What Might Have Been (28 page)

49

S
arah was sitting in Postman’s Park, staring blankly at the plaques along the far wall. She’d desperately needed some time to think, although so far the two hours she’d been here since she’d left the office early hadn’t been long enough.

She’d had to end Evan’s call abruptly when David had knocked on her office door, and while she was confident her fiancé hadn’t heard anything, it had taken a good ten minutes for her heart to stop racing. And though she was sure that was a result of nearly being caught, she knew it was also in part due to Evan’s statement. He’d intrigued her with his mention of ‘home’, and several times during the day she’d thought about calling him back, but to use Evan’s term, that wouldn’t have been appropriate. And she’d been far too inappropriate with him recently.

At least David and she had made up. It was the first time the two of them had spoken since their contretemps over lunch the previous day, and while she assumed at first he’d popped in to apologise to her, in actual fact, he’d been there to give
her
that opportunity. She’d taken it, of course, though when he’d left, a satisfied look on his face, Sarah had found herself wanting to take the apology back. It
was
all about winning with him. Being the last to give in. And she hated the fact that she’d blinked first.

She stifled a yawn, and realised she’d hardly slept for the past few nights, though for a second at Evan’s the other evening, she’d felt she could have dropped off quite comfortably, before she’d suddenly remembered what was happening on Saturday.
The day after tomorrow
. And that had woken her up pretty dramatically.

Sarah could hardly believe it was so close. Back when she and David had first got engaged, the wedding had been so far away it hadn’t seemed real. Even the trip to Tiffany’s had been more like a day out than some significant event, the ring just the latest in the series of expensive things David had bought her rather than a symbol of their impending commitment. But now, even though the day itself was a relatively small affair, all the ancillary stuff – the invitations, the cake – were all beginning to feel almost menacing. Even the dress she’d been starving herself for weeks to fit into . . .

Sarah leapt up off the bench and checked her watch.
Her dress
. She’d been supposed to collect it yesterday.

She almost ran out of the park, and headed south towards Hays Galleria. How could she have forgotten to pick it up? Did that mean something – or was it the only thing she could delay, given the inevitability of Saturday? Though maybe, like Grace had suggested, she
could
ask David for a postponement. Tell him that . . . Tell him what? What possible reason could she have for not going through with a wedding they’d been planning since they’d set the date all those months ago? Especially since all she had to do was turn up.

Or perhaps not.

It occurred to her to just keep walking. The Eurostar could whisk her to France, and from there . . . well, who knew? She could pop back to her flat, collect her passport, and be in Paris by dinner time. But then again, she’d never considered herself the running away type.

Or was she? In her more reflective moments, Sarah sometimes felt that coming to England after her father died had been running away. Escaping from everything that New York reminded her of: the cancer that had taken her father, the environment that had seduced her mother away from the little family unit in which, for a few short years, she’d felt so safe. Here in London she’d been able to start again, make new friends, move in different circles, reinvent herself as a tough, no-nonsense Sarah Bishop who bore no relation to the person who’d been the victim of all that crap. She’d enjoyed being different, too; there was something about being an American abroad that she’d found romantic. And that others – David and Evan in particular – seemed to find almost exotic about her.

At first, she’d loved London: The London of the films her father used to show her, the London described in the books she used to devour. It’d been exactly what she’d been expecting, and walking along by the Thames she’d often marvelled at the wonderful mixture of old and new. New York didn’t have the old, and back then, it had occurred to her that, sometimes, the old was better – it had stood the test of time, after all – but now she wasn’t so sure. And while she missed New York terribly, she worried that there wasn’t anything – or anyone – there for her any more.

She checked her watch, then quickened her pace, hurrying past St. Paul’s Cathedral, then across the Thames on the Millennium Bridge, Tower Bridge to her left, the famous London Eye on her right. Occasionally, being here still felt like a dream, except now it was turning into a bad one. Although Sarah knew she only had herself to blame for that.

Striding into Hays Galleria, she made her way towards the boutique, rapping on the glass when she found the door locked. Maya, the owner, looked up from where she was sitting behind the
counter
, then smiled though the window in recognition and buzzed her in.

‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ Maya said, kissing Sarah hello on both cheeks. ‘I was beginning to think you’d got cold feet,’

‘No, I just . . .’ Sarah shrugged. ‘You know how it is. So much to sort out.’

‘Of course.’ Maya led her over to a rack in the corner of the shop. ‘Are you ready?’

Sarah stood there mutely, assuming Maya’s question was
rhetorical
, and watched her move a heavy dress-holder to the front of the rack.

The designer slowly undid the zip and released the wedding dress from its protective cover. ‘Are your hands clean?’ she asked.

Sarah nodded, though she couldn’t say the same about her conscience, then carefully reached across and took the dress. It looked almost ephemeral, and, though heavier than she’d been expecting, was quite stunning – exactly as Maya had promised. She held it up to the mirror, positioning herself to give an idea of how it would look on, marvelling at how the dress managed to be both sophisticated and sexy. She’d seen the sketches, but they’d hardly managed to capture the elegance of the real thing, the way the fitted, ruched satin bodice decorated with the hand-beaded floral accents she’d chosen broke away at the knee to show the full skirt of thick organza. It had been the one thing about the wedding she’d had complete control over, and as Sarah stared at her reflection, she had to remind herself to breathe.

‘Well?’

Over her shoulder, she could see Maya anxiously trying to gauge her reaction. ‘Beautiful,’ was all she could say.

‘Aren’t you going to try it on?’

Sarah nodded, then followed Maya towards the changing room, feeling slightly awkward as the designer joined her inside and slid the curtain shut. Slowly, she removed her clothes, staring at her underwear-clad reflection in the mirror while Maya politely averted her eyes. She’d – briefly – been like this the other night in front of Evan, and the memory made her blush in shame.

Carefully, she eased the dress from its hanger, slipped it over her head, and wriggled it down past her hips. As Maya helped her pull it into position, she slotted her arms through the shoulder straps, breathing in as the designer fastened the zip on her left side, and then, after a bit more primping, it was on.

Sarah turned round, bracing herself in anticipation of the meringue she was sure she’d look like, then caught her breath as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Staring back at her, in perhaps the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, was someone she didn’t quite recognise, or perhaps, didn’t want to
acknowledge
.

The dress was even more stunning
on
than it had been on the hanger, but Sarah couldn’t help feeling something was wrong, almost as if she was a little girl playing at dressing up. She looked at Maya, then back at her reflection, and burst into tears.

‘Don’t worry,’ Maya said, retrieving a box of tissues from a shelf in the cubicle that had evidently been put there for just this kind of occurrence. ‘That happens a lot.’

Not for these reasons
, thought Sarah, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

She stared at her reflection for a few more moments as the designer checked the fit, then held her left arm up so Maya could unzip her and slipped carefully out of the dress. As Maya gently eased it up over her head, she tried not to think how Evan had done something similar a couple of nights previously.

‘Thanks, Maya,’ she said, pulling her work clothes back on, relieved to be looking normal again. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘Well, if you’re only going to be doing this the once, it’s important that everything’s right.’ Maya smiled. ‘Just remember not to let David see you in it before the big day,’ she cautioned, zipping the dress safely back inside its carrier. ‘It’s bad luck.’

Sarah almost laughed. Surely she’d had all the bad luck she deserved.

She hugged Maya goodbye, then picked the carrier up, and as she headed out of the shop, her mobile rang. Sarah rejected the call, sure it was Evan trying to call her back, then stared at the screen, sighing exasperatedly when no voicemail icon appeared. Then again, he probably didn’t know what to say. Which made two of them.

She still wasn’t sure why she’d slept with him. Couldn’t quite reconcile it with her impending wedding, unless that
was
the explanation, and it had been an extreme way of seeing whether there was any doubt about what she was doing on Saturday – though the
trouble
was, that was exactly what it had achieved. And while
admittedly
, she’d always felt there had been some unfinished
business
between them, now it felt even more unfinished. She still fancied Evan. Desired him, in fact, with a passion she’d forgotten she had. And if she was being honest, that was hardly a sound basis from which to commit to spending the rest of your life with someone else who didn’t quite provoke the same reaction.

Suddenly, with a clarity that almost winded her, Sarah knew what she had to do, so she turned around and started walking purposefully towards Shad Thames. There was a pub on the corner of Jamaica Road – a ‘spit-and-sawdust boozer’, as David was fond of describing it whenever they’d whiz by in the BMW – and on a whim, she pushed her way through the smokers huddled outside and headed inside. The wedding dress, slung over her shoulder in its protective carrier, was weighing heavily down on her, and she almost found the metaphor funny, but if ever she needed a drink, it was now.

She draped the carrier over the nearest bar stool and caught the attention of the barmaid. ‘Double vodka and tonic, please,’ said Sarah, although she only wanted the vodka – the tonic was purely for window dressing.

‘Sure, love,’ said the woman, pouring Sarah her drink. ‘
Four-fift
y, please.’

Sarah handed over a five-pound note, then slotted her change into the charity box on the counter, and as the barmaid smiled her thanks, she caught sight of the wedding dress.

‘That yours, is it?’

Sarah nodded. ‘It is.’

‘When’s the big day?’

‘Saturday.’

‘Ooh. Lovely.’ She beamed at her. ‘I love a good wedding, me.’

‘You married, are you?’ asked Sarah.

‘Yeah. Happiest day of your life, your wedding.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Course, everyone says that, because it’s pretty much downhill from then onwards, but still . . .’

The woman gave her a gap-toothed grin, then headed off to serve someone else, and Sarah stared at her, then picked up her drink, pulled out her Blackberry, and pretended to study her emails as she gingerly sipped the clear liquid. A couple of people glanced at her – men, of course – maybe wondering what she was doing in here on her own, perhaps considering coming over and offering to buy her a drink, but Sarah just ignored them, making it clear she didn’t want to be disturbed. Conscious that – apart from the barmaid – she was the only woman in the pub, Sarah forced herself to drink faster, struggling not to bring the vodka straight back up again while simultaneously contemplating ordering another, but she just wanted to feel brave, not loaded. Being labelled a slut was going to be bad enough, but a slut and an alcoholic . . .

Downing the last of her vodka, she slipped her Blackberry back into her coat pocket and headed unsteadily out through the door, regretting the fact that she hadn’t drunk the tonic. As she threaded her way back through the crowd of smokers congregating outside, she felt a tap on her shoulder, and wheeled round to see the barmaid standing behind her.

‘I think you might be needing this, love,’ she said, and handed Sarah the wedding dress before disappearing back inside.

Though as she mumbled her thanks, then pulled her phone out and dialled David’s number, Sarah wasn’t so sure she would.

50

E
van grabbed his jacket and keys, slammed his front door shut behind him, and began walking purposefully towards Shad Thames. He’d spent the afternoon at home trying to drum up the courage to do what he knew he had to do, and while hailing a taxi would get him there in five minutes, he hoped the cool air might just help him to focus. This evening was going to be unpleasant. And he didn’t want to rush it.

He couldn’t believe Sarah had put the phone down on him, but he’d heard the knock on the door in the background and had guessed who it had been, and something about her knee-jerk reaction had made him suspect there was something sinister about their relationship, some hold David had over her that Evan didn’t like. Plus, the fact that she was still talking about going ahead with the wedding while she clearly had feelings for someone else was something he couldn’t fathom, and if he had to play dirty to even things out, then now was the time.

The weather had turned colder, so he stuck his hands in his jeans pockets as he made his way along Tanner Street and under the viaduct, listening to the comforting rattle of trains passing overhead on their journeys in and out of London Bridge Station. Batting away the onslaught of free newspapers that made walking past any tube station at rush hour something of an obstacle course, he headed along Tooley Street, past the London Dungeon, then crossed the road, marvelling as he always did at the majesty of Tower Bridge in front of him.

Evan knew he’d be devastated if Sarah still chose David, and not just because the past week had made him all the more certain she was the girl for him. He was so sure she was making a mistake, so convinced she was doing something against her wishes, that he still felt an overriding impulse to save her. Maybe he was fooling himself this was the way to do it, but when it came down to it, what choice did he have?

He wasn’t used to showdowns, and wondered whether he should prepare his ‘Oscar face’ and be ready to accept his loss gracefully, if a loss was what it was going to be, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold it together. He hoped he wouldn’t cry, though maybe he should. After all, women were no strangers to turning on the waterworks to get what they wanted, and maybe repressing his emotions had been his problem, in particular not telling Sarah how he’d felt about her from day one – and for the whole of the following year. Although he’d certainly made up for it over the past few days.

The pavement was busy, and Evan wondered whether he should take heart from the number of women he saw – there was bound to be someone else for him if it didn’t work out with Sarah. Trouble was, he didn’t want anyone else – and in any case, he was a bit out of the dating mindset. He thought back to when he’d last ‘picked up’ someone, and was alarmed to be drawing a blank. Sarah had come on to him, as had the previous couple of women he’d gone out with, and as for his chatting-up skills, well, it was a lot easier when you’d been up on stage to come down and make an impression. Doing it from scratch? Evan didn’t relish the prospect.

That was the trouble with starting dating again in your thirties, he realised. Men still had the mindset of a teenager, so to try and respond to a thirty-something woman, to second-guess what she might be looking for . . . He shuddered at the prospect, and if anything, it strengthened his resolve.

His phone rang in his pocket, and he fished it out nervously, nearly dropping it in the process. ‘Hello?’

‘Where the fuck are you?’ said Mel, cheerfully.

‘Tower Bridge.’

‘Should I switch on the news?’

‘Huh?’

‘If you’re about to jump, I want to at least see it.’

Evan smiled grimly. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I’m walking past it. Not climbing it.’

‘Even so. You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?’

Evan almost laughed. As far as he was concerned, almost everything he’d done over the course of the past few days qualified as stupid. ‘I just decided it was confrontation time.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, Mel. Really.’

He could almost hear Mel frown down the line. ‘I thought she didn’t want to see you?’

‘I’m not going to see Sarah, Mel. I’m going to see David.’

‘What for?’

‘I’m going to make him tell Sarah what happened on his stag night.’

‘How?’

‘I’m a-gonna make-a him an offer he can’t refuse,’ said Evan, then he held the phone up to capture the noise of the passing traffic for effect before switching it off. Sarah deserved the truth. And although he didn’t yet have the faintest idea how, Evan was going to make sure David gave it to her.