‘Hey,’ I said, my fingers walking across the cotton fabric of his trousers. ‘Shall we have an early night tonight?’
Crack! The sound of shattering glass muffled his answer.
‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ Niamh cried, staring at the glistening shards of glass by her bare feet.
‘What happened?’ Melanie said, marching out of the villa’s patio doors.
‘I was putting my glass down, and it slipped out of my hand,’ she said, her doe-like eyes on Bill.
‘No harm done,’ Bill said, waving at Melanie. ‘Get a dustpan and brush, will you?’ He dropped the tongs and scooped Niamh up in his arms and carried her over to us, his feet crunching on the shattered wineglass. I patted the seat beside me. ‘Why don’t you sit down and have that Coke I bought you?’
She nodded and sank down onto the seat. I turned back to Stuart, but the moment was lost. He’d jumped up to help Melanie sweep up the broken glass, so I refilled my glass and took a slug.
The crickets were chirping, the mosquitoes were biting, and I was feeling the effects of a bottle of wine on an empty stomach when Bill carried over the platter of meat and we ate. From nowhere he produced a bottle of Bacardi and poured a generous measure into Niamh’s glass of Coke. But I wasn’t about to ruin the vibe by coming over all censorious. Pot and kettle and all that. A giggle bubbled out of my throat and I clamped my hand over my mouth. Shit, I was bombed. I took a long draught from my water glass and tried to focus on the conversations floating around me.
Stuart and Melanie were reminiscing about our university drama society’s production of Pride and Prejudice. Melanie had been much feted for her interpretation of a feisty but beautiful Elizabeth Bennet. Stuart had hammed it up as a pompous Mr Collins. Funny, I’d forgotten they’d both strutted their stuff on stage while we were students. Melanie had even talked about an acting career until Bill poured scorn on the idea.
On the other side of me, Bill was regaling Niamh with stories from his one and only visit to Ireland - his stag do in Dublin.
‘Oh man, it was the best,’ he said. ‘My main man Stu here organised it. We drank Guinness in The Temple Bar and enjoyed the craic at an Irish comedy club. We went paintballing and go karting and quad biking and clay pigeon shooting. We even went to a lap-dancing club, only don’t tell Mels.’
Niamh smiled slowly. ‘I won’t,’ she said.
‘I loved Ireland. All that green…’
‘It’s the rain,’ Niamh said.
‘And the pubs, and the beer, and the whiskey…’
I tuned out, casting my mind back to Bill and Melanie’s wedding, thirteen years before. They were the first of our contemporaries to get hitched and seemed very grown up as they walked down the aisle of the pretty country church near Bill’s parents’ sprawling Wiltshire pile. Stuart got uncharacteristically wasted during the wedding breakfast and, to my shock, slumped down on one knee in the middle of his best man’s speech and proposed to me to whoops of delight from the hundreds of guests.
A memory unfurled, blurry, but undeniable. As I’d gazed around the beautiful marquee wondering how to answer, I’d glimpsed Melanie. All day she’d beamed with happiness, the quintessential glowing bride, but as Stuart waited for my answer her face was pinched, and her eyes glistened with tears. It wasn’t until my own wedding day, three years later, that I understood why. No bride wanted another woman to steal her thunder on her big day. I wasn’t sure Melanie had ever forgiven me.
Feeling the sudden urge to pee, I pushed my chair back and weaved my way around the patio furniture to the villa. I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I was flushed from the booze, my lipstick had long worn off and my mascara was a bit smudged, but otherwise I looked amazing. Tanned and relaxed and horny as hell. Under my red sundress I was wearing my favourite Myla bra and thong. There was no way Stuart could resist me tonight. I kissed my reflection, peed, and headed back outside.
Melanie had already begun clearing plates. I should have helped, but the promise of another glass of crisp, cold white wine was far more appealing. I sat down with a thump, and Stuart peered at my face and frowned.
‘Christ, how much have you had to drink?’
‘Not enough,’ I leered at him, holding out my glass for a refill.
‘I think you’ve had plenty, don’t you?’ He took my glass in one hand, picked up a couple of plates in the other and followed Melanie into the villa.
‘When did my husband become such a fucking killjoy?’ I asked Bill.
When we met, Stuart was the life and soul of every student party, every rugby club piss-up. He was the one who instigated drinking games and hogged the mike on karaoke nights. He’d once pushed a booze-laden shopping trolley to our campus from the Sainsbury’s in town, over a mile away.
But something had changed over the last few years. He looked the same, and he sounded the same, but he was so bloody uptight.
‘He’s not the Stuart I know and love,’ Bill agreed, as we watched Stuart come back for more dirty plates. He’d wrapped a striped apron around his waist and was wearing rubber gloves. Bill found me a spare tumbler, filled it with wine and we clinked glasses unsteadily.
‘I think Stuart’s lovely,’ Niamh said.
‘He’s already taken,’ I slurred.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that,’ she tailed off, flustered.
I leaned forwards. ‘What did you mean?’
‘Erm, I suppose he’s exactly the type of man I’d like to marry one day.’
‘What - boring?’ Bill said, and he and I peeled with laughter.
A phone pinged, and I looked around in confusion. ‘Whose was that?’
‘Mine,’ Niamh said. She checked the screen, her face lit by its blue glare.
‘Who’s texting you
