The men I met at university have a lot to answer for.
First of all, there were my housemates. Between them they’ve made enough girls shed enough tears to fill an Olympic swimming pool. Matt was a player, always with an eye on one conquest or another (the other was usually her friend). Zach, before he got together with Fiona, had some major commitment issues, which is why they took so long to get together. And then there was Clarky, who wasn’t exactly a hit with the ladies, but he wanted to be one of the boys, so he was always happy to move in on the ‘unattractive’ friend.
The bottom line is that, on a daily basis, I was watching them all try to pull, by any means necessary, with the most unromantic intentions. This kicked off my trust issues with men, for sure.
Then there was the guy who invited himself into my room one night during a house party – he didn’t exactly show his gender in a positive light.
And then there’s Tom. Tom is responsible for my biggest problem at all … I can’t trust a man not to hurt me, and it’s affected every single one of my short-lived relationships since.
I know, it was ten years ago, but we had a slow and meaningful build up. He saved me, he didn’t take advantage of me, he was nothing but an incredible guy. He told me he had feelings for me and I let myself fall for him. I was crazy about him. I stopped telling myself it was just wishful thinking. I knew we were going to be together and then Cleo came along … Tiny, squeaky, pretty little Cleo, with her whimsical ways, her lust for traveling the world, her easy confidence, her undeniable sex appeal. Next to her I felt like this giant, damaged weirdo. He might not have known who she was when he kissed her, but he did after, and he chose her over me. That’s the bottom line. He chose a girl he had just met, who kissed him without even knowing him, over me, and then, just to stick the knife in a little deeper, he stayed with her, no matter how much they argued, or how controlling she would be over his life.
That’s why I have trust issues, because the men in my life have always been so untrustworthy.
I can’t seem to help myself, painting this picture of Tom as the big, bad wolf in my head. Without really thinking about it, I naturally assume the worst of him – but it’s his fault.
I hate that I can feel myself softening towards him. I hate that I get upset when I think badly of him. I hate that I feel even more upset when I realise that the good guy I fell for at uni is still in there. I hate that I’m beginning to thaw out and then I find something else that makes me mad at him again. I hate that he’s getting back with Cleo. I hate that I think he’s flirting with me – I hate that I can’t tell for sure if he is or he isn’t. I hate that I care that he’s getting back with Cleo. Most of all, I hate how much hate is in me right now.
All this goes to show that Tom bloody Hoult is still under my skin, still stuck in my head, and I have no idea how to get him out. I feel like a stupid, deluded teenager again, and I’m a 31-year-old woman. This is ridiculous.
I get out of Tom’s car, with a quick thank you, a swift goodbye, and the intention of avoiding him for the rest of the day. Because it is just a day, and then I get to go back to my life. So what if he’s in Manchester now? It sounds like he has been for a while, and it’s a big city. It’s not like I’m going to run into him.
My thoughts stop me in my tracks for a moment, because I’m counting down the seconds until I can get back to my life, but there isn’t really much waiting for me. I don’t do much apart from work – and work doesn’t exactly leave me feeling fulfilled – or spend time at home, alone, binge-watching boxsets. I have no romantic leads, I don’t have any real friends, not really. I can’t even get a pet to keep me company, because it goes against the terms of the lease on the flat that I’m working all the hours God sends to be able to afford to stay in. Still, I’m a grown woman, and my life can still get better, if I work hard, and try harder to meet new people (but, come on, it’s pretty much impossible to meet new people as an adult). I’m sure it beats being here though, and I’ll be home before I know it. Then maybe I’ll tackle how I can change my life … or I’ll just say I will, like I do after every setback, or on every New Year’s Eve, and then do nothing about it. That one sounds more like me.
Maybe it’s time to give in, to start drinking like everybody else. Perhaps that’s the only way to get through a wedding with your sanity intact.
‘I’ll get this,’ Pete interrupts as I attempt to pay for my drink at the outdoor bar.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
Gosh, it feels nice to see a friendly face.
‘But only if you hang out with me. I feel like you’re avoiding me,’ he says with a playful frown.
‘I will absolutely hang out with you,’ I reply. ‘And I promise you, I am not avoiding you.’
Pete buys himself another beer before we find an empty table and chairs in the garden. The only free spot is at a low table, with beanbag chairs.
I wiggle around on my beanbag for a moment, trying to get comfortable and protect my modesty.
‘This is all so much easier without heels,’ I confess.
‘It’s nice to see that you’ve taken them off,’ he tells me. ‘So many women are a slave to their heels. Everyone here would have a lot more fun if they were more like you and took them off.’
I don’t correct him, I just smile. Well, right now he’s commending me for wearing trainers, but if I tell him the truth – that I took my heels off and lost them – it’s going to make me look like an idiot.
‘Are you having a nice time?’ I ask him, changing the subject.
‘I am,’ he says. ‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it?’
‘Gorgeous,’ I reply.
It’s been a long, hot summer so far. Here in the hotel gardens, the grass is a vivid shade of green. The flowerbeds are beaming with colours, the pond is glistening under the bright sun – everything is stunning. You couldn’t ask for a nicer location, or a nicer day for your wedding. I wonder what my wedding day will be like … a cold day in hell, I imagine.
‘I hear the giant is your ex-boyfriend,’ Pete says.
I laugh. ‘Yep. But that was a long time ago, and he wasn’t quite so giant then.’
‘He must be a hard act to follow,’ he says, and I wonder if he’s worried he can’t quite measure up to Al.
‘You’d be surprised,’ I reply. ‘We weren’t together long, we didn’t have much in common … You know when it’s not right, right?’
‘Right.’ He smiles. ‘With Tom here too, this must be awkward for you?’
‘Nah,’ I say, playing it down. ‘Tom was only an almost-ex. Al is my only actual ex. And I’m doing my best not to speak to either of them.’
‘How’s that working out for you?’ he asks, swigging his beer.
‘Not great.’ I laugh. ‘There always seems to be one of them annoying me.’
‘Well, people are friends with their exes.’
‘I’ve heard of that. But I’ve never known that to be true. What about you?’ I ask. ‘Any weird exes knocking around?’
‘Not really,’ he replies. ‘I stayed with the girl I met at uni for a long time, but it didn’t work out in the end.’
‘Wow, I’m surprised how many people stick with the person they were with at uni for so long,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I was sure of anything at uni, least of all what I wanted for the rest of my life.’
‘It’s all good,’ he says. ‘Your almost-ex made sense in his speech. Maybe I was supposed to meet Kat at uni, so that I’d be here at her wedding, so that I’d meet you.’
I smile. I hadn’t thought about it that way.
‘Anything can happen,’ he reminds me.
‘So people keep telling me, but I don’t know that to be true either.’
‘Are you happy?’ he asks, taking the tone of the conversation from light-hearted to something a little more serious.
I am taken aback by his question. I wasn’t expecting this conversation to get to heavy so quickly.
‘Erm …’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t ask you questions like that,’ he quickly says. ‘We hardly know each other.’
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘It’s just … I’m not sure if I am,’ he admits. ‘It feels like something is missing from my life, you know?’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ I reply. ‘My life is fine but … I’m so bored. I work a lot, my social life isn’t what I’d like it to be, my love life is nothing.’ I pause for a second. Should I really be telling him all this? He did ask, right?
‘I hate my job,’ I continue. ‘I want to be doing something worthwhile, but I’ve been working in PR for so long, and it’s almost exclusively a damage control job. I want to do something good, something that makes a difference. I want to be the person making a fuss over the use of real fur, not the mug on the end of the phone trying to pass it off as an accident so that my bosses continue to be rich. My mum tries to convince me to quit my job, sell my flat, and move to the south of France to live with them. I think she thinks she can get me a job in a boulangerie, find me a nice French husband, get me popping out some little enfants …’
‘Do you fancy a fresh start?’ he asks.
‘Erm … I don’t know … maybe. I have nothing to keep me in Manchester … but I don’t want to move to France.’
‘What about London?’
‘I don’t think I’d be any happier just doing what I’m doing in a different city.’
‘Probably not,’ he replies. ‘But what if I told you the charity I worked for needed a new PR person …’
‘Do they?’ I reply, sitting up as much as my beanbag will allow me to.
‘They do,’ he replies. ‘And I could put in a good word for a specific applicant, if I wanted to …’
‘You’d do that for me?’ I reply. I’m not a hundred per cent certain that is what he’s suggesting, but if he is, I’m not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers.
‘Of course I would,’ he replies. ‘It sounds like you really want to change your job, and your life. If I can help you do that, then I’m more than happy to do it. And, who knows, maybe we’ll get to spend some real time together.’
I think for a second, trying to pace my thoughts. Would it really be so simple, to move to London, start my dream job, maybe start something with Pete …? And maybe, if I had a boyfriend, it would be easier to make friends too. We could have couples friends. Maybe that’s the key to making platonic connections when you are an adult – couples friends or mummy friends. No one cares about the singles in society. My heart is racing – so are my thoughts. I think being a single girl at a wedding might be messing with my head because all of a sudden I’m planning couples activities for me and my hypothetical boyfriend. I’ll be making a frantic dive for the bouquet next.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I tell him.
‘Say you’ll think about it,’ he replies.
‘I’ll absolutely think about it.’
I don’t want to seem too keen, but I also don’t want him to think that I’m not considering it. It would be crazy, to move to London, change my job – and all because of a man I just met … but what if this is what is going to make me happy? What if this is what I’m supposed to do? Everyone keeps banging on about fate and how we’re all here again for a reason (other than the wedding, apparently) – what if this is my reason? I was supposed to come here, meet Pete, take this job and leave my sad, lonely life behind me. There’s got to be more to life than spending your days working to pay your mortgage, and spending your nights watching TV until it’s time to go to bed so you can get up for work in the morning.
‘Luca, there you are,’ Kat says, scurrying towards us. I don’t know how else to describe the way she has to walk to accommodate for her wedding dress. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’
‘I’ve been sat right here,’ I say quickly and perhaps a little too defensively.
‘Well, come with me,’ she demands, jerking her neck in the direction of the hotel.
‘Is it urgent?’ I ask, desperately not wanting to leave Pete’s side, especially given the potentially life changing conversation we’re having, but I should have known this question wouldn’t go down well.
‘It’s like you don’t know how being a bridesmaid works,’ she says with exasperation.
No, it’s like she doesn’t know how being a bridesmaid works. I’m not technically a bridesmaid. She never asked me to be one, I never agreed to be one, I’m just a girl in a dress that happens to match the rest of the bridesmaid dresses. I never signed up for guestbook duty or grandma hunting or whatever job she’s got for me to do now.
‘Sorry,’ I mouth to Pete, as I pull myself up from my beanbag.
‘It’s OK,’ he whispers back. ‘To be continued.’
I smile at him, before dutifully following the bride into the bar.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ I ask her.
‘I need your help,’ she says, picking up the pace a little.
‘With?’ I ask, hurrying along behind her.
‘With something the other bridesmaids can’t help me with,’ she tells me as she holds a door open for me to follow her through.
That’s when I realise we’re heading into the toilets.
‘Oh,’ I say.
Kat, a woman who I am meeting for the second time today, is expecting me to help her pee while wearing a wedding dress. I imagine it is a tricky thing to do, so she has my sympathy there (I myself am wearing a pair of tights that suck your stomach in, so I know the struggles of hurrying out of complex garments when you really need the loo, even if it’s on a much smaller scale) but do I really have to be the person who helps her? Are we really on peeing together terms?
‘How were you planning on doing this before I stepped in as a bridesmaid?’ I ask curiously.
‘I hadn’t really thought about it,’ she replies.
‘When my sister got married a few years ago, she wore this thing under her dress that sort of pulled up and hooked over her arms, scooping her dress up with it, so she could go to the bathroom on her own.’
‘And how does this information help me?’ she asks.
I bite my lip.
‘Wow, you must really need to pee,’ I say. ‘OK, fine, let’s do this.’
Kat and I squeeze into a cubicle together and I round up her dress and hold it in a big clump behind her back.
‘Be careful with the material,’ she says. ‘It’s very delicate.’
Again, I bite my lip. I just stand there holding her dress, and as Kat uses the toilet, I forget about where I am. Instead, I think about Pete’s job offer. There’s no way I could get a job like this without his influence. My CV alone would put a charity off, knowing I worked for one of the most unethical retailers in the country, and then there’s the fact that it’s all the way in London. Without a good word from Pete, there’s no way I could afford to waste the time and money needed to go down for interviews for what would feel like such a long shot.
I really do feel like there’s something between me and Pete. Maybe something special could happen between us if I just put aside my distrust in men and went for it. But even without that in mind, this job feels like too good an opportunity to miss. If Pete is willing to take a chance on me, and help me get my foot through the door, then maybe I need to take a chance on Pete.