Maybe it was because even though he’d said all the right words, I still felt like his second choice. And for all of Simon’s protestations about learning from his divorce, he’d dived headlong into a relationship with Jess, after kissing me but then acting like it had never happened. And only when things had gone sour with Jess had he suddenly remembered me. Those were the actions of someone acting out of fear, not love. Was Simon one of those people who didn’t feel right in their skin unless they were in a relationship?
At the other extreme, Nick had admitted that he avoided relationships. Was a commitment-phobe any better?
Maybe neither of them was right for me. Maybe I needed to wait for the next bus. Or rely on my own steam.
I was up the next morning at eight. I was tired, but sleep had slipped from my grasp all night. Groggily, I carried out my usual routine, only noticing after I’d showered and dressed that I had a voicemail from Nick.
I stared at the screen. Did I want to hear it? He’d left it at six in the morning – timed for when he knew it would go straight to voicemail.
Sod it.
I hit play.
His voice sounded raspy and low, like he hadn’t slept for a week, reminding me of Marcie’s cigarette-abused voice.
‘I hope you’re okay and that Simon is on the mend. I got hold of Jess last night, who told me what happened. It sounded like they got him to hospital in time and that he should make a full recovery. I’m sorry you had such a fright.’
A pause.
‘I guess you won’t be surprised to hear that I’ve been relieved of my duties at Pinnacle. I’ve got a few contacts in South America who’ll still hire me, so I’m heading back.’
Another pause.
‘Take care of yourself, Zoë.’
There was no mention of The Conversation.
Maybe he didn’t mention it because he regretted it. Maybe his feelings had been tainted by wine and the romance of the venue. Maybe this morning he was congratulating himself on escaping. For a second, I wished he wasn’t leaving and that we could carry on as friends. But we couldn’t carry on as normal, pretending he hadn’t said what he’d said. And anyway, would Nick want that?
*
I had taken the morning off work as I was meeting Alice for the final fitting of her dress and mine. On the way to the wedding-dress shop, I had a text from Simon:
Wanna hang tonight, Frixie? We could do a Marvel marathon on Netflix?
Was he implying we Netflix and ‘chill’ or did he actually want to watchThe Avengers? I didn’t know how to reply, so very maturely, I didn’t respond at all. I turned my phone off, then hurried to make my appointment.
Alice looked so happy as she twirled in front of the mirror. She was a picture of bridal bliss, looking stunning in her ivory lace. I stood next to her in my long satin dress, while assistants fussed around both our hems.
‘Do you not have your shoes?’ asked the lady crouched on the floor by my bare feet.
‘Shoes?’
‘So we can get the length right?’
I looked guiltily over at Alice. She had reminded me to bring the heels I’d be wearing on the day for this very reason, but in the whirlwind of last night and this morning, I’d clean forgotten.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I replied sheepishly.
‘Maybe Zoë can borrow mine?’ said Alice.
Alice was almost a foot shorter than me, and so had plumped for terrifyingly high heels to compensate. Plus, her feet were tiny. I doubted I’d get more than my toes into them.
‘It’s okay,’ said the assistant, whose name was Eloise. ‘We have a selection, if Zoë would like to pick the pair that most closely resembles the shoes she’ll be wearing on D-Day.’
They all had a habit of calling the wedding day D-Day and I kept wanting to make a joke about fighting Nazis, but it never quite seemed appropriate.
After I’d picked the shoes with the lowest heels I was back at Alice’s side.
