All Dressed Up

by Lucy Hepburn

  “Yes, thank you Joel, everything is all right.”

  She watched him go. She was going to have to go to bed alone tonight, she knew that. And probably for a very long time thereafter.

  “He’s an…interesting guy,” Simon said eventually, shaking Molly out of her reverie.

  “Pascal?”

  He nodded.

  “He’s brilliant.” Molly had taken some time to process the implications of today’s discovery, that it had been Pascal who had designed all those beautiful, innovative pieces over the last five years, and the more she had gone over it in her mind, the more her admiration for him had grown.

  Her glass was, once again, empty.

  “I’m so glad I met him,” she went on.

  “Are you?” Simon said.

  “Of course!” Molly smiled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Simon looked away.

  “Molly…”

  “Yes.”

  He seemed to be struggling to say something. “I…”

  “What?”

  He refilled their glasses, downed his in one, and grabbed hold of Molly’s hands. “You’re too good for him,” he blurted out.

  “Sorry?”

  “Molly, I’m going to tell you something that might upset you. I know it’s your sister’s wedding day tomorrow, and I don’t want to ruin it for you, but I might not see you again, and you’re too nice to be deceived.” He looked really worried, and it made Molly anxious too.

  “Simon, you are not making any sense,” she said. How much had he had to drink? “Who’s deceiving me?”

  Simon sighed and couldn’t keep eye contact. “Pascal.”

  Molly’s soaring heart plummeted. So this was all about Pascal and the wedding? It had seemed so much more personal.

  “Really?” Her voice sounded faint. “What’s happened now?”

  “He’s done it before?” Simon tutted.

  Molly was getting more and more confused by the second.

  “To think I tried to help that man this afternoon!” Simon looked furious. “You can’t be a doormat, Molly.”

  “Doormat? I’m not a doormat! May I say you aren’t making any sense so far?”

  He let go of her hands, sat up, and faced her. “Pascal isn’t being fair on you.”

  “How so?”

  Simon twisted his mouth. “You know when we were fixing the car? Well, Pascal kept going on and on about another woman.”

  “Ri…ight?” Molly was concentrating hard but was secretly wondering if the Sambuca had gone to Simon’s head far too fast.

  “And it wasn’t just ordinary blokey chat either. Molly, he seems really keen on her.”

  “Keen on who?” A woman?

  “Someone called Sasha.”

  “Sasha?” Molly echoed incredulously. “But Simon—”

  “I’m really sorry, Molly,” he cut in. “He’s cheating on you.”

  Molly gasped in shock. Did Simon think…? All this time…?

  “It was a bit strange of him to tell me…” he continued, but when he finally looked up at her he stopped. “Molly? What is it?”

  Molly knew that her eyes had grown huge as she clapped her hands to her face and exclaimed in disbelief as the full picture of what Simon was saying fell into place.

  “Have you spent the last two days thinking Pascal and I were together?” she gasped.

  His change of expression from anxious to dumbfounded told her that yes, he had.

  “Simon…I don’t believe it! We met for the first time the day before we got on the plane!”

  “What? You called him your boyfriend!”

  “I certainly did not! Oh…hang on, you thought…”

  Reggie. It all made sense. She’d mentioned her ‘boyfriend’ on the plane, hadn’t she?

  “But you said your boyfriend had taken you to Paris. You thought he was going to propose.”

  Molly couldn’t help but laugh. “I think there has been a misunderstanding. Reggie was his name. Reggie was my boyfriend. We broke up in Paris.”

  “But you two have such a connection…and he’s so…tactile…” Simon was clearly having a tough time processing this new information.

  “He’s gay.” Molly told him, trying to keep a straight face.

  “What? You’re kidding.”

  “He works in fashion, Simon. Wasn’t that a bit of a giveaway?”

  He exhaled loudly. “Like I said…”

  “Okay, okay, sorry. Oh my goodness, how funny! I suppose when I hugged him after the auction—”

  “You know, now that you mention it, he is kind of…different, but I just assumed everyone in the fashion industry was exactly like Pascal.”

  “Most of them are,” Molly admitted. “But Pascal is a sweetheart. And Sasha is the steward who helped us out on the flight. Remember him? Big bloke? Pecs?”

  Now it was Simon’s turn for huge eyes and hands clapped to the sides of his face.

  “No way!”

  “Nope! He’s from Moscow!”

  “I am such an idiot.” He began to laugh then stopped himself, remembering: “Pascal must have thought I was weird or homophobic or something—the dirty looks I gave him as he was talking about this ‘Sasha!’ I’ll need to explain to him tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  “Hope so.”

  The laughter stopped. They looked at each other in silence for a moment and shared a grin.

  “Isn’t it nice to know he’s got someone to have a crush on,” said Simon. “Might take his mind off losing his job this afternoon.”

  “Yeah,” said Molly, and took another sip, hoping it would stop her head swirling. “Poor guy.”

  The silence that followed seemed to take on quite a different quality. Simon leaned away and seemed suddenly awkward, dusting non-existent specks off his jeans and the bar counter, tearing off a morsel of bread and picking it apart rather than actually putting it in his mouth.

  Molly sat feeling prim—her hands seemed too big for her body, and she decided that her little Sambuca glass was the most interesting object she’d ever laid eyes on as she rotated it round and round, examining it in minute detail, searching for flaws which simply weren’t there.

  “I like you,” Simon said in a low voice.

  Molly caught her breath. For a moment she wondered if she might fall off her barstool.

  “I like you too,” she whispered.

  They looked at each other shyly, like teenagers. Molly giggled and took another sip of Sambuca.

  “We should…go out sometime,” Simon said. It was his turn to find his glass fascinating, turning it round and round just like Molly had done.

  “Mmm,” Molly agreed. “Such a shame we can’t.”

  “Ah.” Simon stopped rotating his glass. “Okay then.”

  Another long silence until Simon seemed to puff himself up as though finding a secret source of courage from somewhere deep within himself. He turned to face her again. “Remind me: why can’t we, again?”

  Molly made a face. “Simon! You know perfectly well why!”

  He looked completely baffled.

  Sighing, Molly said, “Yvonne, of course.”

  She picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses. Simon sat stock-still, staring straight ahead. She could practically see the cogs turning round and round in his brain. Realization came over her. Despite everything, despite Yvonne, she still wanted him.

  He got up abruptly and walked over to the darkened window. Molly watched. He cut a fine silhouette, to be sure. And when he turned around, he was grinning. Not just a smile of acceptance but a full-out, enormous beam.

  “You okay?” Molly asked.

  “Yvonne may well be one of the most special people I have ever met,” he said from the other side of the room. “I love her very dearly… She is my heroine; I adore her, but…well…But she is also an—admittedly very lovely—sixty-three year old lady,
Molly.”

  To and fro like a game of table tennis, it was Molly’s turn to be dumbfounded.

  Simon walked back over to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “Wasn’t the hand knitted jumper a bit of a giveaway?” he said, repeating back to her what she’d said to him about Pascal.

  “N…no,” Molly stuttered. “I’m not that clever.”

  “I think you’re very clever indeed,” he murmured, leaning closer.

  Molly forgot to breathe. Her head was spinning at Simon’s revelation. He was single, he liked her, he was going to kiss her…

  “Oh…” she breathed as she tilted her face upwards toward him, longing for his kiss…

  “Telephone call for Miss Molly Wright!”

  The plump, white-haired receptionist who had given them the discounted room earlier came bustling over to the bar, speaking her perfect English.

  Simon pulled back, and Molly, embarrassed, looked round.

  “That’s me,” she said breathlessly, grinning guiltily. Simon was smiling too. She felt like a schoolgirl, caught by a teacher, about to kiss a boy behind the bike shed…it felt so fresh and lovely.

  “It is your fiancé,” the receptionist announced.

  Molly froze. What?!

  Simon looked confused. And then shocked.

  “Your fiancé, Reggie. He is very keen to talk with you. Come! Come!” she said and clipped back through to reception, beckoning Molly to follow her.

  “Reggie.” Simon looked pretty disgusted. “Why did you lie, Molly?” Simon stood up and stormed off.

  “W…wait, I can explain,” Molly stammered, sliding off the barstool and having to grab hold of the bar counter to steady herself. Her legs were like jelly.

  “No need,” Simon replied, his face unreadable. “Goodnight, Molly.”

  Molly could only watch helplessly as he strode off toward the stairs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hours until wedding: 16

  Kilometers to wedding: 159

  The receptionist handed her the phone. Molly, weak with shock, waited until Simon was out of sight before putting it to her ear—not that he gave her so much as a backward glance as he took the steps two at a time.

  She stared at the phone as though it was an unexploded bomb. Around her, a group of Japanese tourists jostled around the reception area laden with luggage, trying to check in or check out, Molly didn’t care which. She inched as far as she could to the corner, as far as the phone cord would allow, and crouched down cupping her mouth with her hand.

  “Reggie?” she stammered.

  “Hello Mol.” The familiar voice made her jump. “You’re not answering your mobile.”

  His voice sounded just the same as it always did: confident and friendly. He clearly wasn’t in anything like the mental torment that she was enduring.

  “It’s…charging,” she explained. “Upstairs.”

  “Ah.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  Reggie gave a little laugh. “I rang Caitlin. Or as I shall now think of her: ‘Raging Bull.’”

  Molly shook her head.

  “She’s kind of upset with you, babe.”

  Molly bit her lip as she thought of Caitlin ranting down the phone, imagining Reggie holding his phone far away from his ear, letting her get on with it. It was how he always dealt with rages. ‘Smile and wave,’ he used to say, ‘just smile and wave…’

  “I don’t blame her,” Molly admitted.

  She waited for him to reply. She could hear noises in the background on the other end of the line. He was outside or in some big open space anyhow: a hard floor, footsteps, an echoey background hum.

  Her heart was pounding painfully—and not from excitement.

  ”I’m sorry,” he said gently.

  Her heart twisted. Why couldn’t things happen one at a time? She wanted to put Reggie on hold while she raced after Simon to explain—how Reggie had a nerve calling himself her fiancé considering they’d split up, how she didn’t really have a boyfriend, and could they please pick up where they had left off a minute ago…

  But then, why wouldn’t Reggie call? He had no reason to expect that she’d go falling for another guy just two days out of their four year relationship, had he? She realized that she felt she’d known Simon for so much longer.

  The receptionist withdrew tactfully as Molly tried to pull herself together.

  “How’s Los Angeles?” she asked, realizing as she did so that she wasn’t sure he’d ever actually caught the plane in the first place.

  “Hot,” he replied.

  Ah. So he had.

  “And weird. I can’t decide if the people are way too friendly or not friendly at all, does that make sense?”

  “Not one bit,” Molly replied. “You’re over-thinking things as usual.”

  “You know me too well.”

  Another twist. “Well, I used to.”

  “Yeah…”

  They were silent for a moment before Molly got the nerve up to say, “It’s nice of you to call, Reggie. And I’m glad you got there safely. But, erm, why exactly are you calling?”

  She heard him sigh. “A long flight and a hefty bout of jet lag do strange things to a guy. I’ve done a heck of a lot of thinking.”

  “Mmm.” Molly was getting the feeling that Reggie was working up to saying something. He’d always been rubbish at small talk.

  “Caitlin didn’t know I wasn’t coming to the wedding,” he said. “You didn’t tell her.”

  Molly clapped her hand to her forehead. Another thing Caitlin must be livid about—now she’d be wondering just how many other things Molly wasn’t telling her. It got worse and worse.

  “No, I didn’t.” She sighed. She was about to explain how there hadn’t been time as the crisis over the dress deepened, but—

  “So, you feel the same, huh?” His voice was lower, practically a whisper.

  “Same as what?” she asked.

  “Same as me—this situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “You and me, Mol! I acted way too fast in Paris, and I’m sorry.”

  The Japanese people had gone. There was a leather chair at the other end of the reception desk, and Molly got to her feet, stumbled over, and slumped into it, holding the phone with both hands.

  “What?” she whispered, not trusting herself to form a coherent sentence.

  “Look, I thought I was doing the right thing, clean break and all that—I was all caught up in the job offer, and I thought it’d be…fairest to you this way.”

  “I see.” She didn’t.

  “But I felt like crap on the flight over. It wasn’t right, kept wishing I could start that night over again.”

  “Why didn’t you call me sooner then?” Molly was genuinely curious. And a little sad. It would certainly have saved her some heartache.

  “Because you didn’t…well, you didn’t exactly beg me to stay, did you?”

  He wasn’t going to turn this round on her. “I didn’t cause a scene, if that’s what you mean,” she said flatly.

  “So I assumed you were cool with it,” he said, sounding like a wounded bird. “But when I spoke to Caitlin and she told me she was expecting to see me tomorrow, I realized that you hadn’t accepted it was over, that you were maybe hoping I’d change my mind…and that felt amazing.”

  Molly was astounded that he had managed to draw that conclusion from such seemingly flimsy evidence. But that, too, was him all over, impetuous and, oh yes, passionate…

  “I don’t know what to say,” Molly said slowly. “Apart from the fact that I guess there’s nothing much we can do about it now. I’ll explain to Caitlin when I see her in the morn—”

  “I’m at the airport, Mol.”

  “Sorry? Which airport?”

  “I’m at LAX in sunny Los Angeles. There’s a flight leaving in an hour, I’ll be in Venice tomorrow.”

  “WH
AT?” Molly shrieked.

  She heard him chuckle. “Yup, it’s all sorted. You pleased?”

  “Pleased?” she repeated. How did she feel? “I’m confused! I’m beyond confused—what are you on about?”

  “I made a mistake, and I want to come and put it right.”

  The words swirled through Molly’s brain.

  “You and I have a whole load of stuff to talk about,” he went on, “stuff I shoulda thought about before Paris.”

  “Well that’s certainly true,” she agreed.

  “I’m even kind of looking forward to seeing the blushing bride; I might even be there when she decks you for making her worry so much!”

  “Bit soon for jokes there, Reggie,” Molly warned. Caitlin punching her could actually happen.

  “Okay.” She heard the smile in his voice. “And your mum—I kind of miss the old gal already, even though we don’t see much of her. How’s she doing?”

  “Great,” Molly replied before actually thinking about the question. “Wedding’s getting to her a bit, I think. She’s pretty worn-out.”

  “She’s always fine after a couple of dances with me,” Reggie said. “Remember your birthday a couple of years back? We were—”

  “Reggie!” Molly wasn’t in the mood for a trip down memory lane.

  “Sorry. You should see the tux I picked up at a flea market this morning—hey, you will see it!”`

  “Have you gone completely mad?” she breathed. “You’ve only just got there.”

  “I know.”

  “Heck of a grand gesture, flying straight back,” she couldn’t help pointing out.

  She heard him sigh. “My timing with all of this has been out of whack. I think it’s taken a jolt like this to make me realize what I’ve got back home.”

  “O-kay…”

  “I need to apologize to you in person. I want you back, Mol. I want us back.”

  Molly leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, hoping her subconscious would take over and tell her what to feel. And what to say. ‘Sorry, Reggie, poor timing, I was just about to kiss another man,’ wouldn’t have cut it.

  “I have no idea what to say to you right now,” Molly said. “You can’t just snap your fingers—”