Page 59 of Always the Bridesmaid

I overstepped – understood.

‘The National Gallery was really top of your list of things to do in London? Are you one of those art obsessives?’ I ask, trying to move on swiftly.

It works. She turns her lips up only a tiny bit but it’s an improvement.

But the smile is fleeting. She shifts to look out to the street contemplatively. I’m twitchy as I try to respect her space. It’s uncomfortable for me but something tells me that my usual tack of cracking a joke isn’t the right way to go just now.

‘Charlie, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me this last week. From being snappy and irritable with you, to dredging up feelings of guilt that I haven’t felt for a long time and which I don’t want to feel. I don’t even know why I’m here, sitting drinking hot chocolate, eating macarons and laughing with you whilst simultaneously feeling awful about it. Can I promise that if you ever come to New York and want to catch up, I’ll be a different person? I’m usually fun, believe it or not.’

I smile softly. ‘I can believe it. For what it’s worth, I think you are fun.’ I take a drink and then replace my mug on the saucer. ‘Fun, mean, crabby when hungry and full of malice.’

She laughs and I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief.

‘Whilst we are confessing, I should say sorry to you, too. I had no intention of upsetting you this week. Okay, sometimes I did, like the bath incident, but once I knew about your husband, all I wanted to do was give you space. I guess I went about it the wrong way. I should have been honest with you. Maybe. I’ve been in situations, at events like this, family occasions, where I’ve honestly had so many mixed emotions. I’ve been happy for my friends, whilst being envious of them being surrounded by people who love them.’

I fiddle with my spoon, uncomfortable, trying to articulate what I’m trying to tell her.

‘It hurts when you see people around you having what you don’t. And when I heard about Danny from the guys, I thought the week must’ve been as hard for you as it was for me. Harder. Way harder. I just thought that if I was feeling an ounce of the pain you must’ve been feeling, then I didn’t want you to feel that and I certainly didn’t want to make it worse. Does any of that make sense?’

She looks me in the eyes, unreadable. Eventually, she speaks.

‘All of it. Thank you.’

It’s true what they say: if you’re honest with people, they are inclined to be honest with you.

But this new-age stuff doesn’t sit easily with me. I reach for a comforting almond macaron and put it whole into my mouth.

‘That’s disgusting,’ Sarah says.

‘You’re just jealous.’ And when I finish chewing the delicious, large bite, I tell her, ‘I think you need a London tour guide.’

I genuinely mean she needs to go on a website and find herself a guided tour but I’m not sad when she takes a mouse-sized nibble of her raspberry macaron and asks me, ‘Are you offering?’

For all kinds of sensible reasons that I can’t quite put my finger on right now, I should say no – I know I should say no – yet there’s that cheeky little monkey again and he says, ‘I’m not sure you could afford me. One hug is seventy-five greenbacks, so if we multiply that by the number of seconds in twenty-four hours and the number of days you have left in London, that’s going to cost you, like… a panini and an ice cream, as a minimum.’

She is beaming at me as if she’s Julia Roberts.

‘At the end of this week, there will be no white limousine and red roses, or an offer of an apartment in New York,’ she says. ‘But I can stretch to a panini and an ice cream.’

This woman is completely on my wavelength when it comes to romantic comedy references.

‘But, Charlie, I’ll say it again: no one uses the term greenback. It’s not cool in the slightest.’

I wink. ‘I thought you’d like that.’

She rolls her eyes as she says, ‘Right, if we are going to have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, I need some beauty sleep.’

I’m not tired. I could sit here until breakfast. Except the café is closing, so I can’t, even if Sarah wanted to.

‘I thought we were going to be honest with each other from now on?’ I say. She raises one quizzical eyebrow. ‘You really want to head back to your hotel to put on an elasticated waistband and let your belly hang out, don’t you?’

She opens her mouth to protest, gasping as she does. Then her shock turns to a mischievous giggle. ‘I totally do.’

I take her back to her hotel in a taxi, tell her I’ll meet her at reception at nine thirty in the morning, watch her go through the revolving doors of the entrance, then pay the taxi driver and bid him farewell. There’s no chance I’m paying to continue all the way on home to Clapham.

24

SARAH

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