A Bad Bride's Tale (34 page)

Seb didn’t smile, nor did he sit down. He walked over to the window, gazed out, without seeing anything. “I guess I should know why you’re here.”

Katy swiveled on the chair. “Not sightseeing.”

“No.” Seb shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a hook next to a filing cabinet. He’d put on a bit of weight. And he looked anxious and sweaty and not particularly happy, she observed with a frisson of satisfaction. “I’ve got some apologizing to do. But . . .” He ges- tured around the office. “Heavens, Katy, you do pick your moments, don’t you?”

Katy leaned back into the chair, crossing her bare tanned legs

with a sharp, professional flourish. The more she played a role, the less she revealed, the less vulnerable she felt. “There’s never a good time to dump your long-term girlfriend, no?”

Seb pressed into his temple pressure points with his thumb and index fingers. “Katy, please . . .”

“Or should I consider myself already dumped?” She bent for- ward on the desk with a brittle smile, enjoying the feeling of su- periority the large desk fostered, as if acting out scenes from
The Apprentice.
“The thing is, I don’t recall having, like, the conversa- tion in question.” She wondered where the hell the strength to speak so curtly had come from. But she was on a roll, enjoying watching Seb squirm. “I just recall that you haven’t phoned me at all, and when I do finally get through to you, you speak as if I’m wasting your precious New York minute. And I want some closure.”

“I haven’t behaved like a gentleman.” Seb slumped against the wall. “I’m sorry.”

“A gentleman?” Katy scoffed. “A
gentleman? Pur-lease.
”

“I know, I know.” Seb shook his head from side to side. “The thing is . . . it’s been tough . . . I didn’t know what to tell you . . .” Rage bloomed inside Katy. The rage was empowering. “That you want to be single? That you never had any intention to prop- erly commit to me? That you wasted some of the most important years of my life when I could have met someone who wanted what I wanted. And why should I be ashamed? Yes, I wanted to settle

with someone who loved me. Is that so fucking freakish?”

Seb groaned and covered his face with his hands. “But I couldn’t give you that. Not then . . .”

“Not then.” Katy recrossed her legs. “Not ever.”

Seb walked over to his desk, and for the first time since arriving

in New York sat down in the smaller chair, facing Katy. “Ironically . . .”

“I don’t smell any irony here.”

“Well, it’s just that I
have
been doing a lot of thinking . . .” “And fucking?”

Seb’s face fell.

Katy waved her hand, as if dismissing a bad sales pitch. “Let’s save that for later, shall we?” She couldn’t go there, not now. She knew that if Seb had met someone else, as was likely, she wouldn’t be able to hold it together. And she wouldn’t give him the satisfac- tion of seeing her cry. It struck her that normally she’d have de- manded to know and picked apart the gory details. But a new sense of preservation prevailed. She wouldn’t do it to herself, not this time.

“Gosh, I am sorry,” said Seb, hand over his mouth, staring at Katy. “I didn’t realize you were so upset. I thought you realized it was kind of over . . . or ending, somehow in the process of self- destructing. But you always left such cheery messages.”

“I do good phone.” Hell. Why should she apologize for being in her mid-thirties and wanting a relationship that was deeper than phone sex? Jez had reinforced a little of her old self-confidence. “But I
was
hurting.”

“Of course. Crikey. What can I say?” Seb, looking devastated, picked up a pen, nudging its retractable nib nervously along the edge of the desk. “But the rotten thing is . . . shit . . . How do I say this . . .” He inhaled, sat up straighter, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Okay, being straight with you, Katy. I thought we were over. That my life was here. And then, well, recently, I began to miss England, the whole English summer thing, the boat races, hanging out at my folks’ . . .”

One thing I won’t miss, thought Katy.

“Tuscany. Remember we talked about going to Tuscany? Down to Widgi’s villa?”

“Did we?” Oh, God. Why did she have to listen to this? She should leave now. It was O-V-E-R. The gravitational pull had gone. She must accept—no, embrace—singledom and move on. She had her closure. Perhaps that was all she needed—just to see him, one more time.

“I’m rambling. Sorry, you know I’m an imbecile when it comes to expressing my feelings.” He smiled. “The point is, I started to miss
you
.”

“What?”
Katy’s heart thudded faster.

Seb’s eyes pinked. “But I’ve screwed everything up . . .” He sniffed, desperately trying to keep a stiff upper lip. “There is a tiny problem.” He gulped. “The thing is . . .”

There was a knock on the door. Seb froze, terrified a colleague was about to discover him in a compromising moment of weakness. It would be all over the office in minutes. He stood up, brushed himself down, tightened his tie. “Yes?”

“The documents you sent for, Seb.”

Seb opened the door. As he did so, Katy’s eye was drawn to the open drawer on her left-hand side. What the hell was that? She picked it up. Oh, God, it couldn’t be. It was a sick joke? “Seb?” she said weakly, all bravado gone. “Seb?”

A bundle of documents in his arms, Seb turned around. When he saw what Katy held in her shaking hand, he sank into the chair, eyes shut, head in his hands. The game was over.

THIRTY-NINE
Æ

beneath gray skies—densely matted, like damp
cotton wool—and with a heavy heart, Stevie walked up Walton Street, past the steamed-up windows of the Jericho Café, Le Petit Blanc restaurant, the florist, and the deli. The street was eerily quiet today. There were no cars. No noise. It all felt horribly empty. A familiar figure cycled toward her, swerving his bike in exuber- ant and dangerous figure eights. Could it be? Neil? She squinted again. Yes, it was her brother, standing on the pedals, grinning, his hair shorter and neater than last time she’d seen him, blown stiffly back by the wind like tufts of meadow grass. Sitting on the saddle, hands clinging around his waist, was a girl; a petite twentysome- thing, laughing, dark wavy hair streaming back off her pretty heart-shaped face. Neil screeched to a stop. “Sis? What are you do-

ing in the manor? Shouldn’t you be at work?” “Oh, just . . . oh, it doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t look too chipper, whassup?” “Nothing. I needed a break from London.” “You’re playing hooky?”

“Not exactly.” Stevie looked at the girl, then Neil. “Introduce us?”

Neil’s hand instinctively reached out for a dreadlock to twiddle, but found none. “Er, this is Claire. Claire, my sister Stevie.”

Claire smiled eagerly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Stevie looked from Neil to Claire and back again. Something about these two made her wonder. She’d never seen him in such close physical contact with a girl before. Could this be—
gasp
— Neil’s first girlfriend? “Fancy escorting me to the folks’ house, Neil? I could do with some company.”

“Oh, no, we’re like . . .”

“Great.” Claire nudged him in the ribs. “Come on.” “Yeah, come on, Neil. Move it.”

Feeling caught, Neil relented. “Er . . . I suppose. You
do
look like you could use some company, sis.”

The three of them ambled back to their parents’ house, Neil walking his bike, Claire keeping one of her hands on the handlebar. They chatted about Claire’s English course, the damp summer weather, and the trustafarian twit who’d moved into Neil’s place and painted the bathroom a horrible satsuma orange. Neil listened warily, in case his sister incriminated him with an embarrassing an- ecdote from childhood. Stevie tried to concentrate, but was unable to stop thinking about Lara and Sam. (What would their child look like? Would it be a girl or a boy?)

They stopped at the driveway of their parents’ house. Outside the front door, chaotically piled on the gravel drive, were two suit- cases, one with the tip of a navy sock hanging forlornly out the side. Neil and Stevie exchanged glances. It could mean only one thing.

Neil rolled his eyes. “It’s finally happened, then. Oh, shit.”

Claire looked puzzled. “I don’t get it. What’s the matter?” “Emotional baggage.” Neil gestured toward the suitcases, trying

to keep his cool. “My folks . . . you know I told you they were, like, having problems?”

“I’m sorry.” Claire put an arm around Neil’s waist. He flinched at this conclusive display of togetherness.

A cold dread feeling settled in Stevie’s stomach. So who was leav- ing this time, mother or father? The sock suggested the latter. “Not the best meet-the-parents opportunity, Claire. Don’t feel you two have to hang around.”

Suddenly, a polished Oxford brogue appeared, wedging the front door open. “It’s not books! I promise it’s not stuffed full of books!” Chris shouted, emerging into the daylight. Catching sight of his audience, his eyebrows knitted. “Oh. Hello, folks.”

Stevie and Neil studied the gravel. “Hi.” Walking in on a heavy, parental argument still felt a bit like walking in on them having sex.

There was a commotion on the other side of the door. Chris rolled his eyes.

“I will damn well check for those blasted books!” shouted Patti. “Just you watch me.” Patti flew out the door, as if ejected by a pow- erful force, newly hennaed hair flying around her shoulders. When she saw the assembled group, she braked. “Babies!” she cried. “My babies!” She smacked Stevie and Neil with kisses. “What are you doing here? Are you okay, Stevie? You look like you need a big hug from Mama.”

Stevie grappled for air inside her mother’s arms. “Easy.”

“But one minute, kids,” said Patti, withdrawing. “Before I for- get, I need to check something.” She picked up one of the battered old suitcases and considered its weight. “Hmmm. The jury’s out.”

Then she put her hands on her large, soft hips and threw her hair back and laughed.

Stevie exchanged another glance with Neil. God, they were hap- pier already.

“Are you going to tell them or am I?” asked Patti.

Stevie gulped. She wasn’t sure how well she was going to cope with parental separation. It made her sick to the bottom of her stomach.

Chris sighed. “We . . .”

Neil stepped forward and put a gentle hand on his father’s arm. “It’s okay, Dad.”

Chris started to speak again, “We are . . .”

“We are going to
Marrakesh
!” screamed Patti, with a little jump off the ground. “Marrakesh! Your father is taking me to Mar- rakesh!”

Their father nodded, a resigned nod. “It is true. A moment of madness.”

Was this the my-wife-isn’t-Rita effect? Stevie smiled at her dad.

He winked back.

“This is the best anniversary present ever.” Patti kissed her hus- band, pushing his glasses up so they collided with his eyebrows. Then they started to snog.

Neil put one hand across his eyes. “Oh, gross, man . . .”

When Patti came up for air, she registered Claire, who was star- ing, open-mouthed, standing slightly behind Neil. “We haven’t met,” Patti said, extending her arm of bangles. “Are you Stevie’s friend?”

Claire grinned coyly and, to Neil’s evident mortification, slipped her arm back around his waist. “Neil’s.”

Patti’s mouth dropped open. She looked from Neil—who was blushing furiously—to the puppy-eyed Claire and back again.

“His crack addiction?” Stevie whispered to her mother, giving her a sharp nudge in the ribs.

“My God. At last!” Patti, who was near her emotional boiling point anyway due to her impending departure to Marrakesh, now spilled over. She lunged forward, thrusting Claire into the crevasse of her bosom, while Neil looked on helplessly. “Welcome to the family.”

“This is so embarrassing. I knew this would happen,” muttered Neil. “I knew it.”

For Claire’s sake, Stevie tried to distract Patti. “You’re off now?” Patti looked at her watch. “Your father seems to think so. I think we’ve got a few hours to kill. Who wants to be one of those types

who turn up to the airport days before the plane departs?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Your mother is a traveler, you see, Stevie, not a tourist. Not for her, the bourgeois convention of check-in times.” He looked at his wife and smiled affectionately. “I should have just booked a cross-continental donkey.”

Patti gave him a playful pat. “Ignore the old man. Let’s have a quick cup of tea. After all, it’s not every day Neil brings a . . . a . . .” Neil appeared to shrink in anticipation of his mother’s im- minent faux pas. “. . .
special
friend home.”

Stevie followed her brother and his new girlfriend into the house. Yes, in life’s game of musical chairs, she really was the one left standing.

FORTY
Æ

poppy stood on the front step of her queen’s park
Victorian house, in a white
broderie anglaise
blouse and jeans, a wide-brimmed straw hat shading the tiny bundle in her arms. Piers had one hand around his wife’s waist, gazing at the new arrival proudly. Finn and Sophie giggled at their feet. Stevie dumped her work bags on the paved garden path—she’d come straight from the office when she’d heard—and walked up to the swaddled mewing bundle. “Hello, Tommy.”

“He’s my new brother,” piped Sophie.

“And mine,” added Finn. “I give him apple.”

“Did you? His first apple? Wow.” Stevie ruffled Finn’s ringlets. “He looks very well.”

“Just like a new pet,” pronounced Sophie, before turning on her heel, trailing her feather boa fairy wand along behind her. “But smaller than rabbit.”

“Smaller than rabbit,” repeated Finn solemnly, following his sis- ter and bolting indoors.

“Actually, he is now five pounds, which is positively sumo . . .”

Piers grinned. He had lost his jowls since Stevie last saw him, an improvement tempered by a look of ragged exhaustion. “Nice to see you, Stevie. Hope you’re feeling okay, given the circumstances. Chin up, eh?” He raked his hair back. “Right, better get those other two to Alice’s party. That’s my orders. Children! Heel!” he thundered, disappearing through the house, clattering through the central hall and out into the garden where the children greeted him with teasing whoops.