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I retake my seat. “Anyone who messes with me now, better be warned.”
Chapter Three
As a passenger during car journeys, I’ve never been one to really take note of routes or what direction we might be heading in. When Dad used to drive me anywhere, I’d sink into the high collar of the oversized olive puffer coat my mum left behind, and I’d stare blankly, asking sullenly every five minutes, “Are we there yet?” while secretly enjoying the ride. I’ve always loved journeys of whatever kind. I did love travelling with the band, it has to be said. Even the hair-raising coach journeys across South American mountain ranges where you truly didn’t know if you’d make it out alive. Being able to vacate as a passenger and switch off is one of my favourite things. I love driving too, but being a passenger is always better. The soothing rocking motion, the heaters turned up, being belted in and the green verges, trees and fields whizzing by outside the window.
This morning—Boxing Day—Kallie woke me up with coffee and a bacon sarnie, then said, “We’re going for a drive,” so of course, I scarfed my food and drink down and took a quick shower, then pulled on warm clothes. The smile in her eyes as we left the flat reassured me she had a plan in mind. Great, I thought. But that was earlier.
She’s driven us out to Buckinghamshire and all that excitement—the thought of potentially finding a countryside walk to ease the digestion of all that food yesterday, then inevitably (of course), we’d have gone and found more food at a local pub—has evaporated. Now all I feel is repulsed.
“It was time to rip off the band-aid,” she says carefully, pausing to pick her words. “It was all on his mum’s Instagram. Found it last night. Countdowns. Cake testing. Hen do. Even the dress fittings she and the MOB attended together, to support the bride. Tight-knit, the lot of them. I expect he’s got a professional account, right? Just for business?” I nod; she got that right. “If he does have a personal account, it’s well buried. His missus doesn’t have an account that I could find, either. He probably tells her Insta is a waste of time. When…”
“This is totally… I can’t…”
We’re parked across the road from a lovely village church whose picturesque grounds have been especially bedecked for a wedding, with floral arches in seasonal colours, fairy lights everywhere and even a temporary shelter draped in green garlands for guests to stay warm and dry beneath. Indeed, the sky is trying to relieve itself of a heavy batch of snow, just the odd tiny flake drifting down currently.
The bride and groom are having pictures beneath the arched doorway of the church itself. She’s my carbon copy, or maybe, I’m hers.
“What…” I swallow. “How…? I mean, why…?”
I’m struggling to process what I’m seeing. I was aware he was economical with the truth, didn’t want to “date” me or anything, or visit his place. But? An actual fucking wedding? Just a couple of days after he was balls/tongue deep in another woman, telling me he’d miss the taste of my body!
“I knew the visual would have maximum impact,” she says, cursing as the wedding party throws bucketloads of natural confetti (red and green, obviously), the photographer determined to get the perfect picture.
“Do you know the photographer?” I ask, my mind beginning to catch up.
“I don’t. So that leaves me fairly certain they didn’t go too bananas. Maybe the in-laws have a suspicion he’s a dirty cheat and wouldn’t shell out. Most toffs these days have a register office wedding here, then a fuck-off summer festival abroad. These have had a cheap and cheerful church wedding in ye olde Buckinghamshire in the freezing cold winter. And it’s probably helped that everyone’s been drunk for three days straight already.”
“Maybe a drunken Christmas wedding is her preferred aesthetic,” I snort. “Or maybe she’s up the duff.”
“Thought had crossed my mind. You two used condoms, right?”
“Put them on myself,” I sniff. “And he never came much in them, actually.”
“Wonder who else he’s banging. Spreading himself thin.”
“So, she’s a toff, too? I’m guessing.”
“My guess would be it’s been arranged since they were four, or some shit. Went to the same private school. Or something like their mothers were always besties, blah, blah, blah.”
I cluck my tongue. “We’d better go before they get in their cars.” The street is lined with vehicles obviously belonging to the wedding party.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” she says darkly.
“Hmm. I’m starting to.”
Kallie pulls away before anyone spots us staring. That would be all I need:
The element of surprise, gone.
“I should be mad at you,” I murmur, as we head back towards London.
“But you’re not, right?”
“He was wearing a wedding band then. Glinted in the light. He’ll have a job hiding that from people at work. He’s always so mysterious. Upholds this demeanour of untouchability because he’s so good at his job, nobody can question him.” I laugh because it’s pathetic. “I’m gonna have a front-row seat to whatever comes next, and now I’m informed, so thanks for that.”
“No problem. What else are best friends for? Cyber stalking the fuckwits of the world is my privilege, when it comes to protecting you.”
I throw my head back laughing. “I would be sad if something much, much sadder hadn’t already happened this year.”
