‘Who wasthe hottie you were hanging off last weekend?’
‘Pardon?’ I ask, looking up quickly from my laptop, my mind lagging as my ears register something with potential for embarrassment.
‘At that wedding last week.’ Miranda, my cousin, picks up her phone from her polished concrete benchtop in her kitchen that was recently featured in an architectural magazine. Pale cabinetry with steel-coloured accents, including a row of lights like an uber hip art installation above the island bench we’re seated at.
‘Wedding?’ Oh, shit. ‘Yeah, I went to a wedding last week. You know I did.’ Despite my cool words, my heart does a little leap because Miranda knows very little detail of what went on last weekend. And when I say she knows very little detail, I pretty much mean she knows I went to a wedding. Miranda is my cousin and perhaps the person who knows me best in the world, but she knows nothing about Archer. Not a blessed thing, and I think that’s the way things should stay. It’s probably the way thingswillstay given the last time I saw him was last Sunday. My heart had plummeted, and he’d kissed me on my cheek, my stomach deciding to get in on the action, twisting with anguish as he’d disappeared through the hotel door.
He hadn’t come for lunch, and I don’t know which of us was more dismayed at Barney’s suggestion. Urgh, Barney. He’s such a good soul. And I think he might have a bit of a thing for me. Honestly, men must be like buses. You wait forever for one to turn up, only for two to come along at the same time. Not that I’m saying Archer and Barney are both interested in dating me. I’m almost certain Barney is. At least, he wants to take me to Inverness next time he’s home. As for Archer, who knows what he thinks? Not me, that’s for sure.
After Saturday night, I thought we’d reached an understanding or maybe a place of acceptance between us. Baring your soul to another has to count for something, I’d thought. Create some kind of connection, at least? But maybe all that was between us was a false sense of intimacy created by our shared stories. A false sense of intimacy created in a shared bed. A moment ofstrength in weak ties. Who knows? But what I do know is that I haven’t heard from him since then.And today is Wednesday. He didn’t mention he’d be in Amsterdam for the week. We’re supposed to be dating, that was the story, and he didn’t even say anything to me. And I made the mistake of asking at work. The only consolation is when I’d plucked up the lady balls to ask if anyone had seen him, it was Janakiraman, or Jay I think he prefers, who I came across first. I’m pretty sure no one takes half of what comes out of that man’s mouth seriously, so our story should be safe.Even if Archer seems entirely uninvested. Anyway, Jay told me whereArchwas. Amsterdam, running a series of pitches. And Archer’s Facebook posts told me the rest. Amsterdam is very much the party city, it seems.
‘Earth to Heather.’ I come back to the moment as Miranda snaps her fingers close to my face.
‘Sorry. I must’ve zoned out.’
‘Wherever you zoned out to looked very unpleasant. Turn that frown upside down. You’ll frighten the children.’
At the sound of a giggle-laden shriek, our gazes turn to the French doors and the wintery garden beyond where two ridiculously gorgeous tow-headed boys chase their equally attractive father around. Wide smiles on all three faces; the frigid air is filled with their excited shouts as the two small boys try to steal away a soccer ball from between their father’s feet.
If Miranda is the person who knows me best, Harry, Miranda’s husband, is the person who knows her. The pair met the night I lost my virginity, and it’s partly that reason I’ve never confided in her. How could I mar her moment? Forever tarnish the edges of her memory with mine?
Nope. I couldn’t do it.
Anyway, the pair are so sickeningly gorgeous as a couple, I’m sure I’d hate them if I didn’t already love them so much individually. And their children? Their boys? They make me feel like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, though more steal-y and squeezy than cannibalistic.
It’s fair to say I love these people hard.
Oh, also, Miranda is my weekend boss; the person who pays me generously for a side gig I love because she owns Little Red, her high-end events company that specialises in very posh children’s parties. She also dabbles in the grown-up stuff, but I don’t get involved in those.Because, people. Urgh.
‘Ow!’ I startle at the pinch of my arm.
‘You’re doing it again.’
‘I have a lot of thoughts to think!’ I complain, rubbing my arm.
‘And a lot of explaining to do.’
‘Yes, so I went to a wedding. And you know I went to a wedding because I took the weekend off.’
‘And that’sallI know,’ she answers pointedly.
‘You’ve been to one wedding, surely you’ve been to them all. Declarations of never ending love, and promises tolove you more than I love NutellaorI’ll love you forever and always, by the old gods and the new.’
‘Nobody would use those promises in their vows,’ Mir scoffs.
‘Shows what you know. Daisy went to a wedding last year where the bride wore her hair in braids, along with a white dress al à la Daenerys Targaryen.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me the groom went dressed as Khal Drogo!’
‘He was more Khal Drongo, Dais said. They also did that whole sun of my moon schtick in their vows. As for Nutella, I expect you’re right about that one. No one could love anything more than a jar of chocolatey goodness.’
‘So nothing exciting happened at this wedding?’
‘It was all pretty standard.’
‘Is that so? Well, your poker face has improved of late, but for someone who makes their living running social media campaigns, you don’t take a lot of interest in your own accounts. Here.’ She slides her phone across the polished concrete to me, my own Facebook account staring up at me in its Archer-centric glory. ‘I’m pleased someone got a little tag happy or else I’d have known none of this.’
I never should’ve accepted those friends’ requests. You go to one party with the office stud muffin, and suddenly, everyone wants to be your friend. Or at least your Facebook friend. It could be that my cool currency has risen by association, but it’s more likely those women are keeping an eye on the situation and limbering up shoulders ready for him to cry on, not to mention the bits of themselves they want him to shag.
