The Notting Hill Diaries: Ripped / Burned

I was a modern, independent woman. I’d never worn pink and I’d never had the urge to coo over strange babies in prams. My best subjects at school were Math, Physics and Technology. I was the only girl in the class and I always had better marks than the boys, which usually pissed them off, but I figured that was their problem not mine. I had a degree in aeronautical engineering and was working on a supersecret project to do with satellites. I couldn’t tell you more than that or I’d have to kill you and eat you and you didn’t need a degree in engineering to know there was no room in this dress for two people. I loved my job. It excited me more than any man I’d ever met. But that could have been because I constantly messed up my love life.

Every. Single. Time.

Honestly, how could an intelligent woman get it so badly wrong? I’d tried to apply data analysis methods to my dating history but failed to extract anything meaningful from the results except that getting it wrong hurt. I always seemed to end up compromising who I was, but that’s in the genes. Rosie and I watched our mum contort who she was for men who subsequently left her. As I said, we weren’t good at relationships, which was probably why I was sitting here single, watching my ex get married.

I breathed in the smell of this musty old church and thought about all the promises that had been made here only to be broken a few years down the line. And right there and then, I made a decision.

No more feelings.

Feelings just led to misery and I was done with misery.

Not that I’d ever been the sort of girl to wait by the phone, willing it to ring. God, no. If a guy played those games with me, I deleted him from my contacts. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be hurt. And frankly, what was the point?

‘I’ve made a New Year’s Resolution.’ I risked the dress and leaned closer to Rosie. ‘And I’m starting right now.’

‘You’re never wearing pukey-yellow again?’ She eyed my dress. ‘Good decision.’

I ignored her. ‘I’m sick of romantic relationships. Why bother? I can go to the movies with girlfriends. I can chat with girlfriends. I can laugh with girlfriends.’

‘That’s your New Year’s resolution?’

‘Everything I need in life I can get from girlfriends,’ I hissed, ‘apart from one thing—’

Rosie coughed. ‘Well, you can—’

‘No, I can’t. I need a man for that part. But only that part. From now on I’m using men for sex. Nothing else.’

‘Well, as resolutions go, I predict that one is going to be a lot more fun than giving up chocolate.’

I could always rely on my sister for support.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was it was a brilliant idea. ‘I should have thought of it before.’ I was talking out of the corner of my mouth, trying not to attract glares from the elderly aunts. ‘Instead of trying to find a man who can make me laugh and is actually interested in me, instead of wondering what I can do for his career, I look for one thing. Sex appeal.’

‘If all you’re interested in is sex appeal, you could start with Nico Rossi,’ Rosie whispered. ‘He is scorching hot.’

Not just me then.

The problem was, I didn’t want to find Nico sexy. I didn’t want to think of him naked or wonder how it would feel to be kissed by him. He didn’t like me. It disturbed my sense of order and fairness that I should find him attractive.

I looked away, but not for long.

I couldn’t help myself. I sneaked another look. It was some consolation that every other woman under ninety was staring, too. If ever there was such a thing as raw sex appeal, Nico had it. He was the sort of guy that made you think about sin in a big way, which wasn’t a good thing when you were sitting in church with your breasts half exposed.

I couldn’t wait to get to the bathroom so that I could unzip my dress and give my ribs the freedom they deserved.

When was this wedding going to end?

Enough already.

Just say I do and go and live your lives until your realize what you should have said was I don’t.

But now they were staring into each other’s eyes and reciting handwritten personalized messages.

I promise to love you forever and cherish you.

I promise never to cancel your subscription to the sports channel.

(OK I made that one up but you get the point.)

I wriggled in my seat, wondering whether Nico Rossi spoke in Italian when he was having sex. He’d brought his younger sister to the wedding—a sleek, dark vision of slender perfection. She was poised and sophisticated, just like him. Every now and then she glanced at him adoringly, as if he were a god. It seemed unnatural to me. I mean, I loved my sister but there were plenty of days I wanted to poke her in the eye. But these were perfect people who would never show emotion in public. They probably never argued. They were the sort who believed marriage to be an exciting journey.

I was always sick on journeys.

Thanks to our parents’ less than stellar example, my sister and I were both equally screwed-up about relationships. Not that there weren’t men in our lives. Far from it. Men were always attracted by Rosie’s sweet, heart-shaped face and her pretty smile. They thought she was fragile and needed protecting. Then they discovered my sister had a black belt in karate and could break a man’s bones with one kick and they usually retreated nervously, licking their wounded machismo.

There was a guy once, but if I so much as thought his name she’d break my bones, too, so it was a subject I didn’t touch.

Just when I thought this wedding was never going to end, the priest benevolently told the groom he could kiss the bride. He’d been kissing the bride and half her friends regularly for the past six months without permission from anyone, but no one seemed to care about that.

I couldn’t help wondering if the kiss was for my benefit, to remind me what I’d turned down.

It was very Hollywood. No bumping noses or awkward moments. Scripted. The sort of kiss where you just knew they were thinking about how it looked on the outside, not how it felt on the inside.

There seemed to be an awful lot of tongue involved.

Rosie made sick choking noises next to me.

God, I loved my sister.

And then finally, finally, it was over.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

And my dress split.

Chapter Two (#ub55254ff-5326-5b86-9edf-c25fe35f4329)

Oh fuck, so now I was naked. Not just wearing a condom, but a split condom, and suddenly no one was looking at the bride and groom—they were staring at me and I couldn’t exactly blame them because there was plenty to see. There were times when I was happy to be the centre of attention, but this wasn’t one of them.

Why oh why hadn’t I worn a bra?

I’d tried it, but it had shown through the cheap, shiny fabric, so I’d decided in the interests of vanity that if I had to wear this hideous dress at least my outline would be smooth and perfect.

Another bad decision. The dress had split down both side seams simultaneously, exposing me completely from the waist up. I felt like a half-peeled banana, but I probably looked like one of those women who turned up at stag parties and leapt out of cakes.

I was strip-o-gram bridesmaid.

Everyone was staring, transfixed by delicious horror, all deeply relieved it hadn’t happened to them. But it could never have happened to them. Only to me. My life had a habit of unraveling, only usually not quite as literally as this.