The Statistical Probability Of Love At First Sight (13 page)

“Brilliant,” Charlotte says, putting an arm around Hadley’s shoulders conspiratorially. “I’ve already made sure there’ll be plenty of ice at the reception for when your dad steps all over our toes.”

Hadley smiles weakly. “Great.”

“We should probably get out there and say a quick hello to everyone before it’s time for photos,” Dad suggests. “And then the whole wedding party is going back to the hotel before the reception,” he tells Hadley. “So we just need to remember to grab your suitcase before we head over.”

“Sure,” she says, allowing herself to be led in the direction of the open doors at the end of the long corridor. She feels a bit like she’s sleepwalking and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, figuring the only way out of this—this wedding, this weekend, this whole blessed event—is to just keep moving forward.

“Hey,” Dad says, pausing just before they reach the door. He leans over and kisses Hadley’s forehead. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Me, too,” she murmurs, falling back again as Dad loops an arm around Charlotte, pulling her close before they step outside together. A cheer goes up from the crowd at the sight of them, and though she knows all eyes are on the bride, Hadley still feels far too visible, so she hangs back until Dad half turns and motions for her to follow them.

The sky above is still shot through with silver, a glittery mix of sun and clouds, and the umbrellas have all but disappeared. Hadley trails after the happy couple as Dad shakes hands and Charlotte kisses cheeks, occasionally introducing her to people she’ll never remember, repeating names she barely hears—Dad’s colleague Justin and Charlotte’s wayward cousin Carrie; the flower girls, Aishling and Niamh; and Reverend Walker’s portly wife—the whole unfamiliar cast assembled on the lawn like a reminder of all that Hadley doesn’t know about her father.

It seems that most of the guests will attend the reception later this evening, but they’re unable to wait until then to offer their heartfelt congratulations, and the joy in their faces is contagious. Even Hadley can’t help but be stirred by the momentousness of the day, until she notices a woman balancing a baby on her hip, and the leaden feeling returns again.

“Hadley,” Dad is saying as he guides her over to an older couple, “I want you to meet some very good friends of Charlotte’s family, the O’Callaghans.”

Hadley shakes each of their hands, nodding politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“So this is the famous Hadley,” says Mr. O’Callaghan. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

It’s difficult to hide her surprise. “Really?”

“Of course,” Dad says, squeezing her shoulder. “How many daughters do you think I have?”

Hadley is still just staring at him, unsure of what to say, when Charlotte arrives at his side again and greets the older couple warmly.

“We just wanted to say congratulations before we go,” says Mrs. O’Callaghan. “We’ve got a funeral, of all things, but we’ll be back for the reception later.”

“Oh, how sad,” Charlotte says. “I’m so sorry. Whose is it?”

“An old friend of Tom’s, from his Oxford law days.”

“That’s terrible,” Dad says. “Is it far?”

“Paddington,” Mr. O’Callaghan says, and Hadley whips her head to look at him.

“Paddington?”

He nods, looking at her a little uncertainly, then turns back to Dad and Charlotte. “It starts at two, so we’d better be off. But congrats again,” he says. “We’re looking forward to tonight.”

As they leave, Hadley stares after them, her mind racing. The thinnest sliver of a thought is threading its way through her, but before she has a chance to grab hold of it Violet pushes through the crowd to announce that it’s time for photos.

“Hope you’re ready to smile till your face hurts,” she tells Hadley, who is about as far from ready to smile as is possible right now. Once again, she allows herself to be nudged forward, malleable as a piece of putty, as Dad and Charlotte follow along behind her, leaning into each other as if there’s nobody else around.

“Ah, I
thought
we were missing somebody,” jokes the photographer when she sees the bride and groom. The rest of the wedding party is already gathered in the garden around the side of the church, the same place where Hadley found her way inside earlier. One of the other bridesmaids hands her a small mirror, and she holds it gingerly, blinking back at herself, her mind a million miles away.

Hadley has no idea whether Paddington is a town or a neighborhood or even just a street. All she knows is that it’s where Oliver lives, and she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to think back to what he said on the plane. Someone takes the mirror from her clammy hands, and she blindly follows the photographer’s pointed finger to a spot on the grass, where she stands obediently as the others assemble themselves around her.

When she’s told to smile, Hadley forces her lips into a shape that she hopes might resemble one. But her eyes sting with the effort of organizing her thoughts, and all she can picture is Oliver at the airport with that suit slung over his shoulder.

Had he ever actually said he was going to a wedding?

The camera clicks and whirs as the photographer arranges the wedding party in different combinations: the whole group; then just the women and just the men; then several variations on the family itself, the most awkward of which involves Hadley standing between her father and her brand-new stepmother. It’s impossible to know how she gets from one spot to another, but somehow she’s there all the same, her smile so falsely bright that her cheeks ache, her heart sinking like a weight in water.

It’s him
, she thinks as the camera flashes.
It’s Oliver’s father
.

She knows nothing for sure, of course, but as soon as she attaches the words to it, gives name to the shapeless thoughts in her head, she’s suddenly certain it must be true.

“Dad,” she says quietly, and from where he’s standing beside her, he moves his head just the tiniest bit, his smile unchanging.

“Yeah?” he asks through his teeth.

Charlotte’s eyes slide over in Hadley’s direction, then back to the camera.

“I have to go.”

Dad looks over at her this time and the photographer straightens with a frown and says, “You’ll have to stay still.”

“Just a minute,” he tells her, holding up a finger. To Hadley, he says, “Go where?”

Everyone is looking at her now: the florist, who’s trying to keep the bouquets from wilting; the rest of the bridesmaids, observing the family shoot from the sidelines; the photographer’s assistant, with her clipboard. Someone’s baby lets out a sharp cry, and from atop the statue the pigeons take flight. Everyone is looking, but Hadley doesn’t care. Because the possibility that Oliver—who spent half the flight listening to her complain about this wedding like it was a tragedy of epic proportions—might be preparing for his father’s funeral at this very moment is almost too much to bear.

Nobody here will understand; she knows that much is true. She’s not even sure she understands herself. Yet there’s an urgency to the decision, a kind of slow and desperate momentum. Each time she closes her eyes, he’s there again: Oliver telling her the story of the night-light, his eyes distant and his voice hollow.

“It’s just…” she begins, then trails off again. “There’s something I need to do.”

Dad raises both hands and looks around, clearly unable to fathom what this might be.
“Now?”
he asks, his voice tight. “What could you possibly have to do at this exact moment? In
London?
”

Charlotte is watching them, her mouth open.

“Please, Dad,” she says, her voice soft. “It’s important.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think…”

But she’s already backing away. “I swear I’ll be back for the reception,” she says. “And I’ll have my phone.”

“Where are you even
going?
”

“I’ll be fine,” she says, still moving backward, though this is clearly not the answer her dad was looking for. She gives a little wave as she reaches the door to the church. Everyone is still eyeing her as if she’s lost her mind, and maybe she has, but she needs to know for sure. She grabs the handle and braves one last glance back at Dad, who looks furious. His hands are on his hips, his forehead creased. She waves again and then steps inside, letting the door close behind her.

The stillness of the church comes as a shock, and Hadley stands there with her back against the cool stone of the wall, waiting for someone—Dad or Charlotte, the wedding planner or a posse of bridesmaids—to come after her. But nobody does, and she suspects this isn’t because Dad understands. How could he? It’s far more likely that he just doesn’t remember how to be this kind of parent anymore. It’s one thing to be the guy who calls on Christmas; it’s another to have to discipline your teenage daughter in front of everyone you know, especially when you’re no longer quite sure of the rules.

Hadley feels guilty for taking advantage of him like this, especially on his wedding day, but it’s like the lens has shifted; her focus is now clear.

All she wants is to get to Oliver.

Downstairs, she hurries to the classroom where she left her bags. As she walks past the mirror she catches a glimpse of herself, looking young and pale and so very uncertain, and she feels her resolve start to crumble. Maybe she’s jumping to conclusions. Maybe she’s wrong about Oliver’s dad. She has no idea where she’s going, and there’s a good possibility that her own father won’t ever forgive her for this.

But when she reaches for her purse the napkin with Oliver’s drawing flutters to the floor, and she finds herself smiling as she stoops to pick it up, running her thumb across the little duck with sneakers and a baseball cap.

Maybe this
is
a mistake.

But there’s still no place else she’d rather be right now.

9:00 AM Eastern Standard Time

2:00 PM Greenwich Mean Time

Hadley is already out the door and across the street, the church bells tolling two o’clock in her wake, before she realizes she has no idea where she’s going. An enormous red bus races past and, surprised, she stumbles backward a few steps before taking off after it. Even without her suitcase—which she left in the church—she’s still too slow, and by the time she makes it around the corner, the bus has already pulled away again.

Panting, she stoops to squint at the bus map that’s plastered at the stop behind a thick pane of glass, though it turns out to be little more than a mystifying tangle of colored lines and unfamiliar names. She bites her lip as she studies it, thinking there must be a better way to crack this code, when she finally spots Paddington in the upper left-hand corner.

It doesn’t look all that far, but then, it’s hard to get a feel for the scale of the thing, and for all Hadley knows, it’s just as likely to be miles away as blocks. There’s not enough detail to pick out any landmarks, and she still has no clue what she’ll do once she gets there; the only thing she remembers Oliver saying about the church is that there’s a statue of Mary out front and that he and his brothers used to get in trouble for climbing it. She glances at the map again. How many churches could there be in such a small patch of London? How many statues?

No matter the distance, she has only ten pounds in her purse, and judging by the cab ride from the airport, that will barely get her from here to the mailbox at the corner. The stubborn map still refuses to give up its secrets, so she decides it’s probably easiest to just ask the driver of the next bus that comes along and hope he’ll be able to point her in the right direction. But after nearly ten minutes of waiting with no sign of a bus, she takes another stab at deciphering the routes, tapping her fingers on the glass with obvious impatience.

“You know the saying, don’t you?” says a man in a soccer jersey. Hadley straightens up, acutely aware of how overdressed she is for a bus ride through London. When she doesn’t respond, the guy continues. “You wait for ages, and then two come along at once.”

“Am I in the right place to get to Paddington?”

“Paddington?” he says. “Yeah, you’re grand.”

When the bus arrives the man smiles encouragingly, so Hadley doesn’t bother asking the driver. But as she watches out the window for signs, she wonders how she’ll know when they’ve arrived, since most stops are labeled by street name rather than area. After a good fifteen minutes of aimless sightseeing, she finally works up the nerve to teeter to the front of the bus and ask which stop is hers.

“Paddington?” the driver says, showing a gold tooth as he grins. “You’re headed in the wrong bloody direction.”

Hadley groans. “Can you tell me which way is the
right
bloody direction?”

He lets her off near Westminster with directions for how to get to Paddington by tube, and she pauses for a moment on the sidewalk. Her eyes travel up to the sky, where she’s surprised to see a plane flying overhead, and something about the sight of it calms her again. She’s suddenly back in seat 18A beside Oliver, suspended above the water, surrounded by nothing but darkness.

And there on the street corner, it strikes her as something of a miracle that she met him at all. Imagine if she’d been on time for her flight. Or if she’d spent all those hours beside someone else, a complete stranger who, even after so many miles, remained that way. The idea that their paths might have just as easily
not
crossed leaves her breathless, like a near-miss accident on a highway, and she can’t help marveling at the sheer randomness of it all. Like any survivor of chance, she feels a quick rush of thankfulness, part adrenaline and part hope.

She picks her way through the crowded London streets, keeping an eye out for the tube stop. The city is crooked and twisty, full of curved avenues and winding alleys, like some kind of grand Victorian maze. It’s a beautiful summer Saturday and people fill the sidewalks, carrying bags from the market, pushing strollers, walking dogs, and jogging toward the parks. She passes a boy wearing the same blue shirt Oliver had on earlier and her heart quickens at the sight of it.