Bridesmaids (26 page)

Evie, you’re an idiot. No, worse than that. You’re a gullible idiot.

I’d known the second I saw Jack talking to Beth on that jetty in the Scillies that something was going on. There was more chemistry between the two of them than you’d find on top of the average Bunsen burner. Then there was the phone call to his mobile the other week. And now this. So how could I have been so stupid?

I know exactly how. I’ve been swept off my feet to such an extent that every ounce of commonsense appears to have been swept away at the same time, and I managed to convince myself I hadn’t even noticed anything was going on.

Which is absolutely ridiculous because it couldn’t have been clearer if someone had put a sign up. I
knew
this was happening and just chose to ignore it!

‘I just can’t believe it,’ I tell Grace as I storm across the floor of the marquee. ‘I really can’t.’

‘Are you sure there couldn’t be an explanation?’ she says, trying to keep up with me.

‘Tell me,’ I say, spinning around and making my head feel as if someone is clog dancing on it in the process. ‘What
explanation could there possibly be? I saw it coming at Georgia’s wedding. He gave her his phone number. I saw them flirting. Then, I saw her name come up on his mobile a couple of weeks ago. Now Beth has apparently left an item of clothing at his flat when she left there…this morning!’

Grace is obviously trying to think of something to say but is just opening and closing her mouth like a frustrated goldfish instead.

‘So you weren’t with him last night, then?’ she asks finally, clutching at straws.

‘I was busy helping my mum get ready for the wedding,’ I continue, ranting so much now that I sound like Gordon Ramsay with PMT. ‘Which was obviously the perfect opportunity. I just don’t see what possible explanation there is apart from Beth having stayed over for a mad, passionate all-night sex session.’

‘Okay, so she may have stayed over. But it might have all been innocent,’ says Grace. But I can see from her face that even she can’t imagine how.

‘If it was that innocent, why wouldn’t he have mentioned it?’ I ask sadly.

‘I just don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret, Evie,’ she says, grabbing my arm. ‘I know how much you like him.’

‘That was before I knew–knew for certain–that he was two-timing me,’ I say.

Leaving Grace next to the entrance of the marquee, I continue to look for Jack. But my mother gets to me first, calling my name out as she skips towards me, her peacock feather now bent over in a perfect right angle.

‘I’ve hardly seen you all night,’ she beams. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Er, yes,’ I say, forcing a smile. I couldn’t be more transparent if I was made of Perspex.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asks.

‘Oh nothing,’ I tell her. ‘Have you seen Jack anywhere?’

‘Oh, I meant to say, earlier: he
is
lovely, you know,’ she enthuses. ‘I mean, if I’d tried to speak to some of your other boyfriends about the humanitarian crisis in the Republic of the Congo they’d think I was speaking another language.’

‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘And he seems very fond of you,’ she continues.

I’m starting to think
I’m
talking another language.

‘Yes,’ I say patiently. ‘But have you seen him?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I left him talking to that chap you know.’

‘Which chap?’ Honestly, Mum!

‘You know,’ she says, ‘the one with the unfortunate complexion. I told him he ought to get that seen to. I met someone with a rash like that when I lived in India and he fell into a coma a week later.’

‘You don’t mean Gareth, do you?’ I say.

‘That’s the one,’ she says brightly.

I feel an instinctive stab of horror at the fact that I’ve failed to keep Jack and Gareth apart. But I remind myself that this is now utterly irrelevant under the circumstances.

When I see the two of them together, the first thing I notice is their expressions. Gareth is smiling one of his increasingly creepy smiles that have started reminding me of the Child Catcher in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
.

Jack, on the other hand, isn’t smiling at all.

‘Can I speak to you a minute, please?’ I say to him.

‘What?’ he says, frowning. ‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Having a nice evening, Evie?’ Gareth enquires as we walk away, but I can’t bring myself to do anything other than ignore him.

When we are a safe distance away, I turn to Jack and produce his phone.

‘There,’ I say pointedly. ‘There’s your mobile. Beth phoned. She left a message asking you to phone back.’

‘Right,’ he says, taking the phone from me without showing even a flicker of embarrassment.

‘That’s right,’ I add for good measure. ‘
Beth
.’

‘I heard you,’ he says, and I’ve seen brick walls acknowledging more remorse.

‘Oh,
did
you?’ I am aware that my voice is starting to sound slightly wobbly in an I’m-actually-hysterical-but-I’llbe-buggered-if-I’m-going-to-show-it kind of way. ‘Oh, you heard me, did you? Right. Right then. O-
kay
.’

He just ignores me, which I can’t help thinking is unbelievable. Positively shameless, in fact.

‘I need to ask you about something, Evie,’ he says instead.

‘Oh?’ I cross my arms huffily. ‘What?’

‘About something that—’ But he stops midway through his sentence. ‘Why are you doing that?’

‘What?’

‘Pulling that funny face?’ he says.

Now I really am annoyed.

‘Because I’m upset,’ I say, trying to control my voice as I realize I’m sounding more and more like Miss Piggy throwing a tantrum.

‘In fact, I’m
bloody
upset, you deceiving…’ I want to say
bastard
, but am concerned that might be a little too Vicky Pollard ‘…you deceiving…
so and so
.’

But even I think that sounds ludicrous.

‘What are you talking about?’ Jack looks mystified.

‘I’m talking about the
thing
you’re having with Beth,’ I grind out.

He furrows his brow.

‘Don’t look like that,’ I say, my head banging again. ‘I know you gave her your number in the Scillies. I know she’s been phoning you because I saw her name come up on your mobile. And now she’s just phoned to say she left her top at your place this morning. You must think I’ve got the intelligence of an amoeba.’

‘Evie,’ he says calmly. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘Oh, you’re denying it then?’ At this very moment I could be a Crown Court prosecutor.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I am denying it. But while we’re on the subject of deceptive
so and sos
, I wonder if you could clear something up for me?’

‘Fire away,’ I tell him, crossing my arms so tightly now my wrist has gone dead.

‘You know how you told me that heartrending story on the beach in the Scillies about how you’d just been dumped? Who was it, by Jimmy, who you’d been seeing for two and half years?’

I can feel the heat rising to my neck now.

‘That was a load of bollocks, wasn’t it?’ he says.

I’m trying to think of a suitable response but nothing is springing to mind.

‘And, tell me something else,’ he goes on sternly. ‘Is it true that you’ve never, not once, been out with anyone for longer than a few weeks because you’ve split up with them all before then?’

Again, words are somehow failing me. Which is not something I’m used to, I’ll admit.

‘I take it from your silence that it is. Why did you lie to me, Evie?’

I consider this carefully and try to remember again why I did.

‘It wasn’t exactly a lie,’ I try.

‘Wasn’t it?’ he asks.

‘Okay, well, so it was. I had my reasons,’ I say. ‘But let’s not change the subject. I want to know how long this thing between you and Beth has been going on.’

He shakes his head. ‘There
is
no thing between me and Beth.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ I say.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me, his eyes blazing.

‘Are these ridiculous accusations your way of splitting up with me?’ he asks. ‘Because we’ve been together for as long as eight weeks now? I presume from what I’ve heard that that must be what this is all about.’

‘Oh, they’re ridiculous, are they?’ I say, refusing to get drawn into anything other than the most important matter here.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘they are. But let me save you a job, Evie. You don’t have to split up with me. I’m happy to go quietly.’

And then he turns around and starts walking away.

‘So you expect me to believe that you and Beth aren’t an item, but you won’t even explain why she left her clothes at your flat?’ I shout after him.

‘I’ve got nothing to explain to you because I haven’t done anything wrong!’ he shouts back. ‘Oh, and by the way, don’t expect me to shower you with jewellery like Gareth did now we’ve split up.’

In a strange way, I feel like I did on the day I lost my virginity. I remember the sensation distinctly as I walked through town, idly looking in shop windows. I felt as if a fundamental part of me had changed for ever. And I couldn’t help getting an eerie, if illogical feeling that people could tell. From the shopkeeper who asked me if I had change of a twenty-pound note to the woman sitting next to me on the train reading an article about HRT, I felt as if they knew that something earth-shattering had just happened to me, that it must be written all over my face.

As I jump into the back of a taxi, I wonder whether the driver can tell that I’ve just been dumped by someone–someone I actually care about–for the first time in my life. I wonder if he realizes how this occurrence, so completely alien to me until now, has changed everything.

‘Have you been in a fight?’ he asks, studying my black eye in his mirror.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I mean no…no, my eye was just an accident.’ I stare out of the window, really not wanting to talk.

‘Have you come from that wedding down the road?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I mutter.

‘You’re the third one I’ve picked up from there,’ he says, and only then do I realize just how late it is. ‘Christ, I’ve seen some sights. The last one was wearing a poncho. Looked like she’d just stepped out of a Spaghetti Western.’

Okay, so maybe he doesn’t know.

My head spins as I lean back on the seat and block out the sound of his voice. Just take me home, I think. Just leave me alone.

My daze is suddenly broken as the taxi beeps and swerves around something, or somebody. As I look out of the window, I realize we’ve just narrowly missed Grace and Patrick as they walk down the middle of the road.

‘Can you stop a minute, please?’ I say to the driver, and as he pulls in I push the window down.

‘Do you want a lift?’ I ask.

They’re holding hands, but Patrick won’t look at me.

‘No, no,’ says Grace. ‘Honestly, we’re going in a completely different direction. We’ll flag our own one down. Is everything okay, Evie?’

I hesitate.

‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow, okay?’ My voice is wobbling.

‘Sure,’ she says.

She huddles up to Patrick, but I can tell from his face that something still isn’t right. I don’t know what. And at this moment in time I don’t really care. Somehow I can’t bring myself to even think about Grace and Patrick’s problems any more.

As the journey continues, it strikes me how quickly my rage, the rage that was so forceful such a short time ago, turns into something else: a dull, rising ache which already feels far
more potent, and far more painful, than plain old anger. Or the lingering effects of Valentina’s left hook, for that matter.

Tonight marks the end of something which, just four hours ago, I thought was the best thing that ever happened to me. It’s the end that I, foolishly, never thought would come. The end of me and Jack. Jack and me. My one and only steady relationship. Almost.

The enormity of what has happened suddenly hits me and tears prick into my eyes. I try to swallow but a hard, bitter lump in my throat stops me from doing so. Instead, tears spill down my cheeks, cascading in a stream of misery.

I think of Jack tenderly kissing my swollen face earlier and telling me I was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. I think about how safe it made me feel. How special. How loved.

My face is soaking with tears but still they keep coming. I sit, crying, in a way I’ve never cried before. My chest gets tighter and tighter and it begins to feel as if someone has ripped out my heart and is wringing it, wringing it remorselessly, to squeeze out every tear.

I look out of the window but can’t focus on anything except an image of Jack’s face, that lovely face with its warm eyes and oh so soft mouth. It strikes me that I may never see that face again.

I put my head in my hands and, despite my attempts to hide the fact that I’m crying, a sob escapes from my lips.

‘You’re not going to be sick back there are you?’ says the driver, looking in his mirror. ‘’Cos it’s an extra twenty-five quid if you are.’

My flat, Saturday, 9 June

I wake up with a hangover mouth, a throbbing eye and a very odd feeling about the night before. ‘Odd’ as in I know immediately that something is wrong, but it takes a half a second before I recall exactly what it is. When I do, my stomach lurches so hard it feels like I’ve been kicked by the hind legs of a donkey with a serious mood-swing problem.

I take a deep breath. In some ways, it’s no surprise I feel like this, given the amount of coffee I drank when I got back last night. On top of the alcohol I’d been drinking all day. On top of the painkillers I’d taken in the afternoon. On top of the smack in the head by Valentina’s sparkler.

And yet, I know that what I’m feeling isn’t just caused by that lot. Because nothing is making me feel more nauseous than the recollection of Jack’s words.

‘Evie, you don’t know what you’re saying. Are these accusations your way of splitting up with me? You don’t have to split up with me. I’m happy to go quietly.’

Just remembering them makes my head spin almost as much as my stomach, my thoughts being thrown this way
and that in a desperate attempt to make some sense of what happened. He looked so sincere. Yet how could he be, given what Beth told me? God, I want to believe him–which can only make me a bloody fool. But what if he was telling the truth? Is it too late now anyway?

I look up at the ceiling and focus on an impressive cobweb cascading between my Ikea lampshade and the top of my curtains. I close my eyes and try to think about all this rationally.

As far as I can see, there are only two possible explanations for what happened:

• A. Jack
  has
  been lying and two-timing me with Beth as I suspected. In which case, he’s been acting like a horrible, deceiving rat for months, with no regard for my feelings. And I’m an idiot.
  

Or

• B. Jack
  hasn’t
  been lying or two-timing me with Beth. In which case, I publicly accused him of doing just that–immediately after he discovered, not just about my past, but also that I’ve been telling monumental fibs about it. And I’m an idiot.
  

Funny, but I’m struggling to find anything positive in either scenario.