Husband Material (London Calling #2)(40)

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “You just threatened not to invite me to your wedding, and that would be a weird thing to do if you weren’t getting married. Also, you’ve been engaged for at least two years.”

“I say. Well deduced. That dashed clever boyfriend of yours must be rubbing off on you.”

“Clearly.”

“Anyway, Miffy and I thought we should, you know, do the decent thing. Being engaged is smashing and everything, but one is technically supposed to get married at the end of it. Besides, can’t keep a girl waiting around forever. And neither of us are getting any younger.”

Crap. I’d reached the stage of my life where people who were younger than me were worrying that they were getting too old for stuff. “I mean,” I said, “you’ve still got plenty of time, haven’t you?

Really?”

And now what was I doing? Why was I trying to talk Alex out of marrying the gorgeous, heiress fiancée he’d probably—although knowing Alex not necessarily—been engaged to for years.

He shrugged. “Well, maybe. But you never know what could happen. You could get trampled by a horse tomorrow.”

“In London?”

“No, but back at the house. Happened to my uncle Freddie.

Three days before his wedding, wasn’t looking where he was going.

Wandered into the middle of a polo match. Absolutely flattened. Or my uncle Simon. Two days after his wedding. Celebratory shooting party. Wife mistook him for a pheasant.”

“Did she?” I eyed him carefully. “Because that sounds like a murder to me.”

“Oh, no,” exclaimed Alex. “She was terribly upset, poor thing. So upset that my uncle Timothy had to move into the house to comfort her. And when she wasn’t feeling better a year later, they moved to Tokyo.”

“Big fan of Japanese culture, was she?”

Alex screwed up his face. “I think it was something they didn’t have they were more interested in, strangely.”

“An extradition treaty?” I suggested.

“That’s the blighter. Anyway, fearfully nice lady. I do hope she comes back to see Miffy and me tie the knot.”

“I wouldn’t pin your hopes on it.”

“I suppose it is a long way.” He paused. “But you’ll come, won’t you?”

“Technically you haven’t invited me yet.”

“The proper invitation will be along in a day or so. So sorry it’s such short notice. Dashed thing: it turns out a surprising number of people aren’t in Debretts.” He gave me a faintly chiding look. “You should get that seen to, old boy.”

“I’ll get right onto it,” I said. “Right after I get my seat in the Lords.”

“I wouldn’t bother. It’s all political now.”

I decided to let that one die on the vine. “Thanks for the tip.”

Alex beamed. “Anytime. Well, not anytime. Not if I’m asleep for example. Or when I’m in the bath. Chap should never talk politics with another chap in the bath.”

“What should”—why was I asking this, what was wrong with me —“another chap talk about with another chap in the bath?”

“Rugger.”

“Noted.”

Alex gave me one of his vague, amiable looks. “In any case, do save the date, won’t you? I mean, when I send you the date. I’d tell you but can’t remember it off the top of my top.”

“Shall do,” I said. “Thanks.”

And then Alex drifted away, leaving me with a nebulous sense of unsettlement. Obviously I was happy for him—at least as happy as I could be for a man who, when you thought about it, embodied literally everything that was wrong with the British class system—but I was also… I don’t know.

This was a lot of…yeah?

It was kind of like I was at a station and everyone else was getting on trains or like I was at a restaurant and everybody else was on their main course, while I was staring at the departure board…or menu…or…

Fuck.

This made no sense. I was happier than I had ever been in my life. So why did I feel like I was failing?





"WE STILL DON’T HAVE TO do this,” said Oliver as we got off the Tube in Shoreditch, on our way to do this.

This being attending the wedding of the man who’d ruined my life. Well, ruined a bit of my life. A bit of my life that had seemed quite important at the time.

I took his hand decisively and definitely not desperately. “We do.

I mean, I do. I mean, it’s a closure thing. Look, I think I need to, okay?”

And Oliver, being Oliver, just said, “Of course.”

The problem was, I wasn’t actually sure why I needed to. I was calling it closure because that seemed a healthy and usefully vague label I could point other people at. And maybe it was closure. Maybe after tonight the little box in my head that had Miles written on it would finally be closed, and I’d never have to think about him—or what we’d been to each other or what he’d done to me—ever again.

Besides, if it wasn’t closure…what did that mean? What was I trying to prove? Or, if I wasn’t trying to prove anything, what was I looking for? Or, if I wasn’t looking for anything, what the fuck was I doing here?