Just for Fun (5 page)

After Nic had left, she’d closed the door behind him, then
stood for a minute with her forehead pressed against the worn wood. Just when
she thought she had a handle on things, life kept finding a way to throw her
off-balance. And this time, she was afraid it had knocked her completely over
the edge. She just hoped she could keep Zack from going with her.

The worst of it was that she couldn’t really blame her
situation on Nic. It was her own impulsive nature that was really at fault, and
she knew it. Why had she had to meet him when she was at her most vulnerable?
The first day of her non-honeymoon. The day after her non-wedding.

She hadn’t thought about that day in a long time. But seeing
Nic again brought the whole disastrous weekend back. Most women would have
thought themselves unlucky to have been spectacularly dumped on their wedding
day. Only she, Emma thought glumly, could have managed to be left twice in a
single week by
two
men, each of whom she’d considered the love of her
life. At one point or another, anyway. Just showed what kind of judgment she
had.

“Emma,” her mother had said sharply that morning nearly
seven years earlier, as Lucy finished fixing the wreath in place over Emma’s
blonde-streaked hair. “Pay attention. You’re off someplace else again. I asked
if you were ready for the dress.”

“She’s entitled, Mom,” Lucy said, coming to her younger
sister’s defense as she had so many times in their childhood. “It’s her wedding
day. She’s
supposed
to be dreamy today.”

Emma barely heard them. She stared into her own eyes in the
mirror above her little dressing table, her face looking unfamiliar under the
coating of mascara, eyeshadow, and foundation she rarely wore. “Are you sure
I’m doing the right thing?” she asked slowly. “When you married Dad, Mom.
Before, I mean. Did you have any  . . . any doubts?”

“Of course not,” her mother answered briskly, with the
obvious impatience she so often showed her younger daughter. “Your father and I
had a lot in common. Shared interests and backgrounds, academically and
intellectually. You and David might not be as alike as we are, but he’s good
for you. He’ll settle you down, keep you focused.”

“Do I want to be settled down, though?” Emma asked her
reflection.

“It’s not too late to back out, if you’re having second
thoughts,” Lucy said helpfully.

“Of course it is,” her mother shot back. “It’s cold feet,
that’s all. You’re just being a little flighty, like always. David’s perfect
for you, Emma. He’ll give you stability. Trust me.”

“Shouldn’t I feel more . . . excitement, though?” Emma
asked. “Thrilled, or something?”

Lucy looked down at her sister thoughtfully as their mother
moved to the closet for the simple dress she’d helped Emma choose. “No sparks,
huh?”

“Well, not
no,”
Emma conceded. “But you know, not a
burning flame or anything. He doesn’t seem to feel like that either. I thought
men were supposed to be more eager than that. More excited.”

“That’s a myth,” her mother said firmly, coming back with
the ivory silk held carefully in her outstretched arms. “You’d think men were
some kind of animals, the things people say. Anyway, that certainly isn’t what
carries a marriage through the years. It’s the friendship that matters. That’s
what lasts.”

The door to the bedroom opened, and the man in question
stepped inside, closing it again behind him. All three women turned to look at
him. He hadn’t changed into his dark blue suit yet, Emma saw with surprise.
Instead, he wore his usual khaki Dockers and blue button-down Oxford cloth
shirt. And his usual white New Balance shoes. Emma felt a guilty flash of
annoyance even through her puzzlement. She wished he’d take her hints and buy a
pair of more fashionable shoes like the ones she kept pointing out to him. How
was she supposed to get excited by somebody who clipped his phone to his belt,
and flossed every single night, and wore those
shoes?
She felt a wave of
actual revulsion.
Was
it just cold feet? Was this normal?

“David,” Frances said in surprise. “Why are you here? I
don’t believe in that nonsense about bad luck, of course. But Emma needs to get
ready, and you should be getting dressed yourself.”

David, for once, ignored the wife of his department head. “I
need to talk to you, Emma,” he said instead. “Privately.”

“Five minutes, then,” Frances decided. “Come on, Lucy.”

Lucy’s observant glance shot from Emma to David, then back
to Emma. “I can stay, if you want,” she offered.

“No,” Emma said, swinging herself around on the little stool
so she faced the room. “David wants to talk to me alone.” Icy fingers of dread
were running down her back, even as her mind went blank. Something was about to
happen.

Her sister nodded, gave David one final appraising glance as
she left the room with their mother.

Emma watched the door shut behind them, then turned to look
again at David. “What’s going on?”

He sank onto the bed. Put a hand on each knee and exhaled in
a long sigh. “I know how much this is going to hurt you. But I can’t pretend
anymore, and it wouldn’t be fair to you to marry you, feeling the way I do.”

“What way?” Those icy fingers were playing some kind of
sonata now. “Are you
dumping
me? On our
wedding
day?”

“I just don’t think we’re compatible enough,” he explained.
“You have good values, and the right background. But there’s something
missing.”

“I have good
values?”
she asked, staring at him.
“That’s it? That’s been the attraction?”

“You’re a nice person,” he explained. “Not that steady,
maybe. A little moody. But you have a good character. And that’s important, in
a partner. But I’m sorry. It isn’t enough for me.”

“My good character isn’t enough,” she said, fighting an
absurd desire to laugh. Or cry. Or something. “It doesn’t make up for . . .
what?”

“For a real connection. I’ve realized I need somebody who
understands my work, and can have a real discussion with me about it. Somebody
who’s intellectually compatible.”

“You want to discuss your work more? Who with? Who is it
that’s going to have this real discussion with you?” Her breath was coming
faster now, and she could feel the heat burning in her cheeks.

“Don’t get excited,” he cautioned.

“Don’t get
excited?
Don’t get
EXCITED?”
Her
voice was rising. “Could you have maybe figured this out a week ago? A
day
ago?
Instead of me sitting here in my slip, ready to put on my fu—my frigging
wedding
dress?
So who is it? Who is it who understands you so well?” she demanded
again.

“Nothing’s happened,” he hastened to say. “Nothing
inappropriate.”

“Oh, no. Nothing inappropriate,” she said sarcastically.
“You’ve just been having meaningful,
real discussions.
About your
work.”

“Yes!” he said in relief, misinterpreting her remarks as
always. “She’s been helping me with some numerical analysis, these past weeks,
and something’s grown up between us. It isn’t fair to you to go ahead with this,
feeling the way I do. I know it’ll cause some trouble in the department, and
I’m prepared to deal with that.”

“Well, goody for you. How noble. So we’re talking about
Karen Fuchs here?
That’s
your dream girl?”

“Nothing’s happened, I said,” he reminded her sharply.
“There’s been no inappropriate behavior.”

“Don’t worry,” she said bitterly, getting up and going to the
door. “I’m not going to sic my dad on you for having an affair with a student.
I don’t care. Just leave.” Tears of humiliation burned in her eyes as she
pushed the handle down, pulled the door toward her.

“I know this is a disappointment to you,” he went on,
standing up awkwardly. “And I’m sorry. But we both need to be sure. And I
found, when it came down to it, that I just couldn’t settle.”

“
You
couldn’t settle,” she said, feeling the bubble
of hysteria rising inside her. She felt like screaming, slammed her mouth shut
on the impulse. She made a wide sweeping motion with her arm. “Here I thought
I
was settling. Wow. Get out.”

“I was hoping you’d understand. That we could be civilized
about this. Bury the hatchet, before I left,” he said pleadingly, standing
reluctantly as she continued to gesture at him.

“I’ll bury it,” she told him furiously. “Right in your head.
Out.”

“Here.” He held out an envelope she hadn’t noticed. “The bookings.
For the honeymoon. Take them.”

“You want me to go on the
honeymoon?”
she asked, that
bubble rising again. “Doesn’t Karen want to go to Fiji? Show you her fine
growth of body hair?”

“She has exams,” he said guilelessly. “She can’t go. And the
tickets are nonrefundable. As it’s the last minute. So you may as well take the
trip.” He held out the envelope again, then set it on the bed as she continued
to glare at him, making no move to take it. “Well, I’ll just . . . leave this
for you, I guess,” he said hastily, seeing her feet shift and her face redden
even more. “Sorry about this. But I think it’ll be for the best.”

“Oh, I know it’ll be for the best. I’m counting on that.
Would you just
leave?
”

She watched him walk through the door at last, then gave in
to temptation and slammed it after him. She hoped it made him jump. She pulled
off her slip so she was standing in her wedding underwear—
wedding underwear
,
she thought savagely. Maybe she should offer that to Karen too. Along with
David. Wrapped up in a big red bow. White running shoes, khakis, dental floss,
and all. Good luck with that.

She wrenched off the lacy white bra and thong, threw them
across the room. They weren’t even substantial enough to make it to the
opposite wall, fluttering down before they’d got halfway. No chance, anyway.
Karen would never be able to get into them.

So there she’d been. She hadn’t been able to stand staying
in her parents’ house on what had been supposed to be her wedding night, facing
their concern, with its clear undercurrent of disappointment in her failure to
make her life work as neatly as theirs always seemed to. Their obvious opinion
that, once again, she’d proven to be a failure. A screwup. She’d given up her
room in the flat she’d shared in preparation for moving into David’s sterile,
modern flat in Newmarket (“so convenient to the University, and easy to keep
clean”), and she hadn’t been able to face the humiliation of going to stay with
a friend.

In the end, she’d taken a taxi to the Heritage Hotel, booked
into the room David had reserved for their wedding night, wanting to face the
experience down and conquer it. She’d had an image of herself, strong and
brave, moving on with her life. And had known that on some level, she was
relieved. But all the same, to her frustrated bewilderment, she’d ended up
crying most of the night, and on into the next day. Had got on the plane, still
teary, sleepless, and fortified by a big glass of wine from an airport bar.
Another two glasses on board, and she’d been more than ready to make a fool of
herself with the irresistible package that had been Dominic Wilkinson at
twenty-two.

He’d been so easygoing, so offhand, so effortlessly,
casually attractive, in his shorts, T-shirt, and jandals. His arms around her,
holding her so securely as she fell into his lap, his solid thighs underneath
her. All that lean, hard muscle. And those eyes. The lazy tilt of them. The
gleam in them, promising something she hadn’t quite understood, but had recognized
all the same.

But none of the hard edges, the toughness she’d seen in him
tonight. Just . . . fun. That’s what she’d thought, sitting next to him, looking
at him while he made his cheeky proposal. He was like a big, beautiful present,
being handed to her. She’d tried so hard to focus, to be serious, to do what
was expected. And look how much good that had done her. Now here he was,
looking like that, smiling like that, offering her this week out of her life.
That nobody would ever, ever know about. Something just for her. Just for now.
Just for fun.

“My legs are rubber,” Lucy complained, wiping her face again
with the towel and dropping onto a stool at the juice bar of the Les Mills gym.
It was quiet this Saturday morning, all the young singles still recovering from
their Friday night out. “You’re killing me.”

“Hey. You said you wanted to do this,” Emma protested,
giving her own face a swipe. “It won’t always feel so bad. I swear, I can see a
difference in you already.” She inspected her sister’s taller, curvier figure.
“Your arms look great. I can see the weight loss, but you’re looking toned too.
And it’s only been, what? Five times?”

“Six,” Lucy groaned. “But who’s counting. I was so sore
after the first time, I almost rang up on the Monday, pulled a sickie. But in
the end, I couldn’t imagine explaining to the head that I’d overdone it at Body
Pump. How can you put that much weight on your bar, anyway? You’re smaller than
me. Where are you hiding the muscle?”

“It’s just practice,” Emma shrugged, taking a sip of her own
water. “And muscle doesn’t have to be big and bulky, you know.”

“Sure you don’t want a smoothie?” Lucy asked as she saw
Emma’s eyes drift to her own slushy concoction.

“No. Too many kilojoules,” Emma said firmly.

“Like you need to worry about that,” Lucy scoffed. “You know
I don’t mind treating you. It’s just a smoothie, for heaven’s sake.”

“No,” Emma said again. “You’ve done enough for me. I don’t
like juice that much anyway, and water’s the best hydration.”

Lucy sighed. “You’re too proud.” She rubbed her thighs. “How
did you do all those squats? Let’s hope Tom doesn’t think he’s having sex
tonight. My range of motion is going to be limited for days here.”