Going La La (37 page)

Feeling shaky, she’d clung on to the door for support. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe Reilly was having second thoughts and would be grateful if she called it off. Maybe he’d changed his mind and wasn’t even at the chapel. The idea had saddened but consoled her, even though it jarred with the memory of Reilly lying next to her in bed, telling her that he loved her, asking her to marry him. She’d tried to blot out the image. He hadn’t meant what he’d said. It had just been the booze talking. By leaving now she’d be doing him a favour. At least this way tomorrow he’d only wake up with a hangover. Waking up with a wife he didn’t want would have been a lot more of a headache.

She’d tried focusing on Hugh. His sudden appearance had sobered her up and brought her to her senses. He made the last few months feel like a dream. Being in LA, living with Rita, falling for Reilly. None of it had been real life, none of it could have lasted for ever – but hadn’t she known that all along? Hadn’t she run away to LA until she was able to face things again, get her life back on track, go back to London?

And now she could.

Within the last few seconds her wish had been granted. Hugh had come back. Was she going to risk losing him a second time?

With the sounds of partygoers echoing from every room and a jumble of thoughts whirling around in her head, Frankie had known the answer to the question. Looking at the man with whom she’d shared memories, a home, holidays abroad, family gatherings,
a history
, she’d known she couldn’t take a gamble. This might be Vegas but the stakes were too high. And so in those few brief seconds she’d made her choice. She’d said yes.

Frankie broke away from her thoughts as she saw a sign for the Grand Canyon up ahead. They were going to stay there for a few days. ‘Regroup’, as Hugh called it, before driving back to LA so that she could pack up her things and catch the next plane back to Heathrow. Back to his flat in Fulham and their old life together. She glanced across at Hugh, wearing his driving glasses and furrowing his brow in concentration as he tried to get to grips with the etiquette of freeway driving. It still felt weird, being back together. A couple again. She had to keep checking it was really him sitting next to her, and not her alcohol-addled brain playing tricks.

‘Shouldn’t we have turned off there?’ An exit sign flashed past.

‘Shit.’ He braked, causing the truck behind him to screech its tyres and honk loudly. ‘Christ, what’s wrong with the bloody Yanks? Can’t they drive or something?’ Without indicating, he swerved across two lanes, nearly causing a pile-up as the rented car ploughed off the freeway at a 90-degree angle.

Frankie gripped her seat belt. She was used to relaxing with her feet up on the dash of Reilly’s Bronco, chatting as he drove and laughing at Howard Stern on the radio. She’d forgotten Hugh’s short temper behind the wheel and how tense she used to get when they drove to visit his parents in Kent. Once his road rage had nearly got him punched by a London cabbie.

‘Sorry, darling, it’s the ridiculous signs they have here.’ He smiled sheepishly, reaching across and clasping her hand. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ Frankie nodded, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes.

They’d spent the rest of last night in a haze – leaving Vegas in the early hours, driving through the dawn, drinking weak coffee in Seven-11s, snatching a few hours’ kip in the car – and now, in the glare of the midday sun, they were both feeling knackered. And they still had another hundred miles to go. With any luck they’d get there before dark. And still in one piece.

After spending a further four hours getting lost, doing U-turns, asking in gas stations, drugstores and yet more Seven-11s, they eventually began driving up the winding path that led to the rim of the Grand Canyon. By the time they arrived at the Southside Lodge, it was almost four o’clock and getting dark. While Hugh checked in, Frankie made a couple of phone calls from the coin-box in the lobby.

Last night she’d packed her things and left a note at reception. She couldn’t go and find Rita, pissed as a fart in the back of the stretch limo that was wrapped up in a white satin ribbon. How would she have explained that to Hugh? What would she have said? ‘Sorry, could you wait for a few minutes while I just have a quick word with my bridesmaid?’ That would have meant confessing to him that she was about to marry another man. She flinched at the thought. Sometimes honesty was not the best policy.

Dialling the number, she listened to the ringing tone, waiting for Rita to pick up. Except she didn’t, it was the answering machine. ‘Happy Fucking New Year. We’ve gone to win millions in Vegas. Leave us a message,’ Rita’s voice singsonged.

The beep sounded and Frankie left a brief message, saying she was safe and well with Hugh, but that she’d explain everything when she came back to LA. She knew Rita would understand. Best friends always did when it came to men.

Replacing the receiver, she stared out of the window, watching the last streak of sunset disappear into dusk. For a moment she thought about calling Reilly and then changed her mind. What the hell would she say? Sorry? Elton John was right when he said it was the hardest word. She caught herself. Christ, she must be knackered. She was quoting Elton John.

‘A bottle of the Chardonnay. And could you make sure it’s chilled?’ Closing the wine list, Hugh waved it at the waiter. He looked at Frankie and smiled. ‘Oh, sorry, darling, would you have preferred champagne? To celebrate?’

‘Oh, God, no. Wine’s fine . . . honestly,’ Frankie reassured him hastily. After last night she never wanted to drink champagne again. Her stomach still hadn’t recovered from having its lining dissolved by half a dozen bottles of the stuff.

They were having dinner at the Lodge’s rather upmarket restaurant, a snug dining room with an open fire and wood-panelled walls. It was one of those restaurants where the waiters hovered at your elbow and everyone – even Americans – talked in hushed voices. Frankie sat opposite Hugh, who seemed miles away across a large linen tablecloth with lots of different-sized spotlessly clean glasses and a whole trayful of cutlery.

Leaning across the table, Hugh reached out and held her hand. ‘You look beautiful tonight.’ At his suggestion she was wearing one of his favourite outfits, the beige trousersuit, and had clipped up her hair. ‘Just like the old you again.’

Frankie smiled at the compliment. Being together at the restaurant, it was as if the last few months had never happened. Hugh hadn’t changed at all. He still looked as handsome as ever. And her memory hadn’t exaggerated how long he took to get ready – he still took ages. Tonight she’d waited for half an hour, listening to the squirts of various aerosols, until eventually he’d emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, as if he was an XFactor contestant appearing from the swirling fog of dry ice.

‘What do you think about Valentine’s Day?’

‘What?’ She broke away from her thoughts, dropping the bread roll she’d been absent-mindedly demolishing into a pile of crumbs.

Hugh paused as the waiter reappeared with the wine. Watching him put his arm behind his back and pour a little in Hugh’s glass, Frankie couldn’t help feeling rankled. Why did waiters always do that? Why was it always the man who tasted the wine? Hugh sniffed it before taking a sip and made a point of rolling it around on his tongue for a while – well, he was a member of the
Sunday Times
Wine Club. Except he didn’t spit, he swallowed and nodded his approval.

‘For the wedding.’ Having answered Frankie’s question, Hugh laughed at her surprised expression. ‘I know what you’re thinking, it’s cheesy – I thought so too at first. But thinking about it, it’s actually rather kitsch. Love hearts and all that. It could be rather fun.’ He fiddled with one of his silver cufflinks shaped like golf clubs. ‘OK, I confess. Adam and Jessica suggested it.’

‘Adam and Jessica?’

‘Well, I told them I was coming here to propose. They gave me a lift to the airport. Did I tell you Adam’s bought himself one of those new Jags?’

Frankie wasn’t listening. It had suddenly dawned on her that Hugh had never doubted she’d accept his proposal. Always knew that she’d forgive him and take him back. Even before he’d apologised or said he’d made a mistake, he’d known she’d say yes. And he was right, wasn’t he? She had forgiven him, she had said yes.

So why did it bother her? She didn’t know. But what bothered her even more was the thought that her wedding was being planned by some dickhead in a Hawaiian shirt and his stick-thin girlfriend who thought cool was celebrating a birthday in a bloody bowling alley.

She bit her lip. All those times she’d missed Hugh and her life back in London, she’d forgotten about people like Adam and Jessica. It was strange how selective the memory could be, remembering the good bits but conveniently editing out all the others.

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Yeah, it’s a good idea.’ She nodded, trying to look enthusiastic. After all, it didn’t matter about Adam and Jessica. What mattered was that Hugh was finally talking about their relationship. After two years, he wasn’t discussing interest rates, the housing market or how Tiger Woods was doing in the American Open. He was talking about weddings. Their wedding.

‘And afterwards I think Adam can swing it for us to have the reception at Soho House.’

‘
Sounds great
.’ Sounds bloody awful, she cringed, trying to smile and at the same time not think about all the pretentious wankers who were members – such as Adam.

Eventually the food arrived. Salmon en croûte for Hugh, pasta for Frankie. Not that she ate much, she wasn’t hungry. Instead she picked at her food and drank more than a little too much wine as they chatted their way through the courses. Both of them had decided not to speak about the last few months. Hugh had said it was probably best they kept that to themselves. A clean start. Why talk about the past when they had their whole future to talk about? She’d agreed. Talking about the past would have meant talking about Reilly.

Instead they continued their conversation about their forthcoming nuptials, or rather Hugh talked and Frankie listened. To his views on wedding guests: ‘I can’t stand my boss, Graeme, or Sandra, his wife, but I don’t want to jeopardise my chances of promotion. What do you think about just inviting them to the evening do?’ The church: ‘Do you really want a church wedding? I was actually thinking Chelsea Register Office.’ The honeymoon: ‘I know you like lying on the beach, darling, but I rather fancied Nepal.’

How ironic, thought Frankie. For so long she’d wanted to talk about weddings but now, after just one evening, she realised how dull planning a wedding actually was. As Hugh moved on to the subject of his stag party – Adam had suggested he and a few chaps spent a weekend away paint-balling – she gazed distractedly at her engagement ring, shiny and sparkling, sitting upright on her finger like the new kid in class. A solitaire diamond thrust upwards in 22-carat gold clasps. Touching it, she was suddenly reminded of the ring Reilly had made for her, a twisted piece of gold tinfoil from the champagne bottle. She didn’t know where it was, probably lost in the rush to leave Las Vegas. Remembering it gave her a twinge of sadness. She was being silly. Hugh’s engagement ring was beautiful, why was she thinking about Reilly’s?

Finishing off their coffees and those orange circles of chocolate that came with them, they made their way back to the room. After a couple of glasses of wine she was dying for a cigarette but remembering how much Hugh hated her smoking, she waited until he went into the bathroom. No doubt he’d be in there for ages brushing, flossing, mouthwashing – plenty of time to have a quick fag.

Wrapping her old fleece around her shoulders, she slid open the doors leading on to the small decked terrace and, sitting on one of the wrought-iron patio chairs, lit up one of Rita’s American Spirits. She took a drag, watching the embers glow orange against the chilly darkness, and feeling the cold metal of the chair seep through her trousers. It was so quiet and still out here. No faint roar of traffic, noise from the television, hum of people talking. The lodge was perched right on the edge of the canyon. When it was light there was a wonderful view from here, according to the hotel’s colour brochure, but tonight all she could see was velvety blackness dotted with the faint glow of lights from neighbouring inns.

After a few minutes she began to notice the cold. Shivering, she wriggled her arms into the sleeves of her fleece, sticking up the collar and pulling it tighter. As she did she saw something fall out of one of the pockets. A flash of something, before it disappeared between the cracks in the wooden decking. For a moment she ignored it, finishing off her cigarette, until her curiosity overcame her and she bent down, running her fingers along the edge of the planks until she felt something. Small and fragile. She picked it up. It was Reilly’s ring. All bent out of shape from being squashed in a pocket. She must have put it there last night when she was packing in a rush and forgotten all about it. Resting it in the palm of her hand, she stared at it. Seeing it again conjured up so many memories. So many mixed emotions.

‘What are you doing out there?’ Hugh appeared.

‘Oh, nothing,’ she answered breezily, her fingers snapping shut around the ring like a Venus Flycatcher. ‘Just getting some fresh air.’

Hugh smiled affectionately and, putting his arms around her, leaned towards her to kiss her. Not a passionate tongues’n’saliva snog, but a firm kiss on the lips. It was their first kiss since he’d proposed and Frankie was surprised to realise how awkward she felt. Where were the fireworks? The racing pulse? The breathlessness? She dismissed the thought. She was a stupid romantic. Fireworks were for the movies.