Sweet Temptation (18 page)

Things seemed to move in slow motion as I turned on my chair. I half expected cowboy movie music to start up, guitar strings to be plucked as I saw at last my competition. Oh shit. Serena Porter, her name was. Eyes of blue and big boobs too. She was giggling, head thrown back, cleavage wobbling mesemerizingly.

Patrick, bell in hand, saw me staring at her, then clocked Joe gazing over in the same direction, his tongue hanging out, no doubt. Patrick’s look of understanding and then sympathy said it all. I didn’t stand a chance. He rang the bell and it sounded like a death knell.

The rest of the evening was similarly disappointing. The worst moment, the absolute trough of despair, was seeing Joe snogging the face off Serena at the bar, like he wanted to suck the life-breath out of her.

‘Get a room,’ Patrick murmured, rolling his eyes as he saw them.

‘Get a new crush, more like,’ I muttered as I dragged my gaze away. Damn it. Damn it! I’d been out of the singles scene for so long, I’d forgotten the torture and torment. Somehow I’d managed to convince myself I could get a bloke with a click of my fingers. Wrong, Lauren. So bloody wrong. I imagined Cheating Brendan having a good old laugh if he could see me now. What kind of dating agency owner was I when I couldn’t even get a date for myself?

At the end of the night, I collected in the score sheets and got back onto the platform. Most people were semi-pissed by that point and had homed in on their target lovers. I had spotted much phone-number-swapping and flirtatious eyelash-batting. Incredibly, even Slaphead Bob seemed to have pulled beaky Marianne.

I took up my microphone, giving it my all in the fake-smile department. ‘What a fantastic evening it’s been!’ I said, lying through my teeth. ‘Thank you so much for coming, everyone – I hope you’ve enjoyed meeting some new people and that you’ve all felt the flickerings of love.’

There was a ripple of laughter at that, although I felt like crying at the irony.

‘I just want to leave you with something really wonderful to think about,’ I said. My jaw muscles were starting to ache from my pretend smile. ‘Tomorrow, Patrick and I will be attending a wedding – but not just any old wedding. A wedding between two of our former clients, who met through Love Hearts two years ago. They got to know one another, fell in love, and never looked back. And that makes me very happy, knowing that I helped them find each other.’ My voice wobbled. Aarrrgh.
Do not start blubbing, Lauren, you sap.
‘I hope that each and every one of you here tonight can find a special person to share the rest of your life with – you’re all lovely people and deserve to be very happy.’

Thunderous applause greeted my words, and a swell of optimism seemed to surge around the room. People were smiling at me, at each other, glasses were raised in a toast . . . We
are
lovely, aren’t we? Yes, we
do
deserve to be very happy.

It would have been quite moving if I wasn’t feeling so depressed.
They really believe it
, I thought in wonder.
They
really believe in the happy-ever-after.

‘Thanks also for filling in the score sheets. Patrick and I will sort through them on Monday and let you know the results as soon as we can,’ I went on. ‘Our bar has closed now, so I wish you all a very good evening. Thank you.’

In other words, hurry up and go home, I’ve had enough. I was badly in need of a smoke and a large vodka.

I put the lights up to their brightest and began pointedly clearing away the glasses and bottles. Joe left with his arm slung around Dolly-Bird Serena, and it was all I could do to stop myself from banging my head against the wall.

‘No one will ever fancy me again,’ I moaned once the guests had all left. I snapped the music off, unable to bear it any longer.

‘What’s that?’ Patrick said, coming up behind me and putting a hand on my shoulder. To my horror I started to cry, stupid big tears sliding through my make-up like snail tracks.

He hugged me and I started snivelling incomprehensibly about being a lonely old spinny for the rest of my life. ‘Oh, babe,’ he said, kissing the top of my head. ‘Forget that Joe prat. Plenty more fish in the sea.’

‘I don’t want to have sex with a fish, though,’ I sobbed.

‘Well, no,’ he agreed. ‘But . . .’

I blew my nose and tried to get a grip. I was making a complete tit of myself. ‘Sorry,’ I said, hiccupping. ‘I . . . I don’t suppose there’s any chance you fancy a quick glass of wine round at mine, do you? I’ve just bought the
Mad Men
Season 1 box set and . . .’

He squeezed my shoulder. ‘Sounds good to me. I’ll never say no to Don Draper – or you and your sofa. You order us a cab and I’ll clear these glasses away.’

I was so glad I had Patrick. So, so glad. I wasn’t sure how I’d ever managed without him.

‘Do you, Francesca Meredith Vickers, take this man, Damon Paul McCarthy, to be your lawful wedded husband?’

‘I do.’

I was sitting at the back of the chapel next to Patrick, who smirked at me. He was trying to make me laugh, but I was steeped in memories of my own wedding day and not in the mood. I kept thinking of the way Brendan had looked at me when I’d walked into the room where we’d made our vows, the way his eyes had been so full of love, the way he’d mouthed that ‘Wow!’ at me as he saw my long white dress . . .

‘I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride,’ said the registrar.

Everyone clapped as Francesca and Damon kissed tenderly at the front of the room. A string quartet began to play and I got the shivers. She looked beautiful, Francesca. She had on the most amazing off-the-shoulder dress, with thousands of tiny beads stitched across the bodice and a full train.

Patrick leaned over. ‘What’s up? You look like you’re at a Mass Suicide Convention.’

As sensitive as ever, our Pat. I glared at him. ‘Just thinking.’

Just thinking.
I’d done nothing
but
think since the night before, and I was starting to feel a complete fraud. I mean, there I was running Love Hearts, and I was the most bitter and twisted single person in the country. And probably the most unlovable. ‘What am I
doing
?’ I’d moaned to Eddie, who, for once, had deigned to sit with me while I had my breakfast that morning. ‘Am I completely nuts, working in this industry when it’s all a load of cobblers?’

He blinked his yellow eyes at me and kneaded my legs, purring. ‘You don’t care, do you, as long as it brings in the Whiskas, right?’ I asked, scratching him behind the ears. ‘Oh, Eddie. Maybe I should try something else – a different job that doesn’t rub my nose in how crap and loveless I am. Maybe I should go and work in a prison or a reform centre instead. That would probably be more uplifting.’

‘Come on, Cupid, they’re serving the champers,’ Patrick said now, pulling at my sleeve. I jumped, and realized that people all around were getting to their feet, the bright hats and dresses of the ladies mingling with the sober suits of the gents. I’d been planning to wear what I’d worn to all last summer’s weddings – a mint-green shift dress that looked perfect with my highest jade heels and a matching clutch. Unfortunately, when I’d tried it on that morning I’d only been able to do the zip up halfway, and so, at the last minute, I’d had to iron a drapey pale pink number which was more forgiving on the hips but was so shapeless, I was convinced I looked like a blancmange in it. I sighed, wishing that diets weren’t such an effort. And that men weren’t, either . . .

Patrick was staring at me. ‘Are you
sure
you’re all right?’ His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘You’re thinking about that bloke, aren’t you? Joe from last night?’

I stood up and adjusted my hat. ‘Don’t be daft,’ I said. ‘You know me – hard as nails. Right, let’s find this bubbly, then.’

‘And now I believe the
bride
would like to make a speech, so I’ll hand you over to my gorgeous wife, Mrs Francesca McCarthy!’

Applause rang around the marquee. We’d come to a beautiful old manor house in Worcestershire for the reception, the sort of place which made you feel like you’d stepped into a Jane Austen novel. The house itself was set in parkland with a lake nearby and huge leafy trees everywhere. We’d just had the most delicious, booze-fuelled wedding breakfast in the marquee, and I was feeling much more chipper about life. The bride’s dad, the groom and best man had all made speeches and now Francesca wanted a word, it seemed. Good on her. I’d never understood why so many brides sat there in silence.

‘Hello!’ she said into the microphone now, sounding as if she were addressing a capacity crowd at Wembley Stadium. A group of women on a table nearby – her friends, presumably – cheered, and someone wolf-whistled. Francesca grinned self-consciously and shrugged. ‘Hey, I couldn’t just let the blokes do all the talking, now, could I? You know me – I like to say my bit too.’

I found myself smiling. I couldn’t help it. She was absolutely brimming with happiness. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t bang on for ages – I know some of you are dying to go and have a fag,’ she went on breezily. ‘I just want to say a massive thank you to all of you for coming today. This is honestly the best day of my whole life, and I’m thrilled to see so many friends and family members here to share it with us. Damon’s already done a brilliant job of thanking our gorgeous bridesmaids, our best man Phil and our mums for all their hard work, so I don’t need to say it all again, but there is one other special person I’d like to thank, because none of us would be here today if it wasn’t for her.’

Ahhh, that’s nice, I thought. About time the wedding planner got a mention for pulling this little lot together.

‘Two years ago, I’d just moved to Birmingham,’ Francesca went on. ‘I didn’t know anybody here and was really lonely at first. So I joined this dating agency, Love Hearts, and . . .’

‘Oh shit,’ I mumbled, the colour draining from my face.

‘And the lady there, Lauren, matched me up straight away with Damon. We went to Chez Jules on our first date, and before I’d even finished my starter, I knew I’d met my soul mate. I knew I’d found the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.’ Her voice wobbled as she gazed at Damon, love shining from her face.

‘Awwww,’ her mates sighed happily in unison.

‘So I just want to say a ginormous thank you to Lauren, who’s here with us today. Where are you, Lauren? These are for you.’

She was holding a gorgeous bouquet: pink roses and lilies and sprays of gypsophila.

‘Go on, then,’ Patrick hissed, elbowing me hard. ‘Lauren!’

I got to my feet feeling dazed. A lot of people were embarrassed about using dating agencies, and most wouldn’t confess to meeting their partner through them. No such qualms for Francesca, though, obviously. I went up to take the flowers and she hugged me. ‘There was no need for this!’ I said to her.

‘There was every need,’ she replied in my ear as she kissed me on the cheek.

‘Thank you a million times, Lauren,’ she said into her microphone as I went back to my seat. ‘I owe you big-time for finding me my husband. And with that, I’d like to propose a toast. To true love!’

It was probably all the free wine and champers I’d necked, but as I laid the sweet-smelling bouquet down on the table and lifted my glass of bubbly, even I found myself chiming in with the toast. ‘To true love!’

‘You’re not
crying
, are you?’ Patrick asked, unable to disguise how hilarious he thought this was.

I blinked away the tears that had indeed gathered in my eyes.

‘’Course I’m not,’ I told him, managing a watery smile. ‘Ooh look, they’re about to cut the cake. Come on.’

He grinned at me as we made our way over to the cake table. ‘That’s my girl.’

Chapter Eleven

Black Coffee

Maddie

‘And nine . . . and ten . . . Very good, Maddie. You’re really going for it!’

Mike’s face split into a wide grin as I put the hand weights back on the floor and puffed out a sigh. I was sitting on a big silver gym ball and had just done ten bicep curls while one foot was raised in the air – harder than you might think.

‘Cheers,’ I said weakly, glugging some water. ‘What’s next, then, oh task-master?’

He consulted his clipboard. ‘Chest press, I think. This way!’

Never in a million years did I ever think I would say this, but going to the gym had become my favourite part of the day. Yes, seriously. While Paul had been in Wales with the kids, I’d gone there first thing every morning. I hadn’t missed a single day. The pills Mum was taking made her tired and she was sleeping late, so a workout gave me something to do rather than dragging around at home gnawed up with worry before I went round to hers at eleven or so. I found that it set me up for the whole day if I got in an hour-long workout; it made me feel as if I was taking back some control over my life when everything else had been shaken up so frighteningly. And I had discovered how
good
working out made me feel, how much I loved the rush of the endorphins buzzing around my body afterwards.

If Mike, the gym manager, was surprised to see me appearing there in my tracky bottoms and slightly-less-gleaming trainers day in, day out, he was far too professional to question it. Perhaps he’d heard from someone about Mum’s illness and was discreetly avoiding the subject. Perhaps he thought I was just getting my money’s worth out of the membership. Whatever, he was always full of praise about my new commitment to getting fit. ‘I think today might be the day we get you going a bit faster on the treadmill,’ he said during this particular session, after twenty gruelling reps on the chest press.

I shook my head. ‘No way,’ I said. ‘I’m sticking at walking on that thing. I can’t go any faster, Mike, I just can’t.’

The truth was, I was scared of the treadmill. I was scared of it whizzing round too quickly and dragging me off the end. I watched people running on it with awe – I was sure I’d never have the coordination to do the same. Yet they just pounded along on it serenely, legs pumping in perfect rhythm, arms swinging purposefully, eyes fixed ahead in determination.