The Time of Our Lives Read online

  ‘Where are the others?’ I ask.

  ‘Matt is in there, looking like a lamb headed for the slaughter,’ Zach laughs. ‘Ed has just nipped to the toilet. No sign of Clarky and his bird yet.’

  ‘Have you met her?’ I ask him.

  They both shake their heads.

  ‘I’ve seen her on Facebook,’ Zach says. ‘Looks like a bit of a bimbo.’

  ‘Just Clarky’s type then,’ I reply.

  ‘Luca,’ I hear Ed call from behind me.

  I spin around on my heels, grabbing him for a hug.

  ‘Ed,’ I squeak as he kisses me on both cheeks. ‘How are you? Where’s Stella? Where’re the kids?’

  ‘No kids allowed,’ he says, finally releasing me. ‘Stella stayed home to look after them.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I reply.

  ‘Is it? I live with five women, this is my first day off in years!’

  Ed seems really excited at the thought of having a night off from all his women. It’ll probably do him good, having a day off from his responsibilities. As if being a paediatrician isn’t a stressful enough job, having four small children of his own can’t help.

  ‘Five women,’ Zach repeats back to him.

  ‘Well, we had Louisa, then Erin. I wanted a boy so we said we’d have one last go at it, but then we got Bethany and Sally, our twins.’

  ‘Don’t you have a TV in your house?’ Zach laughs. ‘Stop having kids.’

  ‘It just keeps happening!’

  ‘Ed, you’re a doctor,’ I point out. ‘I know you know how babies are made.’

  Ed laughs.

  Ed has always seemed grown up – and he’s always looked much older than us – but now, more than ever, he you’d struggle to believe we all went to uni together. He’s wearing a cream suit with a blue shirt and a black tie, along with the thick black-rimmed glasses he didn’t need when we lived together. He’s also getting his middle-aged spread a little prematurely, but he’s not a bad-looking guy. Being a family guy just seems to suit him in a way that I can’t imagine happening with any of the rest of us. I think we’re all quite immature and selfish still.

  ‘What about Clarky?’ Ed says, changing the subject.

  ‘What about him?’ I ask.

  ‘You guys not been checking your phones? He just dropped a message in the group chat, he’s coming alone. He and Bella broke up.’

  ‘When?’ Fiona says nosily, leaning in a little to get the gossip.

  ‘He didn’t say,’ Ed laughs. ‘We can ask him when we see him. Think he’s running a bit late.’

  If I hadn’t arrived last night, it would’ve been me running late today, for sure. Were it anyone but Clarky, I might have sympathy for them.

  ‘If you’d all like to make your way inside,’ a hotel employee calls out. ‘Bride’s side on the left, groom’s on the right.’

  We make our way into the reception room, taking five seats in a row, saving one for Clarky when he finally arrives.

  I glance around the room for Pete, the guy I met last night, but I can’t spot him. Then I look for Matt, finally spotting him hovering by one of the large pillars dotted throughout the room. He must feel my eyes on him because he notices me too and pops over to see us.

  ‘You look petrified,’ I blurt.

  ‘I am!’

  Matt is usually so full of confidence, so it’s weird to see him looking so scared.

  ‘Where’s Clarky and Bella?’ he asks, noticing their absence almost immediately.

  ‘Clarky is nearly here, traffic is bad,’ Ed says, making excuses for him. ‘But he’s coming alone, he and Bella broke up.’

  ‘Shit,’ Matt says. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we’re excited to find out,’ Fiona laughs. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Yeah, good luck,’ I echo. ‘You’re gonna be great.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Matt replies, clenching his jaw as he walks down the aisle, getting himself in position, ready for Kat, his fiancé, to make her grand entrance.

  The room falls silent, ready for the ceremony to begin, which just makes it all the more obvious when Clarky comes charging in, running down the aisle, plonking himself on the chair next to me. Luckily we’re sat quite near the back, so he doesn’t have far to run. I notice the clicking of a few tongues from guests sitting close to us, but Clarky is immune to criticism.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, panting. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good,’ I reply. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Yeah, sound,’ he says.

  For someone who has supposedly broken up with his girlfriend recently, he seems in pretty good spirits.

  As I turn to face forwards, I notice Matt coming down the aisle towards us.

  ‘Can I borrow you?’ he says. Surely now isn’t the time to be telling Clarky off? It’s not like this is especially out of character for him anyway. But then I realise he’s talking to me.

  ‘Me?’ I squeak. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just quick,’ he insists, holding out a hand to pull me from my seat, before walking me to a door at the side of the room.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask him once we’re still. ‘You’re not having a second thoughts, are you?’

  ‘What? No, of course not,’ he replies. ‘One of Kat’s bridesmaids has gone into labour.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I reply.

  ‘Thing is, apparently Kat is upset, she says it’s going to ruin the day. That it’s going to throw off the whole aesthetic, and that there’s no one to do the bridesmaid’s duties.’

  ‘Doesn’t she have other bridesmaids?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, but they’re all pregnant. I’m scared to ask what happened on the hen party …’

  I laugh. It’s so like Matt to make a joke, even in times of crisis.

  ‘Wow, what a weird coincidence – is it to make sure she looks super thin in the pictures?’

  An obvious joke, because Kat has a very athletic figure. I wouldn’t put such a manoeuvre past some more controlling brides though.

  ‘Please can you step in?’ he begs.

  ‘Me?’ I reply in disbelief.

  ‘Don’t worry, being pregnant isn’t a requirement.’

  ‘Kat wants me?’

  I think Kat and I have been in the same room on maybe two occasions, and I spent the first time accidentally calling her Kate the whole day. She was too polite to point it out, but not polite enough to let it stop her shooting me dirty looks all day.

  ‘Well, sort of,’ he says. He pulls out a pair of gloves from his pocket. ‘These are the gloves the bridesmaids are wearing – same colour as the dresses. And your dress matches.’

  ‘Oh, God, do I have to do this?’ I say nervously.

  ‘Please, please, please,’ he begs. ‘Apparently Kat’s really upset, and this is important. It’s nothing, really. You’re just a placeholder.’

  ‘Charming,’ I laugh. ‘OK, fine, if it’s that important to you, I’ll do it.’

  I adjust my dress self-consciously. I’ve never been a bridesmaid before, and I’ve never been all that upset about it. I hate having everyone’s eyes on me, which makes me wonder how I’d ever get married – should anyone ever ask.

  Matt grabs me and squeezes me tightly.

  ‘You’re amazing,’ he says. ‘Just go with Auntie May, she’ll tell you what to do.’

  Matt knocks on the door before dashing off again.

  Auntie May peeps through, looks me up and down, and grabs me by the forearm, pulling me through the door before quickly closing it behind her.

  ‘Thank you for doing this,’ she says as she ushers me along the corridor.

  Once we’re at the entrance to the reception room, she lightly pushes me to the edge of the doorway.

  ‘It’s so simple,’ she says. ‘The music will start, just make your way slowly down the aisle, take nice slow steps, until you get to the end. Just mirror the groomsmen, all the bridesmaids will be standing in line. There are three of you, three groomsmen, you’ll be in neat
little lines, sound good?’

  Ergh, I have to walk down the aisle? How slow is slow? Do you put one foot forward before bringing the other in line with it, or do you just walk normally, but slowed down?

  The music starts.

  ‘The others will be here any second,’ she says, thrusting flowers into my hand. ‘We’re already running late, go, go.’

  I am out of both my depth and my comfort zone, but I do as Auntie May asks, slowly making my way down the aisle, doing some kind of inconsistent combination of the steps I mentioned before.

  I glance at my friends as I pass their seats and they look genuinely baffled to see me walking down the aisle.

  ‘What the …’ I hear Clarky quietly start as I pass him.

  After what feels like an hour, I finally find myself passing the front row, but that’s when I notice him, standing there at the end of the aisle. Not Matt, next to him. Standing dutifully by his friend’s side, in a matching black suit, is Tom Hoult, the man who broke my heart.

  My jaw drops as he silently mouths a hello in my direction. I take my position, fixing my eyes on the aisle instead of on him. It’s almost too painful to look at him.

  A pregnant bridesmaid with a dress amazingly similar to mine makes her way down the aisle before taking her spot next to me. I don’t allow myself to think about Tom being here, I just focus on the task at hand, but as I watch the third and final bridesmaid approach – another girl in a rose gold dress with a cute little baby bump – I realise that I recognise her too. It’s Cleo. What could be worse than the man who broke my heart being here? The woman who helped him do it being here with him.

  Chapter 5

  Today is not the day I thought it was going to be – not at all. I had no idea Tom was going to be here. I had no idea Cleo would be with him – with him and pregnant, no less. I haven’t really thought about Tom in a long time. Well, I haven’t seen him in ten years, and he isn’t on Facebook, so it’s not like I see his face everyday, not like I do with the others. When things went bad between us, sure, I moped for a while, but then I picked myself up and I moved on. What else could I have done? Of course, I didn’t think I’d ever have to see him again, and yet here he is. Here and looking gorgeous as ever, and Cleo still looks perfect too. She’s pregnant and somehow still petite. Her impossibly shiny brown hair is pulled into a ballerina bun on the top of her head, with the exception of a few, small, perfectly formed curls that hang down, framing her cute little face.

  I try to push it out of my head, because another thing I didn’t anticipate today was that I would have to take over for one of the bridesmaids – and I’m not only having to take her place walking down the aisle, but it turns out I’m taking over her duties too. While the marquee is being prepared for the wedding breakfast, everyone is gathered in the hotel gardens, enjoying drinks from the outdoor bar, sitting in the sunshine, posing for photos. Except me; I’ve been given the job of going around with the guestbook, with the impossible task of making everyone sign it. People seem to hate signing guestbook for some reason, I think maybe they panic because they don’t know what to write in them, but I need them to write something so that I can get this over and done with as soon as possible, so I can go back to being a regular guest.

  ‘Can you write for me, dear?’ a little old lady asks. ‘If I dictate?’

  She’s a sweet old dear, with a pink rinse to rival my own hair do. I feel a bit sorry for her, sitting here on her own while everyone else busies themselves socialising, but she seems happy enough taking in view, relaxing in the sunshine.

  ‘Of course I will,’ I reply, writing down the lovely – but long – message she dictates. At least it will take up some of the space left by the guests I haven’t been able to pin down.

  ‘That’s so kind of you,’ she says. ‘So, how do you know Katherine?’

  ‘I don’t really know her that well,’ I admit. ‘I’m just filling in. One of her bridesmaids went into labour.’

  The old woman laughs wildly.

  ‘I did warn her not to have three pregnant bridesmaids,’ she insists. ‘I’m Joan, Katherine’s grandma.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. ‘I’m a friend of Matt’s.’

  ‘Oh, Matt is such a lovely young man,’ she says. ‘And speaking of lovely young men …’

  Tom leans forward to kiss Kat’s grandma on the cheek.

  ‘Now then,’ he says. ‘Are you causing trouble? You haven’t written anything naughty in that book, have you?’

  Ergh, I’d forgotten about Tom’s charming way with the ladies.

  Joan cackles.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he insists. ‘I need to sign it anyway.’

  I know he does, because I’d been doing an excellent job of avoiding him up until now.

  I hand Tom the book, unable to resist holding eye contact with him for a few seconds. I can’t help but stare at him. When you think about your past, you always remember things fondly, don’t you? You remember things being better than they were. I think, over the years, I’d managed to convince myself that Tom wasn’t all that. I’d question what I ever saw in him and tick myself off if I dared to think any different. But seeing him here today, ten years older, but somehow even better looking than when he was 21, makes me remember just how attracted to him I was.

  Tom is a big guy. He’s tall, broad, and strong to go with it. He has neat, short dark hair, and a neat, short beard to match. He looks like the very definition of the strong silent type, and yet somehow there’s this comforting warmth to him that makes you just want to curl up on his big chest like a little kitten and go to sleep, because you just know that no harm can come to you on his watch. Well, physically at least. If we’re talking emotional hurt, that’s a whole different story.

  ‘Did you write this?’ Tom asks her with a faux gasp.

  ‘This young lady wrote it for me,’ she insists, sounding a little concerned. ‘Why, what does it say?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m just teasing,’ he insists with a smile, squeezing her shoulder. He turns back to me. ‘Can I borrow you for a minute, Luc?’

  This is the first thing Tom has said to me in ten years, and it sends a shiver through my body, as though it were a ghost standing before me, saying my name.

  ‘Sure,’ I say as confidently as I can, trying not to sound too rattled, before walking over to one of the spare wicker tables with him. He pulls out my chair and nods for me to take a seat before sitting down next to me, placing the open guestbook on the table in front of us.

  ‘Did you write this?’ he asks pointing at the page, turning the book for me to get a better look.

  ‘I did,’ I reply cautiously. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, but I know how this goes. Should we not be politely but awkwardly making small talk, before resolving to politely but pointedly avoiding each other for the rest of the day?

  Tom reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and removes a receipt. He hands it to me.

  ‘Why are you showing me that you bought three bags of Haribo?’ I ask him, confused.

  ‘I didn’t buy three bags of Haribo,’ he tells me. ‘You did.’

  Confusion consumes my face as I think for a moment. Oh my God, he’s right, I absolutely did. On the drive down here. Well, it’s not that I thought I could eat three bags, but they were on offer in the service station so it seemed dumb not to buy three for the price of two – do you know how ridiculously expensive Haribo is in service stations?! Anyway, how on earth does Tom have this?

  All becomes clear when Tom takes the receipt from me, turns it over, and hands it back. That’s when I see my angry note scribbled on the back.

  ‘No one is impressed by your driving or your car,’ he reads out loud.

  Shit, it was Tom’s car that I left that note on.

  ‘Hmm?’ I say innocently, trying to disguise my guilt.

  ‘You wrote this,’ Tom laughs. ‘Look, the way you write an “i”, with the little flicks, dotting them with a little circle. It’s so di
stinctive.’

  I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Hey, I’m not mad,’ he laughs reassuringly. ‘I’m just surprised. I didn’t think you were the note-leaving kind.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I insist, laughing awkwardly.

  Tom smiles widely at me and those gorgeous brown eyes of his look straight through my thick skin, just like they used to. He’s always had this way of looking at me knowingly, making me feel like he’s reading my mind. No matter what my mouth would be saying, I always knew he was peering into my head, seeing exactly what I was thinking and feeling, even if I didn’t want him to. This doesn’t seem to have worn off with time and, today especially, it feels like a huge invasion of my privacy. It annoys me that he still has that effect on me, and even more so that I still find his eyes so mesmerisingly gorgeous.

  ‘Really, I’m not,’ I say again, changing my tune. ‘But if you’re going to drive like an arsehole, on a narrow country road, late at night …’

  ‘OK, calm down, I get it. Wow, when did you become such an adult?’

  ‘When didn’t you?’ I snap back.

  ‘I am genuinely sorry,’ he says softly, like a ticked off child who has just been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin just before dinner. It might be cute, if I weren’t so annoyed. ‘It’s an occupational hazard.’

  ‘Why, are you a Formula One driver?’ I ask.

  ‘No, an automotive journalist,’ he says with a laugh.

  ‘Right,’ I reply. Well, that doesn’t excuse it, does it? ‘Listen, I need to go finish getting people to sign this, so …’

  ‘OK, sure,’ he replies. ‘Can we have a catch up when you’re done then?’

  Ergh. Do we really have to? I don’t want to hear all about his amazing job, and his pregnant little missus, and his fast, flash car, and how is life is just better than mine in every possible way.

  ‘Luca, there you are,’ Pete says as he approaches us.

  ‘Pete, hello,’ I reply, delighted to see him – especially at this particular moment in time.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were a bridesmaid,’ he laughs, nodding at my dress.