Page 64 of Always the Bridesmaid

The bus takes us past St Paul’s Cathedral, which, to me, bears a resemblance to the White House but Charlie is horrified when I tell him that. He goes on to give me the history and significance of the cathedral. His passion for facts is endearing – and admittedly, in some places, boring as hell, but he is happy.

We drive past the Tower of London and I point out that this is also on my list of places to see.

‘Would you stop ruining my trip? That’s the first stop on tomorrow’s agenda.’

I offer a superficial apology, amused by how seriously he is taking his tour guide duties.

We head across Tower Bridge to the south side of the River Thames, yet, as Charlie points out HMS Belfast to me, once again giving me its historic details and connection to His Majesty the King, I am suddenly overcome by a sense of gratitude. He has genuinely thought about and planned everything. He must have spent hours last night and this morning organizing the day, buying bus tickets and entrance tickets.

The bus pulls up to some traffic lights and the noise of the wind dies down.

‘Thank you, Charlie. Sorry, I mean Captain Charlie. I’m having a great day and I really appreciate the effort. At some point last week, I think I stopped looking forward to sightseeing around London and started to see it as more of a chore than a holiday. You’ve changed that. I’ve not stopped laughing and smiling all day and that’s truly thanks to you.’

I think I take us both by surprise when I lean into him and press a kiss to his cheek.

‘You’re a sweetheart,’ I say.

He is clearly taken aback by my forwardness as he stares at me and I wish I could see his eyes behind his sunglasses to get a better read on his thoughts. As I am looking, we end up locked in a gaze that I hadn’t intended but which I feel compelled not to break.

Eventually, Charlie says, simply, ‘You’re welcome.’

Then he clears his throat, as if the pollution we are breathing in up here on the top deck of the bus is taking its toll.

25

CHARLIE

I had intended to end the day here, on the last stop of the Red Route, on the south side of Westminster Bridge, but I can’t.

Not after that look. Not after feeling her lips on my skin.

The crush I was harboring last week. The crush that was devastated by Sarah's words to Izzy after the wedding. It has reignited and its flames are burning like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes’ Night.

The thought of leaving her here and heading back to my empty apartment… I just don’t want to.

Should I dare to hope?

Probably not. Since our tour of Westminster Palace, Sarah knows even more about my undesirable past.

But that look. I can’t get it out of my head and I haven’t been able to for the entire bus ride along the Southbank. I’ve been talking, I think, as normal, filling her in on some useless trivia I have acquired over the years about the sites and buildings we were driving past, but there’s been a knot deep in the pit of my abdomen, ever since that kiss on my cheek.

Her proximity is overwhelming, such that I’m almost – not quite – relieved to alight the bus and put a few more inches between us.

But all at once I am feeling relieved and bereft by the loss of her hip next to mine, the occasional graze of her knee or nudge of her elbow.

And so I ask, ‘Are you tired? Do you want to go back to your hotel?’

Her sunglasses are now on top of her head as the sun has very slowly started to hide behind tall buildings and I register the absolutely aghast look on her face. I realize the error of my words.

‘Shit, no, not like that. I didn’t mean us… I just thought it’s been a long day and you might want to go home but if not—’

I’m speaking too quickly, rambling, but I need to think on my feet because I don’t want her to go back to the hotel right now. I recalculate the next few days’ activities I have planned. ‘I’m wondering if you’re up for the London Eye as the sun starts to go down?’

Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the sun going down. Does that imply romance? I hope not. I didn’t mean it to. I just thought—

Christ, I’m even rambling in my own head.

Sarah purses her lips, like she’s mocking me. ‘It is on my list of things to do, provided I’m not going to get into trouble for saying so on this occasion.’

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