7 September 2002
‘Kerry, are you sure I can’t use these pesetas anymore?’
‘Kerry, what’s this funny thing on my tapas? I ordered scampi but it’s got tentacles.’ ‘Kerry, I can’t find my purse, do you think I’ve been robbed? Oh, shit, and my driving licence has gone too.’
I’m meant to be on holiday, the first since an all-inclusive family holiday to Greece, aged fourteen. Mostly that time I hid in my room to avoid being forced to conga or enter into some cringey talent show.
My sister’s ‘Barcelona or Bust’ hen weekend is a stretch for me financially, but Tim insisted I came and have as much fun as humanly possible. The trouble is, even though I’m the youngest here, I seem to have become the default parent.
By the time I’ve helped Marilyn’s maid of honour, Naomi, to report the theft of her purse stuffed with shiny new euros, everyone else is steaming drunk at a beachside bar. I lean over to kiss Mum, and squeeze in alongside her on the white leather sofa. ‘Started without me?’
She grabs a waiter. ‘Let me help you catch up.’
The mojito royale goes down very easily, the bubbles sending the alcohol to my brain at warp speed. I decide to get drunk enough that Marilyn’s hens will have to fend for themselves.
I wish I was here with Tim instead. It’s been a dreamy summer, though he’s turned a bit tetchy now he’s started doing more placements.
‘. . . It’s mainly birthdays and special occasions now. Oh, and when the Dolphins win. But when we put our minds to it, we can still be imaginative,’ my mum is saying. Please don’t let her be talking about sex.
One glimpse at Marilyn’s face confirms my fears. My parents have always been more touchy-feely than most and part of me is proud that they still love each other that deeply. But I don’t want to know the details.
‘Mum, do you have to?’
‘Oh, Kerry. You’re turning into such a prude.’
Am I? ‘You wouldn’t think that if you’d heard the calls I take about people’s genitals, or how they claim they’ve lost items up certain orifices.’
Everyone demands I share the stories then, involving people ‘falling’ onto brooms and bottles and toilet brushes. ‘What’s even more amazing is that sometimes they fall on these objects after they’ve accidentally popped a condom on the end of them. Still doesn’t make it safe sex!’
The excitement of my job might have worn off for me, but it can’t be beaten for hen-night entertainment.
Inevitably, the more we drink, the lewder people get. Naomi had what she’s called a ‘starter marriage’ followed by a ‘quickie divorce’. ‘But now I’m single, I see more action than I did when I was married. It’s how it goes. Even you two will do it less once you’ve got a ring on your finger, Marilyn.’
‘Never! Neil is like the Duracell bunny.’ My sister’s fiancé is a plumber, rugged and handsome, but quiet, so she can take centre stage.
‘You and Tim will be next, will you?’ Naomi says to me.
‘We’re not even engaged!’
Although I can imagine us married. We already act that way, referring to each other as Mr and Mrs, doing the gardening and chores in an ironic way, teasing each other as though we’re in an episode of The Good Life, and having non-ironic sex afterwards.
‘Promise me, sis. Don’t. Marry. Tedious Tim!’ Marilyn says, her face stern. When I told her Tim might not be able to make the wedding because he’s starting placements, she began plotting which single men to seat at my table.
She’s always been pretty enough to get what – or who – she wants without too much effort, and that now includes her husband-to-be. She’d never believe me if I told her it’s not like that for everyone. Though I feel a little more glamorous here, now I’ve caught the sun. A couple of guys have even tried to chat me up. Or maybe they just wanted to snatch my bag while I was distracted.
Naomi shakes her head. ‘Isn’t there some cute ambulance man who’d sweep you off your feet and put the adventure in your life?’
‘I had a cute ambulance man. They’re overrated, as is adventure.’
‘Everyone wants adventure!’
I shrug. ‘I’ve done a bungee jump. That was exciting.’ Surprisingly exciting: as I plunged, I felt like the old me, for a few milliseconds. ‘I’ve booked a charity sky-dive next month, too.’
Marilyn laughs. ‘If I lived with Tim, I’d ask them not to give me a parachute.’
‘Kerry is a very different person to you,’ my mum says, putting a protective arm around me and breathing biscuity cava fumes into my face. ‘Chalk and cheese. Tim is a lovely lad, and personality is the most important thing. If Kerry doesn’t want the fireworks, that’s up to her!’
I want to tell her that there are fireworks with Tim, but not the out-of-control, exam-ruining kind. That he’s a surprising lover: sweeter than Andy the paramedic, more patient than Joel ever was.
Joel. He almost ruined my life, so why does my body still jolt at the thought of him?
Nostalgia for my first love, that’s all it is. The future is so much better. My whole life is ahead of me, with Tim at my side. Isn’t that the most reassuring feeling of all? Us against the world!
Mum is nudging me, pointing at her watch. ‘Drink up, Kerry. We don’t want to be late for Topless Tapas! Apparently, the men are hot stuff.’
My sister’s wedding day comes three weeks after the hen weekend, in the middle of a heatwave: perfect for her sleeveless dress, but shitty for me and Naomi, sweltering in our floor-length aqua silk sheaths. I look like the Little Mermaid who forgot to apply her antiperspirant.
Everything else is beautiful: Marilyn, the church, the flowers, my parents’ outfits, and the photos under the bandstand, with the faded West Pier in the background, still glamorous despite the decay. And now I’m hiding in the sunlit front parlour of the regency-era house she’s hired for the reception, all chandeliers and gilded coving.
But I can’t relax. My only qualification for being a bridesmaid is my shared genes. Give me a grand mal seizure and I’m happy, but I am clueless about reception etiquette.
‘Does she need her hair redoing? It’s gone a bit frizzy.’
Naomi has it sussed. ‘This is her post-ceremony relaxed beach-wave style, as detailed in the manual, page seven.’ It’s not a joke. Marilyn had a whole ‘look book’ printed up and distributed to key personnel. It’s not entirely about vanity. She wants to use it as a springboard to doing bridal makeovers, because weddings are the best fun ever.
There isn’t a single cell of my body that could regard this as fun. Tim feels the same, but he’s got the perfect excuse, with a day’s shadowing at the community hospital in Worthing. He pretended it was accidental, but I saw his forms. He volunteered.
‘Kerry?’
I feel like I’ve seen a ghost.
Joel is wearing an old-school bartender’s outfit – white shirt, waistcoat, black tie – and it makes me wish we’d both been born in the 1920s. He looks as though he’s just strolled out of an underground jazz bar. It’s only seeing him now that I realize how his brush with death temporarily dulled his beauty.
Now he’s back to how he was before.
My pulse is racing, but it’s anger I am feeling, not attraction.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I . . .’ He gestures at the uniform. ‘Working. Ant’s in charge of the bar and he asked me. He never mentioned it was Marilyn’s wedding. If I’d known, I’d never have come.’
‘Why the fuck would Ant do that?’
Joel shrugs. ‘He doesn’t know about what we were. I guess he didn’t think it was relevant. When I realized, I was gonna leave but then I saw you and . . .’ He exhales. ‘Look. Do you want me to head off? Ant will hate me for leaving him in the lurch, but I don’t want to spoil your day.’
I glower at him. ‘How thoughtful of you.’
‘Kerry—’
‘Stay, go, whatever you want. It’s nothing to do with me. Stay, probably, I can’t be responsible for people going thirsty at my sister’s wedding.’
‘Are you sure?’
I try to stare him out, shame him into looking away. But he doesn’t. I need to say something to end this moment because the longer it goes on the harder it is to dam this flood of memories.
‘Whatever, Joel. Stay. It’d be a shame to waste your costume.’
He pulls a face. ‘Embarrassing, right? Your sister was extremely specific about how we should look. She made a better choice with your dress.’
Self-consciousness makes me prickle with sweat. ‘The other bridesmaid picked the style because she’s a leggy waif. Unlike me.’
A flicker of something crosses his face. ‘I think it suits you better.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m counting the hours till it comes off.’
He runs his eyes up and down my body. ‘Right.’ When he smiles at me, he looks like the old Joel Greenaway, the prodigy, the pin-up, the boy who couldn’t help being a charmer.
I turn away from him because I can’t get my head round any of this.
Easy, sexy jazz drifts through from the garden and I know it must be time for Marilyn and Neil’s first dance. They’ve been rehearsing a slinky show-stopper.
The parlour is empty now, except for us.
‘Look, Kerry, now we’re here . . . I’m sorry.’
I wave him away. Not now. Not today. Not ever.
‘You’ll never forgive me and that’s OK. I behaved like the world’s biggest shit but I did it for you.’
Now I spin back round to face him. ‘You what?’
‘I’m a loser, Kerry. Look at me. Dressed up to the nines to pour drinks at someone else’s party. This is as good as it’s gonna get for me. As soon as they told me I was off the team, I had to end it between us. For your sake.’
‘Bullshit. You only thought about yourself, you bloody coward. I didn’t care if you never kicked a ball again in your life. I love – loved you for what I thought you were. Not because I thought you were going to play for England or earn a million quid a week.’
He opens his mouth to respond but I’m not finished yet.
‘And what did I get back for loving you? I screwed up my exams, which nearly ruined my whole life. I’ve ended up with no degree and a job going nowhere and you have the nerve to tell me this was all for me? You’re a user and a—’
He catches hold of my wrist mid-rant and pulls me towards him.
‘You said you love me . . . even a thicko like me knows the difference between the past and present tense.’
Did I? Do I?
No. I love Tim. I really do. And this stuff I’m feeling now is muscle memory. ‘I said I loved you. Before you screwed everything up.’
‘Kerry, I am so sorry for the way I behaved. Seeing you now, I wish . . .’
My rage is turning into something else.
His lips are on mine and despite everything, I want this . . .
Over his shoulder, through the bay window, I can see the Peace Statue and the Lawns to the right of it and the sea beyond.
We pull apart. Who made that kiss happen?
Further away, I hear ‘Unchained Melody’ begin and the applause outside as my sister and her new husband take to the floor. ‘I’m meant to be watching their first dance . . .’
But instead of letting me go, Joel kisses me again, this time properly, and that music doesn’t seem anywhere near passionate enough to express how it feels to be here, in the moment, with the first boy I ever kissed, the only man I’ve ever felt this way with—
No. I love Tim. He’s my best friend. If the passion with him is more controllable, that’s better. Safer.
Isn’t it? But this kiss, this kiss . . .
The house bell rings, loud and self-important. I break away to see a shape where the porch meets the bay window.
Tim.
He’s staring through the glass, frozen. How much did he see?
Someone in stiletto heels is bulleting across the tiles to let him in.
Tim is thundering into the parlour. Rushing at Joel.
‘No, stop!’
I’m trying to get between them but, even though Joel is fitter and bigger, whatever Tim saw has given him the strength of a man twice his size.
I am breathless, still reeling from that kiss.
Tim’s fist strikes the side of Joel’s cheek. Joel doesn’t cry out. He’s not even fighting back. I don’t want him to hurt Tim, but why isn’t he defending himself?
It makes Tim even more furious.
‘Tim! We can talk about it. Don’t punch him again, please—’ What will make him stop?
I picture bruises blooming on Joel’s body and I know how to stop my boyfriend hurting my ex. ‘Tim, please stop, you might set off his ICD!’
Tim’s arm drops, his fist slackens and when he looks at me, the hurt in his face makes me wish I could take back my words.