What Might Have Been (13 page)

22

T
he girls had brought presents, which explained why Sarah was wearing a pair of what she understood from Grace were called ‘Deely-boppers’ on her head, a flashing plastic model of a bride on the end of one of the springs and the equivalent groom on the other. Mary from accounts had brought her a pair of thermal socks ‘in case she got cold feet’, a statement which had sent the room into hysterics, and Sarah had laughed too, of course, though somewhere at the back of her mind, she’d wondered whether Mary knew something she didn’t.

Her least-favourite gift – the square plastic learner-driver’s L-plate strung around her neck – kept digging in to her cleavage, but she felt duty bound to keep it on, despite the fact that most of the girls were snapping photos with their phones every chance they got. And while Sarah worried the pictures would surely end up on the notice board at work, she let them have their fun. Though she was having fun too, she had to concede, mainly due to the five or six Cosmopolitans she’d already consumed, and while Grace was worried they’d never get the cranberry juice stains out of the rug, Sarah had to admit it was actually nice to get some girl time. The women were different out of the office, as if they all felt they could let their hair down – literally, in some cases, given how prim some of them were at work.

Grace looked over and winked from where she was having what appeared to be a serious conversation with an extremely drunk Sally, David’s PA, who, despite being almost twenty years older than Sarah, wore her skirts at least ten inches shorter, and guarded his diary with the ferocity of a Doberman. She’d had the job for years, and while Sarah wasn’t exactly sure about her relationship with David, she was pretty sure they’d never slept together – normally, those kinds of things didn’t result in such long-term employment – though while their relationship appeared to be purely professional, Sarah suspected a much deeper feeling on Sally’s part. Several times she’d guessed the gifts David occasionally presented her with had actually been chosen by Sally, mainly because they’d been even less tasteful than usual, and Sarah was sure that had been on purpose. She hadn’t really wanted to invite her, but had felt it politically
correct
to do so, especially since David had dropped a number of not-so-subtle hints about how she’d been particularly put out by not receiving a wedding invitation, and – mindful of the expectations her new role might well carry, and suspecting it wouldn’t be the last time – Sarah had reluctantly stepped up to the plate.

She raised her glass and smiled back. Throughout the evening, Grace had been checking up on her. Several times Sarah had caught her watching whenever she’d gone and helped herself to another drink. It had become so bad that at one point she’d had to take Grace to one side to reassure her she was okay, though she was sure she hadn’t managed to convince her. As fond as she was of her flatmate, Sarah still missed her New York girlfriends, most of whom were too busy having babies to come over for her wedding – not that David had wanted her to invite them given his low-key plans for the day. But these women would do; she saw them every day, and apart from Grace, they were the closest thing she had to a circle of friends here. Given the sexism rife in the office, they’d all kind of bonded as if in some sort of blitz spirit, and if there was resentment that Sarah was marrying the boss, so far none of them had shown any – or at least, not to her face. Besides, that kind of rivalry only existed between the PAs, whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to nab one of the partners for themselves, even though the office operated on a strict
Upstairs, Downstairs
policy – a reference to some obscure British television programme that David had tried to explain to her once – and the moment anyone tried to overstep the boundary, there was always trouble. Some of the partners spent more time with their PAs than they did with their wives, but they all knew that anything more was strictly out of bounds – and in any case, there were plenty of other ways to have a bit of fun on the side. And although Sarah wasn’t completely sure whose target she’d ‘nabbed’, she’d had her suspicions about Sally for a while. She was certainly a good-looking older woman, but the trouble was, most of the men at the firm didn’t want an older woman. Mainly because they were already married to one.

She excused herself from the front room with a nod to her empty glass, and was standing in the kitchen opening another bottle of vodka when Grace came in behind her.

‘Having fun?’

‘Grace, for the millionth time . . .’

‘Sorry.’ Grace made a guilty face. ‘It’s just that I’ve never been a maid of honour before. And I’ve never organised a hen night, either.’

‘Well, you’re doing a great job – assuming what you Brits do on these kind of occasions is get drunk and set about trying to embarrass the bride-to-be?’ Sarah gave her a hug, causing the L-plate to dig painfully into both her breasts. ‘It’s perfect. Just what I wanted.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ And in truth, while it hadn’t been anything like the bridal showers she’d been to back home, Sarah had found herself enjoying playing along when they’d made her wear these silly things, and pretending to be suitably shocked when the inevitable male blow-up doll had been produced. And she’d more than kept pace with the rest of them where the cocktails were concerned.

‘And you’re not thinking about you-know-who?’

‘I wasn’t. Now I am.’

Grace made a face. ‘Sorry. Forget I mentioned him.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ Sarah adjusted the Deely-boppers, which were starting to slip off the back of her head. ‘It’s my hen night. Not a night to be thinking about Evan, or even David. Tonight is all about having fun – and drinking a lot.’

‘Cheers to that,’ said Grace, then she noticed Sarah’s empty glass. ‘Another Cosmo?’

‘Rude not to. Though I might regret it tomorrow.’

Grace gave her a flat-lipped smile. ‘Let’s just hope you won’t be thinking the same thing next Saturday.’

Sarah opened her mouth to answer, but the sound of the front door opening followed by a commotion in the hallway stopped her. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

Grace shrugged. ‘Probably the pizzas we ordered. Though I did hear a rumour about a stripper . . .’

As Sarah’s stomach rumbled, she knew exactly which she’d
prefer
it to be, and wondered just what that said about her.

23

E
van checked his watch and considered walking home. Even though it had just gone half-past midnight, he was still on U.S. time, so the night felt relatively young, but the miraculous sight of a taxi passing with its ‘For Hire’ sign illuminated was too strong a lure, and after a moment’s hesitation, he flagged it down and climbed in.

One thing he was sure of, having spent even a short time with David, was that David absolutely didn’t deserve Sarah. There had been something so disrespectful about how he and his friends had treated those women at the club – not as people, but like
commodities
– and it had made Evan sick to his stomach. If that was their view of womankind in general, how could he let a woman he cared about marry someone like that?

He needed to meet her, to tell her – but when? Once she’d had a little more time to get used to the idea of him being back, perhaps. Plus, as Grace had told him, it was her hen night this evening, and he didn’t want to spoil that for her – especially since he was planning to spoil the wedding. He thought about texting her, but quickly dismissed the idea – a hundred and sixty characters were hardly enough to craft the heartfelt message he wanted to convey – and what if David saw it? No, he needed to resort to more primitive means.

As the taxi crossed Tower Bridge, he borrowed a scrap of paper and a pen from the cabbie and jotted Sarah a note that simply said ‘call me’, adding his number afterwards just in case she’d deleted all evidence of their previous liaison, then directed him up Sarah’s street and asked to be dropped off in front of her building.

He waited till the cab had gone, then peered at the bank of post-boxes on the wall next to the door, trying to locate the right one, until a middle-aged woman carrying the smallest dog with the biggest, buggiest eyes that Evan had ever seen appeared in the foyer. She took one look at him in his dinner jacket, evidently decided he was unlikely to be a burglar, and opened the door a few inches.

‘Can I help you?’ she said, in a strong South African accent.

Evan moved to pet the dog, then jerked his hand back as it bared a needle-sharp set of teeth. ‘I’m looking for Sarah Bishop’s post-box. I’ve got to drop off a note.’

‘Sarah? She’s 6-E,’ said the woman, and Evan frowned.

‘Well, I think she’s sexy too, but do you know what number flat . . .’

The woman laughed. ‘No, 6-E,’ she said, tapping an expensively manicured fingernail on the relevant box. ‘Although I can see why you’d think that. Is it important?’

‘Yeah,’ said Evan, stopping short of telling the woman it was quite possibly the most important note he’d ever delivered.

‘In that case, it might be better if you go up and slip it under her door. She might not check her post until Monday.’

The woman opened the door just wide enough to let him in, and – avoiding the softly growling dog – he mumbled his thanks. Slipping the note under her front door was a better plan, he told himself as he walked purposely into the lift and pressed the button for Sarah’s floor – after all, with the wedding so close, he wasn’t sure he could afford the extra day. After a moment, as if giving him a chance to change his mind, the lift doors closed and it lurched upwards, though when they opened again, the music he could hear coming from the other end of the hallway almost made him wish he had.

He crept up to Sarah’s front door and tentatively pressed his face against the opaque glass panel, trying to peer inside. From what he could tell, the lights were all on, and judging by the sounds emanating from within, they’d brought the party home with them. But as he stood there, wondering whether he should go back to his original plan of leaving the note in her post-box downstairs, the door was suddenly flung open and he almost fell inside.

‘You’re late,’ said a girl he didn’t recognise. She was attractive – about Sarah’s age, but blonde and with a fuller figure – and very drunk.

Evan hurriedly stuffed the note into his pocket as he automatically looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said, as the girl grabbed him by the arm and pulled him through the doorway.

‘I said, you’re late. But worth waiting for,’ she answered, giving him the once-over. ‘I like it!’

‘Like what?’ he said, distractedly. Being back in Sarah’s flat felt strange, and while he knew he should just turn around and leave, he allowed himself to be led along the hallway.

‘The James Bond look,’ she said, fingering his lapel. ‘Now
listen
. Everyone knows you’re coming.’

‘Everyone? How . . .’

‘Except for Sarah, of course, so don’t be surprised if she’s a little shocked. Did you bring some music?’

‘Music?’ They’d stopped by the living room door, and Evan couldn’t work out what was going on. Not only did the party seem to be expecting him, they also seemed to be expecting him to
play
. ‘Er, no.’

‘Never mind – I’m sure we can find something suitable – or rather, getting-out-of-your-suit-able.’ The girl giggled and placed her hand on the door knob. ‘But I warn you, it’s a bit raucous
in the
re.’

Evan didn’t need her to tell him that – from the sounds he could hear coming from the living room, it sounded like a full-on rave was taking place. Realising his best option was just to go with it, he followed the girl in through the door, wincing as she put her fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. The room held perhaps a dozen women, all equally dressed-up and apparently equally as drunk, and as he tried to spot Sarah in the throng, one of them leapt up off the sofa and squeezed his backside roughly.

He stood there, too shocked to move, although not as shocked as Sarah, who’d just followed Grace in from the kitchen.

‘What the fu . . .’

Evan smiled awkwardly, conscious that conversation was impossible thanks to the combination of the cranked up music coming from the stereo in the corner and the fact that the women seemed to have broken into a chorus of ‘Off! Off! Off!’, then his stomach lurched.
Christ
, he suddenly realised.
They think I’m a stripper
.

For a second, and drawing a complete blank on any other options, he toyed with the idea of playing along, maybe even removing his jacket, but by the look of horror on Sarah’s face, that wouldn’t have been a good idea. Fortunately, she’d read the situation too, and as the girls’ chanting got even louder, she strode over to where he was standing, grabbed his arm, and all but frog-marched him into the kitchen.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said, pushing the door shut behind them, which only served to increase the volume of cat-calls from the next room.

Evan stared at her, wanting to tell her how beautiful she looked – despite the Deely-boppers and the L-plate round her neck – but he suspected that was probably inappropriate. He cleared his throat, painfully aware that the last time they’d been alone together, it had been to say goodbye.

‘I wanted to leave you a note,’ he said, retrieving the crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket and holding it out towards her, but Sarah made no move to take it.

‘And you thought that crashing my hen night was the best time?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be here.’

‘
Jesus
, Evan. What if David turns up?’

Evan knew that was rather unlikely, given how when he’d left him an hour or so ago, David had had other things on his mind – or rather, his lap. ‘He won’t. He’s still with . . . at some club.’

Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll bet.’

‘Listen . . .’ He took a deep breath, wondering how to begin. ‘Sarah, I . . .’

‘Don’t, Evan.’ She nodded towards the door, or more specifically, the noise coming from behind it. ‘Not now. Not unless you want to parade naked around the flat. Mind you, it wouldn’t be the first time.’

Evan tried to read her expression, pleased she seemed to be making a joke, but the baying from the lounge was getting louder, and he realised she was right – now wasn’t the time, certainly with a room full of her drunken friends next door. ‘Well, when? I’m not going to go away, you know?’

‘That’ll make a change,’ said Sarah, then she caught herself. ‘Tomorrow. But not here.’

He thought quickly. ‘The Tate? One o’clock? In the café.’ It was the first place that had sprung to mind, and the suggestion seemed to take Sarah by surprise.

‘The Tate?’

‘You know, where we . . .’

‘I remember.’ There was a strange look in her eyes, and Evan felt a sudden surge of hope. Going back there might help remind her what it was they once had – even though it was where they’d said goodbye. She swallowed hard, and he reached out to touch the side of her face.

‘Don’t cry.’

‘It’s my party,’ she said defiantly, forcing a smile, and when she didn’t back away, Evan wondered whether a kiss would be pushing his luck, but the answer to that was evidently ‘yes’, as the kitchen door suddenly burst open, and the girl who’d let him in leapt into the room.

‘You’re still dressed!’ she moaned, then turned to Sarah. ‘Don’t you like him?’

Sarah smiled. ‘Thanks, Em. But I think strippers are a little tacky, don’t you? No offence,’ she added, for Evan’s benefit.

‘Well,’ harrumphed the girl. ‘If you don’t want him to strip, maybe he’ll do it for us?’

The rest of the women let out a cheer behind her, and Evan started to feel uneasy. Particularly because for a second, it looked like Sarah was considering the idea.

‘Sorry,’ he said, quickly. ‘I can’t. Contractually, I mean. If the person I was originally hired for doesn’t want me to, you know,
perform
, I can’t.’

‘Why ever not?’ said the girl.

‘Health and safety?’ suggested Sarah.

‘Yeah,’ said Evan. ‘It could be dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’ said the girl, disbelievingly, staring at Evan’s groin. ‘What have you
got
down there?’

Sarah smiled, mock-regretfully. ‘We’ll never know, sadly.’

Evan hid his sigh of relief as the girl made a face. ‘Spoilsport,’ she said, then she walked over where he was standing and pecked him on the cheek, slipping something into his jacket pocket as she did so.

He allowed Sarah to escort him back through the front room
and to
the door, ignoring the booing from the other girls as
they we
nt.

‘Tomorrow?’ he whispered, as he stepped out into the hallway.

‘Tomorrow,’ agreed Sarah. ‘Now piss off !’ Then after the briefest of smiles, she closed the door between them.

Evan stared at the glass panel for a few moments, and then, suddenly tired, he turned and walked along the hallway and into the still-waiting lift. This, he thought, was progress – of sorts. At least he’d secured a chance to talk to her properly, and she hadn’t told him where to go. At least, not seriously.

Back at ground level, he removed the envelope full of ten pound notes the girl had slipped into his pocket, and supposed he ought to put it into Sarah’s mailbox, but as he reached the front door, a bemused-looking body-builder wearing a poorly fitting fancy-dress policeman’s outfit was peering at the door buzzers. Evan let himself out, and the man looked up at him.

‘You don’t know where a Sarah Bishop lives, do you, mate?’ he asked desperately. ‘Supposed to be here an hour ago. Couldn’t get a bloody taxi.’

Evan nodded. ‘6-E,’ he said, enunciating carefully. ‘You’re too late, though.’

The man cursed under his breath. ‘Party over, is it?’

Evan smiled. ‘It will be soon.’

The man turned away dejectedly, and Evan tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Here,’ he said, handing over the envelope. ‘I think this was supposed to be yours.’

And as he began the walk back to his flat, he found himself hoping David would soon be saying the same thing to him.