Always and Only You

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Thirty-four hours earlier

I wake up gasping for breath, my palm pressed against my chest to still my hammering heart. Oh, no. Not again. I’ve had the same nightmare, every night, for the last two weeks. I sit up and shudder, the sheet twisted around my legs.

In my dream, each time I reach the end of the aisle, Simon doesn’t have a face. No nose. No mouth. Definitely no eyes. Somehow, this is more terrifying than if he were grotesque or injured. The unnatural smoothness of the skin where his features ought to be makes me think of a giant fleshy egg. Ugh.

Simon reaches out, and his fingers brush my thigh. He pats me twice before his hand loses all tension and a gentle snuffle escapes his lips. I take a moment to breathe in the cool night air, then glance at my fiancé. He has a nose, thank goodness. And a mouth. A beautiful mouth.

I exhale. Everything is as it should be.

The dreams are just down to wedding jitters, my mum says. That explains everything – the knots in my shoulders, the headaches, the feeling that I could run to the top of a mountain and scream so loudly I might create an avalanche single-handedly. All perfectly normal, according to every former bride I talk to.

Simon stirs again and throws his arm above his head. I want to curl up against him and feel his warmth, draw some sense of security from him to dispel the lingering spectre of the nightmare, but he’s a light sleeper and there’s no reason both of us should be bleary-eyed and yawning the day before our wedding. Instead of moving towards him, I edge myself off the mattress, plant my feet on the rug and take one last look at Si before I grab my robe and leave the bedroom of our hotel suite.

After softly closing the door between the bedroom and living room, I make my way to the coffee machine and choose a coloured metal pod. I don’t really care what it is as long as it’s pumped full of caffeine. I drop it in the hole in the machine and press the button.

When my coffee is ready, I walk to the large doors that lead onto the balcony overlooking the River Dart. If it was July, I’d open them up and step outside, but it’s February, so I stay on the sensible side of the glass. I can just about make out the houses clinging to the hillside on the opposite side of the river, in Kingswear. Later, when the sun rises, each row will be a variety of pastel ice-cream colours, but now they are all bleached a uniform bluish-grey by the moon.

In the marina below the hotel, the breeze ruffles the water and the boats bob like seabirds on their moorings. Even though the double glazing almost eliminates all outside noise, I can almost hear their metal halyards slapping against the masts.

It’s a sound that makes me feel at home. I’ve spent much of my working life on boats. Superyachts, to be exact. But having grown up in south-east London, it wasn’t something I planned. My dream, after completing a hospitality degree, was to work at a top city centre hotel, but jobs turned out to be thin on the ground after I graduated, and I ended up taking a position as a stewardess on a motor yacht. The rest, as they say, is history. I worked in the Med and the Caribbean for almost six years, quickly rising to the position of chief ‘stew’, but then I got engaged to Simon and decided I needed a job on dry land.

If I let myself think about it, I miss it. Not the long hours, the demanding charter guests or the flaming arguments with every narcissistic chef I’ve ever worked with, but the water. There’s something about being near water that’s very soothing.

Before my coffee is even half drunk, I retreat from the window to the sofa and pull a thick binder onto the coffee table. A multitude of colour-coded tabs cover the pages inside, and I flick it open at the large red one near the front. As much as I’d like to enjoy the serenity of my surroundings, it’s T-minus thirty-four hours until I say ‘I do’ and I’ve got a wedding to finish planning.

As I flip through the pages of my main task list, I get an immense endorphin rush from seeing all the filled tick boxes. A chief stew needs to be creative, resourceful and, above all, organized. I can plan just about any kind of event without breaking a sweat. An Eighties disco night on deck, along with wigs, glitter balls and neon leg warmers? No problem. Want a casino party at one hour’s notice when the weather is too rough to leave the harbour, the guests are bored and there are twelve hours to fill before dinner? No problem, I can organize it. Piece of cake. And for my boss, Kalinda, I’ve handled everything from arranging intimate dinner parties with Michelin-starred chefs to coordinating a wild Great Gatsby pool party where guests were still passed out on the lawn well after the sun came up.

The thought of planning my wedding didn’t bother me at all, but now, with only one day remaining, I realize I may have been a little complacent. I didn’t factor in how much more stressful it is when you’re the one doing all the planning, but also the one everything is being planned for. Of course, I knew there’d be last-minute snags. There always are. I just didn’t realize there would be so many.

My stepbrother wasn’t able to come at first, but now he’s managed to get an earlier flight, and he’s bringing his fiancé with him. Thankfully, we’ve had a couple of cancellations, but now I need to rejig the seating plan so Adam and Sanjay don’t end up sitting with Great Aunt Nadine. It’s a long story. I won’t go into it.

We’re having a gathering of friends and family tonight who’ve travelled down to Devon for the wedding, but I’ve spotted the email invite says it’s in the River Room and we’re actually going to be in the Terrace Room, so now there needs to be a follow-up email to make sure nobody accidentally crashes the ruby wedding anniversary party going on across the hall instead.

I’m about to assign the task to my maid of honour, but then I jot my own name down instead. It was Anjali who made the typo last time around, so it’s probably safer if I do it myself.

As I pick up my phone, I have an unexpected dream flashback of the smooth, anonymous face of my nightmare groom, and instead of choosing ‘Messages’, I choose the photo app instead. When it opens, I click on a folder labelled ‘Simon’ and scroll back to the top row of images, screenshots of messages he sent me the first season I was back on the yacht after we got together.

I bet every bride-to-be has her wobbles, wonders if she’s doing the right thing, but I have proof I’ve chosen well. These messages are tangible reminders of why I shouldn’t let these horrible dreams get to me, no matter how often my wayward subconscious throws them my way.

And it isn’t just the past, either. Simon proves he adores me every time he brings home an outrageously expensive arrangement of flowers or when he books surprise trips away to dream destinations just because he knows I miss travelling. No one has ever shown such thoughtfulness, attention, and love to me before.

I know I’m marrying the right man.