What a Girl Wants (10 page)

‘OK,’ I replied, nodding and trying not to be sick. ‘That’s brilliant.’

Charlie scratched his head and I knew he was waiting for me to say something else but my mind was completely blank. Charlie Wilder had told me he loved me and I had no words. None of them.

‘OK,’ I said again.

And then it was happening again. I felt myself leaving my body and floating up into the corner of the room, watching as I stared blankly at the first man to tell me he loved me.

This is where you’re meant to say ‘I love you too,’ my brain whispered.

And I knew that. I’d been waiting for this moment forever. But I didn’t say it. Instead, I smiled brightly and gave him a double thumbs up.

‘That’s brilliant,’ I said.

‘OK,’ he echoed, staring at me from the top of the stairs. ‘Brilliant.’

And then he was gone.

‘I cannot believe you gave him a thumbs up!’

Out of everything I’d ever done, nothing had tickled Amy quite like this.

‘
Double
thumbs up,’ I corrected. ‘It was a double thumbs up.’

‘I’d take that if it were me,’ she said, heaving her first enormous suitcase off the luggage carousel at Malpensa airport, barely blinking at the fact it weighed almost as much as she did. Agent Veronica had assented to my bringing her to Milan as my assistant with only four ‘fuck you’s’ and one use of the ‘c’ word. It was as though she was starting to like me. ‘Charlie Wilder finally drops the L bomb and you give him the double thumbs up and say thank you. Thank you!’

‘I didn’t say “thank you”,’ I said, looking for my own sad little bag. A hasty patch-up job with duct tape meant it was very, very recognisable. ‘I said, “brilliant” and I haven’t heard from him since. Now, can we agree to never speak of it again?’

‘What did you expect him to do?’ she asked as she pulled up the suitcase handle and leaned forward, using it as a chin rest. ‘Propose? “Oh, I just told a girl I love her and she said ‘Brilliant’ so I should totes put a ring on it?”’

I thought about it for a second. ‘Yes.’

‘And you gave him a double thumbs up,’ Amy stretched her arms over her head and smiled. ‘Good job on getting the camera out of him first.’ The camera. He gave me a camera, told me loved me and I gave him the thumbs up. What a knobhead. ‘You can’t really be surprised that he’s pissed off, can you?’

I shrugged, eyeing my case as it rattled along the conveyor belt towards me. Half the size and a third the weight of Amy’s case; I couldn’t even begin to work out what she had brought with her.

‘No,’ I protested, grabbing my case and wrenching my still-sore shoulder as I pulled it from the belt. ‘Of course not. But I didn’t think he’d be so flippant about the whole thing.’

‘He isn’t being flippant.’ She pushed her hair out of her face and sighed. ‘He’s being
hurt
. This is what hurt looks like. Isn’t it obvious?’

Honestly, my hurting Charlie was an entirely new concept. I’d spent so long nursing my unrequited crush that the thought that I could actually damage his feelings was a bit of a mind-blower. But she was right.

We’d spoken on Saturday night when I called, determined to make things right between us before I left for Italy. Unlike a certain other man I would not name, Charlie answered his phone when I called it. But similarly to Mr Unmentionable, he wasn’t best pleased with me. I was met with a variety of one-word responses to my every question, and when I finally suggested we get together for dinner as I was leaving for Milan in the morning, he declined, citing prior plans for his mate’s birthday. Since I had been his social secretary forever, I knew it really was Robbo’s birthday, but I also knew when Charlie was pissed off. And above all else, I knew a man would never put the thirty-second birthday of a passing acquaintance above the opportunity for a shag. Not that I was planning to shag him, but clearly my track record of declining a sleepover wasn’t fantastic in these situations. After blowing me off, he switched to the pitch, telling me he was leaving for Portugal on Monday morning and that I should email him my stuff for the pitch so he could work everything up for Friday, then hung up. No ‘have fun’, no mention of us living together, no mention of his declaration of love, no mention of my appalling response to said declaration. He was all business.

As was quite obvious to everyone alive, I was not an expert in men but I was an expert in Charlie. He was clearly furious. The only time he’d been this cold to me in the last decade was when I accidentally washed a pair of his jeans that had tickets to the FA Cup final in the back pocket. That resulted in almost a week of stony silence but he soon came round when he needed help picking a birthday present for his then girlfriend. Suffering the indignity of trying on lingerie that was going to be worn by a woman who was sleeping with the man I believed was the only possible father to my future children felt like more than enough punishment for denying Charlie the opportunity to see Arsenal lose on penalties in extra time.

But knowing he was perfectly justified in his huff didn’t help me. It still felt overwhelming – starting a business, moving in together, the first ‘I Love You’
and
a chicken cook-in sauce? Who did he think I was, Beyoncé? I was an organized person who liked a plan, and in my head I had always imagined these things happening in a timely, organized fashion. I’d waited ten years – why did they all have to appear at once?

‘This is good timing,’ I said, wiping away an errant tear that had crept out of nowhere before Amy saw. Stupid eyes. ‘This slows things down. We’ll both be so busy this week, we won’t have time to stew on stuff. And when I get back, it’ll all be OK.’

‘Totally healthy reaction,’ Amy said, shoving her passport in the back pocket of her hot-pink jeans. ‘You’re so on top of this.’

‘I’m a grown woman,’ I replied, pulling her passport out of her back pocket without her even noticing and placing it safely into into my travel wallet with my passport. ‘I can make my own decisions.’

My suitcase was light to the point of embarrassment, compared to Amy’s gargantuan twosome. All I had packed were comfy jeans, a few T-shirts and shirts and a couple of jumpers in case it got cold at night, even though I had been soundly assured by Agent Veronica that Milan in July would be ‘fucking roasting red hot like the seventh circle of hell’ and that she would rather hang herself by her own ovaries than ‘spend a second in that shithole’. It wasn’t all boring though; I had been to M&S and bought two new packs of pants especially for the trip. It hardly mattered what I wore on my nether regions, since Amy was the only person who was likely to see them and, given my natural tendency to be a never-nude, that tended to be unplanned and against my will anyway.

‘So,’ Amy waved at a driver holding a board showing my name and waited for me to find my feet, ‘what would you do if you turned around and Charlie was stood on one side of the airport and Nick was on the other?’

‘Turn back around and keep walking?’ I said, still breathless. ‘Oh Jesus Christ, they’re not are they?’ I hardly dared move.

‘Well, Charlie isn’t,’ she shrugged. ‘And since you apparently managed to spend a week in playing photographer without taking a single bloody shot of Mr Miller, I don’t know what he looks like, do I?’

‘If you’re going to tell me you haven’t googled him,’ I nodded at the driver as we trotted towards him, overly excited to see my own name badly written in wonky black marker, ‘I’m going to call you a liar.’

‘Do you have any idea how many Nick Millers there are in the world?’ Amy said. ‘Not including a character in a very popular sitcom?’

‘A few?’

Secretly, I was pleased that she’d had a hard time finding him. If Amy had got so much as a peek at Nick, we wouldn’t be in Milan right now. We’d be wherever in the world he might be so she could hunt him down and force us down the aisle with a shotgun.

‘You’re a pain in my arse, Brookes,’ she muttered. ‘I never tell you a story without visual aids.’

‘Yeah, and if you could stop texting me pictures of your one-night stands while they’re sleeping, that would be brilliant,’ I replied.

With a big wide smile, Amy turned and gave me a double thumbs up.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘That’s brilliant.’

‘Remind me again why I brought you with me?’ I asked my alleged best friend, fighting the urge to punch her in the face.

‘Because you love me,’ she said, weaving her arm through mine, as our driver piled our bags onto a trolley. ‘And you couldn’t possibly survive another adventure without me.’

‘Totally should have brought Paige,’ I mumbled to myself as we walked out of the air-conditioned airport into a heat that almost made me crumble to my denim-clad knees. So this was the seventh circle of ovary-hanging hell Veronica had talked about.

‘Warm out,’ Amy said, sliding on her sunglasses. ‘This is going to be fun.’

‘It’s going to be something,’ I replied, looking for my own sunglasses in my handbag and having a sudden flashback to leaving them on top of Amy’s dresser in the rush to get her out and into the taxi that had been waiting for us for twenty minutes. ‘It’s definitely going to be something.’

‘Oh my God!’

Amy hadn’t stopped talking since customs so it was a testament to just how impressive Bertie Bennett’s Italian home was that it had managed to shut her up so successfully. Even when I had explained that the clouds that looked so much like mountains were, in fact, mountains, she hadn’t stopped for breath so the look of dazed amazement that had come over her now was wonderful to behold for many reasons. From a best-friend perspective, I was happy to see her look so happy. From a human-being perspective, I could have cried with joy at the first moment of silence in over an hour.

As the car pulled off the road and a pair of huge iron gates swung open to allow us inside, I pressed my fingertips against the window of the car. When I’d arrived at Bertie Bennett’s house in Hawaii, I thought I had accidentally wandered into heaven. The wonderful modernist architecture, the sea, the sand, the way the air smelled so sweet and welcoming. But this was something else; this was like something I had only seen in fairytales. One moment we were on a perfectly normal-looking city street while Amy regaled the driver with tales of her latest urinary tract infection and the next we were sitting in complete silence and rolling into the courtyard of the most beautiful, stately building I had ever seen.

When I was sixteen, my entire class had gone on a school trip to London and I distinctly remembered being more than a little bit disappointed by Buckingham Palace. Not that it wasn’t impressive; but my imagination had been ruined by too many Disney movies, so it had too many corners and not enough turrets for my liking. But this place? Al’s Milan pied-à-terre made Buck House look like a two-up, two-down council house.

It wasn’t that it was enormous or sprawling or set in acres of artfully landscaped grounds, it was just impossibly beautiful. The house was elegant and simple with so many big, sparkling windows I couldn’t even count them all. Everything was symmetrical, which brought out the ecstatic OCD in me and I kept looking up to the top floor, expecting to see a princess combing out her hair on one of the balconies. Passing through the gate, the car came to a halt in the courtyard, a stone fountain bubbling away in the centre, more archways leading off to small but perfectly formed manicured lawns, decorated with trees and plants. Gorgeous to look at, but just like his super-modern home in Hawaii, entirely inviting. Nothing about this storybook palace said ‘do not touch’; it was far more ‘feel free to take off your shoes and run around barefoot and would you like a bottle of wine and a straw while you’re doing that?’

A white-glove-wearing footman opened the passenger door and I climbed out of the car, eyes still skyward, taking in each of the three levels of Al’s second home. Unlike Hawaii, there was endless activity behind each of the arched windows. I could see people rushing around from one room to the next, curtains pulled back and windows thrown open. Clearly, someone was in a rush to get ready for something.

‘Tess?’ Amy peered at me over the top of the car, wavering on her tiptoes. ‘Are we in the right place?’

‘I don’t know about you,’ I replied, watching the huge wooden double door creak open to reveal a familiar face. ‘But I’m pretty bloody sure that I am.’

‘My darling!’ A short, handsome man with coffee-coloured skin and impeccably parted jet-black hair rushed across the courtyard, barrelling past assorted staff members who were trying to go about their business, and scooped me up in an impressive hug. Mostly impressive because I was at least five inches taller than him. ‘
Aloha!
’

‘Kekipi!’ I hoped he wouldn’t find the fact I still had my feet on the ground as awkward as I did. ‘
Aloha
.’

Nestling his head into my boobs, he looked up at me and grinned. Apparently he did not find it awkward at all. ‘Now are we Tess or Vanessa today?’

‘Tess,’ I said quickly. ‘Today, tomorrow and until the end of the world.’

‘That could be tomorrow if things don’t calm down in there.’ He gestured back towards the house before turning his attention to Amy.

My bestie was vibrating with barely restrained giddiness and not for the first time since I’d invited her along on this trip, I wondered whether introducing the two of them was, in fact, an incredibly bad idea.

‘You must be Amy the Assistant.’ He decided to forego the formalities of introductions and planted two big kisses on Amy’s cheeks. ‘I like you already, you make me look tall.’

The first time I met Kekipi, it had been in an entirely official capacity and even though the pretence of professionalism fell by the wayside relatively quickly, something was definitely different this time. Gone was the black uniform he had sported as the estate manager of Bertie Bennett’s Hawaiian hideout, and in its place was a bright aqua-blue trousers and hot-pink shirt combo. In fact, Kekipi’s shirt coordinated with Amy’s jeans so well, you would have been forgiven for thinking they had planned their outfits together. Which I imagined would be happening daily from tomorrow morning.