Page 53 of Always the Bridesmaid

I am pondering this as I spot an elderly man walking a Labrador. The man and his dog are playing with a stick – throwing and retrieving. Every time the dog returns it to its owner, the owner’s expressionless face turns to a beaming smile. It’s happiness. True fluffing-a-dog’s-ears kind of happiness. And the dog wags its tail. True having-my-ears-fluffed kind of happiness.

Maybe that’s what I need in my life. Someone to come home to. Someone to walk with on Sundays.

A dog, of course, though that would never work around my lifestyle.

I rise to stand and wipe the back pockets of my jeans with my hands.

A cat, I decide. Maybe I need a cat.

22

SARAH

After Danny’s motorbike accident, I made a vow to myself to make as many happy memories in life as I can. Even the longest of lives can be too short and I know only too well how from one day to the next life can change catastrophically. So, I’m willing to splurge on new experiences.

With that being said, I’m not loaded and so while my fantasy London trip involved a stay at the luxurious five-star The Savoy, I have opted to stay elsewhere in the West End. But after saying goodbye to my friends this morning, after heading into London feeling utterly like crap for the way I’ve treated Charlie, I find myself sitting in one of Gordon Ramsay’s restaurants in The Savoy.

After a week of eating too many carbohydrates, too much meat and a lot of sweet treats, I make a beeline for the raw bar. From my stool, perched around the focal point of the restaurant, I can see three different kinds of oysters – Jersey (presumably not New Jersey?), Carlingford (apparently somewhere in Ireland) and Cumbrae (from Gerard Butler Land).

I’m uncomplicated when it comes to oysters. A squeeze of lemon, sometimes a little vinaigrette, that is all I need for those slimy little creatures to slip down my throat and fill my tummy. In The Savoy, however, the oysters come with a choice of blood orange or rhubarb and lemongrass. It looks like I’ll be trying something new.

I order half a dozen, two from each location, and a bottle of fancy sparkling water, rather than the suggested pairing of Perrier Jouet. For the price of the water, I might as well have ordered champagne.

As he is preparing my plate of oysters, the raw barman tells me that the panoramic views I can see through the windows of the restaurant are of the River Thames and Victoria Embankment. I try to appreciate the landscape. I want to appreciate the landscape. But all I can think, sitting here in a fancy hotel and looking at a river, is this is something I could do in Manhattan.

I take out my small leather notebook, with the initial S on the front – a gift from Becky as a thank you for arranging deliveries of items to her apartment one day while she was working a lunch shift. In fact, it’s something I would have done for Drew anyway, as his secretary – a role that is often akin to a nanny or housekeeper more than a legal secretary – so to receive a gift in return had been a wonderful gesture.

I open the notebook to the page marked with silk ribbon, where I have a list of things I must see whilst I’m in London. It feels a little like a consolation prize that Becky and Izzy can’t be with me to enjoy the sights but I’m grateful for their input into what I ought to do whilst here.

With the caveat that everything is a little bit touristy but a must see, they have given me a list of top ten sights. There’s everything from a turn around the London Eye to the Natural History Museum. From shopping in Harrods and sampling the delights in the food court to a tour of the Tower of London (with an accompanying note telling me not to miss Borough Market when I visit the Tower).

The thing is, these activities require energy and motivation, both of which I am lacking today. It has been a long week but my lack of get-up and go, deep down, is more than just weariness from a week of activities.

The oysters are delicious, though in my opinion – probably controversially – the accompanying flavors of blood orange and rhubarb and lemongrass detract from the natural saltiness of the shellfish. While I’m on the subject, and again, somewhat controversially, I find The Savoy luxurious but dark. Too dark. I like the old English glamour, I get the old Hollywood vibes that I was promised from the hotel’s website, I like the sheer indulgence of the fancy food, but it just isn’t wowing me today.

I finish the oysters and for a nanosecond consider whether I will indulge in caviar, but at hundreds of pounds for a tablespoonful, I decide against the idea and instead order a dish of seabass ceviche, which I enjoy more than I would have enjoyed a blini with overpriced salty eggs on top, I’m sure.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ the barman asks.

I contemplate saying yes, purely because I can’t be bothered to move just yet, but my bank balance will be better depleted elsewhere, and so I thank him and politely decline, then settle my check.

I walk back through the opulent and famous entrance of the hotel, casting a side-eye to the patisserie and wondering whether a box of macaroons would be completely unnecessary. I decide it would and head outside, where two concierges wearing top hats thank me for my visit and bid me a good day.

As I stand on the Strand, my Google Maps tells me I will get to Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery if I turn left. A quiet saunter around an art gallery is about all I can face this afternoon.

Inside, I see The Entombment by Michelangelo, The Madonna of Pinks by Raphael, The Virgin of Rocks by Leonardo da Vinci, all of which would usually move me in some way. But it isn’t until I arrive in room forty-three (according to my free map) and I’m staring at Vincent van Gogh’s Sunflowers that I realize none of these incredible pieces of artwork are penetrating me on anything other than a superficial level today.

I’m distracted and at the heart of my distraction is the unease I have for having left things on such a horrible note with Charlie. I’m not a bad person and I can’t blame him for having left thinking that I am.

Did I drive him to leave early without saying goodbye to anyone this morning? How horrible for him to feel like he had to do that, as if he didn’t fit somehow.

I have to take the Elvis suit Jake borrowed back to Camden in a couple of hours. Joe Elvis has kindly agreed to launder the suit himself provided we pay for it. Something tells me he will never launder it and that he’ll pocket the cash but it’s Jake’s money, not mine.

I leave the National Gallery after an hour or so of mindless wandering, head past Nelson’s column, which is apparently something to do with Napoleon and a Battle of Trafalgar – there was a volunteer in the National Gallery who told me as much and I had seemingly nodded, ooh’d and ahh’d in the right places to keep him talking for ten minutes.

The history is no doubt fascinating to many but I am a little underwhelmed by the column as I walk past it in the direction of the Mall. I have seen the Mall, of course, in coverage of royal events, not least the weddings of Kate and Will and Harry and Meghan. I buy a bottle of water from a street seller and wander the famous route toward Buckingham Palace.

By the time I reach the palace and stop to take a photograph, my feet are sweating, my boobs are sweating and I realize I have walked further away from Camden, where I now need to go.

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