Page 64 of Out of Control

Meeko stepped away first and shut the bathroom door behind him. Was that good or bad? Was he shutting the door permanently on what might come next?

Concentrate on the wedding. In thirty minutes, we have to be seated in the extremely posh ballroom of this incredibly expensive hotel looking smarter than we’ve ever looked in our lives. We need to appear relaxed and at ease with each other in the way that only best friends can.

She moisturised from head to toe and applied extra deodorant — anxiety made her armpits continually damp. When she heard the shower switch off, she wriggled hurriedly into her dress to avoid Meeko marching straight out of the bathroom and catching her in bra and pants. Her best bra and pants, bought just before Joe moved in and never worn — which sort of made them virgin. When Meeko emerged a couple of minutes later in morning trousers and shirt, she was spraying perfume on her neck and stepping into heels that would give her blisters within the hour.

“Ten minutes before we need to head downstairs.” He paused and she felt her cheeks grow hot as he made it obvious that he was inspecting her from top to toe. “You look fabulous.”

“Thank you. Do you need a hand with your tie or cuff links?”

“Cuff links? Didn’t they go out with the ark?”

“Sorry. Childhood memory — I would sit on the landing and watch Mum and Dad get ready for a dinner dance and she always asked him that question.” She prattled nonsensically when she was nervous.

Meeko knotted his gold tie. He’d chosen it when she’d told him the colour of her dress. He looked more handsome than ever.

Fiona checked the contents of her evening bag while Meeko put on his tailcoat and black patent shoes. “I feel like I’m onStrictly,” he complained.

“Good, because the invitation said there would be dancing until midnight.”

The ballroom was spectacular. Huge crystal chandeliers hung from gold chains, the walls were unblemished buttermilk with occasional alcoves housing claret-coloured velvet sofas. The rows of chairs had thick seat pads covered in the same dark fabric, and the chair backs were decorated in wispy netting which matched the pink silk dresses of the eight bridesmaids: four adult and four cute, tiny ones. The bride wore a figure-hugging cream sheath with a huge train and carried a bouquet of red roses and greenery. The groom, his best man and groomsmen were in top hat and tails with scarlet ties plus single red roses in their buttonholes. The whole ceremony and the dinner that followed felt to Fiona like a fantasy filmset. The real world had receded and she was playing a part in a fiction or a dream. The best part was being on the arm of the most handsome man in the room. Finally, she was the princess in all those fairytales her mother had read to her decades earlier. With Meeko as her Prince Charming.

All the family reminiscing was done, his relatives were friendly, fun and fantastic to be with. The champagne flowed, the food was top notch and, as the evening progressed, the dance floor was never empty. At 11 p.m. the best man organised a gangway through the throng of guests for the bride and groom to take their leave. Meeko squeezed the two of them into a gap near the end of the guard of honour of waving hands. He positioned Fiona immediately in front of him and wrapped his arms around her waist. She leaned back into him, completely relaxed by the continuous topping up of her fizz, the dancing and the convivial storybook atmosphere. She was happily tired and content in away she couldn’t remember feeling since her own wedding to Rob — but today felt even better than that. There was much clapping, cheering and shouts of good wishes. Fiona raised both arms and waved and applauded as the couple passed in front of her, smiling as though they were on a royal walkabout. In the ballroom’s grand doorway, the bride, with her back to the throng, lifted her right hand and tossed her bouquet over her head towards the guests. Fiona’s brain had lost logical thought somewhere around the dessert course hours earlier and she’d been acting on instinct ever since. Something flew through the air and reflex made her step forward to catch it, just as she would have done long ago in the rounders or netball team.

There was a moment of hush and then more cheering. Fiona looked down; she was holding the bride’s bouquet of scarlet roses and green fronds. The implication made her stumble slightly and she looked around for a chair. Instead, she found Meeko’s face wearing a mask of shock.

“I . . . I didn’t realise what I was doing,” she said quietly. “What a waste when someone young and in love could have made wonderful things happen.”

“Does that mean that someone slightly older but still in love can’t make wonderful things happen?”

“I . . .” It was impossible to formulate words when she couldn’t move her eyes from his deep gaze. The green pools pulled with an irresistible magnetism. Now Fiona didn’t want to speak. She was done with words. She placed her free hand on Meeko’s waist and stepped into his personal space. Their mouths were inches apart and Fiona was desperate for that gap between them to disappear.

And then Meeko kissed her.

Fiona melted inside. Despite the blisters from dancing in ill-fitting heels, her toes curled. A sweet warmth travelled rapidly through her body, settling in her groin and breasts. Meeko’sarms felt safe, secure and immensely strong. She felt one of his hands travel down her back and rest suggestively on her right bum cheek. Forgetting the people around them, she pressed herself up against him, noticing that he was feeling the same way as her.

She was dimly aware that the DJ had taken back control of the evening and the next track was from those ancient days of the 1980s when she’d been experiencing the heady independence of student life. ‘Don’t You Want Me’ by The Human League. It was impossible to disobey its magnetic force. She gently led Meeko into the crowd of dancers and kicked off her shoes. Meeko picked her up and whirled her around. They danced until they failed to recognise a splurge of more recent tunes. Fiona retrieved her shoes and mouthed the word ‘bed’ at him. He nodded. Manners wouldn’t allow them to simply evaporate from the party. Breakfast arrangements had to be made with the cousins via shouting and hand signals because the music volume had risen. The bride’s parents had to be thanked. And then they were free to go.

The hotel corridors and lift were deserted except for a couple of uniformed bellboys collecting room-service breakfast orders from door handles. Meeko held her hand all the way into their room. Inside he reluctantly released it when she insisted on finding a vase for the bouquet. She had to make do with a pint glass located in the minibar.

“They won’t charge us for using that, will they?” All day money had been irrelevant but now she wanted to protect Meeko from any possible criticism or bill.

“Not as long as we don’t fill it from their store of alcohol. Kiss me again. I always knew that kissing you would be perfection, but it was one hundred times better.”

He was right. It was an experience better than any other. Better than Joe, better than Rob. The heat returned to her body.She kicked off her shoes again while their lips were still melded. Meeko had to pause briefly to undo his laces, remove his tie and toss his tailcoat over the chair. Still entwined, they sat down and then half reclined on the bed. Meeko put his hand on the gold silk of the dress covering her breast. Fiona shivered with anticipation and then sat up slowly, allowing in part of the logic battering at her brain — the part that would limit immediate physical damage to expensive clothing. The logic that would limit long-term emotional damage to vulnerable people and a best-friendship, she quashed. Or perhaps it was the champagne or the hazy veil of unreality that quashed it. “Shall we . . . I could do with some help with the zip. And . . . your shirt and trousers . .. they’re hired.”

Meeko was sitting up as well, staring at her with a serious but tender look on his face. She’d overstepped some invisible line. She’d misread the signals. But how? He’d drawn her into that kiss downstairs. He thought she wasn’t too old to catch a wedding bouquet. The feel of his body against hers had advertised his physical interest in her.

“What?” she said. “What?”

“I love you, Fiona.” His words were a great wave of warmth. “But I can’t make love to you.”

He wasn’t making sense. She stood up and walked away. When she reached the failed sofa bed, her legs would hold her up no longer. She sat down. “Why?” she whispered. “I thought . . .”

“I don’t want to become another Joe, kept in a little box on the periphery of your life.”

“But Joe moved in.”

“Not through your choice. You never wanted him there. I don’t want to be another man who is rationed because it’s more fun that way.”

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