The Wedding Countdown (33 page)

‘These are great.’

‘He’s not just a pretty face, is he?’ said Raj, leaning forward and pulling out another sheaf of pictures. ‘Ooh! Looky here! The after-show party!’

He flipped through exclaiming ‘Dreadful hair!’ or ‘I’d give him one!’ depending on who he was looking at. Leaving him to it I opened up Word and wondered how to begin.

My Indecent Proposal!

Perhaps not.

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Raj, which was closely followed more ominously by, ‘Mills! What’s all this about?’

Raj held up a photo, picture side away, with his eyes peeking just above it like some coy harem girl.

‘What are those?’ I ask.

Raj slowly turned the photo round, just like Tyra Banks in
America’s Next Top Model
, only the person in this photo wasn’t some toothy Texan blonde with a silly name and long legs.

It was me.

I stared at the picture. I hardly recognised myself. In the photo I was looking over my shoulder, my gaze fixed past the camera and rather wistful. My eyes were wide and starry lashed, my lips a pink rosebud and my hair, held back from my face by the jewelled combs, fell in a cascade of curls down my back. My skin was honey smooth with just a faint blush across the cheeks.

I looked incredible.

And nothing like me.

‘There’s more.’ Raj wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Want to see?’

‘Give me those!’ I snatched the pictures and spread them out on the desk. In several I was chatting to Roma but the others were just stills of me. One must have been taken during the interview because I’d thrown back my head as I laughed, exposing my throat and tipping my hair right down my back.

‘He’s made me look way too good.’

‘That’s how Wish sees you, Mills.’ Raj tucked the pictures back into the folder. ‘He must see you as very beautiful indeed. I wonder why?’

And without any Mickey-taking at all he returned to his desk while I stared at the pictures, my emotions feeling as though they’d been whizzed up in a giant food processor.

So now, when Wish steps out of the flat, I flush to the roots of my hair. Logically I know he was just practising his craft but there was something so tender about the way he framed each shot that I can’t help but wonder…

Wonder whether…

Wish nearly drops his motorbike helmet. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Raza’s cooking dinner.’

Wish looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads. ‘You’re
still
seeing him? After yesterday?’

‘We don’t know what happened yet, do we?’

A muscle twitches in Wish’s cheek. ‘I would have thought it was bloody obvious!’

‘Raza deserves the chance to tell me his version. There’s bound to be an innocent explanation.’

‘Yeah, right. And there goes a pig flying past.’

We glower at each other across the lobby.

‘You’re seriously having dinner with Raza? Alone?’ asks Wish eventually.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you exceptionally thick?’

‘What’s your problem? Raza’s supposed to be your friend!’

Wish shakes his head. ‘Don’t you think I know the guy by now? He’s been the same ever since school. He always has to get his way and beat everyone else. And believe me, he doesn’t care who gets in his way.’

‘Beat people how exactly?’

Wish looks away. ‘It doesn’t matter. But I know him, Mills.’

‘I know him too!’

‘Do you really? Well, you know best, as always, Mills, so I’m sure you’re right. Go right ahead. And don’t worry about me being a gooseberry. I’m out of here!’

The lift doors hiss open and Wish stomps in.

‘Have a wonderful time,’ he snaps. ‘You two are obviously made for each other.’

I’ve had enough.

‘Why are you being so bloody judgmental?’

‘I’m not judgmental. But at least I have
some
judgment when it comes to relationships.’

What! He dates Minty, the girl shallower than a flea’s foot spa!

I’m just about to hit back with something along these lines when I recall the photos that Raj discovered. They weren’t the work of someone angry and judgmental but were shot with infinite care and thought. Those pictures were the work of a friend and I feel desperately sad.

‘Oh Wish,’ I say sadly. ‘I don’t want it to be like this. Why can’t we be friends?’

‘Maybe,’ Wish replies, ‘because I know that Raza definitely doesn’t have friendship in mind.’

The lift doors shut and he’s gone. I stand in the lobby for a few minutes, dangerously close to tears. Only when I’ve watched Wish’s bike tear away from Tanners Wharf, going so fast it’s little more than a blur, do I manage to pull myself together sufficiently to face Raza.

‘Mills!’ Raza’s face is wreathed in smiles. ‘You look stunning!’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You look pretty good yourself.’

And this isn’t just flattery. Raza’s hair is now moleskin short, showing his perfect bone structure and smooth scalp. His sapphire Turnbull & Asser shirt brings out the Cadbury’s sheen of his eyes and complements the smooth flesh of his throat, while his lean legs seem endless in tight black jeans, which skim over his snaky hips. If you had to describe any young Pakistani girl’s dream husband then Raza has to be it made flesh.

Reminding myself how lucky I am, I follow him into the chrome and marble kitchen where the most amazing smells drift from the range and Norah Jones croons over the buzz of the extractor fan.

‘Have a seat.’ Raza fixes me a juice. ‘Busy day?’

‘I was writing up the PoppadRUm interview for most of it.’

Maybe mentioning the band will jog his memory?

‘Poor baby,’ murmurs Raza, stirring a pan. ‘You can relax now you’re with me.’

I’d be more at ease lying on a bed of nails. I watch Raza cook with the same intensity and attention to detail that he applies to his work, and wait for him to explain why he covered for Fizz.

And wait.

And wait.

Finally I can’t bear it any longer.

‘Raza,’ I say. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Hmm?’ Raza adds some salt to a sauce and tests it. ‘That’s better.’

I raise my voice. ‘We’ve got to talk.’

‘Sure, angel.’ He lowers the gas and turns his attention back to me. ‘What is it?’

‘What happened with Fizz yesterday? I mean what really happened?’

‘I told you,’ says Raza. ‘She went to see PoppadRUm and–’

‘Stop right there!’ I hold up my hand. ‘Before you say anything more you need to know that Wish and I went over to the Reynard Hotel too.’

Raza’s eyes harden.

‘And,’ I continue, ‘they told us the band left at seven a.m. Alone. So I know you didn’t find her there. What’s going on?’

‘Maybe I should ask you the same? What were you doing alone with Wish?’

I’m just about through with these two guys and their whole stupid, childish competitive thing.

‘Looking for my sister!’ I snap. ‘Who just so happened to be with you. Alone.’

‘Touché!’ Raza gives me a tight-lipped smile. ‘She was at a hotel, as it happens, and she was waiting for the band. She just got the wrong hotel, that’s all. Fizz was at the Hilton, and feeling pretty silly too. It was a stroke of luck I decided to try there as well.’

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ snaps Raza. ‘Where did you think she was, Mills? Having a secret tryst with me?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Well, that’s what you’re implying. You don’t trust me at all, do you? First of all you give me a hard time about Caroline and now you’re accusing me of seducing your sister! If that’s what you really think of me why the Hell are you here?’

When put like this all my fears sound terrible, like a really bad episode of
The
Jeremy Kyle Show
.

‘Maybe you should go? Without trust we don’t have a future.’

I’m mortified. What evidence have I really got apart from a growing paranoia?

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so confused.’

Raza sighs. ‘I can’t be doing with jealousy. Either you trust me or you don’t.’

‘I do trust you,’ I say. At least I think I do. I must be really paranoid to still feel uneasy.

‘But do you believe me? Do you really trust me, Mills?’

What else can I say but ‘yes’?

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘But it seemed so weird when you said you’d found Fizz at the hotel when Wish and I knew she wasn’t there.’

Raza’s top lip curls. ‘Ah, yes, my good mate Wish. That explains a lot. Of course he’d be there, undermining me and pouring poison in your ears.’

The metaphors are mixed but I get the gist. ‘No, Raza, Wish would never–’

‘Yes he would,’ Raza insists. ‘You don’t know him like I do. He’s been jealous of me for as long as I can remember and he hates the fact we’re together.’

This is certainly the case. But I can’t quite run with the notion of Wish being a jealous person. That doesn’t ring true.

‘You don’t know him,’ says Raza, when I make this point. ‘You haven’t seen the side of him I have. God! There was a time when he had a different girl every week, Mr Holier-Than-Thou. He had so many he was like a roll-on roll-off car ferry.’

If Raza was hoping to shock me then he’s in for a disappointment. Wish has already told me all about the bad old days.

‘My rebellious streak,’ he’d said ruefully. ‘Too much money and not enough sense. Thank goodness you didn’t know me back then. I was such an idiot.’

‘Everyone makes mistakes,’ Raza says. ‘Even the saintly Wish. So I never hold his bitterness against him, which is why we’re still friends. I feel sorry for the guy, being neither one thing nor another.’

I don’t know quite what to say to this so I don’t say anything, which Raza takes for agreement.

‘That’s enough of him! This is supposed to be our special night. I’m not going to waste a second more on Wish.’ He opens the range and pulls out a casserole dish. ‘Make yourself comfortable at the table and prepare to be impressed with my cooking.’

Wandering into Raza’s cavernous living area I gasp because he’s certainly pulled out all the stops to create the ultimate romantic atmosphere. The pebbles in the fire bowl are licked by blue and orange flames and fat church candles flicker upon wrought-iron stands, their reflections shimmering in the glass windows. But what really impresses me is the table, which looks like something from a glossy magazine. There’s a red damask cloth speckled with gold foil hearts, more candles casting their soft light across stylish square white plates, thick linen napkins and red rose petals drifting lazily in a glass bowl.

He must be really serious to have gone to such great lengths.

‘Do you like it?’ Raza pauses in the doorway, a heavy dish in his arms.

‘It’s wonderful.’

Raza sets down the dish and pulls out a chair for me. ‘Tonight, dearest Mills, I’m going to spoil you; tonight and hopefully for a very long time to come.’

My stomach feels as though I’m descending very fast in an elevator.

He’s going to propose. Oh
Allah-ji!

This handsome, solvent, well-educated Pakistani bachelor is going to propose marriage over dinner. How can I possibly eat anything now? My nerves are jangling so loudly I’m surprised Raza can’t hear them. But he seems totally at ease, chatting away about his latest cases as he brings in the food and fills my cut-glass goblet with blood-red pomegranate juice.

‘To us,’ he murmurs, clinking his glass against mine and looking into my eyes. ‘And to making our relationship even more special.’

I try to speak but my tongue seems to have forgotten how. So I just nod at him and remind myself how many girls would give anything to be me right now. I really need to stop being so uptight. Nothing bad is going to happen.

Quite the contrary.

Dinner, what I manage to eat of it anyway, is delicious. The halal steak stroganoff is so tender that the meat melts in my mouth, the baby vegetables fresh and tasty and the potatoes dauphinoise so swimming in cheese and cream that I put on several pounds just looking at the dish. After following this lot with a chocolate mousse as rich as Donald Trump, plus a groaning cheese board and coffee with mints, my arteries are starting to wave the white flag.

Stuffed, warm and rather sleepy I push my plate away and place my hands on my full stomach.

‘Raza, that was fantastic. I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.’

‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ Raza smiles. ‘Why don’t you go and relax while I clear this lot away?’

I’m not going to argue because I’m longing to curl up on the sofa and bask in the warmth of the fire bowl. While Raza clatters around in the kitchen I slip off my pumps, settle myself down and watch the flames. My eyes grow heavy so I close them and finally allow the tension to slip away. The meal was wonderful and Raza an entertaining and thoughtful host. What was I stressing about?

‘So,’ says Raza, sitting next to me. ‘We were going to make things a little more serious between us, I think?’

I open my eyes. It’s very dark. Has he dimmed the lights?

‘Feeling romantic?’ murmurs Raza, his teeth white and sharp in the gloom.

‘It’s a bit dark,’ I say nervously. ‘Could you turn the lights up?’

Raza chuckles. ‘I’ll keep you safe.’

He slides his body across the warm black leather until he’s right next to me, a tad too close for comfort and totally overstepping the decency boundary.

‘In fact,’ whispers Raza, ‘there’s no need to be afraid of anything.’

His breath creeps against my ear and goosebumps crawl over my body.

‘You’re cold,’ he says. ‘I can think of some great ways to raise your body temperature.’

My heart is beating nineteen to the dozen, all sleepiness banished as a tsunami of adrenalin courses through my body.

Raza’s arm snakes along the back of the sofa.

‘I’ve been really kind to you, Mills,’ he says, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck. ‘I think it’s high time that you were kind to me.’

‘Is that the time!’ I cry, on my feet and scanning the room for the nearest exit. ‘I’m sure I had a taxi booked!’

Raza grabs my arm, yanking me onto the sofa.

‘You can cut out the shy act,’ he laughs, while I topple backwards. ‘There’s no need to pretend.’

My backside lands smack in his lap. His arms fasten around my waist like a human seat belt and he holds me so tightly I can feel his muscles against my back. The back of his hand, speckled with dark hair (eugh! How come I’ve never noticed how hairy his hands are?) brushes against my breast while his arms squeeze me tightly against him.