The Time of Our Lives Read online

  ‘Sometimes we have PR crises,’ he says.

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘The pinta tortoise became extinct in 2012 – on our watch. Where were we?!’

  ‘Are you allowed to make jokes about extinct animals?’ I ask, before I dare laugh at his comment that I’m sure was solely intended just to put me at ease about my crap job.

  ‘They never kick off about it,’ he replies. ‘Not like angry anti-fur activists.’

  Oh, that’s what he was referring to a moment ago. The fact that, last year, ABO was caught up in the big scandal where it was revealed many high-street and online retailers were selling items made from real fur, that were labelled faux fur.

  ‘Where are you from?’ he asks.

  ‘I grew up outside Manchester,’ I tell him. ‘But I live in Manchester now. You?’

  ‘London. Lived there all my life too.’

  ‘You just don’t see that kind of loyalty to hometowns anymore, do you?’ I joke.

  ‘You don’t,’ he replies. ‘It’s almost everything that’s wrong with the world. Well, that and your company selling mittens made of racoon dog fur.’

  ‘We hate fat people too, don’t forget that,’ I joke.

  ‘And yet you probably love fat animals,’ he replies. ‘Because they have the most fur.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell our CEO. Her inexplicable, blind dislike of anyone bigger than a size ten might have prevented her from realising that.’

  It’s so nice, sitting here with Pete, having a drink, eating cake, and making jokes with one another. If there is any way tomorrow can just be more of the same, it might not be so bad after all. Before I know it, nearly an hour has gone by.

  ‘We made short work of the cake,’ he says, nodding towards our empty plate.

  ‘We did,’ I reply. ‘Teamwork makes the dream work.’

  ‘It does,’ he laughs. ‘Just think what damage we can do to the wedding cake tomorrow.’

  We smile at each other for a second, until we’re interrupted by the bar man.

  ‘Bar’s closing,’ he says. As soon as he realises he’s interrupting something, he quickly adds, ‘In five minutes.’

  ‘Well, I’d better get to bed,’ I say. ‘Don’t want to be late in the morning.’

  ‘Same,’ he says. ‘But … I’d love to spend more time with you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d like that a lot.’ I feel a big, dumb smile spread across my face.

  Pete’s gaze quickly moves from my eyes to my lips.

  ‘Is that cake frosting?’ he asks with a laugh.

  Mortified, I quickly raise my hand to wipe my face.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he says, leaning forward to lightly plant his lips on mine.

  I don’t know if there actually was any frosting on my face, or if this was just a smooth move to kiss me – you never know, he might have just really loved the cake – but I feel like I’m floating on air right now. I cannot stress enough that this sort of thing just does not happen to me. Maybe it wouldn’t be happening to me at all, if we weren’t a little tipsy.

  But then it hits me, all at once, the grave mistake I think I’ve made. The red car, the one that overtook me, the one that arrived just before me – didn’t Pete say he’d just arrived too? Now, this type of stuff absolutely does happen to me – scaring off potential love interests by leaving them passive aggressive notes.

  I quickly pull away.

  ‘Sorry,’ he blurts. ‘I shouldn’t have …’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ I say. ‘Did you drive here?’

  ‘I did,’ he replies, confused as to why this is at all relevant to why I wouldn’t want to kiss him.

  Crap.

  ‘What do you drive?’ I ask.

  ‘A Nissan Leaf – a blue one. It’s an electric car … why?’ he laughs.

  Double crap. It wasn’t even him. Now I just seem like I really care about cars.

  ‘Sorry. It’s just that, when I arrived, I nearly had an accident with another car, and when I saw it in the car park, I left an angry note. I was worried it might have been your car.’

  Pete laughs.

  ‘It sounds like you have a very eventful life, Luca.’

  ‘I really don’t.’

  ‘Well, maybe we can try this again tomorrow?’ he suggests.

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘It will be nice to have someone to spend the day with, seeing as though we’re the sad, single friends.’

  I playfully wince.

  ‘Too soon to make jokes like that?’ he asks.

  ‘Too real,’ I reply with a smile.

  ‘Sweet dreams, Luca,’ he says, leaving me alone in the bar.

  I sigh. Wow. When I repeatedly turned down Matt and Kat’s offer of a plus one (not because I didn’t want one, but because I had no one to ask) I felt certain I’d be alone at this wedding and, look at me now, I’ve got a date.

  I knock back the last of my drink before heading to my room.

  They’ve given me a twin room – which I suspect is because they knew I’d be coming alone – but it’s a lovely big room with a stunning view of the hotel gardens. Even though it’s dark, I can see the marquee across the lawn, where I imagine the wedding reception will be held tomorrow.

  Suddenly I don’t care about anything. I don’t care that I’m here alone, I don’t care that I’ve got a twin room because I’m oh-so very single, I don’t even care that I am single, or that I have a morally iffy job. All I can think about is Pete, and that kiss … and now I can’t wait until morning.

  Chapter 3

  Then – 9th September 2008

  ‘What … the fuck … is this?’ Matt asks, staring down at his plate.

  We’re all staring down at our plates. Clarky isn’t though, he’s gleefully slapping the bottom of a bottle of salad cream, dropping large blobs all over his dinner.

  When he placed … whatever this is in front of me, I didn’t think it could get any worse, but the addition of salad cream makes it so, so much worse. I’m so relieved it is an optional extra.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Clarky asks.

  ‘What’s right with it?’ Zach chimes in. His Glaswegian accent always sounds stronger when he’s confused or when he’s drunk. Today, I think he’s just confused.

  Clarky looks genuinely baffled by our reaction. He stabs a little sausage meaningfully and pops it in his mouth.

  ‘Mmm, it’s great,’ he insists theatrically.

  ‘It’s weird,’ Fiona corrects him.

  Clarky’s face falls at her remark.

  ‘It’s …’ I take stock of the contents of my plate. ‘It’s salad, baked beans with sausages, and fish fingers?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Clarky confirms. ‘Dig in.’

  For our third year of uni, we decided that it would make more sense for our friendship group to rent one big house together, and not only has it worked out cheaper, but we’ve got this massive house, with loads of space for hanging out together and throwing parties. We only finished moving in four days ago, and thought it might be fun to take it in turns cooking for the house.

  ‘Just try it,’ Clarky insists.

  Mark ‘Clarky’ Clarkson has been on the same course as me for two years now, and while I might have lots in common with the others, Clarky isn’t really someone I’m overly taken with. He’s one of those ‘lad lad lad’ types, always ogling girls, making sexist comments, thinking he’s way smarter than everyone else when really, he’s only getting through his BA by the skin of his teeth. Clarky is from Liverpool, and has a strong Scouse accent that can almost always be heard yelling at some video game or other. He isn’t very tall, but what he lacks in height, he more than makes up for in self-confidence.

  ‘Just because you say it’s a dish, doesn’t mean it is,’ Matt points out.

  Before Clarky has a chance to reply, Ed arrives home.

  Ed is the only housemate who isn’t studying media; he’s studying to be a doctor, and while we might all be around the same ag
e, Ed feels like a real adult. He’s old beyond his years – he even looks older, but I think that’s because he dresses like a middle-aged man in addition to acting like one.

  ‘How’s the grind at the board game shop?’ Matt asks Ed the second he walks through the door.

  ‘Boring?’ Clarky suggests, cracking up at his own joke.

  Ed works tirelessly to pay his way through uni. One day, when he’s a rich doctor, it will all have been worth it, and no one will be making fun of him because he spent a summer selling board games.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he says, sitting down. ‘You guys didn’t have to wait for me.’

  ‘We weren’t waiting for you,’ Matt laughs. ‘We were waiting for Clarky to explain what it is.’

  Ed, who thinks he’s somewhat of a culinary expert, finally looks down at what we’re having. He just laughs.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry we didn’t all bring cookbooks to uni with us,’ Clarky claps back.

  I have to admit, I did find it a little bizarre that Ed moved in with no less than four cookbooks, but that’s just Ed.

  ‘I made a leg of lamb with all the trimmings,’ Ed reminds him.

  He did, the night after I cooked, and it made my efforts seem as amateur as they were.

  ‘So … is it a salad?’ Fiona asks.

  Fiona ‘Fifi’ Rees is our resident Welsh lady, and the only other girl living here. We made friends on the first day of uni and we’ve stayed friends ever since. We shared a flat together last year, before we decided to get somewhere bigger with the boys this year. I love Fifi because she’s just this bubbly, blonde, bright light that’s a real pleasure to be around. She’s the optimist that I need in my life, to stop me acting like everything is all doom and gloom. She’s got a will-they-won’t-they thing going on with Zach. I think we all wish they’d hurry up and get together, but Fifi isn’t convinced he’s all that into her, and Zach seems to have an aversion to girlfriends for some reason.

  ‘It’s a sort of salad,’ Clarky replies.

  ‘I was going to make salad,’ Fifi says, sounding a little annoyed that Clarky has beaten her to it.

  ‘Your salad will be better than this,’ Zach assures her.

  Her salad might actually be salad, this is not a salad.

  ‘Ergh, get a room,’ Clarky says. He doesn’t have much patience when it comes to Fifi and Zach’s flirting. ‘It’s surf and turf.’

  Everyone burst out laughing.

  ‘Bollocks,’ Ed replies.

  ‘Why is it so spicy?’ Matt asks, coughing and spluttering after bravely taking a bite.

  ‘I put chilli in it,’ Clarky explains.

  ‘Amazing, that it’s killing my taste buds and yet still tastes awful,’ Ed muses.

  Clarky repeats his words back to him, mocking his Cambridgeshire accent.

  ‘I’m not good with spicy stuff,’ I say politely. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, Luca, you have blue hair,’ he tells me. ‘So I don’t trust your taste anyway.’

  I push my plate away a little, to emphasise that I’m not eating it. What on earth is he thinking, serving us fish fingers and beans with sausages, laced with copious amounts of chilli, on a bed of salad. Baked beans on salad!

  ‘My mum used to make it for me,’ Clarky tells us.

  ‘Well, you should have been taken into care,’ Zach tells him.

  With the general consensus being that we’re absolutely not eating it, it isn’t long before we decide to order pizzas. Clarky, adamant that he is a cordon bleu chef, eats not only his own plate of food, but makes a start on someone else’s too.

  We abandon the formality of the kitchen table to eat pizza and watch Anchorman in our massive living room. After initially refusing to watch it with us because we wouldn’t eat his mum’s recipe, Clarky has had a change of heart and sat down with us after all.

  ‘That’s your culinary career down the pan,’ Matt tells him, persisting with the teasing after most of us have let it go.

  Clarky bats his hand.

  ‘As if that’s what I’d want to do,’ he insists. ‘I want a job that impresses women.’

  ‘Like?’ Matt asks him.

  ‘I dunno, like a pilot or an astronaut or something.’

  ‘You won’t meet many chicks in space,’ Ed points out.

  ‘You shouldn’t be studying media then, that’s not gonna get you far,’ Zach tells him.

  ‘So, Clarky reckons he’ll be a pilot, Ed is gonna be a doctor,’ Matt says. ‘What about the rest of us? Personally, not to set my sights too high, but I’m gonna be the next Steve Jobs.’

  ‘I wanna work in film,’ Zach says.

  ‘Me too!’ Fifi squeaks. I notice Clarky roll his eyes. ‘What about you, Luca?’

  ‘Erm,’ I start, wracking my brains. The truth is that I’m not entirely sure yet. ‘Maybe advertising.’

  ‘Boring,’ Clarky heckles.

  ‘Who do we think will be the first to get married?’ Fifi asks.

  ‘Ed,’ we all reply, pretty much in unison.

  ‘And the last?’ she says.

  Everyone says Clarky’s name, apart from Clarky who simply points at himself with both fingers.

  ‘It’s hard to imagine us as real adults,’ Fifi muses. ‘Some of us more than others.’

  ‘Stop talking over the film,’ Clarky insists.

  ‘Sorry,’ she snaps. ‘I didn’t realise Will Ferrell was so important.’

  ‘Do you really think we’ll grow up?’ Matt laughs, glancing between this slice of pizza that’s sitting on his lap and the dumb movie on the TV. ‘Well, I mean the rest of us – Ed is already grown up.’

  ‘We’ll know Ed has properly grown up when he has kids,’ I point out.

  ‘And we’ll know you’ve grown up when you get over your daft punk phase and stop dying your hair stupid colours,’ Clarky tells me.

  ‘I didn’t know you were into Daft Punk, Luca,’ Matt jokes.

  ‘We’ll know you’ve grown up when you finally learn how to cook,’ Zach tells Clarky.

  ‘And we’ll know you’ve grown up when you finally get a girlfriend,’ Clarky replies.

  ‘Not everyone wants saddling with a girlfriend,’ Zach says defensively. I notice Fifi look visibly disappointed.

  ‘What about me and Fifi?’ Matt asks.

  ‘When Fifi starts using her real first name,’ Clarky points out.

  ‘And when you stop using headlocks to show affection,’ Ed tells Matt. ‘Maybe some of us will grow up, maybe some of us won’t. I reckon we’ll all stay friends though.’

  We exchange half-smiles before getting back to the film.

  ‘Unless Clarky kills us with his cooking,’ Matt adds, unable to resist one last dig.

  Chapter 4

  Now

  ‘Fifi,’ I call over, spotting my friend hovering outside the hotel’s reception room, where the wedding ceremony is about to take place.

  ‘Luca, oh my gosh,’ she replies, smiling widely as she pulls me in for a hug. ‘Wow, no one has called me Fifi in years. Zach, when was the last time someone called me Fifi?’

  ‘Uni,’ he laughs. ‘She dropped the nickname when she was applying for jobs.’

  ‘I don’t mind one Fi though,’ she assures me.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Zach asks, hugging me.

  ‘All great,’ I tell him. ‘How are you two? It’ll be your wedding soon, right? I got my save the date.’

  ‘Next year,’ she replies.

  Fiona’s grin spreads from one ear to the next. She was always such a bright, positive person, but she seems so happy with Zach, and I’m so happy for them. For a while, we thought the two of the might never get together and look at them now, happily engaged.

  ‘You still have funky hair,’ she points out.

  I place a hand on my long, blonde and rose gold ombre curls.

  ‘It was never like Luca to look ordinary,’ Zach points out.

  When I was at uni, I enjoyed a sort of alternative fashion. I had the ridiculous s
tyle of a six-year-old, combined with the provocative look of a punk. It was never a lifestyle choice, purely a fashion one. These days, I dress more my age. More my figure too. I’m a curvy size twelve – more like a fourteen if I’m in a shop that favours the thin, or if I’ve just eaten my own weight in carbs. I did once manage to fit into a size-ten dress after having the stomach flu, but that didn’t seem like an ideal long-term solution. Probably just easier to try and make peace with my body as it is.

  Today I’m wearing a Bardot skater dress – in rose gold, to match my hair – with a pair of white Louboutin heels covered in cute little spikes, which I thought would serve as a nice nod to my rebellious side that still lingers deep within me.

  PR is all about spin. You can make things seem better, you can make them seem worse – if you’re good, you can make them seem like something entirely different.

  From head-to-toe, I absolutely could not afford this outfit, but in many ways this is going to be a lot like a school reunion, seeing people I haven’t seen since I was young, and obviously I want to seem like I’m doing much better than I am. I suppose, if I’m careful with these shoes, I might even be able to get away with returning them, which I know is awful, but it might be a good idea if I want to eat next month. Either way, so long as I present myself as something more impressive than my reality, I’ll be happy with my work for the wedding.

  I’m not usually the type to rely on designer clothes to make myself pass as presentable, but when I started shopping for a wedding outfit, I felt at a loss. As I moved from changing room to changing room, I’d notice a new hang-up in each mirror. In River Island I felt like I looked every inch my 31 years. In Oasis I noticed the circles under my eyes were growing darker with each night I stayed up late over thinking things. In Zara I was reminded that my bum was big – but not Kardashian big, camper van big.

  I have always dwarfed my tiny friend Fiona, who fails to measures up to my 5'7" with her petit 5'2" frame, but today she’s obviously teamed her long, flowing blue dress with flat shoes (I suppose no one can tell what’s hiding under long dresses, you could disguise anything), which just makes me look all the more like a giant in my heels. Zach is wearing a blue suit in almost exactly the same shade as Fiona’s dress, which I doubt was an accident.