by Matt Dunn
He shook his head to clear it, and realised she was speaking again.
‘Thirteen is a lucky number in Italy.’
‘Right. Good to know. Although we’re in Spain. Aren’t we?’
‘We are.’ Margarita smiled again. ‘But I am Italian.’
Liam shook his head. This was almost too good to be true. And if she was suggesting he’d just got lucky . . . He located his key card in his pocket, and with the greatest of efforts, forced himself to open his door. ‘Well, buenas . . .’ He hesitated. What was the word?
‘Noches,’ said Margarita, and Liam almost laughed. That was exactly what Livia had accused him of collecting on his bedpost. And, he’d decided, all that was going to stop. With a smile, he moved to slip through the doorway, but the woman followed him inside.
‘Hold on. If you’re some kind of best man gift organised by Jed and Livia, then thanks, but no thanks. You’re very pretty, but I’m absolutely knackered, and I—’ Liam stopped talking. Margarita was frowning at him.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I am a . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘Turndown service.’
Liam made a face. ‘I’ve been turned down enough today, thank you.’
‘For the bed.’
‘Huh?’
‘I turn down your bed.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first,’ said Liam, escorting her to the door.
Margarita paused, then she narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’
‘Who?’
‘The reality star.’
Liam smiled as he shook his head. ‘I used to be,’ he said.
And as he ushered Margarita back into the corridor, locked the door behind her and pressed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ button, he found himself hoping that was true.
Jed and Livia stood in the middle of the dance floor, arms around each other, rocking gently together, even though they were the last ones left – and the music had stopped when Liam took his phone with him. But they were moving to their own beat, rather than Liam’s – excellent, it had to be said – choice of music, and right now, Jed knew he wouldn’t have it any other way. After a moment, he angled his head back so Livia could see his face, and narrowed his eyes at her.
‘What?’ he said.
‘What do you mean, “what?”’
‘You’ve got that look on your face. Like you’re desperate to ask me something.’
‘Well, I was just wondering . . .’
‘Come on, wife. Out with it.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘That it – this – wasn’t legal.’
‘I’m not stupid, you know?’
‘No, I know, but . . . come on.’
Jed grinned. ‘Liam let it slip. But don’t tell him I told you. He’s mortified enough.’
‘No problem.’
They danced on for another moment, then Jed suddenly took a step backwards. ‘Thank you,’ he said, earnestly.
‘For?’
He gestured around the terrace. ‘All of this.’
‘Says the man who didn’t want to get married.’ Livia reached up and adjusted his tie. ‘And how does married life feel, exactly?’
Jed looked at his watch. His new watch. ‘Early days yet. But I’ll keep you posted.’
‘You do that.’
‘It has a nice ring to it, though.’
‘I wouldn’t mention rings if I were you.’ Livia prodded him in the stomach. ‘And what does?’
‘Mr and Mrs Woodward.’
‘Well, Mr Woodward and Ms Wilson.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t think I’m automatically taking your surname.’
‘But . . .’
‘Hey, here’s an idea. How about you take mine?’
‘Well, I, er, um, suppose that . . .’
‘Relax, Jed. I’m kidding.’
Jed shuddered involuntarily. After the events of this weekend, he wouldn’t put anything past Livia. He flicked his eyes down at his wife’s stomach. ‘What about, you know, it?’
‘What about it?’
‘Who’s he – or she – going to be?’
‘That’s a very deep question. And I think it’s a bit early to tell . . .’
‘No – whose surname are they going to have?’
‘Well . . .’ Livia thought for a moment. ‘They could be double-barrelled?’
‘They could. As would be the shotgun you’d have to hold to my head to get me to agree to let them sound like some posh twat. Besides, we haven’t even talked about Christian names.’
‘Okay – what about half and half?’
‘Like a shandy?’
‘Clara.’
‘I quite like that. For a girl, obviously.’
‘No, clara is what they call a shandy here in . . . Never mind.’ Livia grabbed him again, and started moving to some imaginary song, then she looked up suddenly. ‘I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘How about this first one has my surname, and the next one takes yours, and the third . . .’ She broke into a huge grin, no doubt at the look of terror that Jed hadn’t been able to stop creeping across his face. ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘Let’s not worry about that right now. We’ve got a few more months of just the two of us. Including our honeymoon.’
‘Honeymoon?’
‘A week in a fantastic hotel right on the sea.’ Livia retrieved her phone from where she’d stashed it down the front of her dress, and flicked through her emails to show him the booking confirmation. ‘Menorca, rather than Thailand, on account of my condition. You and me. Just like in that Leonardo DiCaprio film.’
‘Titanic?’
‘The Beach, silly . . .’ Livia stopped talking. Jed was sporting a particularly smug ‘got you’ expression.
‘Well, that sounds lovely,’ he said. ‘Listen, Liv. About earlier . . .’
Livia reached up and put a finger on his lips. ‘I get it, Jed.’
‘Right.’
‘And I should be the one to apologise.’
‘I wasn’t about to apologise!’
‘But . . .’ Livia seemed as if she was searching for the right words, so Jed winked at her and, for good measure, silenced her with a kiss.
‘Finally. We’ve become one of those couples who finish each other’s sentences.’
‘Let’s just promise ourselves we won’t ever get to starting them.’
‘Deal,’ said Jed, then he scanned the terrace. There weren’t that many people left outside at all – Patrick and Izzy had slunk off not long after Rachel had taken some man to the elevator, and Liam had just gone, on his own, so all the other people scattered round the few remaining occupied tables were hotel guests. With everyone they knew gone to bed, he and Livia wouldn’t be missed. ‘Tell you what. How about we go back to the room and celebrate?’
‘Celebrate.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jed. ‘It is our wedding night, after all.’
Livia looked at him, as if trying to work out exactly what ‘celebrate’ might mean, then she widened her eyes in surprise, and the sight almost made Jed burst out laughing.
‘That sounds like a plan. But no trying to carry me over the threshold.’
Jed looked his wife up and down. ‘Sorry, Liv,’ he said, bracing himself for the poke in the ribs that was surely coming. ‘But given the size of you, I’m not honestly sure I could.’
‘Okay. But before we go . . .’ Livia took his hand and led him towards the nearest table. ‘Help me up, will you?’
‘Huh?’
‘For a dance!’
‘Liv . . .’
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ she said, clambering awkwardly up onto a chair, then onto the table, and beckoning for him to follow her.
‘What if you fall off?’
‘I won’t. And even if I do . . .’
‘What?’
‘You’ll be there to catch me.’
‘I will,’ said Jed. ‘Always.’
‘Promise?’
‘I
do,’ said Jed, with a smile. Now he knew it was a promise he could keep.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks: To Emilie Marneur, Sana Chebaro, Victoria Pepe and the rest of the Amazon (though that really should read ‘Amazing’) Publishing team – without you, it’d all just be typing.
To super-editor Sophie ‘I think we can lose this (translation: it’s not funny)’ Wilson.
To Gemma Wain, for her painstakingness and meticulosity (STET).
To Tina (for more than I can say).
To the usual suspects (Tony, Loz, John, and Dave & Nic) for being good friends/the material/not suing me.
To the (new, social media version of the) Board.
And finally, to everyone who’s ever read, recommended or (nicely) reviewed one of my books. I couldn’t – and wouldn’t – do it without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2014 Cassandra Nelson
British writer Matt Dunn is the author of twelve (and counting) romantic comedy novels, including A Day at the Office (a Kindle bestseller), The Ex-Boyfriend’s Handbook (shortlisted for both the Romantic Novel of the Year Award and the Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance) and 13 Dates. He’s also written about life, love and relationships for various publications including The Times, the Guardian, Glamour, Cosmopolitan, Company, Elle and the Sun. Before becoming a full-time writer, Matt worked as a lifeguard, a fitness-equipment salesman and an IT headhunter.