‘Hmm.’
‘So phone him and tell him.’
I look down at my drink and back at her. Just the thought makes me feel queasy again. But I have another sip. A big one this time. ‘You’re right,’ I say, as my blood races with adrenalin. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
Suddenly I get an overwhelming feeling that this phone call will be the most important one I ever make. That I’m going to tell Ryan I love him and to hell with the consequences. I dip my hand decisively into my bag – and realize immediately that my phone isn’t there. ‘Oh, bugger. I’ve left my mobile in the loo at the register office. It’s probably sitting on top of the Tampax machine.’
‘Here, use mine,’ offers Trudie, rooting in her bag. When she produces the phone, it’s vibrating.
‘Christ, I’ve got about ten missed calls,’ she exclaims, pressing answer.
‘Hiya?’
I can just about hear a muted voice and Trudie gestures to me that she’s going to take the call outside so she can hear properly. I watch, mildly intrigued, as she stands by the door for a good ten minutes, gesticulating like an over-excited football manager.
When she plonks herself down on the stool next to me, she looks strangely twitchy.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
‘Hmm?’
‘I was just asking if everything’s okay?’ I repeat. ‘You seem a bit funny after your phone call.’
‘Me? No, I’m fine,’ she says, almost too dismissively. ‘Er, I was just giving someone directions.’
‘To where?’
She clears her throat and shifts in her seat again. ‘Er, Primark. The one in Barnsley. Er, I’m just going to get some Scampi Fries – do you want some?’
‘No. Can I borrow your phone?’ I ask desperately. I know that if Trudie doesn’t give it to me soon, I risk bottling out of the whole thing faster than you can say ‘world’s biggest wimp’.
‘Just give us a sec!’ She darts to the bar and I gaze into the fire again, its heat stinging my eyes. As I shuffle my stool sideways, I sense Trudie next to me again.
‘Oh, all right, then. I’ll have some dry roasted peanu—’
It isn’t Trudie.
It’s the last person I ever expected to walk into the Baltic Fleet pub, Liverpool, just as I’d settled on the bar snack I wanted.
He’s not wearing a tuxedo.
There isn’t a .45 revolver in sight.
But, I can say categorically that I’d prefer this person to be standing here more than anyone else on the planet. And I’m not talking about James Bond.
Chapter 90
As Ryan sits on the stool next to mine, my pulse is racing wildly.
‘I was late,’ he says.
‘I can’t believe you’re here.’ I search his eyes, desperate to read his expression.
‘My plane was delayed. I should have arrived in plenty of time.’
‘In plenty of time for what?’ I am barely able to believe this conversation is happening.
‘Your wedding,’ he whispers, reaching for my hand.
‘But you weren’t invited,’ I find myself saying.
He smiles. ‘I know that. I was going to do something very . . . well, discourteous.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was going to try to stop you getting married.’
I hear myself gasp – a short, sharp, this-can’t-honestly-truly-be-happening gasp – so audibly that the bloke at the next table looks momentarily concerned that I’m about to be taken hostage.
‘The plan was I’d arrive this morning at your mom’s house, finally tell you how I feel about you and beg you to be mine.’
‘And when did you make this plan exactly?’
He looks at his watch. ‘About twenty-three and a half hours ago,’ he tells me. ‘But I’ve been wondering how to get you back since the day you left.’
‘Only you didn’t make it on time.’
‘No,’ he admits. ‘Not much of a hero, am I?’
I smile and finally look up into his eyes. With the light from the fire flickering on them, they’re more mesmerizing than ever. Just gazing into them makes me feel weak with happiness. ‘Actually, you haven’t done too badly. I mean, you still came. Okay, your timing’s a bit out, but nobody’s perfect. Besides, fortunately for you, luck was on your side.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I didn’t go through with it.’
‘I heard.’ He smiles. ‘So, when exactly did you make this plan?’
I look at my watch. ‘Oh, about an hour ago. But I’ve been wondering how to get you back since I left.’
With my eyes moistening, I suppress another urge to blow my nose, determined that my overactive nasal passages will not ruin this moment.
‘Why did you leave?’ he asks.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. ‘I thought I felt something for Jason that – that now I know I didn’t.’
He nods.
‘But it wasn’t just that,’ I admit. ‘I overheard you at the party talking to Felicity, telling her that what you and I had was nothing but a fling. Then I saw you with Barbara King and it looked like she was going to be your next conquest.’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘I also thought . . . I’d never replace Amy. I suppose I thought lots of things, Ryan.’
I press a tissue to my nose in as ladylike a fashion as I can.
‘Can I tell you something, Zoe?’ he says, squeezing my hand. ‘I was a wreck before I met you. I was self-centred and boorish. I didn’t appreciate my kids and I was on my own personal collision course. I didn’t think life had anything left to offer me. Then you came along. And you changed everything.’
‘Me?’ I ask.
‘Of course you. You rescued me. You rescued my kids. You taught me how to laugh again. You made me enjoy waking up in the morning. You gave me my life back, Zoe.’
I swallow.
‘And I’ll tell you something else.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I love you for it. And the weird thing is, that’s not the only thing I love you for. I love you for sliding across the dance-floor at my black-tie dinner. I love you for throwing my pasta all over the kitchen. I love you for dressing as Big Bird when everyone else was trying to be sexy.’
He reaches out and tenderly tucks my hair behind my ear, then studies my face. ‘Nobody was sexier than you.’
‘In a Big Bird costume?’ I ask doubtfully.
‘Feathers obviously do it for me.’
‘But what about what you said to Felicity?’ I ask. ‘And Barbara King? You – you seemed to be getting very . . . I don’t know . . .
cosy
with her at the party.’
He frowns. ‘Zoe, telling Felicity I was madly in love with you would have been the worst thing possible,’ he explains. ‘She’s
insanely
jealous. I didn’t want to rub it in for her sake, but more than anything I wanted to protect you. I honestly thought downplaying our relationship was the best way to handle it. I’m sorry if it turned out that it wasn’t.’
Suddenly I feel silly. ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘You’re absolutely right. I . . . I understand now.’
‘As for Barbara,’ he continues, ‘she was so drunk she would have made a pass at a tree-trunk. Part of me didn’t want to upset her by making a big deal of it – especially since we’d only recently made friends. The second she tried to kiss me, I marched her back to her husband and – as diplomatically as possible – suggested he took her home. You must have left the room too soon to see that.’
I nod.
‘The fact is, I’ve never wanted Barbara,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve never wanted
anyone
since I met you.’
‘Really?’ I ask.
He sighs. ‘There’s something else too.’
‘What?’
‘I loved my wife, Zoe, really loved her. But she’s not here any more. And it’s taken me years to grasp that it’s okay to move on. That loving somebody else now isn’t against the rules.’
I bite my lip.
‘And there’s another simple fact,’ he adds. ‘I can’t help loving someone else. I can’t help loving you.’
‘Ryan, I’m so sorry I left,’ I blurt out. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing, I—’
‘Sssh,’ he says, as he pulls me to him.
Tears spill down my cheeks, but before I get a chance to wonder where they’ve come from, Ryan and I have our arms round each other so tightly it feels as if we’ll never let go.
Then he loosens his grip. As his mouth finds mine a surge of emotion rushes through me. His kiss is so tender, so beautiful, so glorious, I want it never to end. Particularly since, for the first time today, my nose has dried up.
‘They didn’t have any dry-roasted,’ announces Trudie. ‘So I got you some Quavers instead. Only, I’m guessing you don’t want them any more.’
Ryan and I unravel ourselves and laugh.
‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ he says.
‘Course not.’ She grins. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
Ryan grabs my hand. ‘Come on, I’ve got a cab waiting outside.’
‘Not an Aston Martin?’ I ask.
‘Not exactly.’ He frowns. ‘It’s something called a Mondeo. The seats smell of vomit and the driver belched the whole way here. That’s not a disappointment, is it?’
‘I smile. Nope. It’s absolutely perfect.’
Read on for an exclusive look at
JANE COSTELLO’S
THE TIME OF OUR LIVES
Coming to a bookstore near you in 2014
Prologue
Manchester Airport, July 2006
There is a universal rule of travel that applies to any holiday destination on the planet: the sunnier the resort you’ve visited, the more ferociously it will piss down when you land back in the UK.
And Zante
had
been sunny. So sunny that, as my friends and I step onto British tarmac, shivering in the drizzle, it feels as though the only thing in the world that isn’t grey is my nose, which is an alarming shade of red. Oh, and possibly my toes, which, courtesy of the flip-flops that seemed like a good idea when I set off, are now as blue and frozen as radioactive ice pops.
Still, I can’t complain about the weather, which was the one element of the holiday that was excellent. Which qualifies it as a rarity.
‘How are your bowels today, Imogen?’ enquires Meredith cheerfully as we step onto the travelator.
The family of four in front spin round to get a good look at me.
‘Better,’ I whisper. ‘Though that’s not saying much.’ Twenty-four hours ago, I was gripped by the sort of cramps normally associated with unanaesthetised intestinal surgery, prompted – according to resort gossip – by a recurrent swimming-pool superbug for which our two and a half star hotel was rewarded a modest role on
Watchdog
last year.
Meredith hadn’t mentioned that detail when she persuaded Nicola and me to book this two-night trip to celebrate her hen night. That is, her
third
hen night. She and her boyfriend, Nathan, have one of those on-off relationships – one that’s so on-off that if you try to keep up it makes your head spin. At the moment it’s on, but that guarantees nothing: by the end of the week, she could well have cancelled the 350-seat wedding marquee in Hampshire, fired the string quartet and sent her mother nose-diving to her third nervous breakdown.
‘I don’t know about you two, but I had a
whale
of a time,’ Meredith declares, apparently confident that we’ll answer in the affirmative. ‘I know it wasn’t luxurious, but you got used to those crawly things after a while, don’t you think?’
I still have no idea what those ‘crawly things’ were – David Attenborough would have struggled to identify them – but I do know that I didn’t get used to them. Or the shower, with a choice of two heat settings (arctic and lava); or the hair I found in my food every meal (collectively, they’d have produced an entire toupee); or the walls that shook when the couple next door were throwing up, singing or shagging, the latter of which, judging by the speed and noise, involved a variety of moves that could have won them a part in
Riverdance
.
I didn’t get used to any of it, and neither, judging by her heavy eyelids, did Nicola. ‘It was great, Meredith,’ she replies, heroically. ‘I’m just glad you had a good time. That’s the most important thing.’
Neither Nicola or I are flashy types by nature; we didn’t grow up surrounded by luxury of any description. In fact, we both grew up in the distinctly unpretentious surroundings of suburban south Liverpool, where we met at secondary school. But even we have standards.
Which is why Meredith, my neighbour in London until recently, is an enigma. Her family appears to own half of the south coast, her father was a major in the British Army, and all her other friends have names that belong in a P. G. Wodehouse novel. So my only explanation for her infinite tolerance of the hellhole we’ve just visited is that she sees it as a novelty.
‘You know, if you’d wanted to go somewhere a bit posher, I would’ve treated you both,’ she says merrily, as we arrive at the luggage carousel. ‘I really wouldn’t have minded.’
‘It’s very kind of you to offer, but
we
would’ve minded,’ insists Nic. ‘We’ll just have to save up for next time.’
I look up and, with a sinking heart, realise the bag approaching us ominously on the carousel is mine. Unlike the chic weekend bag I checked in, this heap of canvas looks like an angry hippopotamus has used it as a prop for practising taekwondo moves: a strap is missing; there is a yawning hole in one side; and my wash bag is spilling out, revealing half a pack of Microgynon, enough make-up to put Clinique out of business and a burst tube of athlete’s-foot cream that’s now smeared on several surfaces.
I haul it off the carousel as two women I recognise from our flight glide past. They look to be in their mid-thirties and are unfeasibly glamorous – all lustrous hair, French-manicured nails and foreheads that, from a certain angle, look as though they’ve been soaked in formaldehyde. I feel a stab of something unbecoming of me; I fear it may be envy. Not, I hasten to add, because of their appearance, gorgeous as they undeniably are. But because of where I know they were sitting on the flight: in
business class
.
Nicola follows my gaze. ‘I’m sure business class is overrated.’
‘A ridiculous extravagance,’ I concur. ‘I’m sure No Frills is just as good.’
Meredith shakes her head. ‘You’re wrong, you know.’
We head for the gargantuan queue at the customer services desk to report my luggage as damaged. After ten minutes of the queue remaining resolutely static, I find the tattered copy of
Hello!
I bought for the flight and glance through its now-familiar pages.