I almost spit out my coffee.
It is now weeks since Grace’s wedding and I haven’t heard nor seen anything of Jack. Which is exactly what I’d expected, given that he and Valentina are no longer an item–although I’d be persuaded of the existence of Father Christmas before I’d believe she dumped him.
But one thing’s for sure: I haven’t stopped thinking about him. Which has been a bit annoying, really. I’d be sitting down to bash out a story, when all of a sudden he’d pop into my head, just like that. With his deep brown eyes and his broad shoulders and his smooth skin and…well, when you’ve got a deadline in twenty minutes, I promise you there’s nothing more offputting.
Anyway, even more annoying than that is something which has also been invading my thoughts, and it’s this: Jack and Valentina no longer dating is a problem in itself. As I told Charlotte, Valentina was the only link between him and myself.
The result of this is that since I discovered the news of their break-up, I seem to have spent a disproportionate amount of time musing about all manner of scenarios in which I might ‘bump’ into him again.
Could I, for example, offer to do a special feature for the paper on his charity? I dismissed that as too unethical: I can’t just go writing special reports on organisations because I happen to keep waking up in a guilty sweat after dreaming about their chief executive. Besides that, it’s too obvious.
So, could I take up tennis and join Valentina’s club? I dismissed this as impractical: I’d never be able to act with her hovering about all the time showing more flesh than the average swimwear model. Besides that, it’s too obvious.
Could I hang about in the coffee shop near the charity’s offices? I dismissed this as far too similar to the behaviour of some of my ex-boyfriends. Besides that, it’s too obvious.
So, after spending an annoyingly large amount of time focusing on cunning ideas about how I might get to see Jack again, I’m still doing exactly that. Focusing. In fact, I’ve been focusing so much I’m starting to develop a headache. Now this: a text message from the man himself. Except my mother has gone and zapped the bloody thing.
‘Can you please try to remember what it said, exactly?’ I ask, trying not to sound too exasperated.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Something about a wedding–that was it. I tried to get the words to move down, you know, the way they do on a word processor, but they all just disappeared. Stupid thing, if you ask me. Maybe there’s a fault on it.’
‘The only fault is with your common sense,’ I sigh. ‘Just think, will you, Mum? This was someone I met at Grace’s wedding. Does that help?’
‘Not really,’ she says vaguely. ‘It said something about Georgia and Pete’s wedding.’
Georgia and Pete’s wedding. Why would Jack be texting me about their wedding?
‘Is he one of your new boyfriends?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I say grumpily.
‘You really ought to relax more, you know,’ she says. ‘You seem to get terribly stressed out sometimes, Evie. Why don’t you start coming to reiki with me?’
I scan through my phone book to find the entry for Georgia. When she picks up, the background noise is so loud it sounds like she’s speaking from the inside cylinder of a vacuum cleaner.
‘How you doing?’ she asks brightly. ‘I hope you’re sticking to your beauty regime–I don’t want any zits on my wedding photos.’
‘I’m exfoliating so much my cheeks are raw,’ I tell her. ‘Anyway, where are you? I can barely hear you.’
‘Flying out for one last check at the venue,’ she shouts. ‘It’s the helicopter you can hear.’
Georgia is getting married in an exclusive hideaway of a hotel on one of the most secluded Isles of Scilly, just off the coast of Cornwall. Which I’m sure will be gorgeous, but apparently isn’t exactly the most practical place to get to and from when you’re organising a wedding.
‘I’ll be quick, then,’ I say. ‘Can you think of a reason why the guy who Valentina brought to Grace’s wedding would be sending me a text message about your wedding?’
But she’s drowned out again by the sound of the propellers.
‘Are you there, Georgia?’ I shout, and am conscious that the woman on the table next to us must be delighted at me bellowing away while she’s trying to have a peaceful cup of coffee. ‘Georgia, I can’t hear you!’
‘I’ve got you now,’ she shouts back. ‘I feel like I’m in
Apocalypse Now
. What did you say?’
‘I just said, can you think of a reason why the guy who Valentina brought to Grace’s wedding would be texting me about your wedding?’
‘You mean Jack Williamson?’ she says.
‘The very same.’
There’s a pause. ‘None at all,’ she says.
Great. My mother’s got it wrong.
‘I mean, I’ve no idea why he’d be texting
you
about it,’ she adds. ‘He
is
coming to the wedding though.’
My head spins as I try to think of a possible reason why Jack would be going to Georgia’s wedding now that he and Valentina are no longer an item.
‘How is he going to your wedding?’ I ask Georgia. ‘I mean, you hardly even know him.’
‘He and Pete have been going to the rugby together almost every weekend since Grace’s wedding,’ she tells me. ‘Oh, hang on, you’re breaking up…’
Her voice disappears again. I put my phone down with shaky fingers.
‘Have you sorted it out?’ asks my mother.
‘Not yet,’ I say, and start keying in a text message.
Have u got a number 4 Jack? Have Forward Planning meeting at work 2moro and have 2 do story about charities.
I press Send and fire it off to Georgia’s fiancé Pete. Then I take a sip of my coffee, which has now been standing for so long it’s almost chilled.
It seems to be forever before he responds with the mobile number. I scroll further down.
P.S. Forward planning? Family planning, more like!
Cheeky sod. I resist the temptation to tell him that
I
wasn’t the one who texted first, but I suspect that might not look as cool as I’m hoping to appear. Now I’ve got this phone number, I feel like Indiana Jones after he’s found the lost Ark. It’s exactly what I wanted, but I’m buggered if I know what I’m going to do with it now.
I start composing a text.
Had technical problem. Can u pls re-send yr message?
Oh, no. Far too practical. Aloof, even. I’m missing a trick there, surely.
Can u resend yr text? It’s so good I want to read it twice!
God, no. That couldn’t be any cornier if it had bunions.
Can’t read yr text
…
and am dying to. Can I have another?
None of them feel right, but I’ve got to pick one. I reluctantly go for option one, although regret it the second it goes. Text was invented for flirting but the one I’ve just sent is about as likely to set his pulses racing as a party political broadcast.
‘Well, shall we hit the road?’ says my mum, folding away her paper and leaving it on the table. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of weddingy things for one day.’
If I was a better bridesmaid–and daughter, for that matter–I would protest and insist that she continues in the search for the perfect dress. But I’ve got other things on my mind now.
‘Okay,’ I say, jumping up from my seat. ‘I’ll get these.’
I’m standing at the counter waiting for my change when my phone vibrates. I take it out of the top pocket of my denim jacket and see immediately that it’s from him. I open the message.
Just wondered if you would be on duty on the 8th, looking pretty and deafening guests?
I immediately become conscious that I am smiling and that the woman standing next to me laden with designer bags is looking at me as if I’ve just escaped from somewhere. I turn my back and start tapping into the keypad.
Thought u promised not to mention that again
. I go to send it then stop. His message was definitely flirty, so I need to step things up a little. I add the words:
I’ll forgive u–just this once
.
Not slutty, but slightly cheeky, I think. I tuck my phone back into my pocket, unable to stop smiling, and pay up before heading back to collect my mum. My pocket vibrates again.
Good. Would not want to be in yr bad books. See u at the wedding (looking forward to it).
Excellent. Even flirtier. Right–how to respond?
I decide to do a draft first. Just to make sure that what I write is absolutely right. But for some reason I’m stuck for ideas about how to reply. I start bashing out fantasy texts–ones that I have no intention of sending, but they might just help me work out what I’m really going to write.
Me too. PS. Will u carry ME to bed instead this time?
I chuckle to myself and start to scrub it off. There is no way I’m going to go that far. Amusing thought though. Just then, I am interrupted by a familiar voice.
‘Evie! I’m starting to think you might be following me!’
It’s Gareth.
Again
. I say
again
because I have now bumped into him three times since Grace’s wedding, which is a situation I couldn’t feel less comfortable with if I was wearing a pair of size four drainpipes.
‘Hello, Gareth,’ I say despondently.
‘Hi! Mrs Hart,’ he adds, grinning and extending a hand out to my mum. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Oh, it’s Ms actually,’ she says, smiling and shaking his hand.
There is an awkward silence.
‘This is Gareth, Mum,’ I say reluctantly. ‘He works at the university with Bob. He does their admin.’
‘There’s a lot more to it than just admin,’ he corrects me.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean…well, sorry.’
There’s another awkward silence.
‘So, how
are
you, Evie?’ he says, grinning again. ‘You’re looking really great.’
I’m struggling to say, ‘You too,’ because, sadly, nothing could be further from the truth. Gareth has developed an angry-looking rash on his forehead and hasn’t shaved for so long that he’s starting to look like Tom Hanks in the last half-hour of
Castaway
.
‘Er, thanks, Gareth,’ I say.
‘Congratulations on your impending nuptials,
Mizz
Hart,’ he says to my mum.
‘Oh, well, thank you. Will you be coming to the wedding?’ she asks innocently. I try not to groan audibly.
‘If I’m invited,’ he beams.
Oh God. I know what’s coming next.
‘Oh well, consider yourself invited,’ Mum says brightly.
Were it not for the fact that she makes her living from teaching yoga, I would kick her very hard in the shin right now. As if sensing my thoughts, she announces that she needs to pop to the health-food shop.
‘I’ve run out of ginkgo biloba. Won’t be long,’ she adds, leaving Gareth clearly wondering which language she’s speaking.
‘Evie, we never got to have a proper chat about our relationship,’ he says, his forehead starting to crumple.
I’ve got nowhere to run.
‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m just not sure there’s anything left to say.’
‘Well, the thing is,’ he says, ‘I’ve been putting a lot of thought into all this and, well, you’ve always said you’ve got a commitment problem. I want to help you with it.’
The thought is as appealing as treating a mouth ulcer with a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. I try to remain unfazed.
‘Gareth, listen,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing you can do to help. It’s just the way I am. I’m not ready to make a commitment to anyone yet.’
‘But you’re
nearly thirty
,’ he says.
‘
Not for another three years!
’ I shriek.
The puppy-dog eyes come back and are now so mournful I’m convinced he’s been taking lessons from a basset-hound.
‘I’d just hate to see someone like you left on the shelf, that’s all,’ he tells me.
I’m tempted to enquire whether he really thinks a comment like that will help his cause but I decide, in the light of the fact that his lip is starting to quiver, not to say anything.
‘I know I hurt you, Gareth,’ I say softly.
‘You did hurt me, Evie, you really did,’ he says.
‘And I’m sorry,’ I continue. ‘I am really, really sorry. I’m an idiot. You’re a lovely man. You’ll find someone who deserves you some day, you will.’
‘But I really feel that you and I made a connection,’ he says.
I’m not sure I can make this any clearer.
‘I’m sorry, Gareth,’ I continue. ‘I really am. Sorry for hurting you, sorry for not being able to make a commitment to you. I’m just really, really sorry.’
He’s about to say something else, but as I see my mum walking back towards us, I decide to make my move.
‘Look, here’s my mum,’ I say. ‘I’ve really got to get her back–it’s starting to rain.’
‘You’ve got a brolly,’ he tells me.
‘Oh, er–yes, I know. But she’s got
a disorder,
’ I say, leaning in to whisper to him.
‘A disorder?’ he asks, frowning. ‘What kind of disorder?’
‘She goes just
bonkers
whenever she comes into contact with rainwater,’ I tell him. ‘It’s called, er,
Gremlins Syndrome
.’
He scrunches up his face. ‘What, you mean like in the film?’ he asks.
‘Exactly,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not a pretty sight. I’d hate for you to get stuck in the middle of something like that.’
He’s about to question me further when my mum appears by our side.
‘Right, all done,’ she says brightly, holding up her shopping bag.
Gareth takes a cautious step backwards.
‘Sorry we couldn’t talk for longer,’ I shout, dragging my mother away.
‘Bye, Evie,’ he shouts back with a worried look on his face. ‘See you at the wedding.’
Bugger, bugger, bugger.
‘Mum, do you know what you’ve just done?’
‘What?’
‘He was someone I used to go out with,’ I tell her. ‘He’s the last person I want at your wedding.’
She doesn’t look overly concerned with this news. ‘I thought he seemed nice,’ she says.
‘You think
everybody
seems nice,’ I point out.
She frowns. ‘You’re the one who used to go out with him.’
The thought makes my stomach churn. ‘I know,’ I say grimly.
‘Anyway, just because you’ve split up with someone doesn’t mean you can’t still be friends,’ she says.
‘I know.’ Although I’ve managed to comprehensively disprove the theory so far.
I suddenly realise that this diversion has meant I haven’t responded to Jack’s text yet, and the thought brightens my spirits immediately. I take my phone out of my pocket to reread my message, but as I look at the screen, my stomach lurches. It says Message Sent.
Oh bollocks. I’ve sent the draft. He’s going to think I’m such a tart I make Abi Titmuss look like a Sunday School teacher. I’m going to have to send him another one immediately, explaining myself. But how the hell do I explain that?
Panicking, I start composing another text.
Sorry–just a joke. I’m not a nymphomaniac, honest!
and press Send immediately.
A couple of minutes later, another arrives. It’s from him. One line.
I’ll try not to be too disappointed.