Page 24 of Always the Bridesmaid

‘Sure.’

‘And don’t forget to try the churros.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And the Amy Winehouse statue is pretty cool.’

‘Got it.’

‘And—’

‘Charlie, go. Please. What I’ve learned in the last thirty-six years will stand me in good stead.’

He smiles, claps his hands together, does an odd, very uncool, finger point-cum-gun salute thing, and finally leaves me to it.

It takes the aid of Google Maps and a large chunk of my overseas data roaming bundle to locate The Lock Tavern pub on the corner of Chalk Farm Road and Harmood Street. Charlie’s description, whilst unhelpful to a tourist, was accurate. The pub is as British looking as I could imagine.

I have made my meeting time with Joe with thirty-seven minutes to spare so decide to head inside for a cool drink after suffering the heat of the Tube.

A young guy with a thick London accent – very Michael Caine in Going in Style – takes my order from behind the bar. He can’t give me a club soda but can give me a soda water, which we suppose is the same thing.

The bar is stocked with bottles of spirits and more beer taps than I have seen in even an Irish bar in New York.

On the bartender’s recommendation, I take my drink up to the roof terrace and find a cushioned seat on a bench, squeezed between two women chatting to one side and a group of boisterous, student-looking guys and girls to the other. From here, I watch Camden go by below.

For the first time, I have space to think. And whilst this isn’t how I had intended to experience London, I am thrilled that I can help Jake pull off this gift for Jess. He is right, of course, that Jess is no-frills, but she will adore seeing Jake as a hunky Elvis, strutting his stuff at their wedding.

It strikes me how very different Jake and Jess are to Charlie, despite them being good friends. Jake is bold and vivacious, endearingly so, a big city guy and a money earner, like his brother. Jess is easy-going and immensely comfortable in her own skin, finally earning money from her own fashion line, which until recently has been a passion project.

Charlie shares certain traits with each of them, yet he isn’t like either of them. Creative and clearly outgoing – he performs on stage for a living. He earns money from his passion but as far as I can tell, he is far from wealthy. The vocation means more to him than the pay. Perhaps success in his field means more than money to him.

Yet none of these labels quite fit neatly. After spending hours in forced proximity with him, I have decided that Charlie is somewhat an enigma.

Who is the real Charlie?

Suddenly remembering why I am sitting on a rooftop under the sun in Camden, I check the time on my watch, spring up from my seat and rush down to the street.

I all but run through the pub doors – I can’t mess this up for Jake – and smack right into a wide, slightly rotund man, who smells strongly of peppery cologne.

‘I’m so sorry, I’m—’ Stepping back, I look up to see a man whose skin is almost orange with fake tan. He has long, onyx-black, bushy sideburns and thick hair of the same color, stiffened into a quiff. ‘Joe?’

He raises his upper lip at just one side. ‘It’s Elvis, ma’am, thank you very much.’

I suppress a gargantuan laugh. Charlie will be sorry to have missed this. Very much Elvis of the seventies, rather than hot Elvis of the fifties and sixties, Joe has a dubious Tennessee accent and an even worse impersonation of Elvis.

‘Wow, you’re just like him,’ I lie (impressively so, I think).

The lip comes up again. ‘Thank you very much.’

And his repertoire is limited, too.

I manage to keep a straight face whilst we exchange a wad of twenties for the suit.

After assuring Joe Elvis that the suit will be dry cleaned, not damaged, lost or stolen and returned to him by me personally the following week, I bid him farewell and wish him good luck at Graceland. Then I send a WhatsApp message to Jake:

Got it!

I wander in the warmth of the afternoon to the statue of Amy Winehouse.

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