Page 32 of Always the Bridesmaid

We head out to the car and after hearing the engine splutter but come to life, I begin to apologize for my inadvertent nastiness earlier. Reluctantly, I start to explain, and am happy to be cut off by Charlie reeling off line after line of cliché statements.

He has the heart of the Tin Man, the skin of a rhino, my words were water off a duck’s back…

Clearly my feelings of guilt have been pointless.

We drive much of the way in silence, happily making good time. I am hopeful we’ll be back before anyone notices we didn’t return last night.

Until… Back in the surrounds of the countryside, Charlie takes a right turn at a junction…

‘I think you should have turned left there,’ I tell him.

‘Doesn’t God love a backseat driver,’ he responds, leaning far over the steering wheel, his mole-y squint in place, until the road straightens out.

‘First, I’m in the front seat. Secondly, while it busts the female stereotype, I’m like a homing beacon with directions.’

Despite his focus on the road ahead, I catch his dismissive expression.

‘I remember this road,’ he says.

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes it takes for Charlie to give up the pretense, stop rabbiting on about short-cuts, and work his way in a loop back to the junction where I told him to turn left.

I want to scream at the top of my voice.

Men! Goddamn men! Stupid male egos!

By the time we come to a stop out front of the house, I know at least some of the others will be awake. I cringe as the stones of the forecourt scrunch and rattle under the weight of the car tires, announcing our return.

I thank Charlie for the ride and take the prized possession – Joe Elvis’s suit – from the backseat.

Turning the key quietly in the front door, then tip-toeing inside, I don’t hear voices.

‘Come on, I’ll make us both a decent coffee,’ I say, my hackles softening now.

‘And I’ll get those frozen pastries in the oven.’ Charlie pats his tummy comically.

We’ve got away with it and both of us seem lighter now that we are back on neutral territory, in the vicinity of our friends.

As we make our way toward the kitchen, I say, ‘I didn’t really get a chance to say last night, since you were Mr Grumpy, but your performance was great.’

I think I see his cheeks flush, uncharacteristically, and his mouth opens as if to respond but it remains open, like a shocked emoji, as his eyes shift from me to the three men standing around the kitchen island, stone-faced, arms folded across their chests.

Brooks. Drew. Jake.

Oh boy.

All three men are dressed in running gear and a sheen of sweat.

A quick scan of their faces and their pointed stares at Charlie confirms my worst fears. They suspect Charlie and I have been doing the hanky-panky!

Before anyone in the room can speak, Izzy rushes inside from the decking out back.

‘Sarah! You’re back. Great, I need your help.’ She loops her arm through mine and ushers me out of the kitchen, calling ‘Hi Charlie!’ back across her shoulder.

On my way out of the room, I give Charlie a look which I intend to be both an apology and an ‘I told you so’. Whether I achieve either or neither of those messages, I can’t tell, for his face remains expressionless.

‘I did try to tell them this isn’t appropriate,’ Izzy says. ‘I told Brooks you don’t even like Charlie, let alone want to start a thing with him.’

We reach the staircase.

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