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‘Sorry,’ says Faye. ‘I’m a sad old married woman who doesn’t get out much. I have to get my excitement vicariously.’ She sneaks a look over her shoulder and winks at me. ‘And that is seriously exciting.’
‘Divine, isn’t he?’ sighs Gideon.
Bradley, sensing that he’s being talked about, catches my eye, beams a big white-toothed Aussie smile and waves. I wave back.
‘He really is just a friend,’ I say. ‘He’s been away for a couple of months too. There isn’t anything going on.’
‘Well, you’re mad not to pursue that,’ says Faye, fanning herself with a bar mat. ‘He’s like something out of Neighbours, and I don’t mean Harold!’
Maybe I should explain myself before you decide that I’m some old slapper who regularly pulls Aussie barmen and drags them home for wild sex. As if. I can probably count my sexual partners on one hand and still have spare finger; not cool these days I know, but that’s just the way I am. Before a man sees my wobbly bits I normally like to know more than his name.
Normally.
But the night I met Bradley was the exception to the rule. To be fair, the circumstances were unusual. It was about five months after Pat and I broke up, and although I was still desperately sad I was past the constant weeping stage.
Or so I’d thought.
I’d had a long day. Mother had been in a vile mood after a row with her latest sugar grandpa, a bridesmaid’s dress had been lost in the post and my computer had crashed, losing most of my files. As I’d dragged myself up the steps from the tube station and wandered down the high street, I’d wanted nothing more than to collapse onto my sofa with a big glass of wine and a trashy magazine. With this aim in mind I’d popped into the corner shop and picked up Scorching! I’d been expecting to see nothing more than the vacuous smiles of the boy band member and his new glamour model wife when a headline leapt from the glossy page and walloped me right between the eyes.
PATRICK MCNICOLAS: BRITAIN’S SEXIEST COMIC INVITES US TO HIS THAMESIDE LOVE NEST
Although I knew this was the psychological equivalent of picking a scab, I couldn’t help flicking through the magazine, gobbling up every purple paragraph and feasting on the glossy pictures of his new apartment. Pat looked so handsome and was obviously incredibly happy, lounging on big squishy sofas with Jo in his arms and clinking champagne glasses with her in a giant hot tub. ‘I’ve never been so in love!’ he bragged. ‘All we need now are the children and our joy will be complete. This is the happiest I’ve ever been.’
Thanks a million, Pat, I’d thought, shoving the magazine back onto the shelf. To have two years of my life dismissed so easily sliced through me like a hot knife through butter. And it wasn’t as though I’d said ‘no’ to the children part, was it? I’d just said ‘not yet’, not while I set up the business. Pat just hadn’t loved me enough to listen.
Blinking away tears of loss and hurt I fled the shop and stumbled into The Feathers, where I’d ordered an enormous glass of wine and downed it in one.
‘Whoa!’ the barman had exclaimed. ‘Looks like you needed that!’ And he’d fetched me another which I’d drunk in a similar fashion. To cut a long story short I’d ended up pouring out my tale of woe to my new best friend, AKA Bradley the Australian barman. Bradley listened sympathetically and told me about breaking up with his girlfriend. And then we’d bonded in that peculiar way you do when bitching about an ex. Eventually the pub closed, Bradley had cleared up and then walked me home.
And the rest you can figure out for yourself.
Anyway, he’s a nice guy and really easy to talk to. He’s not my soulmate but he’s fun and he’s taken my mind off Patrick on several occasions – and it’s not like he’s going to push me into becoming a perfect mother any time soon. There’s nothing more to it than that. Not that you’d ever convince Gideon though. As far as he’s concerned it’s only a matter of time before I book tickets with Qantas and rack off to chuck a few shrimps on the barbie with the sprogs in tow. There’s no way I’m going to mention meeting Jonathan Broadhead yesterday; Gids will die of excitement and Faye will think …
Actually, I don’t know what Faye will think.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ I say to Faye. ‘White wine?’
She nods. ‘The drier the better, please.’
‘Any excuse to see Mr Love God,’ Gideon stage whispers as I thread my way through the evening drinkers.
I roll my eyes.
I walk to the bar and lean against it, trying to catch the eye of the bar staff. Bradley is nowhere to be seen so I wait patiently until a small, tanned woman with a mane of white blonde hair serves me.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Sorry to keep you. Where are the men when you need them?’
Another Aussie! What is it with this pub?
‘I ask myself that question most days.’ I smile, counting out my money. ‘Where are all the good men?’
‘Hanging out with the tooth fairy?’ She passes the wine across the bar and takes my change. ‘They must be somewhere. Gotta live in hope.’
‘Or die in despair,’ I sigh, and, balancing drinks and crisps in my hands, rejoin my friends. It’s one thing to joke about the man famine if you’re a twenty-two-year-old gorgeous Aussie surfer babe and quite another if you’re thirty-four and pretty average on a good day, wearing control knickers and your best frock. If all the good ones really are taken then where does that leave me?
Alone, that’s where, unlike Gideon and Faye, both of whom will be going home tonight to their partners.
Totally alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_b03f5b89-9a9d-54a5-834c-68bcf9c8e74d)
By half ten I’ve drunk my way through a bottle of Blossom Hill, the table is littered with crisp packets and Bradley’s becoming more and more attractive by the sip. OK, so he can’t discuss Chekhov and once said that his greatest fantasy was Jordan naked on a trampoline, but you can’t have everything.
And, anyway, with a body like that who cares about conversation?
I knock back the last of my wine. I’m going to ask him to come home with me. This is what feminists burned their bras for!
I am strong! I am woman!
And maybe a teeny bit pissed?
‘Darling,’ Gideon says, shrugging on his coat. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us? I’m going to walk Faye to the tube and then head home for tea and toast.’
At the mention of toast my stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. Gideon and James will cosy up and I’ll feel like a spare part. They see quite enough of me as it is.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll stay here and chat to Bradley.’
‘Can’t say I blame you,’ sighs Gideon.
Faye gives me a hug. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she promises. ‘We can have a chat about some ideas for Saffron Scott before your meeting on Friday. I’ll ask Si if Davie has dropped any hints.’
‘Thanks, babes.’
‘And Robyn,’ she whispers. ‘Give him one from me!’
Blushing to the ends of my hair I hoist myself onto a bar stool, wishing that I had the kind of endless legs I could cross elegantly rather than short ones that just dangle in mid-air. Catching sight of my flushed face in the chrome beer pumps I decide to order Diet Coke from now on.
‘Diet Coke?’ echoes Bradley, when I place my order. ‘With Bacardi?’
‘No!’ I laugh.
As Bradley serves and chats, I’m distracted by the enormous flatscreen TV at the end of the bar. It’s showing one of those late evening chat shows and Patrick has just loped across the studio and is shaking the host’s hand. I still get a little jolt whenever I see him. It’s weird to be close to someone, to have shared their life in every way, and then be relegated to the position of stranger. I know Pat always cleans his toothbrush under the hot tap and likes the left side of the bed, but none of the other viewers are privy to these details.
Although, knowing Pat, maybe I shouldn’t bet on this.
Repositioning my bar stool so I’m spared watching Patrick charm the socks off the audience, I turn my attention back to Bradley. Physically he looks nothing like Pat. Bradley’s tall with sun-bleached hair and so gym-honed that even his muscles have muscles, whereas Pat’s tall and rangy and hasn’t been to the gym in his life. Running a double love life is enough to keep him fit. Both guys have green eyes but Bradley’s are like rock pools, clear and honest, whereas Patrick’s are the shadowy hue of his beloved Irish peat bogs.
I’m through with complicated men. Who wants to discuss Yeats in bed when they could be having amazing sex?
Time to see if Bradley’s in the mood for a coffee …
‘How was your trip home?’ I ask.
Bradley runs a hand through his thick blond mane. ‘Awesome! I’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel warm.’
I flick my hair back from my face. ‘So are you sad that you’re back?’
‘No. There’s lots to keep me here.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Such as?’ I’m more pissed than I thought.
But Bradley just smiles his dazzlingly white smile. ‘It sounds really lame but I came back because of a Sheila.’
A Sheila? Isn’t that Australian for a girl?
‘I was thinking about staying in Brisbane but she’s here and I’m useless without her.’
My chardonnay-saturated brain is a bit slow but I think he’s just told me that he’s come back because he wants to be with someone. Someone who lives in England …
Oh. My. God.
I clutch the bar because I’m in serious danger of falling off my stool.
‘You’ve come back to be with a girl?’
Bradley’s cheeks are as pink as my Cath Kidston mobile. ‘Yep. She’s right here. In this pub.’
‘She is?’ I stall for time. Is my Christmas wish list about to get one item shorter?
Bradley nods. ‘Over there.’ And rather than peering deeply into my eyes and dropping a bombshell, he points towards the blonde Australian barmaid who’d joked with me earlier. ‘Her name’s Julia.’
Oh.
‘I’ve known Jules for years,’ Bradley says, as he pulls a tray of glasses from the dishwasher. ‘She was dating a mate of mine so I never dreamed we could be anything else. But when I went home she was single and,’ he looks bashful, ‘we kind of got it together, you know?’
I’ve got it together with Bradley a few times myself so, yes, I know.
‘But Jules was about to go travelling,’ he continues, ‘and I couldn’t bear to lose her so she persuaded me to go traveling with her.’
Julia looks over and smiles at him, a smile of such joy that it lights up the room.
‘Isn’t she great?’
‘She’s beautiful,’ I say honestly.
He reaches across the bar. ‘You and me have been really good friends, Robyn, chatting over crappy love lives, so I thought you’d like to know: before we flew here I asked Jules to marry me. And guess what? She said yes!’
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Congratulations!’
‘Thanks. You really do know when you meet the right one. Everything just falls into place.’
‘I’m really pleased for you,’ I lean across the bar and kiss his cheek, a very different kiss from the last one we shared. ‘You deserve to be really happy.’
Bradley brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. ‘And so do you, Robyn,’ His jerks his head in the direction of the television where Patrick is flirting with a stunning actress. ‘Especially after your narrow escape from that idiot.’
It’s really late by the time I finally leave the pub after buying champagne and listening to Bradley and Julia’s excited plans. She’s lovely, laid-back and funny and we really click. Brad’s obviously told her exactly what our relationship once was because Jules is careful to reassure me that she doesn’t have a problem with any aspect of her fiancé’s past.
‘After all, I was with Shane,’ she says, flicking her blond mane behind her smooth tanned shoulders. ‘It’s not as though Brad and I were together then. The past is past, yeah?’
I gulp. In spite of the fact that they weren’t even together the last time that Brad and I hung out, I still have a horrible sense of guilt. Thanks a lot for sending me to a convent school, mum! How can I show Brad and Jules that I really am genuinely delighted for them? Then I have a brilliant idea.
‘How about I help you plan your wedding?’ I say slowly. ‘Perfect Day at your service. And I’ll do it for free.’
Jules’s eyes widen. ‘Really? You’d do that for us?’
But Brad looks worried, probably thinking that having his ex arrange his wedding is far from normal.
‘You don’t have to do that, Robyn,’ he says.
‘I know I don’t have to,’ I reply. ‘But you were a good friend to me when I had a tough time and I’d like to do something for you both. Seeing a couple as loved up as you guys gives me hope for the future!’
A frown crinkles Bradley’s brow. ‘Are you really sure?’
I nod. ‘Totally. Besides, budget weddings are my speciality. Just ask Hester Dunaway!’
Opening my purse I pluck out a card, which I give to Jules. ‘Give me a call when I’m slightly more sober! Then we can start making plans.’
Jules is grinning from ear to ear. ‘Cool! Thanks, Robyn. You’re a dahl! If only all Brad’s exes were like you.’
‘All?’ I catch Brad’s eye and a blush creeps up his neck. He looks so awkward that I can’t help but start to laugh.
When I leave the bar and head for home the laughter slips away and is replaced by a creeping sense of desolation.
I’ve offered Perfect Day’s services for free as a wedding present and I’m over the moon for them, I really am. The tears that slide silently down my cheeks aren’t because I want Bradley for myself, or wish that I were in Julia’s Uggs. No way. I’m just so sad at always being the one left behind. Everybody is moving on but I’m always left alone, standing on the shore and watching them sail over the horizon to new and exciting lands. I realise I’m not jealous of Bradley and Julia but I am jealous of what they have.
I’m tired of being on my own. Part of me worries that I’ll never meet the right man to settle down and have children with. And another part of me wonders if that’s my fault.
I’m just pushing open the gate to Gideon’s garden, and peering carefully at the path just in case Poppy’s been out for a late night loo visit, when my phone beeps from deep within my bag. I root around and fish it out, trying not to scatter sweet wrappers and fluffy Tampax onto the grass.
That’s strange, I don’t recognise the number.
I open the message and scan it. When the words sink into my wine-sodden brain I’m taken aback because the text is from Jonathan Broadhead. He’s signed me up for the swing dancing course just like he promised.
A thoughtful man who keeps his word too? No wonder he’s married. Who wouldn’t want to keep hold of a man like that?
I unlock the front door and switch on the light. I re-read the message and in spite of myself, I find that I’m smiling.
I may be an old spinster of the parish, gathering dust on her shelf, but things are looking up.
