Bridesmaids

‘It’s to test your mettle as one of my up-themselves teachers used to say.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘You are okay, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, yeah, groovy, babe! I’ve got a rubbish job, got ditched just as I was about to go to New York, and now I’ve got to be thrilled for Rach with all this wedding stuff, and I’ve got to go to her hen party! Arghh.’ I pretend to tear my hair out and he laughs, then hugs me.

‘I mean it Jane. Are you sure you can do this?’ The concern in his eyes brings a lump to my throat. ‘The wedding I mean.’

‘She’s my best friend, Freddie. I can’t not do it.’

‘You haven’t got to do anything. She’ll understand if you say you can’t cope.’

‘I can cope.’

‘It’s not going to send you loopy again?’ His voice is light and his words funny, but I know that he’s bothered. Oh, sweet, sweet Freddie, where would I be without you?

‘Look …’ I’ve got to be honest with him. I’m never anything but, we’ve always been able to talk, and after I’d poured out my heart (and most of my insides) after Andy had dumped me, there’d been no going back. I’d not wanted to go back. ‘Okay, part of me is dreading this.’ He nods. ‘But I’m excited for her as well. I’m just a bit nervous about what it will be like, doing all the stuff I did.’ Our gazes lock. ‘It’s the hen party that’s going to be the weird one, I mean, I never actually walked up the aisle, did I? So that can’t be such a biggie.’

‘It can.’ He smiles, a soft smile that reaches his eyes – and my heart.

‘Okay,’ I sigh, ‘it can, it is. I think I need to know that these other bridesmaids are going to be there to pick me up if I fall.’

‘I’ll be there, if they’re not.’

‘You’re too nice for me.’ I kiss him on the cheek, and the roughness of the slight stubble against my lips sends a shiver down me that I didn’t expect.

‘Hmm, I’m not sure nice is what my manly side needs to hear!’ He chuckles, then gives me a brief tight hug. ‘You’re not going to fall.’ It’s odd, but just for a second, with his warm hand on my shoulder, I totally believe him. I can do this.

‘Come on, eat up, before—’

Right on cue a seagull swoops down and it’s heading right for my nose. ‘Shit!’ I scramble up and take a couple of steps back, and it swoops back. I run, dodging the benches, dashing round the bus stop and the damned thing is preparing to dive bomb. Jumping in the air, I fling the ice cream Freddie’s way (it’s all me, me, me it appears when I’m under attack). He swerves, my lovely cornet goes splodge and the bird lands next to it and stares. Giving me the beady eye and a squawk.

I double up, hands on knees, panting from the unexpected exertion, and shock. ‘Bugger, I was enjoying that.’

‘Told you! Never fling food around in Brighton, they’re the food police.’ He nods at the bird.

‘Mafia more like. That bird looks evil.’

We share a look. The dangerous intense-stare bit has been forgotten, which is good. Lick the icing off the cake and you risk ruining the lot, don’t you? Then feeling sick and wishing you hadn’t.

I reach for my camera, but the seagull has scarpered, and Freddie is laughing. ‘You always did take photos of everything, didn’t you? I remember at school.’

‘Everything!’ It’s cute that he remembers, but a bit embarrassing. I don’t remember much about him at all. I guess I was one self-obsessed teen who didn’t look beyond my groups of girlfriends, and the odd show-off cocky guy who was hot. I don’t think Freddie was hot back then, he was the quiet, geeky type.

But as I think about it, something deep in my memory stirs. Freddie helping us set up our photo exhibition for our GCSE exam, Freddie embarrassed when we both reached for the same picture, then more embarrassed when we dropped it, and both bent down to pick it up.

Freddie who painted the unassuming black-and-white still-life pictures that made something catch in my throat, even though I was a brash teenager who couldn’t explain why.

‘Your pictures were ace.’

‘Pretentious, “chocolate box” was how one art teacher described them, I think,’ he says without a trace of rancour.

‘They were good.’

‘They wanted Banksy and anger, not broken hearts and whimsy.’

‘They were wrong.’ I snap a picture of him, then one of our feet on the sand, so that I don’t have to look him in the eye and be embarrassed. ‘You’ve got quite big feet, haven’t you?’

‘You know what they say?’ He jiggles his eyebrows, then glances down, a cheeky grin on his face.

‘No, what’s that then?’ I try to keep a straight face and fail.

He colours up, a slight tinge of pink along his cheekbones, then suddenly laughs and sweeps me off my feet. The whole world is whizzing round, I can feel the warm imprint of every single one of his fingers, especially the one that has somehow slipped under my T-shirt, and it could be awkward.

‘Bugger.’ He staggers off balance, does a daft pirouette and we collapse to the ground. ‘Oof.’

I think that noise is because a fair bit of my weight landed on his stomach.

‘God, you’re a weight.’

‘Your own fault.’ I wave a finger at him, secretly, smugly glad that he did his silly dance so that I’d be the one that landed on top, and he’d be the one that was crushed.

We dust ourselves down, avoiding eye contact. Rolling on the beach isn’t exactly standard flatmate stuff, is it? And even if it was, I wouldn’t be doing it, because I still haven’t figured where I want to fit in the whole relationship arena. Not since Andy did what he did. I think I need casual, except I always seem to duck out of actual dates – because what’s the point, if you know from the start that it’s never going to work out?

‘At least it stopped you taking photos.’

‘You’ve done it now.’ He’s not looking, he’s bent over, so taking his feet from under him is easy. So is planting one foot, warrior style, on his chest and taking a photo. ‘When this is all over, that is going viral!’ I glance at the picture on my phone, check it’s not blurry. It’s not. He’s laughing, a hint of white teeth between his parted lips, lines fanning out from his eyes which are looking straight into the lens. There’s a single strand of honey-brown hair on his brow, curled by the sea air. I want to reach out, brush it away. So instead I stare at my screen. ‘I’ll have to do some retouching of course, sex it up.’

He laughs, then, with one sweep of his long leg, he’s taken mine from under me and I find myself sitting on damp sand.

As I go down, he gets up, and strides away before I can retaliate. He’s grinning though as he looks over his shoulder. ‘First one back gets to pick the movie.’

‘That’s cheating!’

‘Says she. Come on, you’ve got to get your latest dose of Ibiza online.’

I struggle to my feet as he jogs on the spot. But the second I’m upright, he’s off.

Bugger. He’ll pick some really gory, scary, film and I’ll have to spend the evening peeping out from behind a cushion or googling the ending.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_00b469ae-9fb3-5e3b-87ad-63930b7d124a)

‘Surprise!’ Rachel leaps up and waves madly as I walk into the dimly lit bar. It’s not so dimly lit that I wouldn’t have spotted her though. ‘We’re here! We’re in Brighton!’ She makes a whoop noise before launching herself at me for a mega hug. And she looks so happy, I immediately resolve to never even think about not liking Michael ever again. Once I’ve warned him that castration is still on my agenda. And as long as I don’t have to sit next to him. ‘Look who’s here!’

Rachel is grasping my arm and has moved to one side so I can see who is behind her. I look, and forget all about Michael, and cutting his balls off.

Surprise is the understatement of the year. I’ve been swept back to my days of spots and teenage angst.

‘Remember Maddie?’

‘Oh my God! Of course I do! What a brilliant surprise, how long has it been? You’ve not changed a bit!’ She hasn’t. Maddie has still got the neat, glossy swinging hair, kitten heels and matching accessories that she’s always had. Her perfection could be annoying. But it never has been. She’s too sweet, kind and considerate, and for want of a better word, nice. She is the Audrey Hepburn of the modern day.