Nick and I didn’t correspond the next two weeks, beyond quick apologies. It was the longest we’d gone without speaking. I was full of contradictory upset: I didn’t want to talk to him, because I didn’t want another argument, yet I hated that he hadn’t tried to talk to me. Lacey did everything she could to jolly me out of it—American snacks, Socialite Darts (in which we threw things at the faces of our enemies, tacked onto a corkboard behind my bedroom door), and in a moment of desperation, a DVD of Great Moments in Chicago Cubs History that ended up only enhancing my depression due to how short it was.
The day of the wedding also happened to be my birthday. Tony had invited us to the soft launch of a Club Theme pop-up that was so new he hadn’t even released the name, just the address; Nick was supposed to meet us there after the reception, and I was on edge about seeing him. My wonderful friends rallied to my side, planning a casual dinner for me and Lacey before our night out, so that if I was wobbling, I could find strength in numbers. Gaz volunteered to do the food.
“I plan to dazzle Cilla with my secret weapons,” he confided, wiggling his hands. “These can do magical things to a chicken.”
“That’s a very alluring selling point,” I said, giving him a side squeeze.
Gaz hosted us in his ancient flat in a mews near the Victoria and Albert Museum. His place looked like a turn-of-the-century time capsule of masculinity: Everything was tartan or leather, there was a deer’s head mounted on a wood-paneled wall over the fireplace, and an actual divot in the chair rail in the dining room that Gaz swore was thanks to an errant piece of shrapnel during the Blitz.
“What is he making in there?” Lacey asked, sniffing the air from her perch on his plaid couch. “It smells like…burnt shoes.”
“That’ll be the Chex Mix, or whatever that stuff is that you love so much, Bex,” Cilla grunted. “He’s been practicing all week and he still forgets to check it.”
“I’ll go help,” I said.
“No, let me,” Cilla said, getting up. “I am excellent when Gaz is in crisis.”
“So there is one piece of good news. I’ve finally left Top News,” Clive said. He was almost vibrating with excitement. “I’m now at the Recorder. It’s not very established yet, but at least it’s a paper that people pay actual money to get.”
“Shut up, that’s awesome!” I said, hoping my sincere happiness showed through my bad mood. “I knew things would work out for you.”
“Yes, well, technically the job is as a nighttime copy editor, but when I’m not editing, I can volunteer for writing assignments,” he said. “It’ll be society stuff, mostly, but when you think about it, gossip is the part of the paper that people really read. Perhaps there is no better way to communicate.”
“Seriously?” Bea asked, dripping with derision as she poured herself a martini.
“The society pages are high-profile,” Clive argued, defensively. “This is a great stepping-stone for my career. A bloke can’t go straight from Top News to the Daily Mail.”
Bea nearly coughed up her olive. “If you think Nick is going to associate with someone working for the Daily Mail…”
“Not this again,” Clive groaned.
“Nick knows Clive is a reporter,” I said. “It’s not new. He would deal with it.”
“Yes, because dealing with things is his strong suit,” Lacey said protectively.
I snorted. Clive chuckled. Even Joss smiled, although she looked exhausted; she’d been fighting a lot with her father, who’d wanted her to work in reception at his gynecological practice instead of, as he’d phrased it, letting some leering toff bankroll her fancies. (Apparently I wasn’t the only one in need of distraction that night.) Bea started to speak, but was interrupted by the buzzing of her phone. She did a double take at it, then frowned at me.
“It would seem,” Bea said, “that you are not going to have a very happy birthday.”
She handed me the phone. Among the news photos trickling in from Prince Edwin’s wedding was a beautifully cinematic shot of Nick and Gemma Sands arriving at the church together through the mist, his elbow proffered, her hand curled around its crook. He was looking back at her, beaming, and she glowed up at him.
“No. No.” I tried calm breathing. I tried fast breathing. I tried a combination of the two. Nothing worked. As if on strings, I shot to my feet, my arm in the air. “MOTHERFU—”
“My phone,” Bea yelped, lunging at me just as Clive grabbed my wrist before I could hurl the phone at the wall.
“Calm down,” he said, rescuing the device. “Calm down,” he repeated softly.
“Is everything all right?” Cilla said breathlessly, coming out of the kitchen holding a carving knife that had a piece of chicken impaled on the end. Gaz followed her with a bowl of Chex Mix that smelled shockingly correct.
“Bex almost destroyed my mobile, which I haven’t had a chance to back up in weeks,” said good old Lady Bollocks, irritably.
“And, not to bury the lede or anything, but Nick went to the wedding with Gemma,” Clive reported. “I’m sorry, Bex. I can’t believe my sources didn’t tell me first.”
“Oh, get off it, Clive,” Cilla said, handing the knife to Gaz and helping Lacey pull me over to the couch.
“It might not mean anything,” Lacey began.
“It looks bad,” Bea said.
“It could be accidental,” Gaz offered, cradling the Chex Mix like a baby.
“It’s a slap in the face,” Cilla barked.
I internalized all this, mutely, furiously, and then I started giggling. The giggles turned into a laugh when I saw how alarmed my friends were at my reaction. The laugh turned into a guffaw interrupted only when the tears ran into my mouth.
“Oh, come on, guys, it’s funny,” I said, wiping my eyes, sounding hysterical even to my own ears. “Today of all days. It was supposed to be me. And instead he’s with her. Happy birthday to me!”
Gaz shook his head. “She’s barmy. She needs a drink.”
“You are right on one count,” I said. “I do need a drink. It’s my goddamn birthday and I am going to go out and have the best time anyone has ever had.”
Joss brightened. “I have a shirt you could borrow,” she said. “It’s mostly black lace but there are two patches over the boobs. For modesty.”
“No,” said Cilla, Bea, and Lacey in unison.
“Yes,” I said. “Nick would hate it. So yes. Give me that shirt.”
“…Thanks? Whatever, I’ll take it,” Joss said.
“Eat first, at least, Bex,” Lacey said, throwing Cilla a concerned expression. “If you’re going out with a vengeance, at least get your base going.”
“That’s the only thing I learnt at Oxford,” Gaz said melodramatically.
I wiped my eyes and smiled, and felt the emotions I usually funneled into Nick break free and flow at all of them.