A Bad Bride's Tale (28 page)

mouth, as if about to speak. Then seemed to think better of it. “Stevie . . .”

“And he’s still grieving for his dad. Even though he doesn’t talk about it as much . . .” she justified. “Poor thing has had a horrid time.”

“Stevie . . .” Sam repeated quietly, bending forward on his arms, ridges of veins just visible beneath his skin, veins that began to pulse faster.

“And there’s Rita, of course. She really doesn’t help. Who
wouldn’t
have problems with Mother-in-law in the house? Watch- ing
Antiques Roadshow
reruns? Drives me totally insane.”

Sam was sweating now, tiny beads forming on his wide nose, his broad, high forehead. “There’s something I need to tell you . . .”

“And, despite the fact I’ve got antique ovaries, I think I might be
pregnant
! Which means it’s probably
all
my hormones . . .” As if to back her up, Stevie’s breasts throbbed beneath her bra.

Sam’s features all crumpled inward at once. “Oh.”

Stevie put her face in her hands, unburdened by her outburst. “Forgive me for rabbiting on. What did you want to tell me?”

Sam shook his head, two fingers pulling down on his bottom lip. “Nothing. It was nothing, really.”

back in lara’s apartment,
Stevie shuffled on the sofa, un- easy at how close she felt to Sam after just a day alone in his com- pany. She wondered what would happen if she’d spent two, three days alone in his company. She mustn’t think about it.

Did he feel it, too? Or was her excitement about New York— surely the best city ever—projecting itself onto the nearest

handsome human form? Pull yourself together, girl. You are
mar- ried
. You can’t succumb to a crush like a teenager. She brushed in- visible crumbs off her jeans, as if this might tidy her head, too, and looked at Sam, who had his back to her and was peering out of the window.

Casey rushed in first, tired, suited, and heeled, with only a spare manic half hour in which to get some fuel and fluid before her ap- pointment with her therapist.

A few moments later, Lara came home, bright-eyed and pulling a windswept strand of hair from her mouth, wearing a sun-yellow fifties-style dress that made her resemble a young Marilyn. “Hi, guys! I’m back!” She wrapped herself around Stevie, then kissed Sam neatly on both cheeks. “You taken care of my girl?”

Stevie laughed abruptly, overcome by a peculiar guilt. “He didn’t budge on Bloomingdale’s.”

“Oh, next time.” Laughing, Lara flung herself at the sofa, col- lapsing onto it with a puff of air, kicking off her Marc Jacobs ballet flats, stretching out her shapely legs. She looked flushed, sexily mussed-up. Stevie felt a pang of jealousy.

“Stev, I can’t believe you’re going. Sure you don’t want to pack in the whole marriage caboodle and come and work in New York?” Lara rubbed her neck. “Marriage is bound to be overrated.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“My art director just called to say he’s fired a senior designer. There’s a great job opened up. Shall I fix you an interview? They’d love you.”

Sam cocked his head on one side, smiled cheekily. “Go on. Do it.” For a fleeting moment, the word “okay” wobbled precariously at the end of her tongue, ready to unleash its chaos. To disappear to

another continent just after your new husband’s father had died? And what about Poppy? And Tommy? What about her parents’ marriage, which was in danger of crumbling into the ground? All these people needed her. And what if they didn’t? Would she go then? No. She wouldn’t. She
couldn’t
. She was thirty-four years old. There wasn’t time to be reckless. No. She had made her choice. She had made her choice that summer’s evening on Waterloo Bridge. But had she known then what she knew now, would she have said yes?

Casey reappeared from the kitchen and interrupted her thoughts. “Don’t listen to those guys.” She buttoned a cropped tweed jacket and ruffled her hair. “You stick with your cute hubby. They’re jealous.”

Stevie twisted out a smile and went to hide in the bathroom. En- throned on the loo seat, knickers around her ankles, she put a palm across her belly, wondering if she had a precious and tiny secret.

it felt strange leaving new york
. Stevie had just ad- justed to its time zones and now she had to leave. Saying good-bye, Lara threatened to kidnap her and hide her in the apartment closet. She said she was sorry that she’d been a bit distracted, what with work and everything, and she loved her very much.

“I love you, too,” said Stevie, pressed against Lara’s perfumed neck. “Girls, keep it together.” Sam rolled his eyes. “We’re going to miss the plane.” He loaded the bags into the back of a cab and kissed Lara lightly on the cheek. “See you next week.” Lara

squeezed his fingers.

As they stood on the street, Casey waved from the apartment window, leaning out over an air-conditioning unit, her manicured

fingers fluttering. Stevie stepped into the cab, so small after Lon- don’s roomy black beasts.

as soon as the
captain had turned off the
fasten seatbelts
signs, Sam moved from row 16A to 33B, the empty seat next to Stevie. They drank wine—she kept her intake to a few tiny sips, in case she was pregnant—and ate oversalted pretzels that left crumbs in their laps and between the seats. They didn’t watch any movies. They talked. They giggled. When everyone else onboard blinded themselves with the eye masks and reclined to slumber, they stared in comfortable silence out of the pitchy-black oval window— sugared with ice crystals—waiting for the sky to bleed into a dawn. Stevie was still awake when Sam finally fell asleep. His head slumped onto her shoulder and sleepily nestled into her neck, like an animal burrowing home.

There was nothing inappropriate about a head on her shoulder, was there? He was Lara’s boyfriend, yes, but he was also her old friend. They hardly required chaperones. As Sam slept, he sniffled slightly, the dry, recycled air audibly catching in the back of his throat. Stevie found the sound oddly reassuring.

When her shoulder eventually began to ache, she held Sam’s head gently between her hands, propped it back up, carefully wedging a blanket against his left cheek and the seat back. She studied him as he slept, examining the traces of Jamaica detectable in the soft curves of his nose and mouth, his wide cheekbones, the fusion of genes that had created his milky olive skin and his ribbon-shiny curls of black hair. She couldn’t remember ever finding a man quite so gloriously beautiful, so edible. She wondered what would have happened if Katy Norris hadn’t barged between them—

all lashes and cleavage and dilated MDMA pupils—at that particu- lar moment at that particular party all those years ago. She won- dered what her children would look like if Sam fathered them.

Then she must have fallen asleep, because she awoke a few hours later, snuggled into Sam’s shoulder. Something had woken her. Turbulence? Breakfast? It took a few seconds to connect with the sensation of warmth and wetness between her legs. She looked down and immediately thought, Oh,
no
! Oh, shit. A crease of rust- red blood in the gusset of her jeans. Barging past the breakfast trol- ley, Stevie rushed to the toilet, tears in her eyes.

THIRTY-FOUR
Æ

katy thought it was seb’s chest, rising and
falling gently beneath her cheek. Then she remembered. She eased her head off Jez’s tangle of fine, copper chest hair, the skin on her cheek suctioned to his chest, as if reluctant to let go. She looked at the digital clock on her bedside table. Not even 6:00
a.m.
? No wonder it was dark outside.

The details of the day initially felt sketchy. But, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, they came back with more clarity. Seb had e-mailed—a terse, matter-of-fact message explaining away his pre- vious lack of communication with “hectic schedule, a weekend away in LA”—and said he’d phone at eight, her time, raising her hopes of a reconciliation of sorts. He hadn’t phoned. And Katy had waited and waited, feeling like a bad pastiche of Bridget Jones, un- til her willpower broke and she called him. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Absence was the message, then. So she’d swished the silk curtains shut angrily, creating privacy in which to dissolve. She’d opened one bottle of strong Chilean red, then another, before call- ing Jez. After that? It was all rather hazy. She vaguely remembered

answering the door in silk knickers and a tank top. She vaguely re- membered weeping. She vaguely remembered falling into bed. Shit, had they slept together? Katy looked down. No, she was still wrapped in a silk dressing gown, knickers and the tank top intact. Katy stared at Jez, out for the count and snoring like a baby, his crumpled shirt ruched up, exposing a beer belly. It was soft, invit- ing, and squishy—so unlike Seb’s newly acquired six-pack. Wedges of blond hair stuck up from his head like fins, pink scalp visible in places. She smiled. There was something of the disheveled faithful Labrador about him, she thought. And it was so cute the way his

lip gripped his front tooth as he slept. Just like her daddy’s did.

She lifted Jez’s arm—circled heavily around her shoulders—and edged herself up gently, careful not to wake him. He continued to snore. She padded into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of mineral wa- ter from the new American fridge Seb had insisted upon buying, and poked around, suddenly starving, as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks. There was nothing but goat cheese and champagne. She had a sudden, inexplicable urge for a fry-up.

Clarins Beauty Flash. Touche Éclat beneath the eyes, in the nos- tril creases. Laura Mercier concealer. Chanel powder blush. Katy hadn’t allowed any man to see her without makeup since she was twenty-five years old—and she wasn’t about to start now. She pat- ted the products in.

“Katy, are you there?” Jez shouted throatily from the bedroom. “One sec.” Katy walked back to the bedroom, bottle of water

tucked beneath her arm.

Jez was sitting up in bed, crumpled shirt smoothed down, green- socked feet rotating at the ankle. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better.” Katy sat down neatly on the edge of the bed. “Thanks to you.”

Jez cleared his throat and scratched his head. “I hope you don’t think... Er, nothing happened. I’m sorry I’m still here. I was hold- ing you. We both must have fallen asleep. But you mustn’t think.. .” “It’s okay. I wasn’t
that
far gone.” Katy smiled gently, picked up one of Jez’s large white hands, turned it over so that the palm faced the ceiling and traced a finger along it. “You’ve got a nice long life

line.”

Jez raised his blond eyebrows. “Better live it right, then.”

They exchanged a glance. It was clearly a meaningful glance. But Katy was unsure as to what it actually meant, only that it was the opposite of the way Seb looked at her. She let his hand drop.

Jez stood up slowly, reluctantly searching out his discarded shoes. “Well, um, suppose I better hit the road.” He looked at his watch. “My ma will be wondering where the hell I am.”

“Of course. She’s staying at your flat, isn’t she?” Katy thought it was the cutest thing ever that Jez had his mum staying at his flat. She missed her mother so much. How lucky he was. “Don’t rush away. Stay for breakfast. A fry-up?”

“I really shouldn’t . . .” Jez looked at his feet, wished he’d worn better socks. “Oh, okay. Why not?”

“Tom’s won’t be open yet. But there’s this little café off West- bourne Park Road.” She’d never eaten there before. It looked far too cheap and didn’t serve egg-white omelettes. But today, for some reason, it would be perfect.

katy ordered the full
English breakfast with builder’s tea and orange juice (undiluted). The mound of food was garishly col- ored and oozed greasiness: It was probably the highest-calorie meal she’d ever had in one sitting.

“So you’ve decided not to kill yourself and donate your repro- ductive organs to fertility research, then?”

“I said
that
?” Katy covered her face with her hands. “I’m such a drama queen. God, I’m sorry.”

“You, drama queen? no!” mocked Jez gently. “Pass the ketchup.” Katy didn’t pass the ketchup. She squeezed some onto his plate without thinking, as a mother would do for a child. Jez didn’t balk. It was so easy between them, she thought, so unbelievably natu- ral, like they’d been married for years. “Stevie’s back from New

York today?”

Jez stopped chewing his mouthful of fatty bacon. “Yup.”

Of course, Jez would go back to being a married man. He’d have children. Stevie wouldn’t put up with their friendship. Why should she?
She
wouldn’t. Katy sensed Stevie didn’t much like her anyway. Their introduction on Sam’s lap at that field party all those years ago didn’t get their acquaintance off to a good start anyhow. So, yes, everything would return to normal for Jez. While she’d just join the amorphous, rather hopeless mass of London’s single thirty- six-year-old women. “You must miss her.”

Jez stared at Katy, unnervingly intently. She dabbed at her mouth with a thin, shiny napkin. Did she have hash browns stuck on her face or something? But she couldn’t drag her eyes away from Jez’s. The longer the silence went on, the less Katy could think to say.

“Are we going to talk about this or not?” Jez said eventually. “Huh? Not sure I know what you mean.” Katy fiddled with a

corner of gingham table cloth.

Jez inhaled deeply, reared up, filling his shoulders and chest with air, as if preparing himself for the punch of rejection. Dare he? “This . . . this . . . connection.”

“Connection?”

Jez banged a frustrated palm against his forehead. “Katy, am I going bonkers or has something . . . I feel . . . like . . . like . . . Oh, God, I don’t know how to put it into words.”

“You seem upset. I don’t understand. Have I done something? I never meant to do anything.”

Jez reached out for Katy’s hand, now wrapped tightly around the ketchup bottle. Had he got completely the wrong idea? Jez had meant to be just a goading tool to entice Seb into proposing, but somewhere along the line he’d become more than that. He’d be- come strangely essential. But he wasn’t hers. And she wasn’t worth it. “You’re a good friend, Jez. A really good friend.”