There Goes the Bride

by Holly McQueen

  “The reason I’ve had a difficult few days,” he carries on, “is nothing to do with work. I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking, as it happens. Complicated thoughts. Thoughts about … well, about you.”

  “Me?” I say. Actually, seeing as his finger is still over my mouth, it comes out more of a mmngh.

  “Yes. About you, and that lunch we had the other day, and Charlie.”

  OK, now I’m really stressed. Did Saad say something about our lunch to Charlie when they went for the client dinner last night? And did Charlie go uncharacteristically mental on him? And—oh my God—has Saad been forced to fire him as a result?

  But if this is the case, why didn’t Charlie say anything to me about it when he got back last night? And why hasn’t Saad got a black eye or anything, instead of looking just as perfect as always? Not that I think Charlie’s capable of giving anyone a black eye. His temper tends to come in the form of monstrous sulks rather than open aggression.

  “And then when I saw you at the office the other evening …” He removes his finger from my lips, which is my opportunity to start frantically apologizing for the homemade thank-you card. But before I can begin, he carries on, “Anyway, I’ve decided, Grace, that I can’t just do nothing about this.”

  “About what?”

  He seems to be searching for the right words before he simply says, “About you.”

  “What about me?” I’m aware that I sound like a total halfwit, by the way. But I’ve suddenly got this weird roaring noise in my ears that’s making it difficult for me to form complete sentences.

  “Grace, I can’t stop thinking about you, OK? I was doing pretty well, after that lunch of ours, at not thinking too much about … well, about how attractive I found you.” Now that he’s found the right words, they’re tumbling out in a rush. “But then you turned up at the office with that card, and … look, there is nobody in my life, Grace—nobody—who’s ever done anything like that for me before.”

  “Drawn you,” I just about manage to utter, “a stupid picture of a cow?”

  “No. Taken ten minutes out of their day to do something that would make me smile.” His inky eyes fix onto mine. “I’m not used to it, Grace. I’m used to women like … well, like Britta.”

  Wait. He saw me in the same space/time continuum as supermodel-on-the-verge Britta, and I’m the one he was attracted to?

  “And ever since that, I really haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” His words are coming in a rush again. “About making you smile the way you made me smile. About your smile, full stop. About your beautiful hair, and your incredible body. About touching you. About you touching me. And I can’t stop thinking about you being with Charlie instead, and honestly, Grace, it’s driving me absolutely nuts …”

  At this moment, two things happen simultaneously. The door to the drawing room opens, and Thomas walks in carrying a tray laden with tea things. And out of absolutely nowhere, my nose starts to bleed.

  This has happened to me only twice before—first, strangely enough, when I got the call from Polly telling me her sister had been in a terrible car crash; and second, when I found out I was pregnant with Robbie—but at least on both those occasions, I wasn’t sitting on a pale leather sofa, with an absurdly attractive billionaire mopping at the streaming blood with his shirtsleeves, and his housekeeper handing me fresh linen napkins with an expression on his face that’s part utter disdain, part anxiety for the soft furnishings.

  “Wait—I’m going to go and get some ice,” Saad says after a couple of sticky and stressful minutes. “No, no, Thomas, let me,” he adds, getting to his feet as Thomas starts to move for the door. “You’ve got more first-aid training than me. It’s better if you stay with Grace.”

  “I don’t need anyone with first-aid training,” I croak. But it’s too late. He’s gone. “Honestly, it’ll stop in a moment,” I tell Thomas.

  He hands me another napkin, which I accept with shaking hands and wodge up my nose. “I gather that this happens frequently, then, Mrs. Costello?”

  “No, God, no, only twice in the past decade … I think it usually coincides with a bit of a shock.”

  Because that’s what this has been. The most God-almighty shock, I think, that I’ve ever had.

  OK, let’s just try to press a Pause button here. Followed by a rewind. What did Saad just say to me? That he can’t stop thinking about me. Specifically, about my smile and—did I mishear this?—about my body.

  I think the word incredible might have been bandied about in there somewhere.

  Certainly the word touch was in there somewhere.

  “Shock?” Thomas is repeating, his eyebrows raised in … what—interest? concern? stickybeakiness? “I do apologize, Mrs. Costello, if Mr. Amar has said something to offend you.”

  “No, no. I mean, I’m not offended. It was just something … it was a bit out of the blue, that’s all.” I know I’m blabbering, but it feels like my entire world has just been upended. And po-faced and poker-bummed though Thomas may be—and a virtual stranger at that—he is at least some kind of anchor. Something constant. He was sniffy with me before Saad turned my life upside down, and he’s being equally sniffy afterward. “I thought I was just here to talk about school admissions. I wasn’t expecting anything else. Though I’m sure he’s probably changing his mind about it all right now. I mean, I’m quite sure his usual … what did you call them?—the ‘ladies of Mr. Amar’s acquaintance’—don’t bleed all over his living room.”

  “That is correct, Mrs. Costello.”

  I stare up at him. I’m aware that I’ve got a blood-soaked linen napkin wodged up inside each nostril, which must make me look like a demented walrus after a vicious killing spree, but I’m past caring. “Then what am I doing here, Thomas? I mean, even without the bleeding nose, you and I both know I’m hardly the type I’m sure he usually goes after …”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Mrs. Costello.” He’s doing a rather terrifically impressive job of not quite looking me in the eye, fixing his gaze approximately half a centimeter north of my eyebrows. “You’re clearly a very attractive woman. Mr. Amar is always partial to an elegant blonde. And if you’ll forgive me, Mrs. Costello, I think you may be reading just a little too much into what—I presume—have been his advances.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Amar is a handsome, vigorous, and extremely wealthy young man,” he says, in a tone of voice that makes me wonder, suddenly, if he hasn’t got a bit of a hopeless crush on Saad himself. “If I may be frank, this means he can have almost any woman he wants, when he wants. Today, that woman is you. Tomorrow it will be someone different. It is, as people say”—he clears his throat—“no biggie.”

  “No biggie?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Costello. I don’t see that there is any cause for”—he makes the smallest of gestures in the direction of my bloody nose and all the soaked napkins—“any kind of overreaction.”

  He falls silent, immediately, as Saad comes back into the room with a decanter full of ice, a large bottle of brandy, and two tumblers. Thank God, though, the ice is a bit redundant, as my nose seems to have finally shut itself down. He sits down next to me again and pours me a glass of brandy. By the time he hands it over, Thomas has discreetly and tactfully vanished from the room.

  I remember, only a moment or so too late, that it’s probably time to discreetly and tactfully remove the bits of napkin from my nostrils. I haven’t had much opportunity to sit down with a magazine for a while, but I’m fairly sure the Psycho Walrus look isn’t in this season.

  “Thank you,” I say to Saad, taking a couple of very large sips from the glass. “And I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” He pours himself a glass, too, and knocks the contents back in one unrestrained gulp. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was unforgivable of me. I hope you can just forget about it and we can go back to being friends.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  He pulls a regr
etful face and gets sharply to his feet. “Of course. I understand. Well, let me get Thomas to take you home, and …”

  “That’s not what I meant.” I reach up and touch his hand. I can feel my own hand shaking, but I’m doing a reasonably good job of controlling it. “I mean, I don’t want to just forget about it.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just sits back down on the sofa next to me. Then he takes my glass out of my hand and puts it on the coffee table before using the same hand to turn my face toward him, fixing his eyes onto mine.

  “You know, if I was with you,” he says in a near whisper, “I’d count myself one of the luckiest men in the world.”

  Even though I appreciate his efforts, they’re sort of immaterial. Because he doesn’t need to sweet-talk me into this decision. And even though, as decisions go, it’s probably up there with the worst I’ve ever made, it’s not the biggest I’ve ever made.

  It’s like Thomas was just trying to tell me, and Polly has already made clear—this could be purely transactional. Taking a lover, that is. I mean, I have a husband who can’t even bear to touch me. Saad Amar is a man who, temporarily at least, would very much like to touch me. So he gets another notch on his bedpost and I, before he moves on to the next willing female, get a few moments of kindness and appreciation.

  Oh, and some of that touching that I just can’t stop thinking about.

  Saad leans his head down to mine and breathes in, sharply. “Oh, Grace,” he says, before he starts to kiss me.

  I’ve just got the presence of mind, before I start reaching for his shirt buttons the way he’s reaching for mine, to check over his shoulder that Thomas isn’t hovering in the doorway with yet another tray of something.

  When I realize he isn’t, I start returning Saad’s kisses with total and utter abandon.

  Bella

  Tuesday, December 8

  Later today, Samantha the social worker is coming for her second attempt at the preliminary visit, so Anna has popped around to offer me moral support.

  She arrives only a moment or so after Liam has left. He’s off for another job interview, I assume; we’ve barely spoken since that night in the kitchen, the night with the burnt milk pan and the awkward conversation about his late wife, but I gather from Jamie that he hasn’t had much luck yet. Anyway, Anna has evidently run into him on the stairs or something. Because the first thing she says when she comes in is, “Your unwanted lodger is gorgeous.”

  “Gorilla Man?”

  “I thought you said he was called Liam.” She puts down the bags that suggest she’s already found the time to nip into town for a quick shopping spree and sits down at the table. “Well, whatever he’s called, he’s tall, dark, and handsome.”

  “You mean high, wide, and hairy.”

  “I didn’t see any excess hair.”

  “You weren’t looking in the right places. And Anna, really? You think he’s gorgeous? Even with that whole … Neolithic thing he’s got going on?”

  “Especially with that whole Neolithic thing he’s got going on.” Anna wets her lips. “I mean, doesn’t he just look like the kind of man who can go out and hunt a wild boar, bring it back, and roast it over an open fire, then sling you over his shoulder, carry you into his cave, and have his way with you?”

  “I’m not sure he looks quite like that kind of man,” I say rather faintly. “I think he just works in computers …”

  “Well, he can show me his hard drive any time … and on that note,” she goes on, starting to fish in one of her bags, “have a look at what I’ve just bought.”

  “Some computer equipment?”

  She snorts and shakes her head. “Not exactly. I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day, you know, about how me and Pete are so much more likely to conceive if we get some real passion back into our sex life.”

  “I didn’t say so much more likely.” Instinctively, I want to distance myself from this. “I said I thought it might help.”

  “Yes, well, you’re completely right, Bells. Sex has become nothing but a chore for the both of us. I mean, quite honestly, I think I’d rather stack the dishwasher. And I know Pete would rather be pressure-washing the patio. Well, that can’t be sending very positive messages to either of our bodies, can it? What embryo is going to choose to be born to a couple of parents who’d rather do household chores than take the time to make love to each other?”

  “Anna, honestly, I’m not sure it works like that …”

  “So, what do you reckon to this lot?” She shoots me a wicked grin as she upends a posh paper bag onto the table. “I went to this amazing little erotic boutique in Covent Garden this morning, and I got chatting with the woman there about all the kinds of things Pete and I used to enjoy—and a few things I’ve always wanted to do that I’m quite sure Pete would enjoy, if he’d just man up and go along with it—and this is what we came up with!” She picks up a frankly terrifying-looking black leathery item from the clutch of black leathery items she’s just poured over my kitchen table and waggles it at me. “So, this is what’s known as a bondage belt …”

  “I can see that.”

  “… which I thought would appeal to Pete because it’s just like his tool belt, with all these bits and bobs dangling from it—look! Now, this is a paddle, and this is a blindfold, and this … oooh, now what do you think this is for?”

  “Oh, God, Anna, I don’t know, some sort of manacle? Look, I’m really thrilled you’re taking positive steps, but …”

  “And here we’ve got some PVC body wrap; and look at this divine little feather duster! The woman in the shop said lots of her clients make it double-up as a whip for the second half of a French Maid fantasy. And you know I’ve always had a French Maid fantasy, Bells.”

  “Who plays the maid?” I hear myself croak, horribly fascinated all of a sudden. “You or Pete?”

  Anna doesn’t answer. Instead, she opts for a swift change of subject. “And I bought a couple of books, too—some erotic Victorian lithographs, because we’re just swamped with boring old twenty-first-century porn everywhere nowadays, aren’t we? Much more fun to leave something to the imagination! And this one on the seductive art of Japanese bondage … I’m not sure what makes this particular kind of bondage Japanese, to be honest with you,” she adds, starting to flick through the pages with a mildly curious air, as though she’s thumbing a dictionary for a tricky definition. “I mean, do you think there’s sushi involved? Because I’m perfectly happy to snack while we’re doing it, but I can’t quite see where you’re supposed to put the raw fish …”

  “Anna.” I silence her with a firmly raised finger. “I have a social worker arriving in precisely two hours to evaluate the safety and suitability of my home, and I’d really rather you took all this”—I wave a hand at the assembled kinkery—“safely back to the privacy of your own.”

  “Well, she isn’t going to know about it. I mean, it’s not like it’s going to leave behind a lingering smell or anything,” Anna grumbles, but she starts clearing her wares back into her tote bag. “Anyway,” she adds, as if the word smell has suddenly reminded her of something, “I thought you said that Jamie was going to be here for the social worker’s visit this time.”

  “He is. I mean, he will be. He’s just got some work to do first.”

  “Work?” Her eyebrows shoot upwards. “Jamie?”

  “Yes, Anna, Jamie. He’s putting leaflets through doors, getting his gardening business started up properly again. I told you what happened at Vito’s, didn’t I?”

  Actually, I haven’t. Well, not everything.

  I mean, I’ve told her all about the astonishing new leaf Jamie is planning to turn over, and the promises he made about getting more involved in the adoption. But I haven’t mentioned the whole sort-of-engagement. For one thing, I know I’m going to struggle to lie to her about the details of it, and I don’t think Anna’s anti-Jamie position will be reversed if she finds out about his non-proposal proposal (
“Let’s say we’re engaged anyway. I mean, why the fuck not?”). And for another, I don’t want to say anything to Anna until I’m ready to tell Polly and the rest of my family.

  And I’m still hoping that Polly will be back with Dev, and getting ready for their own postponed wedding, before I have to do that. I mean, these emails she’s been writing to this Julia friend of hers make it perfectly clear that, just as I was starting to suspect, this whole “not loving Dev anymore” thing is just total bollocks. Something to distract me from … what did she call it, in her email to Julia? … The “real reason” she didn’t want to go ahead with the wedding.

  Whatever that “real reason” may be, that is. Because that’s something I’m still none the wiser about. I mean, even if what she told Dev was exactly that “real reason”—that she feels like she doesn’t deserve to be married—that still solves only half the problem. There’s still no explanation why she’s suddenly started feeling that way.

  Still, the important thing to focus on is that she quite plainly does still love Dev. Which means there’s plenty of reason for optimism. Which means, fingers crossed, that their wedding will be back on before I need to mention anything about my own.

  “Yes, but I wasn’t sure how much I could believe that,” Anna is saying, toying with one of the Unidentified Flogging Objects on the bondage belt. “I mean, he’s said that kind of thing before, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, well, it’s different this time,” I say staunchly. I’m quite accustomed to having to leap to Jamie’s defense where Anna is concerned, but today I do really mean it for a change.

  Because Jamie has been incredible, ever since that dinner at Vito’s. He’s cut down on his pub time to stay up late into the night with me talking about the adoption—and all the really important little details of it, too, like where we might take our first family holiday, and where we’ll spend our first family Christmas (his suggestion: at his mother’s; my unspoken suggestion: anywhere but his mother’s). He’s printed up those flyers he’s just gone out with, and he’s started looking at secondhand vans he might be able to afford (if I lend him the money) that he can use for his gardening jobs. He’s even started to make more effort around the flat, tidying up after himself in the kitchen and working out the incredible mysteries of the toilet brush.