Page 17 of One Moment in Time
‘I’ve been trying to track down Eileen Smith too, so this is a full house. Yaaaayyy! So your parents are married too and now we’ve got the opportunity to get all four of them back together again. Oh, I’m giddy. That’s amazing.’
He’d walked right into that one. ‘Not exactly. In fact, there might be a slight issue there. My parents are divorced…’
‘Ah, I’m sorry…’
‘And they’re not great at being in the same room.’
‘Ouch. Understood. Och, well – so close.’ The disappointment in her tone was palpable, and strangely, that gave him an overwhelming urge to help her.
And there were other factors in play here – the biggest one being that he was absolutely over his parents hating each other. Jilted situation aside, the most uncomfortable aspect of the wedding was that his parents couldn’t even be in the same place without all that bubbling tension. This could be the perfect opportunity to broker some kind of peace deal between them, to remind them how much they had loved each other once, and to build, if nothing else, a new friendship between them. He was a trained mediator – surely this wouldn’t be beyond his skills? Throw in old Scottish friends and this had all the makings of an amazing life experience for them all. Except… there was no way they’d agree. None. So he was going to have to get creative.
‘Look, leave it with me. I’ve just replied to your Facebook message with my email and phone number. Can you send me all the details? I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to make this happen.’
‘Yes! Thank you. I owe you a cocktail. Ten cocktails. A kidney. I’m so grateful. This will shock the life out of them all, it really will.’
‘I can safely say you’re not wrong,’ he told her.
They swapped goodbyes and he hung up, still smiling.
This, he decided, was either a really great idea or the worst one he’d ever had. There was only one way to find out.
He picked up his phone again and dialled.
‘Hey Dad, it’s me. Listen, I’ve just been thinking… how d’you fancy getting out of town for a few days week after next?’
8
EILEEN
Eileen was toying with the idea of going to cross-fit at the gym, but she couldn’t quite motivate herself. It was so unlike her, but she’d felt this way for a couple of weeks, since the non-wedding catastrophe at Hilton Head. It was that old saying that you’re only as happy as your unhappiest child. Well, she only had one, but she was pretty sure Aiden was mighty unhappy at the moment. Not that he’d wallow in it or lean on her for support. They were as close as any mum and son could be, but somewhere along the line – around the time of the divorce, if she remembered correctly – he’d begun handling all his own issues without her. She had never been sure whether it was just natural maturity or whether he didn’t want to add any more problems to her pile.
She sighed as she stretched up, then went to the office fridge for a smoothie. Normally, other than her regular vinos, she stuck to a Keto diet pretty religiously, but today was her cheat day. Actually, yesterday had been a cheat day too. And most of last week. Urgh, what was the point?
It wasn’t just Layla’s cowardly no-show that was irritating her. If she were completely honest, breathing the same air as Gary had left her pretty discombobulated too. That man was the bane of her life. Prior to the wedding, she’d trained like a demon, eaten completely clean, and done face yoga – BLOODY FACE YOGA – for three months, just to try to keep all her bits in the right place and for what? So that arse could parade around with his twenty-nine-year-old girlfriend and make her feel about 102. Yes, sure, she knew that she won in wisdom, experience and character, but what good were redeeming qualities when Mitzy could do the bloody splits. In heels. Even – and Eileen was embarrassed to admit it – her fake boyfriend, Kurt, hadn’t made up for the dent to her confidence from that whole interaction.
It wasn’t that she wanted Gary back, because she truly didn’t, but working out and getting herself in the best shape possible was a pride thing on two counts: the first was that she wanted him to look at her and realise that he’d let a bloody good thing go, and because he was a shallow, surface-level, trophy-girlfriend sporting dickhead that notion would be largely dependent on how she looked.
And reason number two, she’d done it for herself because she wanted to feel good. To be her best self. To keep her confidence high, both at work and, God forbid, for the slim possibility that she might actually build up the inclination to get serious about meeting someone again.
Eileen sighed and sat back in her chair, stretching up to the ceiling, then swearing as a button popped right off her shirt and shot across the room, narrowly avoiding taking Kurt’s eye out. She hadn’t shared all the details of Kurt’s background with Aiden on his should-have-been big day, but her fake-for-the-day had joined her realty firm and was crushing it, pulling in huge numbers, especially in the islands and coastal areas of the state. He was also killing it in his personal life, dating a dashingly handsome real estate mogul who was a major presence in the flip market. She loved a gay wedding, so she was hopeful it would go the distance.
‘Do you want this back?’ Kurt asked her, and she knew he’d have one eyebrow raised in question if he wasn’t obsessed with minimising facial movements to avoid wrinkles.
‘Keep it. It’s a down payment on all the beverages I owe you for coming with me to the wedding.’
‘Wouldn’t have missed it. I had the best time. Apart from, you know, the bit where no one actually got married,’ he said, and even though that should sting, the cool, matter-of-fact way that he said it made her love him even more for his attempt to inject some humour into the situation. If this man wasn’t only attracted to other guys, in the 30–60 age bracket, with a median income in excess of $500,000, she’d be seriously smitten by him. Not that she’d do anything about it. That ship had well and truly sailed. The HMS Gary Gregg. Off it went, carrying a full cargo of her self-esteem, her confidence and her desire for a future relationship, and it hadn’t been seen since. Right now, the only way she was going to find a romantic partner was if she got stuck in a lift with some unsuspecting bloke for at least a week, or if Amazon started sending out boyfriends with her monthly subscription of age-defying moisturiser.
In the early years after the divorce, there had been odd dates here and there. A few relationships that lasted three, four, five months, but lately she just didn’t have the energy for the politics of it all. There was dating. Which was basically a free for all. Then there was exclusivity, which meant you wouldn’t date other people. Then there was monogamy and commitment, but she hadn’t got that far with anyone else yet. How would that even happen? There was no point denying it – it was near impossible for a woman of her age to meet decent guys these days. She didn’t have the stomach for the online stuff and the dating apps – all that swiping left and right gave her a migraine. Also, in her experience, most of the single men out there of her age wanted to date thirty-year olds. The Mitzys of this world pretty much had the market sewn up. Jesus, what a depressing thought. And if she wasn’t careful, she knew a whole load of other depressing thoughts would flood in too – what was she doing with her life? Was this all there was – just work and working out and friends that didn’t come with benefits other than a great line in chat and the willingness to act as a fake boyfriend?
Sometimes she wondered if she should just pack everything up and go back to Scotland, but that was a romantic, ridiculous notion. She had no-one there to go back to. Her mum had passed away when she was in her early twenties, and she’d never known her dad. She’d only been back to her homeland twice since she’d put down roots in the USA, and those trips were over fifteen years ago, for her grandparents’ funerals. Both times, she’d gone alone because Gary was too busy to go with her and they’d been flying visits. No looking up old friends. She’d burnt her bridges with the people that mattered in her homeland thirty years ago and nothing good would come from reopening those wounds.
‘Right, I’m going to go work out, then set up for my open house tomorrow,’ she said to Kurt, who immediately perked up his ears.
‘What’s the spec?’
‘Five bedrooms, 2400 square feet, colonial-style down by the water – $6 million, so it’s a steal.’
‘If you have six million lying around,’ Kurt said playfully.
