Page 76 of Always the Bridesmaid

One side of Charlie’s mouth curves up and he shifts to my side, holding out his arm for me to loop my hand through.

‘Shall we, madam?’ he asks, faking a Hugh Grant in Love Actually style British accent.

We ride the elevator up to level thirty-three of the tower and are greeted by a waiter, who guides us to Hutong’s Shanghai Bar.

I can feel my body starting to relax but neither Charlie nor I have spoken since meeting outside.

We order cocktails. A Chinese Lantern for me and a Tropical Negroni for Charlie – the bar’s take on a typical Aperol Spritz and a Negroni.

The cocktail is delicious and goes a small way toward settling my unexplainable edginess tonight. I don’t know what it is but it feels like Charlie is Bella in Twilight, exuding some kind of protective field that stops me from speaking or taking any action. I am stupid with nerves.

Perhaps it’s because I know the answer to certain questions running through my mind. Why did I choose to visit The Shard with Charlie? Why did I book the most romantic restaurant in London? And why did I splurge on a special dress for the occasion?

Charlie puts an end to my boundless concerns by asking, ‘So, what has been the highlight of your trip so far?’

It feels like forced conversation and makes me wonder whether his cocktail has had a similar effect on his thoughts. Did he wear a suit tonight because it’s appropriate for The Shard or is the suit for me? I doubt very much that he went out and bought one for the occasion, though it would make me feel better about buying my dress.

‘The wedding, of course,’ I say, ‘but this view isn’t bad and riding an open top bus in a Union Jack hat was pretty good fun.’

‘Don’t forget the soldiers in fluffy hats,’ Charlie says, smirking.

‘Ha ha. I get it, it’s bearskin. Uber masculine. Every-man-wrestling-a-bear-for-himself kind of masculinity.’

He laughs. My anxiety is beginning to fade and I realize how much I’ve enjoyed listening to his laughter over the last week or two. It’s a sound that comes from deep in his stomach but it’s also quite high-pitched and childish. Infectious.

‘But honestly, the biggest highlight of this whole trip for me has been…’ The word on the tip of my tongue is you.

Meeting you, Charlie. Waking up to you this morning. Not feeling as lonely as I so often do because of you.

He’s staring at me, waiting for my response through what is an unnecessarily long pause on my behalf.

‘…meeting Joe Elvis. It has to be number one.’

He laughs heartily this time, throwing his head back.

I’m laughing with him when the maître d’ heads over to us and says, ‘Mr and Mrs Cooper, your table is ready.’

‘Oh, that’s not us,’ I say.

‘I’m so sorry,’ the maître d’ says. ‘You look very much like a picture of a newlywed couple and I just assumed it was your celebration tonight.’

We smile politely and watch the maître d’ move to another couple at the bar, who are perhaps in their fifties or sixties, her in a cream dress and him in a three-piece black suit with a gold tie that reflects the gold belt on the lady’s dress. They are in fact the newlyweds, the Coopers.

Given their age, I wonder whether they might be divorcees or widower and widow. It seems, for some people, that life does move on and some people are open to finding love again.

Charlie slurps his drink as his straw makes contact with the ice in the bottom.

‘That was a rookie error, Sarah,’ he says. ‘You should have at least waited to see if they had a prepaid dinner and a free bottle of champagne on the table before telling him we aren’t the Coopers.’

Still somewhat lost in thought, I tell him, ‘You’re terrible.’

Do we look like we make a good couple?

When we are taken to our table, we ask the waiter to take a photograph of us in the window, with the cityscape our backdrop. Charlie offers for me to have my photographs alone, which I decline because I’d like to look back on this time in London and see Charlie in my photographs. He has made my week and alone is precisely what I don’t feel when I’m around him. So we lean in to have a photograph together, our backs to the lights of London, against the backdrop of dusk.

I don’t know how close to get to Charlie or where to put my hands but he takes the decision away, pressing his side against mine. Then he slips his arm around my waist, his left hand holding my left hip through the thin, smooth material of my dress. I feel his touch in a way that has me remembering that kiss in my dream and our almost kiss at Jake and Jess’s wedding, the last time we were wearing a fancy dress and a fancy suit. My body is responding on reflex. Charged with desire and anticipation. I can’t control it.

I feel that energy, that physical connection to Charlie even when we are sitting adjacent, at a square table for two, forming a V shape, looking out to the impressive view.

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