Page 67 of Always the Bridesmaid

While we stand on the spot, I take a taste. ‘Not bad at all,’ I say, ‘and thank you for remembering how I take my coffee.’

‘The basics of lasting friendship. Ready?’

I nod and follow him out of the hotel, warmed by his words.

I’ve been pushing to the back of my mind the fact that today is Tuesday and Friday will be our last day together, but knowing he wants to stay friends beyond that is… like a big bear hug. I won’t tell him because he’ll probably try to charge me seventy-five bucks again – or worse, greenbacks.

We walk to the Tower of London, my heart racing most of the way. But whether that’s from the strong Monmouth coffee or something else, I don’t know. It’s a lengthy walk but we talk non-stop, and when we arrive we take a self-guided audio tour of the tower. Despite the wealth of information provided, Charlie manages to entertain me with some extra bits of history, some of which seem too hilarious to be true and some of which he eventually confesses to maybe having embellished somewhat.

After the tour, we stroll around St Katherine’s Dock, discussing the docked boats – which ones we’d live on, the reasons people live on boats (divorced men, we decide, are top candidates), and where we would sail if there were no boundaries. Charlie tells me about Gloriana, Queen Elizabeth II’s row-barge, built to commemorate her diamond jubilee.

He asks if I want to take the bus or the Tube back to the West End for our trip to the Savoy Theatre, which happens to be right by my hotel. We decide we have enough time to walk.

I’m not sure whether Charlie offers his arm, or I take it, but we end up strolling with my arm linked in his.

It turns out Charlie has booked us tickets to see Ivo Van Hove’s adaptation of A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara. We’ve both read the book and so we pass most of the walk discussing the merits and our criticisms of it.

I’m nervous when we near the theatre because I remember being emotionally drained by the book, but I’m buzzed to be seeing the production.

‘I have to give you the money for the tickets, Charlie. This must have cost a small fortune.’

‘Why don’t you buy dinner?’ he suggests, and we agree to settle the discussion with that, but I know he’s drawing the financial short straw.

The show starts at one thirty. We order popcorn and soft drinks using the in-seat ordering tool from our spot in the stalls. It transpires that Charlie had to book two individual seats and there’s a man booked to sit between us. When he arrives, Charlie politely asks if we can shuffle to sit together and, happily, the man obliges.

‘It was pretty last minute and most showings of this are sold out,’ Charlie tells me.

The effort he has gone to again, his kindness, it all threatens to overawe me. But when I express my gratitude, in true Charlie fashion, he dismisses it all as nothing.

The show lasts for around four hours. There are multiple moments when I sneak a glance at Charlie and see him discreetly wiping a thumb under his eyes. Meanwhile, tears roll freely down my cheeks. At one point, I audibly sob, quickly silencing myself with my fingertips pressed to my lips.

Charlie slips his hand over mine on my thigh and gives it a comforting squeeze. I stare at it, wondering if it’s okay for him to touch me like this, openly, unabashed. But if Izzy was here and crying, or Becky, or Jess, or one of the guys, I’d do the same thing for them.

So I wrap my fingers around his and leave our hands there, on my leg, occasionally glancing down and reminding myself that Charlie and I are friends now. We have a connection. A strong connection. We can talk endlessly, we enjoy many of the same things, we laugh a lot. I’m crazy happy in his company. I feel more myself than I have for eight years. Old me. When I still had Danny physically in my life.

We are in the very last scenes of the play when I become conscious that I’m comparing life when I’m with Charlie to life when I had Danny.

I slide my hand out from under Charlie’s and pretend to need a drink. I don’t return my hand to my thigh.

Outside on the Strand, I’m feeling discombobulated. The show was incredible but it tied my emotions up in knots. Charlie’s presence was welcome, his touch was calming. Yet, both were… too much.

What if I’ve thrown him a wrong signal? What if he thinks there’s something more than friendship between us? What if Danny can somehow see us?

I’m by myself out on the street – Charlie hung back to go to the toilet – and now he exits the theatre, walking toward me. I can see his shoulders are high, his hands are in his pockets and his exhale is long and slow, purposeful.

We are facing each other, neither of us speaking.

Charlie exhales again, then says, ‘That was a lot, wasn’t it?’

He has no idea.

‘A lot,’ I agree. ‘But great,’ I’m quick to add, not wanting to seem ungrateful. ‘The cast were amazing.’

He nods. ‘They were. And the story was—’

‘Really on point. So close to the book.’

‘That’s what I was going to say.’

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