The Nearly-Weds (16 page)

I think about these details and a million others. And I can’t stop.

As well as the obvious problem that I’m still in love with him, it doesn’t help that there are so many unanswered questions about our relationship. For example, I have no idea when it all went wrong. I’ve asked myself time and time again and come up with a different conclusion every time.

Then there’s my unresolved suspicion that there must have been another woman. Jason insisted afterwards that there wasn’t – not to me, because I’ve never seen him since that fateful day, but it wasn’t long before his explanation filtered through to me via mutual friends: he just got cold feet. He couldn’t go through with it. He’d realized I wasn’t right for him.

Hearing all this made the weeks after the wedding so much more unbearable – because, although Liverpool has a population of around half a million, it can be a bit of a village sometimes. Ironically, it was one of the things I used to like about it. For example, I don’t think I’ve ever walked into Keith’s wine bar on Lark Lane without bumping into someone I know. I liked to think of it as comparable to life on the set of
Friends
, except that I bear about as close a resemblance to Jennifer Aniston as I do to a humpback whale.

The only problem with a village is that when there’s something you don’t want to talk about, it becomes difficult when you know it’s the hottest topic around.

I know it’s human nature to gossip. But I can’t imagine anything attracting more speculation and discussion than my wedding day.

Bizarrely, though, the one person few people wanted to discuss it with was me. The look on their faces when they did end up talking to me – particularly if it was the first time they’d bumped into me since the day – was universally of pity, awkwardness, discomfort – a bit like the women in the Wind-eze adverts look when they’re suffering from ‘tummy troubles’, except, of course, you can’t buy something over the counter to stop you getting stuck in conversation with Zoe Moore.

I suppose it was only to be expected, but after a while the atmosphere around me, everywhere I went, became oppressive.

Even my relationships with my friends were affected. Jessica, whom I’d been so close to over the past few years, didn’t know how to handle things post-14 April. The problem was that her fiancé Neil was Jason’s best friend. When Jason and I were together, this cosy set-up had been great. When we’d split up, it was disastrous.

The once-easy conversations between Jessica and me became strained. As somebody who continued to be in regular contact with Jason, she was clearly burdened by a sense of disloyalty to me. That, and a permanent state of panic about what was and wasn’t appropriate for her to reveal to me of what he’d said.

The result was a series of awkward get-togethers between her and me in which she battled with her conscience about whether she should join in the ritual slagging-off of Jason, led by my mother, or whether, as someone who’d heard his side of the story, she should attempt a defence. Of course she never did, but I could see that that in itself made her feel guilty.

The point is, friendships can’t survive that sort of thing – at least mine and Jessica’s couldn’t. And while I’d never go so far as to say I no longer count her as a friend, our relationship fizzled out somewhere along the way. We’ll send each other Christmas cards, I’m sure, but I don’t expect much more than that.

As for Mum and Dad, they were another story. I don’t know what I would have done without my dad. Typically, he put a brave face on it and offered the sort of quiet support I needed. I’m not talking about anything fancy. I’m talking about cups of wallpaper-paste-strength Horlicks at bedtime. I’m talking about handling estate agents as sympathetic as plankton. And, above all, I’m talking about keeping my mother under control. Which cannot have been easy because she didn’t handle things well.

I don’t blame her for being upset, of course: 14 April was her big day as well as mine. And she was right about the sugared almonds being hard to shift.

While I didn’t – and don’t – blame anyone for any of it, after a while I wanted a break from it. A new start. So when I read an article in a magazine one day about women who’d used the skills they’d acquired in the UK to move abroad, it got me thinking.

In many ways, I was about as likely a candidate for moving overseas as Gordon Ramsay is for the title of Miss World. I’d never done anything like it before. But as I checked my text messages for the fifty-third time that day to see if Jason had tried to contact me – and saw he hadn’t – I knew that enough was enough. I had to get away.

But there’s one flaw in the clean break I’ve tried to make with my old life. You can travel across an ocean to escape. But you can’t escape your thoughts.

Chapter 34

Barbie and Action Man are having extensive plastic surgery, courtesy of a bumper tub of Play-Doh. Action Man is blessed with an extra leg, while Barbie has had breast enhancements so wonky that if she were real she’d have a strong case for medical negligence. It might not constitute a traditional Saturday-afternoon craft session, but it’s certainly keeping the children occupied while I get on with making their late lunch.

As I look up from my tuna melts, however, I know immediately that the peace is about to be broken: Ryan enters the kitchen clearly more stressed than ever.

‘Zoe,’ he says, ‘I have a favour to ask you.’

I try to stop myself looking puzzled. Ryan doesn’t normally think of his requests as ‘favours’. He normally thinks of them as things I should do automatically. Or he doesn’t think of them at all.

‘Er, okay. What is it?’ I hope I don’t seem too suspicious.

‘You don’t have to look so suspicious.’

‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m not.’

‘It might be something nice,’ he continues defensively. ‘In fact, it
is
something nice.’

Now I’m definitely suspicious. ‘Er, right. What?’

‘I need you to come out with me tonight,’ he announces.

I drop my knife. As it clatters to the floor, I come within an inch of amputating my little toe. Ruby gasps and jumps up, squashing Barbie’s boobs into the table. ‘Daddy, are you and Zoe going
on a date
?’ she squeals.

‘No!’ we reply in unison. My cheeks are suddenly very hot.

‘I have a black-tie dinner to go to,’ Ryan explains. ‘An extremely important black-tie dinner. One I can’t afford to miss. And the
person
who was supposed to be coming with me has let me down.’

‘Right,’ I reply half-heartedly. There probably isn’t a woman I know who wouldn’t jump at the opportunity for a date with someone who looks like Ryan. But I’m acutely aware of how inappropriate the semi-lustful feelings he arouses in me are and have started to think that I
must
do more to keep them in check.

I know they’re nothing more than the result of my broken heart, but that doesn’t make them acceptable, given that he’s my boss. To go on a date with him, as Ruby says, is asking for trouble.

‘Um, couldn’t you try someone else?’ I add.

‘I have. It’s too late in the day.’

‘So I’m the last resort, am I?’

He ignores me.

‘Who’s going to look after the kids?’ I ask.

‘Uh, I’ll phone Barbara King and see if they can stay over,’ he says.

‘Barbara King?’ I ask. He
must
have lost his marbles. I know Trudie wouldn’t mind, but Barbara’s another matter. She’d have more fondness for a serial killer than she has for Ryan.

‘Yeah, why not?’ he asks.

‘I didn’t think you two got on.’

‘We don’t. But I’m not asking her to spend the night with
me
, I’m asking her to spend it with my kids. She thinks she’s the perfect neighbour. Now she can prove it.’

‘But I can’t go!’ I leap in, as he picks up the phone.

‘Why not?’

‘I – I have absolutely nothing to wear!’

The second I say this I kick myself. To a bloke’s ears, this line is like trying to get out of jury duty because you’ve developed a zit. But not only is it crucially important to me, it also happens to be true.

When I packed for the US, I never imagined I’d go out anywhere particularly swanky, at least nowhere more glamorous than the local bar. And just because I plan to be here for a year, it doesn’t mean there was any more room in my suitcase than there would have been for a two-week trip to Majorca. So, the posh dresses stayed behind, while the jeans came with me.

‘You’ll need to do better than that,’ Ryan tells me.

‘So what am I supposed to go in?’ I’m exasperated now.

‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll fix it for you.’

I must look worried.

‘Relax,’ he insists. ‘We’ll find something great for you to wear.’

Suddenly my spirits rise as it dawns on me what he’s suggesting. I’m thinking Richard Gere. I’m thinking Julia Roberts. I’m thinking that seminal moment in
Pretty Woman
where he takes her to Rodeo Drive and spends a fortune on getting her kitted out. I’m thinking,
Yippee!

‘Okay, okay,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘I suppose I’ll do it.’

‘Good.’

‘You owe me one,’ I add, trying not to sound as cheerful as I now feel.

As Ryan picks up the phone to negotiate with Barbara King about the children staying the night, I consider whether to go for purple or red. Purple is definitely my colour, but red is so much more versatile – or so
Grazia
magazine always says. What am I thinking? Red, purple, who cares? As long as it’s new and it’s on Ryan’s credit card, it doesn’t matter.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Ryan is saying to Barbara, through gritted teeth. He’s about to put down the phone when he hesitates. ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ he continues. ‘I’m sending Zoe over right now. I need you to loan her a dress.’

Chapter 35

I love coming into the heart of Boston, with its awe-inspiring combination of gorgeous old public buildings, lush parks and huge, glistening skyscrapers. Top of my list of favourite places is Newbury Street, filled with elegant art galleries I keep meaning to visit, smart restaurants I wish someone would take me to, and topnotch boutiques in which I’m forever window-shopping. (I do so hoping that the assistants might have me down for the wealthy daughter of a British diplomat, not just someone who can’t afford one of their carrier-bags.)

It’s here that I find myself for Ryan’s dinner, which is taking place in the swishest hotel in the city, a magnificent 1920s landmark at the end of the street, overlooking the Chanel boutique on one side and Boston Common on the other. I know I should be revelling in the occasion, its glitz and glamour, and as I step into the lobby I try to emulate the confident, sassy stride of the other women.

Only it isn’t happening.

Barbara King’s strappy stilettos don’t help. She’s the equivalent of a British size six. I’m a five. A small difference, I’d thought, but as I discovered – when I stumbled down the porch stairs and almost head first into a shrub – an absolutely crucial one.

We are greeted at the door by a pouting blonde, with a waist the size of my upper arm, and directed to the grand ballroom.

‘This way,’ says Ryan, opening a door for me. ‘Oh, and – you look . . . um . . . nice, by the way.’

He catches my eye as he says this and my stomach flutters wildly. I almost kick myself: how ridiculously naïve and primeval. Aside from my determination to end my infatuation, Ryan’s words are evidently the manifestation of some management technique he picked up on an expensive course his company sent him on – words designed to keep up my spirits in the face of adversity. Because the fact is I
don’t
look nice: I look as if I’ve been given a makeover by a lunatic with severe colour blindness.

As well as the ill-fitting shoes, I have to contend with wearing the skimpiest dress I’ve ever been near in my life, an item that would be too small to cover a bulimic guinea-pig, never mind me and my unshakeable sixteen and a half pounds.

It became clear while I was getting ready that this dress was too revealing for me to wear in its original state so I customized it with the help of several safety-pins, which are now holding bits of fabric in place so that I can retain at least a degree of modesty.

It’s just about working. I’ve got a pin under each armpit, two at either side of the waist and one at the back. But if any of them decides to pop open during the evening, I’ll find myself in an impromptu acupuncture session.

‘I hate this dress,’ I mutter, through a fixed smile, as I stumble over another step.

‘You look great,’ Ryan replies. ‘Hey – I’m serious.’

I feel an alarmingly pleasurable sensation in my groin. Oh, get a grip, Zoe!

I wanted to try on at least six other outfits in Barbara King’s wardrobe, but she slapped my wrist as if I was a naughty six-year-old reaching for sweeties. The floor-length black Valentino was out of the question. The purple Roberto Cavalli too. I was flashed a don’t-even-go-there look over the red YSL
and
the cream D&G. Not that I’d have fitted into any of them. But they would have been better than this hideous yellow number, in which I feel like the star turn at a lap-dance bar.

Furthermore, you know how all the magazines say that gorgeous underwear does wonders for your confidence? Well, the only knickers I had that weren’t in the wash was a pair of novelty Wonder Woman briefs I got in a Secret Santa at the nursery four Christmases ago.

Need I say more?

What makes this immeasurably worse is that Ryan has scrubbed up so well this evening that every woman in the room will be drooling over him, including – and, God, I hate admitting this – me.

He’s sexier than any 007 in his tux. His shoulders seem even broader, his stomach even tighter. His clear eyes and burnished skin stand out all the more against the crispness of his shirt. The slight roughness of his hands is in beautiful contrast with the formality of his attire. He smells sensational and I can’t work out why. It’s the same aftershave he usually wears, but with undercurrents of something else that I spent an insane proportion of our journey here attempting to identify.