Bridesmaid Blitz (22 page)

Odette pats Mum’s hand. “Do not worry. Monique ’as something to tell you.”

Monique looks at Mum. “They’re a present,” she says, “from me to you. For being the best friend a girl could wish for. Besides, Odette gave me a whopping discount!”

Mum’s eyes well up again and she hugs Monique. “I do love you, Monny. And thank you so much too, Odette,” she calls over Monique’s shoulder.

Clover grins. “Once you’ve all finished your mutual admiration love-in, can we please hit Sonia Rykiel and Chanel? Just to look. We only have one more day in Paris and I’ve hardly seen any shops at all.”

“Oooh, can I come?” Odette squeals. “
J’adore
Chanel. So stylish. I love trying on the little suits and pretending to be rich enough to buy them.”

“You will be one day,” Clover says. “Your dresses are amazing.”

“Thank you,
ma chérie
.” Odette strokes Clover’s cheek.

“What about the shop?” Monique asks.

Odette smiles. “The joy of working for yourself. I ’ave a special sign.” And Odette hands her a rectangular card.

Monique translates the swirling red script for the rest of us. “‘Fashion emergency,’” she reads. “‘Back later.’”

Once she has fastened it to the door, Odette claps her hands together. “There. Now, take me shopping.” She hooks Clover’s arm on one side and Monique’s on the other.

Mum and I join the line and we all march down the street, singing “Here Come the Girls,” and laughing so much we almost fall over.

And for a moment I forget Seth Stone even exists.

A combination of shopping and several raspberry-colored cocktails wipes out Mum and Monique, and they head straight to bed after dinner.

“Fancy a walk, Bean Machine? It’s a beautiful evening,” Clover says once the olds have excused themselves.

I smile. “That sounds perfect.”

We head upstairs to our room and I sit on the bed, waiting for her to change her shoes and use the loo. I take my mobile out of my pocket and stare at the screen. Nothing. I haven’t had a text from Seth all day. I start to feel a little mopey again but shake myself out of it — if that’s how he wants to play it, fine.

But my fingers start to twitch a little. It wouldn’t hurt to send him one little text, would it? Before I change my mind, I run my fingers over the keypad:
WISH THINGS COULD BE DIFFERENT. THINKING OF U. AMY.

Seconds later, there’s a beep.

“That my phone?” Clover calls from the bathroom.

“No, mine.” My heart’s hammering in my chest. It has to be from Seth. And I’m too nervous to read it.

“Is it Mills?”

“Nah, her mobile doesn’t work over here.”

Clover walks out of the loo, Tweezerman still clutched in her hand. “Seth?” she asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Read it, you eejit.”

I say a quick prayer and look down.
MAY HAVE OVERREACTED. ’POLOGIES. WHAT R U UP 2? CAN I C U L8R?
Tears of relief spring to my eyes.

“That bad?” Clover asks.

Wordlessly, I hand her my phone and she reads the text. “Hey, Beanie, that’s coola boola. A romantic makeup is defo in the cards. Where are you going to meet him? Has to be somewhere spectacular.” She gasps and then grins. “I’ve got it, Beanie! The perfect location. Pont des Arts.”

“
Pont?
Doesn’t that mean ‘bridge’?”

Clover just smiles mysteriously. “You’ll get it, Beanie. Trust me.”

I’m so nervous in the taxi I can barely breathe, let alone talk, so I just listen to Clover chatter on. “Isn’t Odette amazing? The things she can do with silk chiffon. We’re going to look like movie stars in our dresses. I know I was a bit hesitant at first, but they’re fab. So, what about a matching hot-pink-and-green theme for the flowers and maybe for the cupcake icing? Any thoughts on that, Beanie? Are you even listening to me?”

“’Course. Hot-pink-and-green flowers. And cupcake icing. Lovely jubbly.”

She seems happy and starts talking again, so I tune out and stare out of the window until the taxi pulls up along the riverbank. “Pont des Arts,” the driver says.

We climb out, and while Clover pays the fare, I walk toward the low stone wall overlooking the Seine. Putting my hands on the cool stone, I stare at the brightly lit iron pedestrian bridge cutting across the river. And then I recognize it and grin.

“Clover!” I say when she joins me. “It’s where Carrie and Big meet in the last episode of
Sex and the City
.”

“Correct.
Deux points
. And I think I see lover boy.” She points at the bridge.

I follow her finger. It’s early evening and the sky has begun to darken. A row of old-fashioned
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
streetlights run on either side of the bridge’s railings, and I pick out a lone figure about halfway across, sitting on a bench and staring out at the water. She’s right: it’s Seth. He’s wearing a navy-and-white-checked shirt I haven’t seen before. My stomach lurches. I hope I don’t mess this up too.

“I’ll just take a little walk along the river,” Clover says. “Leave you lovebirds to it.”

“On your own? What if you get mugged?”

She laughs. “It’s crawling with tourists, Beanie. Besides, apart from a few euro, I have nothing worth taking. See you back here in, what, half an hour?”

I nod. “Wish me luck.”

“Bon courage.”
She kisses her fingers, blows them at me, and walks away.

I stand still for a few minutes, watching Seth and “plucking up gumption,” as Gran would have said. I’m so nervous, my hands are shaking. Get a grip, Amy, I tell myself. It’s only Seth.

Suddenly, he turns his head and looks at me. I can’t quite make out his expression, but I think he’s smiling. OK, Amy, that’s a good sign. But my stomach lurches again.
Please make this work out,
I pray.
Please, please, please.

I wave and he waves back and then stands up. I start walking toward him over the wooden planks of the bridge, slowly at first, but picking up speed as soon as I make out the big smile plastered across his face. He starts running toward me, his runners making a slapping noise on the wood, and within seconds I’m in his arms, drinking in his familiar lemony smell, my face pressed against his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice muffled a little by his shirt. “I should have told you I was coming to Paris.”

He pulls away. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I was an idiot to push you away like that in the Pompidou Centre. We could have snuck off and had an amazing time. What a waste.” He shakes his head.

“Can we start again?” I suggest.

He nods and takes my hand in his. “OMG, Amy, I can’t believe, like, we’re in Paris, like, together. It’s so totally awesome.”

I laugh. “Great D4 impression.”

He bows. “I aim to please. But seriously, I’m so psyched you’re here. And what a cool place to meet. Some bridge.” He whistles.

“Clover’s idea,” I admit. Not being a
Sex and the City
fan, Seth hasn’t copped the exact significance of the location; I toy with telling him, then decide against it. I want him to remember it as the Amy-and-Seth bridge. So I just smile instead.

“Clover?” He looks around. “Don’t tell me she’s spying on us.”

“No, she and her tracking kit are far, far away.”

“Good.” He chuckles like an old movie villain. “I have dastardly plans that no human eye must see.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me and then winks. “But first, a kiss from my leading lady, please.” He puts his arms around me again and pulls me close. Our mouths lock — the kiss is passionate, almost fierce. It makes my head spin and my blood pump through my veins, fast. And just when I think I can’t take any more, the pace slows, with lots of licks and nips and tiny kisses, and I feel soft and melty all over. It’s the best kiss ever, and as we draw apart, I grin at Seth, then bury my head in his shirt, slightly embarrassed by the whole thing. I heard little groaning noises during the kiss; and I think they were from me. Oops. Cringe-a-rama!

He strokes the top of my head. “God, I’ve missed you, Amy,” he says softly.

When I finally lift my head, he takes my hand and leads me toward one of the benches. We sit down and he throws his arm around my shoulders and draws me closer until our thighs and hips are pressed together. I can feel the heat of his body through my jeans.

We sit there for a while, saying nothing. A few people pass us — a tall slim woman in a black jumpsuit and biker boots walking a white poodle, a fit-looking man rollerblading, a bald man pushing a sleeping baby in a buggy. It’s peaceful until a river-boat glides toward us, French pop music blaring out over the speakers. The guide says something and the passengers stand up to take photos. Seth and I both wave and then laugh as some of them wave back.

“So how was the palace?” I ask when the boat has passed. “You were at Versailles today, right?”

He shrugs. “Big. Lots of gold. All a bit
Footballers’ Wives,
to be honest. But I liked the fountains. And the art. What did you get up to?”

I tell him about my day, leaving out the bit about Clover having to motivate me to get out of bed.

He grins. “Bridesmaids’ dresses, eh? Fluffy pink meringues?”

“Hey!” I give him a playful slap. “How dare you? They’re very tasteful.”

Seth’s still smiling.

“I don’t know why you’re grinning,” I say. “You’ll have to wear a suit and tie to the wedding.”

“I’m invited?” He looks surprised.

“If you behave yourself, then yes . . . and as long as we’re still together, of course.”

He sits up a little, a frown clouding his face. “Are you trying to tell me something, Amy?”

“What? No, of course not. Things happen.” I shrug. “You know. You might get bored of me or something. Find someone else. Break my achy breaky heart.” I give a short laugh, but Seth remains quiet. He seems unsettled, nervous.

Eventually he says, “There’s something important I need to tell you. . . .”

My mind goes into overdrive. “Has something happened to Polly?” I texted Dave to ask whether Polly could call him if she needed anything, and it turned out that he’d already been checking up on her.

“No, nothing like that. Polly’s grand. I spoke to her earlier and she said that Dave’s been ringing her every day, visited the house and everything. He’s really decent, isn’t he?”

I nod. Seth’s right: Dave’s OK.

“Then what is it, Seth?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

He stares at me, eyes boring into mine. “Why did you say that stuff about me breaking your heart? Why would I break your heart? Just the thought of having to live without you kills me. I’m not going to hurt
you
. . . . But I’ve seen the way you look at Bailey. I know it’s just a matter of time. He’d look far better on your arm at the wedding than I would, anyway. I don’t even own a suit.”

I’m too shocked to laugh. “Bailey? Seriously? OK, yes, I look at him — it’s hard not to with those cheekbones — but it’s you I want to be with, Seth. It’s always been you. Now, at the wedding, next year, the year after that. Always.”

“You say that now, but you’ll change your mind.”

“I won’t. I swear it, Seth. Why are you being like this? What’s wrong?”

His eyes are fiery. “Don’t you get it, Amy? I love you.”

And the whole world just stops. I feel like I’ve been pushed underwater: everything is muffled and all I can think about are those three words —“I LOVE YOU.”

How can such small words change so much, so quickly? My heart is threatening to hammer out of my chest, and my mouth is dry. Seth is still staring at me, a strange expression on his face. I try to say something but my lips won’t move.

Suddenly he stands up and starts walking quickly across the bridge.

“Seth! Wait!” I cry, dashing after him.

He ignores me and dashes across the road without looking. He’s almost mowed down by a cyclist.

“Seth!” I cry again. Then, while he’s still just about in earshot, I shout, “I love you too! Can you hear me? I said I love you. Come back. Please come back.”

He stops dead and stands with his back toward me. Eventually, he turns around and walks toward me. “You don’t have to say it just ’cos I did,” he says, a little out of breath. “If you don’t feel the same . . .”

“But I do. I love you, Seth Stone. Which must make me super crazy.”

He studies my face for a second, then breaks into a smile. “Say it again.”

I start to sing Seth this old 1950s song the Red Hot Chili Peppers covered called “A Teenager in Love,” a song I know makes him smile. “‘Each time we have a quarrel, / It almost breaks my heart. / ’Cos I’m so afraid, / That we will have to part. / Each night I ask the stars up above, / Why must I be a teenager in love?’”

I can’t really sing, but from the beam on his face, I think he gets the message. He sweeps me into his arms and flings me backward, my spine arching. Then he kisses me again.

“And I love you, Amy Green,” he whispers, kissing my cheeks, my eyelids, the tip of my nose. “And will love you. Forever.” And finally he kisses my lips. I close my eyes.