Always and Only You

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

Present Day

Gil is holding my hands. I rip one away and without caring who sees it, pinch the skin on my forearm hard. I have to wake up! There is no way I’m going to …

Oh.

Too late.

Gil’s lips meet mine softly, gently. But somehow it feels as if a ten-ton truck has slammed into my body. There aren’t fireworks. The world doesn’t stop. But there is skin brushing against skin, nerve endings firing frantically to send messages all over my body: raising my pulse, loosening my taut muscles, causing my entire being to get tingly.

I have a sudden flashback to the night I first met Simon and Gil. I was back in London after my second winter yachting season and one of my university friends, Megan, had dragged me along to meet a group of her friends at a bar. We’d arrived at the place, tucked away down a tiny alleyway near Piccadilly, and pushed our way through the crowded space. When we got close to the bar, I’d spotted two rather good-looking guys and my body had flushed with interest as I’d locked eyes on one of them. And it hadn’t been Simon.

But that had been before. Before the accident. Before I knew what kind of man Gil Sampson was.

That memory is all I need. It’s like being doused with a bucket of icy water. All the warm and fuzzy feelings my body is betraying me with evaporate at the exact moment Gil pulls back and smiles at me.

There are cheers and whistles all around us. To me they sound like baying dogs, or the screech of hungry seagulls. My eyes narrow. I won’t forget who this is, no matter how good a kisser he is.

I’ve never really liked Gil, not after that first summer, but now I realize I might actively hate him. Especially as he is rudely invading my dreams the night before my wedding.

It must be that stupid argument we had at the party. Well, he’s got his revenge now, hasn’t he? Not that he’s ever going to know. Because there is no way I’ll reveal any of this to anyone when I wake up. It will go with me to my grave.

I pinch myself again, but it does nothing other than make a nasty red mark on my skin. I try again, harder, and almost end up crying out, but when I look up, everything is just as it was moments before. Same church. Same vicar. Same groom staring into my eyes. Not in a sappy way, of course, because Gil is far too cool for that.

But then I glimpse the man standing behind him. Simon. And my heart squeezes painfully. The jovial expression he was wearing earlier has given way to something else, something darker … edgier.

Guilt cuts through me like a freshly sharpened knife. I’ve just kissed another man. Right in front of him! No wonder he’s not looking happy. And yes, I know it’s a dream, and I know in this surreal version of reality we’re not together, but clearly my subconscious hasn’t been able to let go of the idea of him, because why else would he be standing there beside Gil as his best man looking … well, jealous?

I want to shove Gil aside and throw myself into Simon’s arms, but I’m frozen to the spot. Wake up, wake up, wake up I chant inside my head. Because I really need to now. I need to stop the madness, because this dream is way too stressful, and I’ll be getting married for real in a matter of hours. I need to have a good night’s sleep and wake up calm and refreshed and serene.

As the ceremony continues with songs and readings and a short but dull sermon, I do all I can think of to wake myself up. I pinch my arm, my hands, the tips of my fingers … basically, anywhere I can reach that won’t be too obvious to someone watching me. I bite my lip. I do mental gymnastics, trying to get my brain to snap out of slumber and find its way back to consciousness, but none of it works. I begin to fantasize about standing up abruptly, running back down the aisle in a rustle of off-white taffeta, and then down the lane and into the waiting river. The cold water might be enough of a shock to do the trick.

But it seems even in the depths of my subconscious, the programming to always be calm and collected can’t be undone. Now , I keep telling myself. Do it now! But I don’t move. And the minutes keep ticking past.

As the vicar drones on, my gaze keeps sliding off my groom onto Simon. He’s the one thing that’s anchoring me, keeping me sane. That look I saw on his face is the one bit of reality in this whole messed-up scenario.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe, just maybe, if I can get to Simon … talk to him, possibly even touch him, it could short-circuit this weird trip my brain is on and I’ll wake up? The more I think about it, the more I realize this has to be the key.

Simon. My love for him. That’s what’s going to bring me home.

I try to catch his eye, but it’s as if he’s deliberately avoiding looking at me, and before I can work out how to get his attention properly, we’re standing again, organ music is playing and I’m walking back down the aisle with Gil, seeing the smiling faces of my friends and family. Traitors.

We turn for the photographer in the vestibule, looking over our shoulders, framed in the arched church door, and then we’re out into the February sunshine.

I do as I’m told by the photographer as he puts us through a series of poses. I put my arms and legs in the right places. I pull my cheek muscles tight into something approximating a smile as wedding guests filter out of the church and gather around us.

I search for Simon and eventually spot him hovering on the fringes of the crowd near the back. He trains his eyes on me, his expression serious. Our gazes lock and I swear he knows what I’m thinking, but before I can work out if I can snatch a moment to go over to him before we leave the church for the reception, I’m being ushered towards a waiting vintage Rolls Royce by my groom – the same type of car I’d picked but this one is silver instead of white, and at least four decades older.

As the car pulls away, Gil leans towards me, grateful for the relative privacy of this moment, and I can see in his eyes he’s ready to take full advantage of it to kiss his new bride. Extremely thoroughly.

My hands shoot up to his shoulders, halting the progress of his mouth to mine. ‘Don’t you dare ruin my make-up!’ I say with a nervous laugh.

He blinks, and I’m not sure if I just see the message in his eyes or he says the word out loud, but I hear it in my head all the same. Later …

I swallow and swivel round to look out of the lozenge-shaped window at the back of the car. Our guests have gathered at the lychgate, all faces turned towards the retreating Rolls. Some are waving.

And at the front of the crowd, a few steps ahead, as if he started running after the car then realized it was useless, is Simon. I press my palm against the glass and stare back at him. Even when the lane twists and my view is filled with dry-stone walls and dead bracken, I don’t turn back and face my groom.