all this evening and gone through with something, when everyone except for him knew it didn’t amount to anything . . . can you blame him if he reacts badly to that?’