Not a serious thing. I’m mid-divorce; it would be nuts to leap into a relationship. But it was good last night. Even if I’m only remembering half of it accurately, that half was enough to want to reprise it. Maybe we could have some kind of regular arrangement, I find myself thinking. Every month, like a book club.
Where is my bag? I wander farther into the room and see a fencing mask hanging on a hook. There’s a sword too, or whatever they call them. I’ve always liked the idea of fencing. Oh, I can’t resist. Gingerly, I take the thing off its hook and put it on. There’s a mirror hung on the wall, and I head over to it, brandishing the sword.
“Arise, Sir Thingummy,” I say to my reflection. “Haaa-yah!” I do a kung fu action at myself, and the paisley dressing gown flaps round my ankles.
Now I’ve got the giggles. And suddenly I want to share this ridiculous moment with Lottie. I pull out my phone and speed-dial her.
“Hi, Fliss!” she answers at once. “OK, I’m on the Brides website. Veil or no veil? I think veil. What about a train?”
I blink at the phone, wanting to laugh. She’s become a bridezilla. Naturally. The great thing about Lottie is she doesn’t bear grudges or dwell when she’s thwarted in life. She just changes direction and charges off, eyes on the horizon.
“Veil.”
“What?”
“Veil.” I realize my voice is muffled in the helmet and shove it up to the top of my head. “Veil. So, you called the wedding off OK? Ben didn’t mind?”
“I had to talk him into it, but he was OK in the end. He said he only wanted what I wanted.”
“Did you take your honeymoon night at the Savoy anyway?”
“No!” She sounds shocked. “I told you, we’re waiting till we’re married!”
Damn. She’s still on that crazy plan. I was hoping the lust goggles might have slipped a little.
“And Ben’s happy with that?” I can’t help sounding skeptical.
“Ben wants me to be happy.” Lottie’s voice takes on a familiar, syrupy tone. “You know what? I’m so glad we talked, Fliss. The wedding’s going to be so much nicer. And the plus is: you and Ben can meet each other first!”
“Gosh, introduce him to your family before you walk up the aisle and commit your life to him forever? Are you sure about that?”
I don’t think she gets my tone. I think the bridal happy haze is acting as a protective atmosphere. Sarcasm gets burned up before it even reaches her ears.
“Actually, I met his friend Lorcan last night,” I add. “He’s already filled me in a little.”
“Really?” She sounds excited. “You’ve met Lorcan? Wow! What did he say about Ben?”
What did he say about Ben? Let’s think, now. Ben is in no place to be getting married right now.… He’s having a bit of an early midlife crisis … your sister will be the casualty.…
“Just the basics,” I prevaricate. “Anyway, I can’t wait to meet Ben. Let’s do it very soon. Tonight?”
“Yes! Let’s all have drinks or something. Fliss, you’ll love him. He’s so funny. He used to be a comedian!”
“A comedian.” I adopt an amazed and delighted tone. “Wow. I can’t wait. So … uh … anyway. Guess where I am right now? In Lorcan’s flat.”
“Huh?”
“We … we hooked up. We ran into each other near the registry office and we had a few drinks and one thing led to another.”
She’s going to hear about it anyway, and I’d rather be the one who told her.
“No way!” Lottie’s voice fizzes over. “Oh, that’s perfect! We can have a double wedding!”
Only Lottie. Only she would say this.
“Snap!” I say. “That’s just what I was thinking, too. Can we ride up the aisle on matching ponies?”
This time the sarcasm does reach her ears.
“Don’t be like that!” she says reprovingly. “You never know. Keep an open mind. I met up with Ben on spec and look! Here we are.”
Yes! Here we are. A girl on the rebound and a guy having a midlife crisis, hurtling into ill-considered matrimony. I’m sure there’s a Disney song about that. It rhymes “kiss” with “bitter legal battle.”
“It was a shag,” I say patiently. “That’s it. End of.”
“It might lead to more,” retorts Lottie. “He might turn out to be the love of your life. Did you have a good time? Did you like him? Is he hot?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
“Well, then! Don’t rule it out. Hey, I’m looking at this wedding website. Shall we have a profiterole cake? Or what about a pyramid of cupcakes?”
I shut my eyes. She’s like a steamroller.
“That’s what they had at Aunt Diana’s wedding, remember,” Lottie’s saying. “How big was that?”
“Small.”
“Are you sure? I remember it as quite a big occasion.”
She was five at the time. Of course she remembers it as big.
“Seriously, tiny. The whole night was such an ordeal. I had to pretend I was having a good time, and all along …” I pull a revolted face. I still remember the too-tight bridesmaid’s dress they made me wear. And dancing with Aunt Diana’s beery grown-up friends.
“Really?” She sounds puzzled. “But the ceremony was nice, wasn’t it?”
“No. Terrible. And afterward wasn’t much better.”
“Ooh! You can get profiteroles with sparkly icing.” She’s not even listening. “Shall I send you the link?”
“I feel ill at the very thought,” I say firmly. “In fact, I might throw up. And then Lorcan will never love me, and we’ll never get married in a double wedding on matching ponies—”
A sound makes me turn. The blood rushes to my head. Shit. Shit.
He’s there. Lorcan’s standing there, about ten foot high in the doorway. How long has he been there? What did he hear me say?
“Gotta go, Lotts.” I quickly turn off my phone. “Just talking to my sister,” I add, as casually as I can. “Just … joking. Joking about things. Like you do.”
Suddenly I remember I’m wearing his fencing helmet. My stomach clenches with fresh embarrassment. Let’s see this through his eyes: I’m standing in his house in his dressing gown, wearing his helmet, and talking about a double wedding. Hastily, I grab the helmet and lift it off my head.
“This is … nice,” I say inanely.
“I didn’t know if you wanted it black or not,” he says after what seems like an eternity.
“Oh. The coffee.”
There’s some other vibe going on here. What? My own voice runs through my head: I had to pretend I was having a good time.…
He didn’t hear that, surely? He didn’t think I was talking about—
Seriously, tiny. The whole night was such an ordeal.
He couldn’t have thought I meant—
My stomach drops in horror and I clap a hand over my mouth, quelling a shocked laugh. No. No.
Should I say— Should I apologize—
NO.
But shouldn’t I at least explain—
I raise my eyes warily to his. His face is blank. He might not have heard anything. Or he might have.
There is simply no way to bring up this subject that will not backfire horrendously and make us both want to die. What I need to do is go. Move my feet. Now. Go.
“So … Thanks for the … um.” I replace the helmet on the hook. Exit, Fliss. Now.
All morning, I feel aftershocks of embarrassment.
At least I managed to streak from the taxi to my front door with no neighbors seeing me. I ripped off the purple dress, had the quickest shower known to mankind, then called Noah on speakerphone while I was trying to do speedy makeup. (There is no point in rushing mascara application. I know this. So why do I always fall into the same trap and end up wiping blobs of it off my cheeks and forehead and mirror?) Evidently Noah’s sleepover was a 100 percent rip-roaring, triumphant success. Wish I could say the same about mine.