Page 22 of One Last Gift

Tom chuckled. “Your stag party is going to be epic.”

Sam rubbed his hands over his face. Tom should be here. He would’ve been pouring them both a glass of champagne, toasting, making the whole thing feel fun. They’d be laughing and joking, and it wouldn’t feel so much like something he had to force his way through. Tom would’ve listened if Sam said he was having doubts, would’ve talked him round. He’d known how to have fun, Tom, but he was a solid presence, reliable in the best possible way, and without him, Sam felt like the ground had shifted, like he had nothing to anchor himself to.

And it was his fault. Tom was dead because Sam hadn’t been with him, hadn’t been there to stop the accident.

There was a knock at the door and he jolted. Had someone come to check up on him? Had Jessica sent up one of her bridesmaids to make sure he was on track? He wouldn’t have put it past her. He crossed to the door, opened it, and saw his mum on the other side. The knot of tension released a little at the sight of her.

He bent down to give her a kiss. “You look beautiful.” And it was true—her hair was done up, curls pinned up against her head, her eyes, so like his, were framed with sparkly eyeshadow, and she was wearing a floaty, flowery dress that suited her round face. It went with the spring wedding theme that Jessica wanted too, although the weather was not cooperating on that front—it was mid-March and still bloody freezing.

His mum patted his hand as she came into the room. “My beautiful boy. Don’t you look smart?” She had a bright smile in place, but Sam wondered if it was totally genuine—his mum, he was sure, would be able to see how worn down he was by the last few months. She reached out and smoothed down the arms of his shirt, something she’d done when he was a schoolkid and was trying to reassure him that he looked fine. Then she reached up to where his tie was still hanging around his neck and signaled for him to bend down so she could do it up for him.

“There,” she said as she stepped back. “You just need your jacket now, then you’re all ready.” She pulled the jacket off the back of the dressing-table chair, held it out for him to shrug into. Easier to go through the motions when she was making him do it. “I’ve seen Jessica already. She looks stunning, but that’s no surprise, hey?”

No surprise at all, Sam thought. He had no doubt Jessica would look amazing—she always did, no matter what she wore, and she would definitely have gone all out today, after a day in the spa getting ready. She wasn’t just film-star gorgeous, though; she was also intelligent and funny. A lawyer herself, too, following in her father’s footsteps. It had been risky, sleeping with the boss’s daughter—not that he’d given it much thought at the time—but it had turned out well in the end. So why should thinking of Jessica make his stomach squirm, make the nausea swell up in a way that he was pretty sure was not good? Was this normal, ahead of walking down the aisle? Was it just the hangover kicking in?

“Are you all right, my love?”

Sam looked at his mum, nodded, then crossed to the minibar. He’d pretty much emptied the alcohol out of it last night, but he grabbed a sparkling water and took a swig from the bottle.

“Nervous?”

Sam nodded again. Christ, apparently he’d been struck mute now.

His mum perched on the end of the four-poster bed, covers still strewn everywhere from where he’d endured a restless night’s sleep. “I remember my wedding day—I was nervous too.”

Sam took another sip of water, watching her. This was not something he’d have thought she’d be happy to reminisce about, given the way it turned out, but she was smiling, slightly misty-eyed, as if looking back on a fond memory, rather than thinking about the man who had up and left her twenty-five years ago.

“We got married in Nottingham, where your dad was from, in a lovely little church. I was so nervous, I nearly spilled coffee down my wedding dress—nothing as fancy as Jessica’s, but it was still beautiful and the coffee definitely would’ve ruined it.” She smiled again. “But despite my nerves, it was such a lovely day. One of the best.”

Sam flexed his fingers on the glass water bottle. She was sitting there, looking all content, but surely she must regret it, marrying his dad—they were divorced five years later, when Sam was four.

He heard his mum’s phone announce a new message—she always had her phone on loud, claiming that it was rude to avoid a message or phone call just because your phone was on silent. She read it, then lifted her gaze to his face. Her expression was carefully neutral. He knew that look—her poker face.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

She lowered her phone. “It’s your dad.”

“What about him?”

“He’s…He’s here.” Still that damn neutral expression.

“Here?” Sam frowned. “What do you mean, here? He can’t be here, Mum. I didn’t invite him.”

“I…I may have told him the wedding was happening, and where.”

He stared at her. Surely not. Surely she couldn’t have done something so stupid.

“He’s your dad, Sam, and he wanted to be here for you.”

“Makes a change,” he muttered. He started to pace, pulling his hands through his hair. His dad was here. Fuck. What was he supposed to do with that? “How could you do this? This is the last thing I need, Mum.” He came to a stop in the middle of the hotel room. “Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me you’d told him about it?” At least then he could have been prepared, could have messaged his dad explicitly saying he didn’t want him there.

His mum bit her lip. “Well, I wasn’t sure if he’d—”

“If he’d come,” he said bluntly. His mum said nothing, and Sam shook his head. “Exactly.” Even his mum, the eternal optimist, had doubted that his dad would show after she asked him to. “That’s exactly the fucking point, isn’t it?” His mum winced at his language, and Sam muttered “Sorry” automatically.

“I’ll go and tell him to leave, if you like,” she said. Her voice was calm, but he knew her tones well enough to hear the disappointment there too.

“No, it’s fine,” he said shortly. “I’ll do it.” He was already walking to the door, his stride infused with purpose. It felt good, suddenly, to feel that, to have something to do, somewhere to direct his thoughts—something outward to focus on, so he didn’t have to look too deeply inward.