Always and Only You

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

Present Day

I spin around to find Simon standing on a small podium at the other end of the room, a mic in his hand. I can tell just from the tone of his voice that he’s more than a little tipsy. A gaggle of his ushers stand nearby, including him, the best man, lurking at the back of the group, noticeable because of his black shirt and black jeans amid the denim and crisp white shirts. He looks like the vulture of doom. And if the groom is late to his own wedding-eve get together, then the best man must have had something to do with it, or – at the very least – should have prevented what did. How did they sneak in here without my noticing anyway?

I shoot Gil a death stare. You got him drunk? my look says. On a boat? The night before his wedding? What kind of idiot are you?

The vulture of doom meets my gaze and blinks nonchalantly. For a few seconds we play a game of chicken where neither of us wants to admit defeat and look away, but then Simon spots me. His face lights up and I so I unhook my gaze from his best man – what a misnomer that is! – and gratefully turn it towards the actual best man in the room, my gorgeous groom. ‘There she is! Erin, light of my life, come up here …’

My face flushes as everyone turns to look at me. There’s something about being the centre of attention that makes me feel uncomfortable. I suppose I’m a get-on-with-it-quietly-in-the-background kind of girl, which is probably why the hospitality industry suits me so well. The crowd parts before me, and I dip my head as I walk through it. Moments later, I’m beside my groom. Someone hands me a glass of champagne.

Simon turns to face me. ‘Erin …’

I give him a what-the-heck-are-you-doing smile, but he just beams back at me.

‘You know I am the luckiest man alive to be marrying someone like you …’ A murmur goes through the crowd, mostly from the women. ‘… and I know I’m going to have the opportunity to say this all again tomorrow, but I just want to take a moment to raise a glass to you, and to thank you for taking this “fixer-upper” on.’

I shake my head, smiling indulgently. You know that’s not true, I tell him with my eyes.

But he just carries on. ‘I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you.’

‘Aww,’ a few of the single ladies say. One even wipes a tear from the corner of her eye with a folded tissue.

‘I mean it!’ Simon says, brightening further. Goodness knows the man adores an audience. But I love him for that. He’s brave where I feel conspicuous and confident while I fake it to make it. But I’m getting there. Simon has just as much of a positive influence on me as I have on him. Maybe more so.

‘Erin keeps me grounded, reminds me of what’s important in life.’ He turns to me and raises his glass. ‘And she always pairs my socks when they come out of the wash.’

That earns him a laugh, which is what it was designed to do, even from me, because it’s true – I do always pair his socks, but only because I can’t stand to see one blue sock and one black sock propped up on the coffee table when we’re watching TV in the evening. All I can think about is going and getting the other of one of the matching pairs and swapping one out. Totally selfish, really. And maybe a little neurotic. So maybe I’m the lucky one that Simon puts up with my slightly rigid personal rules and tidiness?

Simon lifts his glass higher. ‘To Erin,’ he says and takes a sip. The rest of the guests follow suit, but he can’t help adding, ‘After tomorrow, there’ll be no escape!’ He hands the mic to one of his pals and pulls me into a kiss.

I laugh against his lips. ‘Idiot,’ I whisper.

He pulls back and looks into my eyes. ‘Yes, but I’m your idiot. Don’t forget that!’

People begin talking and drinking again and I step down off the podium, glad to be back on the same level as our guests once again. I love how demonstrative Simon is, how unafraid he is to say how he feels, but I can’t seem to love the spotlight the way he does. It’s too bright, too glaring. Too revealing of all the little flaws, unticked to-do boxes on my personal growth inventory.

But I’m not going to think about that now. Tomorrow is my wedding day, and if there’s one time in my life to let myself feel special, this is it.

I spot Rachel talking to some of my bridesmaids and I nudge Simon in the ribs. ‘Your sister needs someone to chat with reception about her hotel room,’ I tell him. ‘It hasn’t got an interconnecting door.’

My groom rolls his eyes, then squeezes me to him and plants a slightly drunken kiss on the side of my head. ‘Rachel’s a big girl … She’s more than capable of sorting hotel room issues out on her own.’

I’m about to argue with him, to point out it’s our responsibility as bride and groom to make sure our guests are being looked after, when one of his ushers comes over and high-fives him before half stumbling, half dragging him away towards the rest of his rowdy friends. Rachel must have sensed me looking at her because she gives me a cheesy grin along with a thumbs-up gesture, and I sag.

Shooting a longing look at Simon, who is already holding court, having launched into a funny story about his day on the water while many of our friends look on, I put my glass of champagne down on a tall table and head back towards reception. My motto is, ‘If you want something done, you’d better do it yourself’, and if planning your own wedding doesn’t send you crashing headlong into that uncomfortable truth, I don’t know what will.

It takes twenty minutes, but I manage to talk the hotel into swapping Rachel into a suitable room. She won’t have her river view, but I’m sure the interconnecting door is more important, and what else does she want me to do? I’m not fricking Superwoman.

When I’ve finished sorting that out, I spot a waiter heading towards the function room with a tray full of glass flutes. Although I’m wearing heels, I sprint across the lobby and intercept him, shooting him my most winning smile before swiping two glasses. I chug the first one while he’s standing there, looking slightly astonished, put the empty glass down, then dash back into my party.

I can’t see Simon anywhere. I dart this way and that, slopping champagne on people’s toes, but getting away with it because, hey, I’m the bride! I shoot past the buffet, thinking I must grab something to eat shortly, because I realize my stomach has been growling at me for hours, but I’ve just been ignoring it.

Argh … Where is he?

I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re just running, running, running but never getting where you want to go. One more circuit of the room. If I don’t find him then, I’m going to find the first chair I can and collapse onto it.

Just as I’m about to give up, I round the corner and see Simon near the doors to the terrace, along with some of our friends. I swear I’ve searched this spot at least three times before, but they’re chatting in relaxed groups, and it looks as if they’ve been there a while.

I manoeuvre my way past a few of Simon’s aunties and uncles and arrive on the fringes of the circle. It’s only then that I realize I’m standing next to the vulture of doom.

‘Erin,’ he says, nodding slightly.

‘Gil,’ I reply through clenched teeth, although I’m seriously tempted to call him ‘Vulture’. Dressing in all black, like he’s going to a funeral instead of a wedding? What is he thinking? I’m tempted to tell him the Eighties called and said they wanted their gothic vibes back.

‘Erin!’ Simon says, beaming at me and spreading his arms wide. He’s holding an orange juice, thank God. I don’t even have to squeeze between him and his best man, because as soon as Gil sees me coming, he backs away. Maybe it’s a good thing he can’t seem to stand being within ten feet of me.

I try to join in the fun, but I can’t anchor myself firmly in any one conversation. The words keep flowing around me and I drift away on their current without actually hearing them properly. It doesn’t help that, as much as I try to ignore it, a Gil-shaped shadow glowers on the fringes of the group.

What is his problem? He greets Anjali like a long-lost friend, actually smiling at her, leaving me wondering if I knew his face could actually do that, but also wondering why he never shows me even half that warmth. What did I do to him that was so awful? It can’t be the … well, the thing we never talk about … because Simon was just as much a part of it as I was, and he’s been Simon’s ride-or-die since they were at school together. I just don’t get it.

And it bothers me. I know I shouldn’t let it, but it does. It’s not even that I want Gil in particular to like me, more that it gives me hives when I think anyone doesn’t. The more I chew it over, the angrier I become. Why can’t he make an effort, this day of all days? Is that really too much to ask? And, by the way, it should have been me enjoying the party and standing next to Simon, sipping my drink, laughing at something funny someone just said, not him.

In one smooth motion, all the frustration, the tiredness, the anxiety and overwhelm I’ve been feeling all day – even the mild, unspoken and unacknowledged irritation I’m feeling at Simon for being late to the party – gathers into a searing beam of light which focuses on the best man.

If it was up to me, I’d tell him to take a hike. Preferably off a short pontoon and into the river. But I can’t do that to Simon, and I don’t want to make a scene, so I just stuff all those annoying emotions back down again and sit on them, like an over-packed suitcase bulging as you try to zip it up.

To distract myself, I turn to Anjali. ‘Do you have the bridal emergency kit for me?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Anjali says, nodding.

Well, this is promising. But it is Anjali we’re talking about, so I do a bit of extra digging. ‘Lipstick, tissues, spare tights?’

She nods. ‘All bought and assembled from the list you gave me. I even found this lovely little bag to put it all in. It’s just …’ She rummages in her handbag and then a look of horror passes over her face. ‘I promise you I have it! It must be up in my room. I’ll just go and—’ She jogs towards the lobby, as the rest of us watch her go.

‘What’s she forgotten now?’ Simon says, laughing amiably. ‘I hope it’s not her dress. We can’t have her walking down the aisle in her underwear!’

My gran would have said that Anjali would have forgotten her own head if it wasn’t screwed on, but I bristle slightly at Simon’s joke. I know she drives me crazy, but I’m fiercely protective of my best friend. And it’s not as if his choice of BFF is winning any prizes.

‘At least she gives a crap,’ I reply, smiling sweetly while casting a sidelong glance at Gil. ‘Which is more than I can say for some people.’

The best man turns his stony expression on me. ‘What are you trying to say, Erin? That I don’t?’

‘ Do you ? Because Simon and I went to a lot of effort planning this pre-wedding gathering …’ Well, I did, but that’s not the point. ‘But you’re standing there looking as if you’re bored to tears.’

Simon claps his best friend on the shoulder. ‘Gil’s all right. He’s just feeling a bit jet-lagged, aren’t you, bro?’

Gil says nothing, which only makes me more irritated. I feel that zip on my overstuffed suitcase of emotions straining somewhat.

It’s most unlike me to be snarky, but I find I can’t help myself. ‘We can always find Anjali another dress,’ I say, giving Simon a disapproving look. ‘Let’s just hope your boy’s not so jet-lagged he loses the rings.’

Gil, who until that moment had all the expression of one of the statues in the hotel’s formal garden, looks taken aback. The dark rain cloud that lives permanently above his head melts into drizzly mist for a few seconds, but then his expression hardens again. Keeping his eyes trained on me, he slowly and deliberately pats his pockets.

Simon notices what he’s doing, and the smile slides from his face. ‘You have got them, haven’t you? I thought I told you to keep them on you at all times.’

There isn’t even a flinch of shame from Gil as he blinks, looks at Simon and says, ‘Whoops. I’ll just check my room.’ And before Simon – or anyone else – can challenge him, he turns and strides away.

‘He’s going the wrong way,’ I say as he disappears through the large doors that lead onto the terrace. ‘He’s going the wrong way!’

I look at Simon and wait for him to do something, say something, but he just shrugs, so with an irritated sigh, I dive through the open doors, hot in Gil’s wake.