Page 5

I run my fingers up the stem of my martini glass. There seems to be a montage of memories flickering through my brain right now. I grip the stem tighter between my thumb and forefinger, trying to block it all out.

“You want him to turn up,” Felix guesses.

“No.”

“You’ve always been a terrible liar, Delilah.”

Felix continues to stare at me, but all I can think about is how unsettled I feel by seeing Joseph again. I’ve spent years with him wandering into my thoughts, where I’ve imagined the conversations that I’d have with him. None of them went like tonight’s did, and I’m irrationally annoyed that he didn’t seem to know he had a script to stick to.

A polite, jovial exchange and a promise to come back to see me was so normal that I feel almost disappointed that it didn’t end up in a blazing argument with one of us storming out.

The silence between Felix and me stretches on longer than he probably imagined, but I’ve always loved that he just lets me think sometimes. He may be fiery and quick out of the starting gates, but he always lets me breathe and mull things over.

I take a sip of my drink before staring at him.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I just feel like I’ve been thrown through a loop tonight,” I explain.

“I get it. I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he says, sighing.

“I’m different to who I was back then,” I counter.

“I know. You’re a regular badass these days.” Felix rolls his eyes. “Still doesn’t mean I want to see you have to prove it.”

“Like I said, he probably won’t turn up. Maybe it’ll be another twelve years before I see him—in the flesh, at least—and this is all worrying for nothing. I’ll be forty-two and he’ll be forty-six, and I’ll find him hideous. Like a badly aged wine,” I joke.

Joseph Wakefield at forty-six will probably not be hideous. Joseph Wakefield at thirty-four is not hideous. Joseph Wakefield at twenty-two was nothing short of perfection. Tall and broad, beautiful and golden, confident and self-assured, intelligent and sharp as a whip to boot.

Everything I never felt I could deserve, and everything that had the power to shatter me.

Felix relaxes his hold on his glass. He snakes his hand across the table and makes a gesture for mine. I uncurl my fingers from the stem of my martini glass and move my hand closer to his. He clasps my fingers.

“You know I love you, right? I just want the best for you.”

“I know that.”

“And what’s best for you is not letting Joseph Wakefield back into your life,” he proclaims.

I nod and let him stroke his thumb across my fingers. Behind us, there’s a clatter of the microphone being exchanged. I glance over and see the first woman, ready for her second song. The opening bar of the song starts to play, and it makes me feel a little smug. I knew it would be a rage-filled track.

“I’m pretty sure her singing voice is also not the best for me.” I grin at Felix.

“Well, after, we can get onstage and show them how it’s done. Right?”

“I thought we were just listening as we drink away the week,” I remind him. It’s always karaoke here on Fridays. I never participate, but Felix does, once he’s had a few cocktails. It’s one of his favourite ways to unwind.

“How was the week?” he asks, letting go of my fingers after a final squeeze.

I settle back in my seat, feeling like we’re in less murky waters now.

“It was really good. The wedding dress got picked up yesterday,” I say. I can’t help the smile of pride that crosses my face.

“I take that grin to mean the bride was thrilled?”

“Yep. She looked stunning when she tried it on, and it all fit perfectly. She said she’d send me photographs of the wedding. One for my smug wall,” I gloat.

My smug wall—as I termed it when I first pinned on a photograph—is small but growing steadily. The photograph of the first wedding dress I was commissioned to make has pride of place in the centre. I don’t just make dresses, though. I tailor any clothes customers want, but they’re mostly dresses for special events, and recently, I appear to have found a market for bridal dresses, the types for brides who aren’t having an extravagant ceremony but still want a beautiful dress. There’s a small buzz of my name being generated among people searching for a custom-made dress, and I feel like I’m on the cusp of really making a name for myself.

“Proud of you, Dee,” he announces. He holds his glass for a toast. I lift mine to clink it against his.