Page 57 of Always the Bridesmaid

I shouldn’t want to feel like that, I know. She left me feeling awful yesterday. But I’ve spent a day walking and pondering, and every time I see a happy couple my mind plays tricks on me. I want to see her. I think, on some level, I’ve wanted her to explain her words and whether she truly hates me or it’s just a feeling I’ve been left with.

Her husband was called Danny. So American. It’s nice to have a name to go with the idea of a man that I already hold in high regard.

What kind of man could’ve won Sarah over? What kind of man could put up with her?

I don’t have the answers. All I do know is that I respect her for finding me tonight. I respect her apology. And I want to spend more time in her company. As much time as she has left in London.

It’s bizarre, I know.

And she’s wrong; for the record, I’m not touchy-feely. I’m generally quite the opposite, actually. I just couldn’t resist, I guess.

When I hold her, I feel taller, more masculine, a little less shabby around the edges.

And who knows, maybe she’ll pay me seventy-five big ones for the hug.

I have no idea where to take her – it’s late but I want to hang out for a while. I don’t think either one of us wants to watch people grinding up against each other in a club, where we’ll have to shout over each other to speak.

I want to be able to talk to her. I’m intrigued. She’s finally opening up and I want to keep her talking.

‘Do you like hot chocolate?’ I ask, thinking on my feet.

‘Does anyone not like hot chocolate?’

‘Good point well made. Come on.’

She follows me out of the rear exit and onto Camden High Street. Though it’s a school night, the street is busy with traffic and people. It’s around quarter to eleven but the temperature hasn’t dropped below the need for a light jacket, which Sarah has. I left mine at the club but I don’t mention it.

We turn down a side street and I hope the late-night café I have in mind still exists and is still open. I don’t mention where we’re headed, just in case.

Thankfully, as we near Café Butterfly, I see the lights are on.

‘After you,’ I tell Sarah, gesturing for her to walk inside as I hold open the door.

There are half a dozen tables in the small eatery. The menu is written on chalk boards that form an arch around the counter. Inside the glass counter there’s a selection of homemade cakes and pastries and hand-painted chocolates. A large coffee machine dominates the majority of the service wall and a wooden door swings open as a waitress carries clean mugs and glasses from a behind-the-scenes kitchen.

I walk up to the counter, surprisingly not nervous to be around Sarah, and not irritable either. We’ve declared ourselves friends, she’s said sorry for things she has said, and I guess we’re just at peace.

‘Can we get two of your dirtiest hot chocolates, please?’ I ask.

I make the mistake of looking through the glass at the delights on offer. Then I turn to Sarah.

‘What are you going to go for?’

I can tell from her face that she’s torn. As was I for a nanosecond. We’ve had a highly indulgent week and exercise isn’t really my thing. I’ll happily walk around the city instead of getting the crowded Tube but you’re not going to find me sweating my tits off in a spin class, that’s for sure.

‘Oh God, I really shouldn’t,’ Sarah says, pressing two hands to her tummy and confirming my suspicions.

‘Yep, it would be terribly fat of us. But I read this thing once that said our bodies can only absorb so much fat and sugar in one day. Then we just shit the rest out. So why not?’

Sarah lets out the kind of laugh I love to see on people, the kind that sparkles in their eyes. And it’s an intoxicating sound to my ears. I would happily make it my life’s goal to hear that sound again.

As her friend, obviously. I chastise that cheeky little monkey hiding in my brain that’s trying to make this something more than two friends having hot chocolate.

‘Plus, you are still on holiday, aren’t you?’

I know she’s going to cave.

‘Oh, screw it.’ Then to the guy behind the counter, she says, ‘I’ll take a raspberry macaron and a chocolate macaron, please. Oh wait, I’ll have the almond instead of the… Oh, hell, give me one raspberry, one chocolate and one almond, please.’

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