The One Read online

  She slipped the balm into the pocket of her vintage red tea dress, a total bargain she’d snapped up at Oxfam, then smoothed her hair and strode out of the door – smack bang into a barman carrying a tray full of drinks. Lizzie watched in horror as glasses came crashing down around them, spilling their contents everywhere in torturously slow motion. A lone Bacardi Breezer just managed to stay on the tray, wobbling defiantly from side to side like a skittle.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she winced, wondering why she’d ever agreed to leave her cosy bedroom. Her left arm felt cold and sticky. ‘I … I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Evidently,’ he growled, surveying the front of his soaked black T-shirt.

  ‘Are you alright? I’ll pay for the drinks.’ A surreptitious check of her dress revealed that he had borne the brunt of the spillage, which was both unfair and a big relief.

  He set down the tray, glanced straight at her for a second, then surprised her with a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, his voice low and smoky. ‘There’s no point crying over … well, two pints, a Hooch and what I think might have been a Malibu and Coke.’ He sniffed the top of his T-shirt. ‘Yep … coconut.’

  Despite her mortification, Lizzie found herself laughing. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’ve always liked coconut. But I still feel terrible.’

  ‘Don’t. It’s an occupational hazard.’

  ‘What, spilled drinks or clumsy girls?’

  ‘Both, I guess. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes – well, apart from my rubbish eyesight, obviously. I swear I’m not as drunk as you must think.’

  He smiled again, and Lizzie noticed that he was quietly attractive, with unruly dark hair that flopped into striking blue-grey eyes, and a jawline scattered with stubble; not the pretentious, landscaped kind, but the sort that suggested he had better things to do than shave every morning. He was tall – she guessed around 6ft – with broad shoulders, and his damp T-shirt clung just tightly enough that she could tell he was in good shape. She was beginning to stare now, she knew, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to look away.

  In the end, he moved first, gesturing to the broken glass on the floor: ‘Well, I suppose I’d better sort this lot out before someone loses a toe.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She paused. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘You said that already,’ he teased. ‘Maybe we’ll bump into each other again sometime.’ And with that he disappeared into a room behind the bar.

  Realising that she hadn’t even caught his name, Lizzie was surprised by the sudden surge of disappointment inside – but not half as surprised as when the karaoke compere made his next announcement: ‘Alright, now I’m looking for Lizzie Sparkes … Lizzie Sparkes, please come up.’ Lizzie looked round frantically, hoping by freak coincidence that someone else might share the same moniker, but then she spotted Megan and the boys howling with laughter.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Lizzie,’ shouted Megan, singling her out with an exaggerated pointing gesture. ‘You’re on.’

  Lizzie tried frantically to get the attention of the chubby compere, wanting to let him know that it was all a stupid joke, but he interpreted her frenzied waving as a sign that she was coming and began to queue up the mysterious backing track. Blind panic set in. What have they picked? The contents of her CD collection flashed before her eyes. Britney Spears? Sugababes? S Club 7? There was only one thing for it: she would have to go up there and put a stop to this confusion.

  Taking a deep breath, she jostled her way up to the makeshift stage, a blush creeping across both cheeks. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake …’ she said to the host, but her voice was lost over the opening bars of the music as he thrust a microphone into her hand. Lizzie froze as she recognised the intro. It was Tragedy, a guilty pleasure she enjoyed playing on her Steps Gold CD – maybe a little too loudly if Megan had noticed – but would never dream of performing in the shower, let alone in public. The three cocktails she’d consumed earlier churned uneasily in her stomach.

  Shit, shit, shit. I’m actually going to have to go through with this. The opening lines popped up on the ancient monitor in a garish shade of neon green, as if to further highlight her public humiliation.

  Megan’s going to meet with some kind of tragedy when we get home, that’s for sure.

  Mumbling along to the first verse, Lizzie tried to keep in time with the loud audio, her voice quivering almost as much as her legs. In desperation, she held out the microphone to the audience, encouraging her fellow students to sing along for the catchy chorus.

  To her amazement, they did.

  Seconds later Megan jumped up on stage beside her, tucking a straw behind one ear like a headset mic and belting out the rest of the lyrics. A group of girls near the front stood to perform the Steps dance routine in perfect unison, as though they’d been rehearsing for precisely such an occasion.

  Just when Lizzie was starting to think that this karaoke business wasn’t all bad, the song came to an end and the audience went wild. ‘Good work, ladies,’ said the compere. ‘Well, who’s brave enough to come up and follow that? Looks like it’s going to be Tony, taking us back to the 80s …’

  ‘That was amazing!’ said Megan, sauntering off stage with rock-star swagger. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you.’

  ‘I didn’t exactly have much choice,’ replied Lizzie, not sure whether to hug her or slug her.

  ‘Don’t be mad. It was meant to be a joke. I never thought for a minute you’d actually get up there! I’d have stuck you in for two songs if I’d known you were going to bring the bloody house down.’

  Lizzie smiled in spite of herself, still buzzing from the adrenaline. ‘I guess it was kind of fun, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Steady on, Kylie.’ Megan stopped and sniffed. ‘Can you smell coconut?’

  ‘I think that might be me. I knocked a tray of drinks everywhere just before you put me in for Pop Idol.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve really outdone yourself tonight, then?’ They both cracked up and Lizzie realised she’d already forgiven her friend, though she wasn’t exactly sure when.

  ‘Yes, I have. So the next round’s definitely on you.’

  Suddenly Lizzie felt a tap on her shoulder, and spun around to face the enigmatic barman from earlier. Damn, please say he didn’t just see me making a fool of myself … She could feel the hot blush seeping back, hoping the redness wouldn’t be visible beneath the bar’s crappy lighting.

  He began to clap. ‘I’m impressed. You didn’t say you were going to sing.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was going to sing. My housemate stitched me up.’ She motioned to Megan, who raised a quizzical eyebrow as she backed away, no doubt already planning a full interrogation as to the identity of this mystery man. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before.’

  ‘Well, the crowd certainly seemed to enjoy it.’

  ‘Yeah, I suspect the alcohol might have had a lot to do with that.’ She wished she were better at accepting compliments from attractive guys.

  ‘So what do you do when you’re not pursuing your pop career?’ He leaned in to make himself heard as the karaoke kicked off again, and Lizzie could detect the subtle scent of leather, still imbued with a splash of coconut. The rest of the room blurred into the background.

  ‘I’m at uni, studying English. Second year,’ she shouted over the tinny backing track. Trying to chat in noisy bars was always tricky, but she wasn’t ready to give up on this conversation just yet.

  ‘How are you finding it?’

  ‘Good,’ she replied. ‘Most of the time, anyway. How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Only about six months.’ He moved closer, his lips almost touching her ear. His breath felt warm against her cheek. ‘I’m a student, too.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Scientology. With contemporary dance.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Oh, alright.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Hospitality.’

 
‘So you work here for experience?’

  He laughed. ‘Not really, more to pay the bills.’ Lizzie immediately wished she hadn’t sounded quite so naive.

  Just then a bloke with a hairy beer belly protruding from his shirt interrupted their conversation. ‘Hey, mate, could we get the same again over here?’

  ‘Be right with you.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Guess I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?’

  ‘Maybe you could see me at the weekend,’ said Lizzie, surprised by the confident words spilling from her mouth. Did I just ask him out?

  ‘Sounds great. I’m free Sunday. I’ll give you my number.’ He pulled a pen from his jeans and jotted the digits down on the back of a peeling coaster. ‘I’m Alex, by the way. Alex Jackson.’ He held out his right hand.

  ‘I’m Lizzie,’ she whispered, a faint current coursing through her fingers as she pressed her palm to his. ‘Sparkes.’

  3

  12 weeks to go …

  ‘How much?’ Lizzie asked incredulously, fishing around in her wallet for more cash as the sales girl on the ticket desk drummed her long nails. ‘What does that include?’

  ‘That’s just the admission fee,’ the girl replied politely, taking Lizzie’s notes and handing back a few loose coins in change. ‘Everything else can be paid for inside the wedding fair.’ She slid two fancy white tickets across the counter.

  ‘What are these made from, real brides?’ Lizzie grumbled. The two women behind coughed impatiently. ‘Oh, alright, we’re going,’ she said, as Josh led her away from the queue by the elbow.

  Stepping through the main entrance, Lizzie was struck by the sheer scale of the hall before them, which was filled with a seemingly endless succession of stalls: fairytale dresses floating on rails, chocolate fountains dripping with temptation, sweet bars bursting with candies of every colour, and travel agents barely visible behind huge piles of honeymoon brochures. The air hummed with the sound of thousands of brides and their entourages, all chattering loudly in chorus. It was an utterly surreal experience, as though one of her wedding magazines had sprung to life on steroids. She wasn’t sure whether to dive in or bolt for the emergency exit.

  ‘Remind me why we’re here again?’ she asked Josh. She had nearly passed out with shock that morning when he suggested they go along, and curiosity had compelled her to agree. She knew several of her friends had to bribe their fiancés with sexual favours just to get them within 50ft of a wedding fair.

  ‘Well, I know you were worried there was still lots to do, so I thought we could come here and cross off a bunch of jobs in one go.’ He reached for her hand, weaving his warm fingers through hers. ‘Then you can relax and just look forward to it.’

  ‘Ah, OK … makes sense, I guess.’ Lizzie tried hard to shake a disloyal seed of suspicion. Why’s he acting like Mr Wedding all of a sudden? Up until last week, Josh had shown zero interest in the finer details of the planning process. Sure, he was happy to get involved with the fun jobs, like booking the DJ and choosing a cake. But the moment she mentioned anything else – such as paying deposits or ordering stationery – he normally glazed over and went into lockdown. Then, since her little wobble at home last weekend, he kept asking if she was OK and if there were any jobs that needed doing. It wasn’t that she was complaining, really – she was grateful he was making an effort – but his sudden attentiveness was strangely disconcerting, like he’d been invaded by obliging aliens.

  To be fair, it didn’t help that she seemed to have a defective bridal gene: she still couldn’t tell the difference between cream and ivory, she didn’t give a toss whether the chair bows were organza or satin, and something about those beady-eyed cake toppers was really starting to creep her out. Deep down, she had never pictured herself having the big, traditional wedding, but lately it seemed to be snowballing of its own accord. Back when she was with Alex, she used to imagine them tying the knot in a small, intimate ceremony, or eloping spontaneously up to Gretna Green. She wondered what he would say if he could see her now, knee deep in place cards and confetti.

  ‘So what should we do first?’ asked Josh.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ replied Lizzie, stepping to one side to avoid being spritzed in the face by a woman brandishing bespoke fragrances. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Maybe flower arrangements?’

  What did you do with my fiancé? Lizzie figured he must be keen to get that one crossed off the list so he could spend more time with the stag reps and car-hire companies. She had already told him that they would struggle to afford an Aston Martin, but she knew his James Bond dream would die hard.

  ‘Alright,’ she said.

  Josh held on to her hand as they made their way across the huge hall, squeezing past gaggles of shrieking girls and pushy mothers. Watching him stride confidently through the crowd, Lizzie noticed that he attracted admiring glances from several women, including one trying on a wedding gown who really ought to know better. Window shop all you want, she thought, but I’m the one who’s marrying him. She felt a fresh rush of adrenaline. The events of last weekend might have thrown her momentarily, but now things were getting back on track. Who cares what Alex does? I’ve got Josh. This time, she had fallen for someone who would always be there – for better or worse.

  They continued to head for the kaleidoscope of blooms in the far corner, encountering eager reps promoting stag and hen packages, glamorous ladies ladling out skincare samples, magicians performing card tricks, and even designers flogging ushers’ outfits for pets. ‘Can we get one of these for Freddie?’ Lizzie joked, picking up a sparkly dog collar and leash. ‘Then Megan could keep him under control …’

  ‘It’s Megan I think we should be more worried about,’ laughed Josh. ‘Anyway, perhaps you should stick that back. I don’t want the woman to think we’re shoplifting.’

  ‘Are you trying to say I look dodgy?’

  ‘Never,’ he said with a smile.

  Finally, they came to the floral section, which was as overwhelming as it was colourful. Lizzie had assumed you simply chose your favourite stems and got a florist to arrange them prettily in posh vases, but now she could see that the options were endless: birdcages bursting with lush green foliage, centrepieces in oversized cocktail glasses, even topiary trimmed like hearts and bells.

  ‘Let’s keep this simple,’ she whispered to Josh, nudging him away from a man displaying a combination of gerberas, sparklers and citrus fruits who was frantically beckoning them over. ‘We don’t need anything edible.’

  He grinned. ‘How about flammable?’

  ‘I’m thinking … nope.’

  ‘Spoilsport. What about over there?’ He gestured towards a white-haired woman in a powder-blue suit, surrounded by subtle yet stunning arrangements in tall crystal vases. Blush pinks and soft mauves mingled with creamy neutrals, looking as though they’d just been freshly plucked from a country garden.

  Bingo.

  The florist caught her gaze and waited for them to come closer. ‘Hello,’ she said warmly, extending her right hand. It was soft and crêpey, though her grip was surprisingly firm. ‘I’m Peggy Bloom. How are you today?’

  Lizzie wondered if that was her real name or a clever marketing gimmick. ‘We’re good, thanks,’ she replied. ‘Just on the lookout for some wedding inspiration. I love what you’ve done here.’

  ‘Thank you. When’s your big day?’

  ‘Just under three months away, actually.’ Her heart began to beat faster, ticking rhythmically like a clock. The final countdown … The hit 80s anthem suddenly began playing in her head, and she realised she hadn’t caught Peggy’s last question. ‘Sorry, could you say that again?’

  ‘Is it a church or civil ceremony?’

  ‘Church.’

  ‘What kind of look are you going for?’

  ‘Nothing too fussy,’ said Lizzie. ‘Just something romantic and elegant.’

  ‘Do you have any particular flowers in mind?’

  ‘Yeah
, cauliflowers,’ said Josh. Lizzie laughed out loud and tried to pretend it was a tickly cough.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Peggy looked puzzled.

  ‘We’re open to suggestions,’ said Lizzie, steering the conversation back on course. ‘But I was thinking maybe lilies.’

  ‘Really?’ Josh seemed surprised. ‘They always remind me of funerals. How about roses?’

  She gave him a bemused glance, trying to figure out if he was being serious. The aliens must be back again. ‘Don’t you think they’re a little, you know … clichéd?’

  ‘Not really, but I’m hardly the best person to ask.’ He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Look Lizzie, if you love lilies, have the lilies. Far be it for me to deny my beautiful bride.’ She suspected that his attempt at feigning interest in flowers was already wearing thin. He snuck a sideways glance in the direction of the stag section.

  She decided to cut him some slack. ‘Look, why don’t you go off and have a look round while I run through our options with Peggy? I’ll come and find you when we’re finished.’

  ‘Really?’ Josh looked unsure, as though he might be snared in some kind of wedding trap.

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine. I won’t be long. Go sort out your stag do or something.’

  ‘Well, if you think I should …’

  ‘I do,’ she nodded.

  ‘OK, then – just give me a call when you’re done. Nice to meet you, Peggy …’ He bounded off before he’d barely finished his sentence, his bright blue T-shirt disappearing into the crowd. Josh’s cheerful exuberance was one of the first things she had noticed about him, and probably explained why he was one of the most popular teachers at his school. That, and his cheeky sense of humour. The pupils knew a big kid when they saw one.

  Lizzie turned her attention back to the florist. ‘Right, so lilies are out, roses are out … any other ideas?’

  ‘Why are they out?’ asked Peggy.

  ‘Yeah, I know he said he didn’t care, but I can’t exactly order lilies now knowing he doesn’t like them. After all, it’s his wedding too.’