“So,” Fiona begins later after a stretch of silence while they ate their food and I doodled in my diary, “have you met up with Keats yet?”
“Just once. Yesterday. He flew off to New York last night for his bank. He’ll be away till Friday next week.”
“How is he with the wedding?”
“He, um, has plans for it, ideas on what he wants to happen on the day.” I’m enjoying the double meaning of my words.
“Aw, that’s sweet!” Penny gushes. “I thought he’d try to sabotage it, considering what happened.”
I grimace inside but keep my expression neutral. No point letting any of them in on Keats’ stupid plan. I’ve got it covered anyway.
“How’s he looking?” Penny asks.
“A little thin, and kinda scruffy.” But still super-hot, I don’t bother to add.
“Shame.” Penny absently chews her steak like she’s thinking of Keats’ shirtless photo that used to be on Isabella’s phone. “Poor guy. They shouldn’t have asked him to be part of the wedding party. Must be tough for him.”
“Wedding photos are forever,” Fiona chimes in—the only married one in our group. “If he’s not part of the day, one day, they’ll all be okay again, and they’d regret not having him there.”
I stay silent, hoping there will be a wedding at all. I might be blasé about Isabella’s nuptials, but the thought of Keats ruining her day and succeeding in his plan to win her back makes me promise myself that I wouldn’t resent Isabella the perfect married life as long as it’s with Byron McAllister.
Chapter 6
I’ve never been to Keats McAllister’s house in my life. I was never in his circle of friends, and I figured Isabella was only ever invited to birthday parties and barbecues there because of their parents’ friendship. I wasn’t a stalker enough to look up his home address, but I was definitely tragic enough as a teen to daydream about being invited to his home and making out in his room.
It was difficult listening to Isabella while she regaled me with stories of school holidays spent being babysat by Mrs McAllister with her own children. It was sweet torture as she prattled on, totally oblivious to my pain. But I hadn’t wanted her to stop. I’d wanted to know all about Keats.
And I still do.
He’s currently living at home with his mother. At twenty-eight, that’s not a sexy fact. However, if you consider that he rented out his bachelor pad to keep his mother company after her nervous breakdown, it’s actually kind of sweet. He and Byron had even helped her pay the mortgage until his father’s life insurance money took care of the rest of the loan.
I unlock the low picket fence and let myself into the McAllisters’ yard. Loud yipping sounds before a tiny dog bounds up to me. I step over it as I make my way up the front veranda steps. It chases after me, barking and jumping all the way. Luckily, I’m too tall—even with the flat shoes I have on today—for it to accidentally nip my nethers. I’m not sure whether Keats is intimidated by a woman towering over him, but if I put on high heels, that’s exactly what would happen. He might be six feet tall, but so am I.
I knock on the glass-panelled front door, the tapping probably inaudible with the loud yipping. Do I even need to knock? There is obviously someone at the door—the canine doorbell has already announced it to the whole street. This is why I prefer cats—quieter and not so needy and excitable. I give the white and brown dog a wary glance—those little teeth look very pointy.
I knock harder when seconds pass. Nothing.
I lift my hand to knock again but locks click and the door opens to reveal a small, old woman. She looks too much like Keats to be anyone other than his mother, or perhaps grandmother. Traces of her faded beauty are still visible, her eyes so similar to her son’s but lacking the same wicked spark. Perhaps there used to be some there, but her divorce has snuffed it out. Wearing a God-awful muumuu, her look is made worse by the fact she has the air of someone who has let herself go. I’ve never seen anyone more in need of a makeover. Well, except maybe me just a few years ago.
“You must be Jess,” she says. Even after years of living in Australia, her British accent is still clipped and posh, just like Byron’s. “Isabella’s maid of honour? I’m Heather McAllister, Keats’ mother. Come in.” She’s smiling but her eyes betray her real feelings.
“Hi.” A niggle of awkwardness trails along my arms as she opens the door wider and steps aside to let me pass. Inside, furniture and boxes are stacked against the walls.
“We usually use the back door for guests,” she explains, clocking my gaze. “Feel free to enter that way next time.”
It’s times like these that I wish I grew up with a role model other than repeats of The Nanny. Then maybe I’d have a repertoire of things to say to parents, or know how to behave with people from my dad’s generation. “I was supposed to meet Keats here? We’re going to the bridal expo together,” I say as she shows me a seat on the sofa. She offers me some tea which I turn down.
“He’s playing golf with a couple of his bank’s investors. I’m sure he must be on his way home,” Mrs McAllister says, refreshing her cuppa. “When Jeff—that’s Keats’ father—used to play golf with his doctor mates, he came back at all hours, too. It just depended how fast they could get the little balls in the holes and how fast the group in front was.”
I nod, not knowing what to say. Isabella told me that Dr McAllister had divorced his wife
