Page 7 of Always the Bridesmaid

I scream, gripping the edge of my seat, knuckles white, as Charlie lets out a yelp himself and swings the wheel back left. Only once he has indicated and moved into an open space on the highway do I release my hands, close my eyes and take a breath of relief.

If I were a cat, I would have just lost one of my nine lives for sure.

Now I know that Charlie isn’t making jokes, he really can’t drive, and he really does believe that the luggage I bought with my annual bonus last year is a real fake from eBay.

Surely this isn’t the guy my best friends have spoken so highly of.

Surely this isn’t the guy Jess said I would adore.

Thankfully, concentration, nerves or a combination of both render Charlie speechless. I rest my head against my seat and watch out of the window as roadside shrubs present as blurred green and brown lines and eventually fade to the darkness of my own eyelids.

The first thing I do on opening my eyes is check the clock on the dashboard. The second thing is to wipe my mouth, just in case, as I calculate that I have been in a doze for nearly fifteen minutes.

Charlie glances my way as I sit up straighter, smoothing my hair back into my hair tie. ‘Enjoy that?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘That’s hardly in the passenger brief, falling asleep.’

For the first time since he uttered a crabby greeting at the airport, Charlie smiles. His lips gently turn up in a childish sort of grin, showing a nice set of nearly white teeth. The kind that suggests he enjoys a coffee, maybe a glass of red wine, and whilst keeping up his oral hygiene, isn’t the kind of man to entertain cosmetic whitening.

He may be rude, slightly obnoxious and ill-humored, but he is clean and seemingly not into fake, the way too many people are in the times of the Kardashians. It turns out we have one thing in common.

‘Where are we?’ I ask.

‘Not far now.’

The landscape changed whilst I was dreaming. Smooth, fast, endless tarmac has been replaced with bumpier, slower, narrower roads lined with trees, hedges and open planes.

In the distance, I see fields of crops being sprayed by farm vehicles. Birds are flying as the sun begins to lower but still shines brightly in the evening sky. Charlie has lowered the driver-side visor over his window and appears to have relaxed in his seat now that there are just two rows of traffic passing each other.

‘You’re from New York then?’ he asks.

I steal myself from the serenity of the view and look at him. ‘Born and bred. My mum is from Michigan actually and my dad Seattle, but they both ended up in New York for work, found each other and here I am.’

‘And Jake tells me you’re single.’

For the second time on this trip, my mouth opens in shock. Not only is Charlie socially inappropriate, but he is brazen with it.

‘Single but unavailable,’ I tell him, just in case I have misread the unfriendliness between us.

Charlie gives one firm nod, focusing intently on the road ahead, whilst I turn back to the scenery and appreciate the horses that are merrily grazing in a field we pass.

Charlie and I don’t speak again until we’re near our final destination and he pulls over. He reaches into the back pocket of his seat, pulling out a large book that says A to Z Roadmap. He squints like someone who needs reading glasses but isn’t wearing them, and traces the tattered map with his index finger. Eventually, he replaces the book and drives on ahead in silence.

There is palpable relief from us both when we turn onto the long gravel driveway of the large country home our party has rented for the week.

5

SARAH

Three black Range Rovers, which I know to be rental cars because I made arrangements for them, are parked in the turning circle around a water feature in front of the house. The building looks like something out of a British period drama. The reason I booked the house (albeit paid for by Drew and sanctioned by Jake and Jess) is that it reminds me of something out of a Jane Austen novel, and what better time to appreciate a Jane Austen romance than at a wedding celebration?

A large oak tree, lush green, stands tall to one side of the property and a similarly bountiful willow tree stands to the opposite edge. Green ivy is growing up past Georgian sash windows on the ground floor and shaping Juliet balconies on the first floor, finally rounding off at the roof. Each balcony is decorated with flower boxes, which are in full bloom: mixed red, pink and purple trailing flowers.

It is idyllic and my satisfaction grows when the front door opens and Jess appears.

Everything about Jess is ethereal. Her long waves of dark hair are always clean but never blow dried to perfection. Her bohemian-style, Asian-inspired patterned dress – probably her own creation – seems to sway in a non-existent breeze, dreamlike, as she opens her arms and walks barefoot under the porch archway in my direction.

‘I’m so happy to see you,’ I say, stepping into Jess’s hold. We hug for the first time in months.

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