They’d eaten beef en croute. Chicken en croute. Salmon en croute. And a weird mushroomy thing en croute. Verity’s friends didn’t do things en croute but preferred to provide sausage rolls for their guests. Or vegetarian sausage rolls and, once, even vegan, gluten-free, dairy-free sausage rolls that tasted of cardboard, glue and despair.
They’d drunk champagne occasionally, but mostly Prosecco. Prosecco with orange juice. Prosecco with peach juice. Prosecco with pomegranate juice. But no Prosecco with elderflower cordial, Verity was happy to report to Con, so that her elder sister could sleep soundly at night knowing that no fancy London folk had ripped off her signature wedding cocktail.
Verity and Johnny had danced (well, more of a self-conscious shuffle in Verity’s case) to the music of Abba, Burt Bacharach and Dougie’s little brother’s best friend’s ska punk band.
They’d posed for pictures with selfie sticks, in photo booths with silly hats and joke props, and even for a proper ‘prom’-style portrait when the photographer had urged them closer and closer together. ‘Give her a kiss then, mate!’ he’d exhorted Johnny. Johnny’s arms had closed around Verity’s waist and she’d had to put her arms round him too so it wouldn’t look like Johnny was hugging a plank of wood in a party frock.
‘You don’t have to kiss me,’ she’d hissed just as the photographer bellowed, ‘Come on, don’t be shy!’
Johnny had lifted her chin with his hand and frowned. ‘I probably should kiss you for appearance’s sake and we are holding up the queue,’ he pointed out rather reasonably. ‘Don’t worry, I’m minty fresh.’
‘Oh, well, go on then,’ she’d muttered awkwardly even as her heart had started thrumming so loudly, Verity was sure that it could be heard over the sound of ‘Blame It on the Boogie’ coming from the dancefloor. Johnny had lowered his head and Verity held her breath and just as his lips were about to make contact with her trembling mouth, there was a flash and a triumphant ‘Got it!’ from the photographer and they’d broken apart.
It was more socialising in one month than Verity had done in a lifetime and she’d managed not to have a single meltdown, though a couple of times she’d had to go to the ladies’ cloakroom for a five-minute power charge. (And after that almost-kiss, to run her wrists under the cold tap and give herself a stern talking to about unavailable yet charming and handsome men.)
But if Johnny was out with Verity, nibbling on canapés and catching up with his friends, he wasn’t obsessing over Marissa, though sometimes Verity would glance over at Johnny and see a haunted, lost expression on his face. Then he’d become aware of Verity’s gaze on him and he’d catch her eye and smile, say something funny to make her smile too.
Verity was in no doubt that these last few weeks had been far from easy for Johnny but his Marissa-free month had been over for three days and he still hadn’t asked for his phone back. Verity had been worrying about the weekend just gone, in which she hadn’t seen Johnny at all because Con, Chatty and Immy and assorted friends and relatives descended on London for Con’s hen do. She knew only too well that the devil found work for idle hands or for a man with a spare weekend and an all-inclusive mobile phone tariff. But, happily, one of his father’s godsons and family were visiting and Johnny had promised to escort them from one tourist attraction to the other, which left him no time to dwell on Marissa.
Indeed, Johnny had sent Verity a series of anguished selfies from the London Eye, Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, Madame Tussauds and M&M World. In most of them he was being set upon by small children.
Not that Verity’s weekend plans had been that sedate either. The hen celebrations had started decorously enough. Even though they were taking away tables from paying customers, Posy had insisted that they use the tearooms for a fancy High Tea late on the Saturday afternoon, once everyone had assembled. Mattie had agreed. ‘You’ll need to line your stomachs with some heavy-duty carbs.’
Of course, when the Love sisters heard that there’d been no time for Posy to have her own hen do, they invited her to join Con’s, as an honorary guest, along with Nina, Mattie and Paloma, the new barista. It had then gone downhill quite rapidly after the carb-loading. There had been cocktails, so many cocktails, dancing, more cocktails, an ill-advised kebab with chilli sauce, and at three o’clock on Sunday morning Verity found herself with twenty other women playing a raucous game of football in Coram Fields until a passing police car stopped and told them all to go home.
Those twenty other women had come back to the flat above the shop for a few scant hours’ sleep and then it was out for brunch, which, as it always did, involved fried food and more alcohol. There was barely an avocado in sight.
At six on Sunday evening, after she and Merry had made sure that everyone was on a train back to the East Midlands, Verity felt as if she’d been run over by a truck. Even Merry was quite subdued. ‘Jesus,’ she said in a dazed voice. ‘I have nothing left in the tank. Is this how you feel after a couple of hours in the tender but noisy embrace of your family?’
‘Yes,’ Verity said, resting her head on Merry’s shoulder as they sat on the 73 bus. ‘Please stop talking now.’
Even an early night hadn’t quite rebooted Verity. On Monday she hid in the back office shunning all attempts at conversation until she got a text message from lovely Stefan from the Swedish deli. They always went to the bank together so that Stefan, who was six foot two of rippling muscle and Viking genes, could protect Verity from any would-be muggers.
Now, as she wended her very weary way back to Happy Ever After, Verity hoped that the last two hours of the day would be quiet ones. She planned to skulk in the office performing tasks of gentle admin.
The shop was full, which was a sight that gladdened Verity’s heart but also had her head sinking down as she walked through the door. Despite the branded grey-and-pink Happy Ever After T-shirt, which Posy was still insisting they all wore, Verity found that if she walked through the shop in a hurried fashion, like she was late for an important meeting, and didn’t make eye contact with anyone, the customers generally avoided her.
She charged across the main room, dodging book browsers, and was within touching distance of the counter when she felt a hand on her arm.
‘Leave me alone!’ Verity shrieked but it was a silent, internal shriek, and she was forced to turn around with a wan smile on her face, which she dropped instantly when she saw it was only Tom waylaying her.
‘Not now, Tom,’ she begged. ‘If there’s any ordering to be done, it can wait until tomorrow.’
‘No orders,’ Tom said. Unlike the rest of the staff, he wasn’t wearing a Happy Ever After T-shirt, but his usual shirt, bow tie and cardigan. As befitted someone who’d been toiling away on a PhD for years, Tom preferred to dress like an elderly, absent-minded academic. Posy’s entreaties about her precious staff T-shirts had been firmly ignored in a way that Verity didn’t dare. ‘Friend of yours is on the sofa. She’s been waiting for ages.’
Verity frowned, which made her headache, the last legacy of her hangover, pound at the inside of her skull. She’d partied with every friend she had in the world on Saturday night so what any of them were doing on one of the Happy Ever After sofas was beyond her. She peered around Tom and saw a small blonde figure draped on the sagging brown leather Chesterfield as if it were a sumptuous chaise longue, and thought she might throw up the smoked salmon bagel she’d had for lunch.
Verity cowered behind Tom. Perhaps if she used him as a human shield to provide cover until she reached the safety of the office …
‘Yoo hoo! Valerie! There you are!’
If the smile she’d given Tom was wan, then the grimace on Verity’s face as she locked eyes with Marissa was so lifeless it should have been declared dead on arrival.
‘Oh, hi,’ Verity said, shuffling a little closer.
‘Why don’t you sit down next to Marissa and I’ll organise a pot of tea and some scones with clotted cream?’ The crowds parted to reveal Posy sitting on the sofa opposite. �
��We’ve been having a good old natter while we waited for you. Gosh, I feel like we’ve known each other for years.’
‘Me too,’ Marissa said with an enthusiasm that was hard for Verity to take in, considering Marissa had been less than enthusiastic when they’d first met. ‘Can I just get a green tea, no cream scones? It’s not my cheat day.’
‘Oh, I know what you mean,’ Posy said as she got up, even though she’d often been heard to proclaim, usually when Mattie brought through a plate of cakes, ‘Every day is my cheat day.’
‘Come. Sit next to me,’ Marissa said to Verity, patting the space next to her on the couch. It sounded more like a demand than a suggestion and Verity didn’t see how she could refuse. ‘So, tell me, how have you been?’
‘All right,’ Verity muttered as she sat down. Marissa was wearing white jeans with a pretty pin-tucked top in an eau de nil green and strappy flats. Her clothes were crisp, her skin sun-kissed and glowing, her streaked blonde hair silky and radiant like something out of a shampoo commercial. Next to Marissa, Verity felt like a huge galumphing beast. Though admittedly, that was Verity’s own issue and nothing to do with Marissa. ‘I’d be better if you actually remembered my name. It’s Verity.’
Marissa had the grace to look away and flush delicately. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Up close, she even smelt amazing; of peonies and something a little sharper to cut through the sweetness. ‘I’m so bad with names. Sometimes I even call Harry, Gerry. It makes him very cross. I probably wouldn’t forget your name if I’d seen more of you over the summer. I was hoping we could get to know each other, become friends. Everyone I know has fallen in love with you.’
She was? They had? ‘I’ve been around,’ Verity said. Johnny had probably selected parties for them to attend where he knew Marissa and Harry would be a no-show. Then Verity thought of Johnny’s Marissa phone stashed in a locked drawer upstairs and there was absolutely nothing delicate about the flush that stained her face. ‘Johnny’s friends have all been very welcoming.’ Even saying his name in Marissa’s hearing felt like she was committing a crime.
‘That’s because everyone is so pleased to see Johnny in a relationship,’ Marissa said as Little Sophie arrived with her green tea, a mug of builder’s for Verity and some cream scones that Verity didn’t dare put anywhere near her mouth. Marissa rewarded Sophie with a dazzling smile that seemed to come with its own flawless Instagram filter. ‘Thank you, darling. Love your little pinny. It’s adorable.’
Mattie was even more of a martinet than Posy and insisted that Paloma and Sophie wore black dresses and little white aprons in the style of the Nippies, who used to wait tables at the Lyons’ Corner Houses. Sophie had been very sulky about it but now she beamed at Marissa before returning to the tearoom.
Marissa turned back to Verity. ‘Now where were we?’
‘Urgent orders. Last post,’ Verity muttered desperately, but Marissa patted her arm with one immaculately manicured hand.
‘Never mind that,’ she said breezily in the manner of someone who’d never had to fulfil an urgent work order in time to make the last post. ‘So, you and Johnny. It seems to be going well. You’re taking up so much of his time.’
Marissa finished on a little wistful sigh that automatically made Verity feel guilty until she reminded herself that Marissa was a married woman and that Johnny was free to have his time taken up with anyone he pleased. There was nothing else Verity could do but channel Elizabeth Bennet in a way that she hadn’t needed to do for weeks. Not Elizabeth Bennet employing the smackdown on Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but certainly Elizabeth Bennet refusing to let Caroline Bingley walk all over her. ‘Johnny’s great,’ Verity said and actually there was no need to lie when she could just tell the truth. ‘He’s so easy to get on with; kind and funny. We’ve been to a lot of weddings, a lot of parties, and he’s absolutely the person you want to be sitting next to when you’re listening to yet another best man’s speech.’
Verity had to bite her lip so that she didn’t start waxing lyrical about how the corners of Johnny’s eyes crinkled up when he smiled at Verity as they shared a pained look over having to eat anything else en croute. How she could walk into a church or marquee or East London pub with Johnny’s arm in hers and never feel out of place. Also, it gave her an opportunity to feel the muscles in his forearms – he had really good forearms – and it must be the lingering traces of her hangover and being so near to clotted cream scones and not being able to eat them, which were causing this mild delirium.
‘Yeah, Johnny and I, we’re good,’ she summed up and Marissa took her hand again.
‘All I want is for Johnny to be happy,’ she breathed, her brilliant blue eyes, the colour of gentians, because having normal blue eyes wouldn’t be good enough for Marissa, suddenly tearing up. ‘And really, I couldn’t be more pleased for the two of you.’
‘Oh, it’s still early days,’ Verity said and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from Marissa, whose bottom lip was now trembling.
‘You know that Johnny and I have a history. A very long history. Harry said he’d told you about how he and I fell in love and got married behind Johnny’s back,’ Marissa confessed, dropping her voice down to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘There will always be a part of me that feels absolutely rotten about that.’
Verity nodded. She could understand that, and she had to give Marissa major points for confiding in her like this, even though it had to be difficult to dredge up such a painful moment from the past. ‘But we can’t help who we fall in love with,’ Verity said soothingly. ‘You couldn’t help falling in love with Harry, could you?’
‘I really couldn’t,’ Marissa said. ‘And I love Harry even more now than I did then. But when you’re married, you can’t help but take each other for granted and what Johnny and I had was always so intense and so I suppose it’s always been rather nice, validating even, to have Johnny still in love with me a little. Is that very wrong?’ Marissa asked Verity, her sparkling blue eyes wide, her expression troubled.
Verity was starting to get what the deal was with Marissa. Why Harry had chosen her over his best friend. Why Johnny was still so doggedly in love with her. Why Posy and Little Sophie had been instantly smitten.
It was because when Marissa looked at you, let you drift into her glorious orbit, confided in you, it was easy to believe that you were the most important person in Marissa’s world. It was heady stuff. Verity could feel herself succumbing – Marissa did smell amazing too – but she would be strong, God damn it and sorry, Lord, for taking your name in vain, Verity sent up a silent prayer, but extenuating circumstances and all that.
‘Are you telling me that you’re not in love with Johnny?’ Verity demanded and Marissa smiled as if Verity had just cracked a joke. And not a very funny one at that. ‘That you don’t return his feelings?’
‘Oh, that really is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.’ Marissa forced out a tinkling laugh. ‘Johnny and I are loving friends, nothing more. Well, certainly not on my part. But I think I know what’s really going on here.’ She jiggled Verity’s limp hand.
‘What is going on here?’ Verity asked because she was so confused. She’d never had a ‘loving friend’ herself so she didn’t know what the correct etiquette was but surely it didn’t involve bombarding your ‘loving friend’ with as many text messages and phone calls as Marissa did. Especially when, as far as Marissa knew, Johnny had found himself a girlfriend.
Marissa tilted her lovely head and gave Verity a smile that oozed sympathy. ‘I suppose you think that you are in love with Johnny. And you tell yourself that because he’s so special, so smart, so handsome, that everyone else must be in love with him too. But no, Vera, I’m not in love with Johnny. Not in that way. I think Harry would have something to say about it if I were.’
‘But at the wedding in Kensington, Harry said that …’
‘Harry says a lot of things.’ Marissa pulled a pretty face like those things were no concern of hers. ‘I couldn’t be
happier that Johnny’s finally found a lovely girl to spend time with. I mean, there was that Karen, a few years ago …’
‘You mean Katie?’ Verity didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended that Marissa also couldn’t remember the name of the only other woman Johnny had been seen with in the last ten years.
‘Karen. Katie. Whatever. She wasn’t right for Johnny. Not at all.’ A dismissive wave of her fingers, as if that was all poor Katie deserved. ‘Honestly, suspicion isn’t an attractive quality in a woman, Velma. Really, if I were in love with Johnny, why would I be here?’
‘Actually, why are you here? Just to have a chat? Or did you want to buy some books?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely shop, really quite charming as I was saying to Posy, but I only read literary fiction,’ Marissa said. ‘I always think there’s something quite sad and unfulfilled about women who read romance novels …’
Nothing was more guaranteed to break the spell that Marissa had cast over Verity. There was nothing wrong with reading romantic fiction. It wasn’t there only to fill the gaps in the lives of lonely people. You could be in a romantic relationship and still read romantic fiction. It wasn’t as if there was a romance quota and Marissa had exceeded hers. ‘Actually,’ Verity began with a little spurt of temper that would have had all four of her sisters exchanging looks. ‘Actually, I think you’ll find that most of the classics could be classed as romantic fiction. From Ovid’s love poems to Romeo and Juliet, Pride and Prejudice of course and even so-called literary writers like Ian McEwan and Sebastian Faulks who we also stock, FYI.’
‘No, I’m afraid you’re wrong and I should know. I have a first in English Literature from Cambridge,’ Marissa said crushingly as if that settled it, which it didn’t but as Verity opened her mouth to argue the point a little more strenuously and then to inevitably start quoting from Pride and Prejudice, Marissa grabbed Verity’s arm and applied enough pressure that Verity reflexively shut her mouth. ‘We’re getting off-message. I didn’t come here to discuss books but to issue an invite in person. Johnny hasn’t RSVP-ed but I can only imagine how busy you’re keeping him.’
True Love at the Lonely Hearts Bookshop Page 24