The Chocolate Lovers' Club (26 page)

‘Don’t do this,’ he says bleakly.

I can’t think of anything to say. My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

‘Don’t get married.’

When I look round, I see that the forks of all of my friends have also stalled.

Then, with impeccable timing, Raunchy Roberta, the red-wigged compère, breezes up to our table.

‘Oh – hello, love.’ His immaculately manicured fingers latch onto Aiden’s arm and he pulls him into a robust cuddle, theatrically squeezing his biceps. The spotlight swings onto our table. The rest of the drunken hen-party audience ‘ooo’ their appreciation. I want to die. Crush blinks against the harsh light and I want to stand up and stop this, but I can’t. My brain can’t make my legs work, or my mouth, or anything vaguely useful. ‘You’re a handsome young thing.’

Crush looks perplexed and desperately uncomfortable with the glare of attention.

‘Are you the lucky groom?’

‘No,’ he says flatly.

‘You look like you wish that you were.’ The audience cheer. Crush says nothing.

Chantal whispers in my ear, ‘For an old drag queen, this guy is remarkably perceptive.’

‘Take her home and give her a good shagging,’ the compère advises. ‘It might be your last chance!’ And then he moves on to the next table which is hosted by a bride who looks at least six months’ pregnant as her bump’s twice as big as Chantal’s. Still he hasn’t finished with Aiden, as he shouts over his shoulder, ‘If she won’t have you, then maybe you can give me a go!’

Chantal takes my fork from me and returns it to my plate. ‘You should both get out of here,’ she says to me and to Crush. ‘It seems as if you’ve got a lot to talk about.’

My friend somehow pushes me to my feet and my legs remember how to do the walking thing. Crush takes my hand and leads me out of the club. And it just goes to
show what a state I’m in, since not only have I abandoned my friends at my own hen night, but I have left chocolate cake unfinished and I don’t even think about it until much, much later.

Chapter Fifty-Six

C
rush and I find a ‘late-nite’ coffee shop somewhere in the depths of Soho. It’s possibly the scruffiest place on earth. The flooring is all cracked and dirty. The windows look like they haven’t seen soapy water in many a year. Spent coffee cups and the remnants of muffins and biscuits litter the tops of the tables. We find one by the window that’s relatively clean and I slide into my seat.

There are a few dossers in here and a couple of lads in hoodies. They all take in my outfit. The hoodies don’t try to disguise their smirks. If I had the strength I’d tell them all to fuck off, but I don’t.

‘Do you want coffee?’

I nod. It’s the first thing that Aiden has said to me since we left the club. He slips off his jacket and puts it round my shoulders. I hug it to me. It smells of his aftershave. Then he goes to the counter and waits while the order is prepared by a surly Polish girl who clearly would rather be anywhere else than here. Part of me knows how she feels.

My heart is racing with adrenaline and there’s a warm buzz inside me. My head is spinning, but it’s nothing to
do with the amount of champagne that I’ve sunk. Aiden came after me. He came and found me at my hen night and plighted his troth – possibly. But part of me doesn’t want to be having this conversation at all. I’m marrying Marcus the day after tomorrow and I want to be deliriously happy about that. Part of me is. But part of me is filled with sheer terror. Is that the right thing for a soon-to-be-bride to feel?

Crush brings our coffee back. Two lattes. Most of it is slopped into the saucers, but it’s not Aiden’s fault. ‘I brought us a couple of chocolate muffins too,’ he says.

Despite the scabby appearance of the café, the muffins look great. Homemade. Chocolate chip. And I can’t eat a bite. This is a dire situation. Crush makes a half-hearted attempt to pick at his.

The coffee’s passable too. Although I did tip three packets of sugar into it. I need the energy lift is my excuse. It’s hot and I like the burning feeling in my hands as I nurse my cup. Pulling off my headdress and veil, without thinking, I set them down on the table next to me in a puddle of coffee.

‘So what are we going to do?’ I ask.

‘I don’t want you to make a mistake, Gorgeous,’ Crush says eventually.

‘And you think that’s what I’m doing?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Until a few minutes ago, I would probably have said you were wrong.’

‘And now?’

I shake my head. ‘And now I don’t know.’

‘Marcus isn’t right for you,’ Crush tells me.

I hazard a smile. ‘And you are?’

‘I think so.’

‘We tried it, Aiden, but it didn’t work out.’

‘I think we were too hasty,’ he says. ‘
I
was too hasty.’ He reaches across the grubby table and finds my hand. ‘What we had was very special.’

‘And I blew it.’

‘We shouldn’t have split up. I was too hurt, too hasty.’

‘That was exactly my excuse.’

He shakes his head. ‘I know.’ He tries a smile. ‘It was an excellent excuse.’

‘So?’ I realise that I’m fiddling with my engagement ring and stop. ‘Are you asking me to marry you?’

‘No,’ Crush says. ‘I just think we should give our relationship another go.’

‘You want me to call off my wedding with two days to go on the strength of the fact that we might have a hope of being able to forge a decent relationship?’

‘It’s more than that,’ he says. ‘You know it is.’ He rubs over the back of my hand with his thumb. ‘I know that I’m asking a lot, Lucy.’

‘Too right you are.’ I aim for flippant and miss.

Distractedly, I mop up the coffee with my veil as I think of the chic, sophisticated number that’s hanging on the back of my bedroom door. Should I cancel the wedding on the off-chance that I can make a go of a relationship with Aiden ‘Crush’ Holby, who I seem to be unable to get out of my system? Or shall I stay with Marcus, who is a long way from perfect, but who wants me as his wife?

Chapter Fifty-Seven

A
s is the tradition of all good hen nights, I have a stupendous hangover. I’m slumped on a sofa in the corner of Chocolate Heaven surrounded by my best girls. They have hangovers too. Except Chantal – who looks so awful that she should have a hangover.

I’m clutching my head and my stomach. I don’t know which is hurting most. I am bravely eating my way through a slice of chocolate banoffee cheesecake with the aim of restoring my equilibrium. Chocolate is a well-known cure for a hangover – as well as the common cold, PMT, nosebleeds and possibly verrucas. In fact, the only afflictions it doesn’t cure are, unfortunately, acne and obesity. Bananas are loaded with protein too, which is good for you – so this, effectively, is medicine.

‘What are you going to do?’ Nadia asks. She is prostrate on the sofa next to me. Her voice replicates the gravel-soaked tones of Bonnie Tyler.

‘It’s good to see that, even though I abandoned you, my dear friends, during the prime of my hen night, you were able to continue the party quite successfully without me.’

‘We thought you might come back,’ Autumn says.

‘We didn’t know if we were celebrating for you or drowning our sorrows,’ Nadia chips in. ‘So we did both.’

I hang my head. ‘What am I going to do?’

The girls glance at me nervously and Chantal acts as spokesperson. ‘That’s what we want to know, honey.’

‘Crush has asked me to cancel the wedding.’

Nadia puts her hand on my arm. ‘And is that what you want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You have one day to make up your mind,’ she points out.

Don’t I know it. Right after our hastily convened meeting here, I’m setting off to Trington Manor. Marcus has organised a car to pick me up and transport all my stuff there. He’s joining me later as are my parents – my dad and his bimbo hairdresser; my mum and her balding millionaire. Already, I feel faint at the thought of it.

‘You can’t cancel a wedding with one day to go before it,’ I say wearily. ‘Just think of the expense. This has cost Marcus thousands. Thousands and thousands.’

‘You can’t get married when you’ve got so many doubts, Lucy.’ Trust Autumn to spot that one.

‘I do love Marcus,’ I insist. ‘It’s just that . . .’

‘You love Crush more.’

‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘It was simply an infatuation. It’s just that he’s so very persuasive.’ I think of him sitting in the café last night with his big brown puppy-dog eyes and I could quite easily believe that anything was possible. I could cancel the wedding, let Marcus down lightly with no hard feelings and sail off into the sunset with Crush, knowing that
despite our shaky start, we’d be deliriously happy in the end. Then I realise that I’ve been watching far too many romantic films. Richard Gere and Debra Winger have a lot to answer for. This sort of thing only happens in Hollywood. I have to remember that. In real life, everyone will be really upset and no one will ever speak to me again. I’ll lose Marcus and then Crush and I will break up and I’ll be left alone with no one to love me. People don’t cancel weddings at the eleventh hour. It isn’t the done thing. How could I cause so much pain? I shake my head sadly. ‘I’ll phone Crush and tell him that I got carried away with the moment, but that it would be a big mistake for me to cancel my wedding.’

My friends nod at me – Nadia and Autumn trying not to move their heads too much – but they don’t look convinced.

‘I want you all at the hotel bright and early,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Darren is coming out to do our hair first thing and he’s bringing an assistant to do the make-up.’

Marcus has booked us separate rooms for tonight – call us superstitious, but he didn’t want to risk any bad luck. Which means a bit of a lie-in and a cooked breakfast for me. Yay!

Clive comes over. ‘How are my best customers today?’

‘Sssh,’ I say. ‘Don’t shout.’

He lowers his voice. ‘Hangovers?’

We all risk a nod again. Clive throws a business card on the coffee-table in front of us. It says:
Raunchy Roberta – Female Impersonator
.

‘One of the drag queens?’ I want to know.

‘Yes,’ he confirms. Then he sighs unhappily. ‘I found this in Tristan’s pocket. Why would he have it there? He’s seeing other men, I’m sure of it.’

Does he mean men or women? I don’t like to ask.

‘I think the writing is on the wall for our relationship,’ he continues. ‘He’s been making secretive phone calls all morning and now he’s disappeared out to who knows where.’

‘There may be a perfectly plausible explanation,’ Autumn suggests.

‘Maybe Tris is making a booking with Raunchy Roberta to jump out of my wedding cake,’ I put in.

‘That would have to be one
fucking
big cake,’ Clive says and, despite his misery, we all burst out laughing together.

‘I’m going to have to get myself a reliable assistant,’ he continues when the giggles have subsided. ‘I don’t know how long I can depend on Tristan being around. Let me know if there are any of your friends who’d be interested.’

‘I wouldn’t mind doing some shifts,’ I say. What I think is that I’m never ever going to be able to go back to Targa and face Crush as Mrs Marcus Canning. That chapter of my life has to remain resolutely closed. Aiden Holby has to be firmly beyond the reach of temptation. ‘When all the fuss from the wedding has calmed down, of course.’

‘No way. You’d eat all my profits,’ Clive quips.

I fold my arms huffily. ‘That’s gratitude for you.’

We all laugh again. Clive moves away. ‘Let me know if you need anything else,’ he says over his shoulder.

‘I need to be making tracks.’ I squeeze in the last mouthful of my chocolate banoffee cheesecake. This could be my
last chocolate fix as a single woman. The thought makes me shiver. ‘I can’t eat another thing,’ I say, feeling thoroughly podged. I smooth my hands over my stomach. It’s currently rounder than Chantal’s and she’s pregnant! ‘You’re all going to have to shoehorn me into that damn dress. How can I lose two stone by tomorrow?’

‘Have both of your legs amputated,’ is Nadia’s helpful suggestion.

‘That would make walking down the aisle interesting.’

‘I didn’t say it was the perfect solution,’ my friend tells me. Then she glances round the group, seeking approval. ‘I’ll ask one last time, Lucy,’ Nadia says. ‘Are you sure that you’re doing the right thing?’

‘Yes.’ I stand up and tug my handbag over my shoulder. ‘The wedding will go ahead tomorrow.’ I sound extraordinarily decisive, even though my stomach lurches in terror. ‘Marcus and I will be married and we’ll be very happy together.’

Chapter Fifty-Eight

A
utumn and Richard’s respective bedrooms at their parents’ house had barely changed since they were teenagers. In Autumn’s case, there were no pop posters on her wall, since she’d been listening to folk music when everyone else was into Madonna or Queen or whoever. Her rosettes from her Pony Club prizes, still plastered around the dressing-table mirror, held a fine layer of dust. Downstairs, the house had been revamped and redecorated a dozen times, but going up three flights of stairs to the top floor took you into a time-warp.

Opening Richard’s door, the familiar smell of old wood and boys’ shoes hit her. Apart from a brief visit on their disastrous Christmas Day, it was years since she’d spent any time up here. Years since she’d needed to. Autumn remembered barefoot pillow fights, bouncing on her brother’s creaking bed, too far up in the house to be heard by their parents – if they were even there. Work had always been their first priority and, thankfully, they were both still out of the country until the end of the week, so no need to explain away her impromptu visit. She didn’t want to start lying to them about what she was doing in Richard’s
bedroom. Although she still did have a door key for emergencies, Jenkinson had let her in, but she knew that she could trust him not to mention her visit to her mother and father. Their old butler had often been more of a father figure to her than her own parent.

Autumn whisked the curtains open. This was definitely a boys’ room. It was tidier now, but the bookcase still held Richard’s copies of
The Outsiders
,
Lord of the Flies
,
Catcher in the Rye
and a copy of
The Complete Works of Shakespeare
stolen from the school library. A row of shakily constructed Airfix models graced the top, including a Harrier jump jet which her brother had spent hours making at the time when he had longed to become an RAF fighter pilot. She ran her hand over the model and wondered what had happened to his dreams. How could someone who had so much potential have messed up so spectacularly?