Let's Call The Whole Thing Off

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#uf2c26a5c-f92b-533e-8008-62d7821e52be)

There are 101 reasons (listed below) why you should never, ever, read anyone’s personal diary, especially not your best friend’s diary, even if said item just so happens to fall off their bedside cabinet laying open all those pages of hastily scribbled blue ink in a tempting array.

I took a deep breath …

It is a morally indefensible thing to do.

This is my bestie, for Christ’s sake. If she’d wanted me to know the stuff in there she would have told me.

I probably know all the stuff in there anyway.

My best friend trusts me implicitly.

I wouldn’t do anything to betray my friend’s trust.

I am not the sort of lowlife person to even consider such a thing.

I would be incensed if anybody did the same thing to me.

I know everything there is to know about my friend. She knows everything about me. We share absolutely everything. Best friends. Forever. Together.

It’s probably full of boring everyday stuff. Went to work. Had pizza. Got drunk.

So if I know it all anyway, have lived through most of it with her anyway, listened to the work woes, shared the pizza, got drunk along with acquiring my very own version of the T-shirt, then does it really matter about those other ninety-one trifling reasons?

No.

So what possible harm could the tiniest, sneakiest peek do?

I took another deeper breath and picked up the diary …

Sunday 31 March

Feel crap. Crap, crap, crap. My head is in a constant state of fuzziness, my thoughts banging against my temples and I just don’t know what the hell to do. I feel sick the whole time, I’m not eating and I’m not sleeping. Only five days to go! Oh god! Just kill me now. What will I do? How will I get through it? I feel so totally alone, there’s no one I can talk to and yet half of me wants to shout it from the rooftops. Put it right out there and … and then what? It’s hopeless. And Anna is just so fucking happy. It’s not fair.

My legs gave way beneath me and I sank down onto the bed, reeling from the spikiness of the words, the emotion jumping off the page and slapping me hard across the face. What the hell did it mean? My eyes scanned the neatly looped handwriting, trying to make sense of something that could have been written in Swahili for all the sense it was making. My heart thumped against my chest, my hands clammy.

Nothing on the page was recognisable as being about Sophie. There was no sign in the torrent of words of the happy-go-lucky, vivacious girl I’d shared a flat with for the last three years. It was like reading the thoughts of a stranger. My quirky funny friend had done a bunk. Either that or she’d turned into a manic depressive overnight. Or had her mind and body taken over by an alien.

Only five days to go? What was that all about? I was counting down the days in an excitable, couldn’t-wait way, but Sophie was talking as if she was preparing for her own funeral. Unease spread through my body, reaching the tips of my fingers and toes. Tears brimmed in my eyes and I blinked them away. Why shouldn’t I be happy? It was meant to be the happiest time of my life. And I’d thought Sophie shared that happiness. Wasn’t that what best friends were meant to do? But Sophie, for reasons known only to Sophie, was choosing this moment of all moments to throw a hissy fit, to act like a prima donna because … because of what? Was she jealous? Was that it?

I closed the diary shut, a shudder prickling at my skin. Holding it at arm’s length I put it back carefully on the bedside cabinet as though the whole thing might explode in front of me. Which it might. Along with our friendship.

If Sophie hadn’t wanted to be chief-sodding-bridesmaid then all she’d had to do was say so.

***

Reason number ninety-something or other for not reading your best friend’s diary – although to be honest I was way past caring now –would have to be: You might just find out something you really didn’t want to know.

And the danger with that is when you do find out whatever it is you didn’t want to know there’s no way of undoing that knowledge, of stuffing it back in the box and slamming the lid shut. It was out there, hovering like an ugly wart over my shoulder.

And now I’d have to say something, put it right out there, as Sophie had said, but how could I without her finding out that I’d been snooping around where I shouldn’t have been.

Oh by the way, Sophie, that whole bridesmaid thing? Don’t worry about it. I mean, if you’d really rather not, then I quite understand. I mean, it must be a real drag for you wondering how you’ll manage to get through such a tiresome event, having to take on the responsibility of looking after me on what should be the happiest day of my life. Let’s just forget about the whole thing, shall we?

It just didn’t make any sense.

Maybe it was the dress. Thinking about it, Sophie had been distinctly underwhelmed when she’d tried it on. She’d twirled around self-consciously in the fitting room of the bridal shop, looking glum.

‘It’s a bit purple, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, perfectly purple, it looks gorgeous against your blonde hair and your lovely skin. Crikey, Sophie, you’ve lost so much weight. What’s going on?’ I’d grabbed hold of the excess material in a fistful at the back of the dress. ‘It’ll need taking in.’

‘I’ve stepped up my sessions at the gym. Need to look good for your big day, don’t I?’

‘You’d look good with a paper bag over your head.’ I sighed, distracted by six small lilac lovelies who were swooshing in and out of the curtains of the changing cubicles, whooping with delight.

‘Girls! Settle down. You need to behave like proper princesses when you’re wearing your special dresses. Sophie will be your Fairy Godmother, but she might turn into the Wicked Witch if you’re too naughty. Isn’t that right, Sophie?’

Sophie had nodded with a scowl, adopting her witch persona a bit too convincingly, looking as if she didn’t care what the hell they did.

Maybe it wasn’t the dress.

Perhaps it was the kids. Sophie was an only child. She had no experience of looking after little ones. And my cousins and second cousins were cute, but a bit like live grenades, they needed constant monitoring and careful handling. If Sophie was worried about controlling the mini terrorists then why hadn’t she said something? We could have come up with a plan.

No, none of it made any sense whatsoever.

**

I raced down the stairs, poured myself a glass of water from the tap and then paced up and down the kitchen. I’d never really paced before and the kitchen was tiny so it didn’t take a lot of pacing, but some situations needed concentrated pacing and this was one of them. There was a nervous energy pumping around my veins that I needed to get rid of.