Czytaj książkę: «The Wedding Favour»

An enormous Thank You to Beth Thomas for helping me understand the process that the Home Office requires when seeking to marry a foreign national. Your expertise was invaluable!

Prologue

‘Are you positive she’s not dead?’ My niece’s worried whisper is so close to my face that I catch a whiff of her sweet Frosties-breath. At six, she’s the perfect height to scooch onto the sofa where I’ve spent the night. The middle cushion has slid partway off, and no wonder, with its silvery brocade that always gave my clothes a fierce case of static cling when I perched there in happier days. My arse is wedged into the sofa’s murky depths, definitely touching whatever is underneath, but I’m not about to move a muscle now.

‘She’s not,’ Leo answers with his usual big brother authority. ‘Mum says she only wishes she was. She’s had a hard time so she’s sleeping.’

He whispers the words, as if I’ve got a terminal diagnosis. He’s not far off.

‘But it’s almost lunchtime.’ Little fingers poke at my shoulder.

‘Caitlin, don’t. Mum said to leave her.’ I can hear the start of a wrestling match as Leo subdues his sister.

I pry open one eye just in time to catch him snatching the biscuits Rowan left last night with my undrunk tea. ‘Leave me alone, rug rats, and put those back! Can’t a person have a mental breakdown in peace?’

Then I hear a ping. Finally! Better late than never. ‘That’s my phone!’ Frantically, I fling things from the coffee table: balled up tissues, my bra, more open packs of biscuits than you’d find at a blood donation clinic. ‘Where is it?!’

That sends them scattering. I must sound completely unhinged.

That’s because I am completely unhinged.

‘You’re up,’ Rowan calls from the lounge doorway. She doesn’t wait for an invite to come into what is, technically, at this moment, my bedroom. She simply makes her way towards me, picking her way past my overnight bag (or rather overnights, plural), discarded clothes and seemingly every toy in the house. Still, she manages to get a march on. My sister-in-law never lets any stumbling blocks, literal or otherwise, get in her way.

Everything about Rowan screams efficiency, from the top of her no-nonsense (but still very cute) pixie cut to her always-in-ballet-flats feet. Pretty Ballerinas too, not knock-offs, on account of her high-flying programming job for one of the big banks. I had hoped my niece and nephew would inherit her looks instead of my brother’s, but they’ve been cursed, like Paul and me, with the long Fraser nose, close-set eyes and furry brows that I have to pay good money at the salon to keep under control. Paul really should too, instead of walking around with a sleeping chinchilla on his brow. They did get our good lips, though, so that’s something, and Rowan’s pale blonde waves – though both Caitlin and Leo wear those longer than Rowan does – and they don’t turn beetroot in five minutes of sun like their mum.

I’d take Rowan’s lack of melatonin any day to get the rest of it. Imagine, if you will, the woman who really does have it all (without being smug about it like I’d probably be) … Well, that’s Rowan. To this day I don’t know how my brother ever convinced a gem like her to give him the time of day, let alone marry him.

But then, people are probably about to say the exact same thing about me and Matt.

‘My phone, where is it?’ How many times do I have to repeat myself before the importance of this question is impressed upon my family?

‘I don’t hear anything,’ Rowan says. She tips her head like a spaniel listening for the tin opener.

‘Not now. Before.’ I reach under the sofa in case it fell from my heartbroken hand when I finally drifted off into fitful sleep.

‘Oh, that. That was just the microwave. I’m heating up leftovers. Pizza. Mmm mmm. Want some? Oh, duck,’ she says, catching my sob face, ‘you don’t have to eat it.’

She sits beside me. Credit to her, she only reels back a little bit when I slump into her arms. Must shower one of these days. ‘I don’t want pizza,’ I snivel. ‘I’d never eat pizza again if I could have Matt back.’ Not that one has anything to do with the other. Or that I’d be able to keep the promise anyway. Blame my sorry state for making me resort to nonsense like this.

‘Here’s your phone.’ Caitlin unplugs it from the wall. That’s right. I’d wanted it charged in case his make-up call took more than 27% of my battery.

Now I’m fully charged but still broken up.

‘Nobody rang,’ she says, handing it to me.

‘You’re too young to be looking at phones,’ I snap. Which is also ridiculous considering that she could practically build her own apps before she was out of nappies.

I feel like a first-class arse when Rowan gathers her daughter in for a hug. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ I tell Caitlin. ‘I haven’t been myself lately.’

‘I know, Auntie Nelly, but there are other fish in the sea.’

‘You didn’t really just say that.’

Caitlin shrugs. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll take dating advice from you when the Tooth Fairy no longer has to visit, okay?’

She sticks her tongue in the hole where her bottom tooth had been. ‘I’m just saying what Mummy said.’

‘Way to belittle my breakdown, Rowan.’

Now it’s Rowan’s turn to cast evils at her daughter. ‘You’re not having a breakdown. This is a temporary situation.’

‘You mean you think we’ll get back together?’ I hear the desperation in my voice.

Rowan’s eyes slide from mine. ‘Maybe.’

‘You’re a hopeless liar.’

‘I mean it might not be the worst thing if you didn’t,’ she says. She starts to gather up my tissue mountain but changes her mind. Instead, she folds over the ends of the biscuit packets. ‘To be honest, he didn’t always seem totally committed. He stayed away for Christmas.’

The cushion slides further towards the floor when I sit up. ‘He got food poisoning, Rowan. You’re not suggesting he purposely ate bad chicken to get out of seeing Gran. Trust me, he’s totally committed. I mean, until we broke up. But I can fix this.’

Rowan shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure you should, though, duck. You shouldn’t have to convince a bloke to be with you.’

‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you, when my sap of a brother made it so easy. Meet, fall in love, get married, job done.’

Rowan, being Rowan, doesn’t take it personally that I’m being a complete cow. She knows I couldn’t have loved her more if she were my own blood sister. Luckily, she remembers it even when I talk like this.

‘I’m saying that you’re worth more, Nelly, that’s all. And you know it. If someone hasn’t got the brains to see that, then that’s his loss, not yours. He hasn’t bothered to ring you, has he?’

‘It’s only been three days.’

‘And how many days is okay before he’s an arse for not ringing his fiancée?’

‘Ex-fiancée, apparently.’

‘Just— Don’t ring him, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Really okay? Or are you just saying okay until I leave the room and then you’ll ring him?’

‘Really okay.’ I do have some pride left. Rationally, I know Rowan is right. I just need my heart to catch up with my head. And for Matt to ring me to apologise.

I can’t bear to think about what it will mean if he doesn’t.

I suppose I should come clean now, because you’ll realise it sooner or later anyway. I’m the family screw-up. Not jailbird level. Just as in nobody is surprised when something else doesn’t work out for me. There’s always that knowing eye-roll. Like it’s all my fault and what do you expect, it’s Nelly.

But this is jailbird level. I’m the one about to be jilted. Never mind that my heart feels like it has been ripped in two. Oh, how everyone will pick over that with their Christmas dinner. Nelly’s fiancé ran a mile rather than marry her.

Maybe I’ll fake food poisoning this year.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

I haven’t told anyone about me and Matt. And it’s been nearly three weeks now. That makes me either the world’s biggest optimist or completely delusional.

The problem is, the details of our last conversation are getting a little fuzzy. They say our minds do that when there’s been a traumatic event, but you’d think something like this would be cemented into my memory, given that it’s ruining my life. It’s fair to say that I wasn’t as coherent as I’d have liked, what with all the crying. I think I offered all kinds of promises when he started talking about taking a break.

A break. That’s one word away from a break-up, but that’s what he’s done. He’s gone on a break. Which is possibly why he hasn’t returned my calls.

Rowan knows about us, obviously, since I wallowed all over her sofa for more than a week, but she’s sworn to secrecy, and my brother’s been out of town on one of his consultancy assignments (Abu Dhabi this time), so there’s a chance it won’t get back to the family yet. There haven’t been any major events to cover for lately. Mum sometimes asks how Matt is when we talk, and I say ‘fine’ like I always have.

I suppose it’s too much to hope that I can keep this up, that they won’t notice the absence of a groom on the day itself.

I wish I had the stomach for it, but I cannot face everyone. Because it wasn’t me who called time, was it? I’m the one everyone is going to wonder about. No matter how I spin it, I’m the jiltee, the rejectee, the un-fiancéed.

They’re going to think I’m the defective one. Again.

I do remember that Matt was frustratingly vague about this whole break thing. That means there might still be a chance that we can make things okay. He’s got to come to his senses at some point. I will not believe that this is the end. We were too good together to just throw away the best two years of our lives. Anyone would get cold feet with all the wedding planning we’ve been doing. I probably have gone a bit overboard on it all. Naturally, I offered to pare everything down to the bare minimum, if that’s what he wanted. Even though we did decide on all the details together, and I’m not just saying that. Matt has made as many suggestions as I have, and we’ve agreed on them all. That’s what I mean: nobody is as well-aligned as we are. So why hasn’t he been in touch to admit he made a mistake?

It’s the silence that’s killing me. If we’d just broken up like normal people, then I’d get on with the usual stages of break-up grief. The share prices in Kleenex and Gordon’s would go up. I’d baffle friends and strangers with unanswerable questions, maybe do something ill-advised with my hair. At least I’d be tragically thin, even if losing that ten pounds for the wedding dress would be a moot point.

I hate this limbo. Are we getting married in three months or not? I need to know. My family needs to know.

The country’s biggest magazine definitely needs to know.

I should probably mention that too. The whole wedding is being paid for by Fantastic Magazine. All we have to do is let them cover the whole thing for the serialised wedding feature they’re running.

If only that feature contest hadn’t been so tempting, so perfect for us. Who wouldn’t want to be chosen as the most romantic couple of the year, win ten thousand quid and get an entire series written about them?

I’ll tell you the answer: a dumped fiancée, as it happens.

Sighing, I open the email again on my phone.

From: Martha@FantasticMagazine.co.uk

To: Nelly@FindingHappy.co.uk

Re: Release forms and prelim schedule

Dear Nelly,

Just a quick one to say again how excited we are to start the series. It’s going to be a total inspiration for Fantastic Magazine’s readers! Attached please find the release forms. An electronic signature is fine and we’ll need them from everyone who’ll be involved in the interviews and the photographing/filming. No rush to get them back.

Here’s a rough outline of what we’d like to photograph and interview about, but please do let me know if you have additional ideas – this is very much a collaborative effort, and it’s your wedding after all! Like you said in your pitch, the more loved-up couple-i-ness the better, and the candid ‘outtake’ filming is such a great idea for the website! I’m sure we’ll have more than enough for all three months’ stories.

  your falling-in-love story

  the dress (you said your mum will be there – anyone else?)

  decorations – will your friends/family help at all? That would make a great story

  flowers

  cake

Other ideas:

  wine tasting?

  will you do dance lessons?

  maybe bridesmaid’s dresses? It might be interesting if they’re different sizes and shapes

We’ll plan to be at your flat on the 27^th. Is 10am too early?

See you sooooon!

Martha x

As if it’s not bad enough that my fiancé might actually be calling off our wedding, I’ve got this to worry about. What am I supposed to do when Martha and her team turn up, expecting to follow us around for the next three months? Pretend Matt’s in the loo the whole time?

This seemed like such an amazing opportunity, right when I’d been planning an entire life change. But I can’t even face thinking about that right now.

It’s not that I’m overly loyal to Martha, although I would feel terrible pulling out now. It’s that I’ve also already spent the advance money for the feature on deposits for the wedding. I can’t pay them back if I cancel the series.

Which means I also can’t wait around for Matt to make up his mind.

I don’t expect him to answer. I tap his name on my mobile again, trying not to be embarrassed by how many times it’s said I’ve already rung.

‘Hi, Nelly.’

‘You answered! I mean, how are you?’ My mouth has gone dry.

‘Okay. Still trying to figure things out,’ he says. ‘That’s why I haven’t rung back. I did say I needed space.’

I can hear people in the background. Obviously he doesn’t need space from everyone. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Just some people I’ve met here.’

‘Here? Where are you?’

He hesitates. ‘Tarifa.’

Tarifa? As in Tarifa, Spain? ‘You’re on holiday while I’m worrying myself sick about our relationship?’

‘It’s not like that, Nelly,’ he says. ‘I told you I needed time to think. I had to get away from London. Everything reminds me of us. I took a sabbatical to sort my head out.’

‘While you’re on a beach.’

‘It doesn’t matter where I am. And it’s not a holiday. I’m in an apartment.’

‘You’ve moved there?’ How has this happened? One minute we’re making our guest list and the next he’s making Spanish omelettes in his new apartment.

‘Nelly, relax, of course I haven’t moved. It’s just that an apartment is cheaper than a hotel. I’m not having fun here, you know. I’m trying to figure things out.’

‘If that was true, you could have gone to … I don’t know, somewhere that doesn’t have twenty-four-hour sangria and wall-to-wall bikinis. Who are you figuring things out with anyway?’

‘No one! Nelly, this isn’t about anyone else. It’s about me. Us. Besides, I’d never do that to you.’

‘But you would leave me three months before our wedding.’

‘I haven’t left you.’

‘Matt, you’re in a different time zone. What’s your definition of leaving? Can you blame me for being worried? I don’t even know if you love me anymore.’

‘Of course I do. That’s not the issue.’

‘What’s the issue, then? Because I’m more than a little confused. The last time I checked, we were in love and about to get married. Now you’re partying it up on a windsurfer.’ That Kleenex and Gordon’s binge is fast looming on the horizon. ‘The magazine is coming on the twenty-seventh. Exactly what am I supposed to tell them?’

‘I don’t give a damn about the magazine, Nelly, though clearly that’s still uppermost in your mind.’

I’m so sick of this argument. It’s not my fault that Matt doesn’t get the whole social-media thing, or that I’m trying to build a career out of it. He thinks I’m Instagramming pouty selfies and photos of my breakfast. He can’t see that this is how I’m finally going to make a success of myself.

You see, I’ve got this blog. So far, so shallow, but hear me out.

It started as somewhere to dump all my thoughts. Hardly anyone read it and that was fine with me. My friends were sick of hearing the same stories over and over. I wanted to offload into an anonymous void. It’s what helped me be brutally honest about my life. About myself. And finally, instead of feeling awful, I actually started looking for ways to be happy.

Well, apparently I’m not the only one looking, because what started as a few people commenting on my posts has, four years later, turned into a community of thousands who read the blog every single day.

We gee each other up on Instagram. We’re there for each other. And though we’ve never met in person, some feel like real friends – they are real friends, and I love them. They’ve been with me through all the ups and downs, and the ups again when I met Matt. They’re looking forward to our wedding almost as much as I am. #superromantic!

It was easy to start posting on Instagram – and I admit that there was a bit of trout-mouth and breakfast-snapping in those early days – but once more people started engaging with the blog, my account really built up.

Then one day I got an email from a company. They wanted me to feature their inspirational tote bags! Well, things sort of took off from there.

With the magazine deal, the blog will get the exposure it needs to let me quit my day job and become a full-time influencer. I know, what a ludicrous word. Call it what you like, the point is that I can’t earn a living as a blogger without a deal like this.

But if Matt breaks up with me, it won’t only be my relationship that ends. My future career goes too. I can’t give readers a break-up story. It’s too depressing. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but we made a commitment,’ I tell Matt. ‘You agreed, remember? While you’re working on your tan, I’m trying to hold everything together here.’ Then I get a terrible thought. ‘Did you tell anyone? That you’re backing out?’

‘I’m not definitely backing out. Can’t you give me some space?’

‘Matt. Space is not seeing each other for a few nights so we can go home to do our laundry. Why can’t you just admit that you’re backing out? Did you tell anyone?’ I know he didn’t put anything on Facebook, because he’s not on there. I guess I should be grateful for that, though it does make it impossible to see what he’s doing every second of the day like I want to.

‘Only my parents,’ he says. ‘I had to when I went away.’

That explains why I haven’t heard from his mother. She usually checks in. Now she’s avoiding me. ‘Matt, help me understand what’s wrong. Please.’

I can hear him take a sip of something. I bet it’s alcoholic and frosty in the sunshine. It’s overcast here. ‘I keep thinking back to when we were first together,’ he says. ‘We were perfect for each other.’

I’m so tempted to answer him, to tell him I feel the exact same way. But I have to let him talk. I’ve asked the question. Now I need to hear the answer.

‘And you know I wasn’t looking for a relationship. It just sort of went that way. With everything being so nice and fun between us, it was easy. I’m just not sure it’s really what I want.’

‘But you asked me to marry you,’ I point out. He definitely did. I might be fuzzy on more recent details, but I remember every second of that morning: the overcooked scrambled eggs in bed, just ‘because’, he’d claimed. The way he’d kept watching me while we ate, until I asked him what was wrong. How awkwardly he’d held my hand over the breakfast tray, dragging my sleeve through the buttered toast. And then his question, without preamble: will you marry me?

‘I know,’ he says now. ‘That’s because I do love you. I do. You’ve got to believe that. Even if I’m not sure about being married, I do love you. This really isn’t about you. I hope you can believe me. I might not be ready for such a commitment. Not yet. But you’ve got everything planned already, and with the magazine coming … it makes it so official.’

Finally, an answer! I’ve been wracking my brains for weeks trying to figure out how to fix this, and finally I know. ‘What if I cancelled the magazine? Would that help?’ It won’t help me, but sod it. My relationship is more important. I’ll figure out how to pay Martha the advance back later. Maybe I can get a second job. The important thing is that I can fix this now.

‘It might,’ Matt says.

That doesn’t sound completely fixed. ‘Might? Or would?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he says.

‘That’s not enough for me.’

‘No, I didn’t think so. That’s why I didn’t ask you to do it.’

What am I supposed to do now? Give up the magazine and my chance to change my career along with it, in the hope that he’ll eventually come around?

‘This is why I need the time, Nelly,’ he goes on. ‘I’ve got to figure things out before we can go forward. I’m sorry. I know it’s not ideal.’

‘I can’t wait around forever for you to decide what you want, Matt. I’ve got a week before I need to know. It’s the twenty-seventh when the magazine gets here. At least give me the courtesy of telling me by then.’

This is just great. He’s off at the beach and I’m stuck holding the wedding goodie bag. Or not, as the case may be.

Chapter 2

It turns out Matt doesn’t need the whole week to decide our future because two days after our call, he emails me.

Email! The flippin’ coward.

He understands, he says, if I want to go on with my life. What’s that supposed to look like anyway?! Telling everyone I know that I’ve been jilted? Going to debtor’s prison for not being able to pay back the magazine advance? Wallowing until I’ve cried so much that I actually die from dehydration? He says that since he can’t make a decision in the time I’ve given him, he’ll need to say no for now. Like I’ve offered him a second helping of peas, not my heart.

So that’s it. I am officially a dumped woman. I’d love to say it’s not as bad as I feared, but it’s actually worse. My double-crossing mind keeps replaying our greatest hits to maximise my misery. Thanks, brain, for reminding me of all the times he turned up after work with a picnic so we could sit in the park on warm summer evenings or the way his face looked extra gorgeous when he was sleeping. And I’m ever so grateful to have his proposal on loop, like some sick-making ride I can’t get off.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, I’m going to have to face my family next week at my dad’s birthday party. They’ll definitely ask where Matt is. What am I supposed to say, that he’s got food poisoning again? They’ll think I’m marrying someone with serious digestive issues … when, actually, I’m not marrying anyone at all, am I? #dumped.

Meanwhile, I’ve had to keep posting on my Instagram account every day as if nothing has happened. Believe me, that’s not easy with all this crying. I’ve resorted to taking selfies with dark sunglasses on. It’s only a matter of time before people start thinking I’ve had glaucoma surgery.

‘How are you doing?’ my co-worker Jenny asks as she stops by my desk. She’s making a remarkably ugly sad face. Her eyes practically close as she scrunches up her expression, and I can see the remnants of a cold sore when she juts out her bottom lip. Normally she’s the prettiest one here, so I’m touched that she puts herself out like this for me.

I’ve only told my office about me and Matt because they’re a safe audience. Other than fearing that I’m going to blub all over them in the corridor, most of them have no skin in this game. I’ve been practising on all the non-essential people I can find – colleagues, one of my neighbours, the guy at the café around the corner who makes my tea just the way I like it. I’ll work my way up to actual friends and, oh, God, my family.

‘How long till I can go home?’ We both look at the wall clock.

‘I’m sneaking off early to meet a friend,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you come? It’ll be fun.’

With the way I’m feeling, she could have asked me to join her for a two-for-one smear test and it would’ve been infinitely preferable to sitting at my desk right now with thoughts of Matt running around my head. Besides, I don’t want to be at work this week even more than I usually don’t want to be at work.

I don’t hate my job, per se. Like almost everyone who has to get up for the Monday morning commute, I just wish I didn’t have to do it. But those insurance claim forms won’t process themselves, will they? You can only aspire to imagine the glamour of my work week.

‘Let’s go,’ I tell her, shoving my phone into my handbag.

I don’t know who I expect Jenny’s friend to be, but it isn’t a six-foot-something Colombian who looks like he’s on the national volleyball team. Once he’s kissed Jenny’s cheeks, Rafael flashes me the friendliest smile I’ve ever seen. ‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘Please, let me get the next round in.’

‘Wow, he’s …’ I say after he goes to the bar.

Jenny nods. ‘I know. His accent makes me think of piña coladas.’

‘Was that penis coladas? Did you and he ever …?’ Supposedly she’s got the perfect boyfriend, but I thought the same thing a month ago. One never knows.

‘Nah, definitely not,’ she says. ‘He’s friends with Ed, for one thing, and, actually, Rafael got me my job. He works upstairs in account management. Haven’t you ever seen him in the building?’

‘Uh-uh, not that I remember.’ Though, staring at his broad back now, how could I have missed him? Love must have blinded me … No, stop that, Nelly. You will not think about Matt now, not when this is your first time out since The Email. Let’s try to have one snot-free hour, shall we?

‘You said for one thing,’ I point out to Jenny. ‘What’s the other thing?’

‘There’s no other thing. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? I can’t, but you definitely should.’

This is a strange conversation to be having with a work friend, especially since, other than Jenny telling me that she has a boyfriend, we’ve never really talked about relationships before. Our social interaction hasn’t progressed much beyond rubbishing colleagues who leave the milk out of the office fridge.

‘You know that the best way to get over a bloke is to get under another.’ Her smile is pure smut.

Rafael joins our laughter as he approaches the table. ‘What are we talking about?’

‘Home truths,’ Jenny says. When I clink my gin and tonic with their drinks, Jenny catches my eye. ‘Nelly is recently single,’ she says.

I kick her under the table. Hard.

Rafael trains his deep brown eyes on mine. ‘Recently? I’m sorry to hear that, if you’re sad.’

We all stare at each other. ‘Well, this isn’t awkward at all,’ I finally say.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.’ Then Jenny turns to Rafael. ‘Onto safer subjects, I hope. How’s the visa hunt going?’

He shrugs. ‘Nothing so far. There’s no way to extend my work permit. They got a solicitor to look into it.’ His sigh is monumental. ‘I’ve got nine more months. Then …’

‘But you can’t leave when your whole life is here!’ she says. ‘That’s not fair. You’ve been here, what, ten years?’

‘Almost nine. I wish it was ten, then I could apply for settlement. It’s not looking good.’ He sips his pint. ‘I don’t like thinking about what will happen. My friends are all here, my career, my kids.’

‘Oh, you’ve got kids?’ I ask.

‘Rafael is a football coach,’ Jenny explains. ‘Where is it? Hackney?’

‘Yeah, Dalston,’ Rafael says. ‘And Kensal Rise. Of course they can replace me, but I’d hate to leave those kids.’

‘Oh, you’re only being modest,’ says Jenny. ‘You started the programme.’ Then, to me she points out, ‘He started it as an after-school thing to keep teenagers occupied and off the street. Didn’t you win an award for that? He won an award and everything.’

Rafael looks embarrassed. ‘It was very much a joint effort with the youth centres. Anyway, Immigration doesn’t seem to value my local community award as much as you’d imagine.’

‘Well, they should! You contribute to the country, plus you pay your taxes, which is more than a lot of foreign companies do. Not to mention that you always get your round in. Rafael, you’re an asset to Britain.’

He laughs. ‘I’ll be sure to add that to my application. I probably wouldn’t have minded so much five or six years ago, but Bogotá doesn’t feel like my city anymore. I think of myself as a Londoner.’

‘That would be hard,’ I say, ‘When you’ve spent so long in a place, made it home. I can’t imagine having to leave the country.’

‘Thanks, now I feel loads better,’ he says. But he’s smiling.

‘And you definitely couldn’t marry Mabs?’ Jenny asks. Then she turns to me. ‘That’s Rafael’s best friend.’

‘Unfortunately not,’ says Rafael. He looks so sad. ‘She’s on the same visa as me. If you hear of anyone, though …’

Wow, marrying for a visa. You hear about this kind of thing, but I’ve never actually met someone in that position. Though I suppose he’s not the kind of person the Daily Mail likes to talk about. He’s got a better job than me, and if he’s starting up youth clubs and such then surely it’s a benefit to have him here.

The plan starts forming in my mind before I’ve finished my drink. If Rafael needs someone to marry, and I’ve got a groom-shaped hole in my wedding plans anyway, then why couldn’t we? It could – if I’m very smart about it – solve both our problems. I wouldn’t even have to pay the advance back to the magazine if I’ve still got a groom-to-be. And a very photogenic one at that. It’s not like I’d be giving anything up with Matt to do it, now that the bastard has done a runner.

It’s either the gin or the idea that’s making my tummy fizz. Nobody needs to know that it’s just a business transaction.

Who says that Matt was the one to call things off anyway? Except for Matt, admittedly. I can tell my side of the story whatever way I want, so why couldn’t I have finally ended things with Matt after Rafael and I met a few months ago? A little back-dating won’t hurt. It might even help his case with the Immigration people. We won’t seem quite so whirlwind that way. Lots of people meet and marry within a year. My parents did.

It would mean that people would think I was a cheater, though. I guess I can live with the reputation, given that my other option is for everyone to think that I’m too sad to marry.

I know I can trust Rowan with my secret. Jenny might be a problem, though, if she knows I only met Rafael tonight. I’ll have to think about that.

But would Rafael really do it? He might be all talk and no walk.

Well, you know what they say. Only one way to find out.

***

‘How nice to hear from you,’ he says when I ring the next day.

It was simple to find his office number, given that he works for our company. Luckily, there’s only one Rafael in the account management department. Otherwise I might have been about to proposition a fifty-something bloke with chronic bad breath and a squint.

‘You too. I mean—’ Crikey, I’m nervous. ‘I’m ringing because, well, this would probably be better in person, but I don’t want to take up your time and, well, this is quicker. Like ordering a takeaway.’ Ordering a takeaway?

‘How can I help you, Nelly?’

‘I could marry you,’ I blurt. ‘I mean, I’m British and single, so if you needed me to … to stay here, then I could. If you wanted.’

‘Uh … you’re right, that is a surprising phone call. I’d hate to see how you order a takeaway.’

‘I don’t offer marriage in exchange for a side of garlic bread, if that’s what you mean. It’s a straight business offer … unless you were joking about getting married.’ Thank goodness this isn’t a FaceTime call. He can’t see my face burning.

‘I didn’t imagine becoming a mail-order groom,’ he says, ‘but it would solve my problem. You’d do this for me?’

‘I’d do it for me, actually.’ Then I tell him my situation. I mean the whole truth, without holding anything back. ‘So, you see, it would be good for both of us. If it works.’

I can picture his smile as he laughs. ‘I don’t have much choice at this point. I’m pretty desperate.’

‘Thanks. That’ll make the perfect wedding vow on the day.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … I’m sure you’re a reasonable person to marry.’

‘Stop spoiling me with all these compliments or my head won’t fit through the door. Besides, recent events would suggest otherwise.’

‘That was a pretty shitty thing for your ex to do,’ he says. ‘No matter what, you didn’t deserve him to end things like that.’

‘Thanks. The point is that we’re in the same boat, for different reasons. I haven’t got much choice, either, since I can’t pay back the magazine advance. I’ve been working out a few details. There’s lots more, obviously, but it seems like the big thing is how and when we met, since it would come as a surprise to everyone we know.’

‘And how it would work practically too,’ he says. ‘It would look odd if we didn’t live together after we’re married, no?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ To be honest, there’s a lot I probably haven’t thought of. Walking up the aisle with Rafael is one thing, but how are we supposed to carry on after we’ve cut the wedding cake? ‘Maybe it’s a stupid idea.’

‘Let’s see if the details could work,’ he says. ‘I could meet you tonight if you’re free. Nelly, you might be my saviour. Thank you for considering this. It would mean the world to me.’

‘That’s me, Saint Nelly. I can meet you any time from six-thirty.’

This is crazy. Absolutely crazy.

***

By the time I reach the pub where we’re meeting, I’m actually starting to believe that this isn’t the most off-the-wall idea in the world. Right? Right?! I mean, it’s not as off-the-wall as contact-lens jewellery, two-person jumpers or entire Christmas dinners in a tin, and people actually buy those. This isn’t as daft as sharing a jumper. This is … let’s call it a creative solution.

So, I shouldn’t really be this nervous when I catch sight of Rafael already waiting for me outside the pub. I hope his being even earlier than me means he’s starting to believe in the idea too.

‘Hi!’ we both say at once. He leans down to kiss my cheek just as I lean up to kiss his. Unfortunately, he goes for the wrong cheek, which leaves us having to duck and dive to avoid a snog.

‘Do Colombians go to the right?’ I wonder as we make our way inside. Oh, God. That sounds like I’m asking about the way he adjusts his bits in his pants. ‘Kisses, I mean.’

‘I never really thought about it,’ he says. We’re both trying to look as if we haven’t just nearly mashed lips. ‘But I can’t speak for my entire country. I’m right-handed, does that make a difference?’

He’s smirking. I hope he’s not thinking about his bits.

‘It’s just that it’s left first, then right,’ I say.

‘I did kiss your left cheek first.’

‘No, I mean you have to go left first. You kiss this side first.’ I tap my right cheek. That just calls attention to the fact that I’m blushing. ‘That’s the way it’s done.’

‘Are you always this bossy?’ he asks.

‘Do you always kiss wrong?’

His smile is devastating as he slowly shakes his head. ‘No complaints so far.’

I bet.

I’ve recovered some composure by the time we wedge ourselves into one of the corners. It’s near the loos, but at least we’re away from the main part of the busy pub. The rain lashing the windows is keeping everyone from spilling out onto the pavement like they probably usually do in nice weather. It’s got that kind of drinking-on-the-pavement feel to it, with its rounded bar and dark wood trim, high panelled ceiling and hanging baskets outside.

‘So, you want to marry me,’ Rafael says, too loudly judging by the way one of the blokes beside us looks over.

Lowering my voice, I say, ‘I feel like there’s an opportunity to solve both our problems. If you were serious about it.’

‘Serious as a heart attack,’ he says. ‘But what about you?’ He sips his pint. ‘Is this really worth it for you?’

‘I don’t have much choice,’ I tell him, ‘unless I want to pay all the money back. I mean, if I could pay it all back. Which I can’t. So I’m stuck.’

He taps his pint to my glass. ‘Then it’s just what I’ve always wanted. A woman who’s got no choice but to marry me.’

‘Talk about a fairy tale,’ I answer. ‘I’ve always dreamed of being married for my passport. We’ll make a fine pair. If we can work out the details.’ As I catch sight of us in one of the old-fashioned advertising mirrors on the wall, I think: we do look like a fine pair.

I wish I’d spent more time touching up my make-up.

‘So how are we going to do this?’ he asks. ‘It’s easy for me. Well, easier. My family are all in Colombia. I only need to let my parents know. They’re more efficient than the postal system there. But you might have to deal with questions in person, no?’

‘We might have to,’ I correct. ‘My parents will never go for this if they don’t meet you first. Not that they need to give their permission. I just mean that they’ll be suspicious.’

I haven’t historically been known in my family for restraint when it comes to romance. I’ve practically asked new boyfriends to meet my parents before we’ve finished the first date. As it is, they’re going to have a hard time believing that I’ve hidden Rafael for this long.

‘I’m happy to meet your parents,’ he says. ‘Parents love me. And our friends? We’ll have to tell them too.’

‘It’s a lot to sort out. Let’s approach it logically. One step at a time.’

We both sip our drinks. Then we get down to the business of inventing the lie of our lives for everyone we know.

Chapter 3

Rafael and I are actually doing this! I sneak another peek at him as we speed on the train through the rolling hills and farms of Cornwall. He’s sitting in the window seat, so I can pretend I’m interested in the view while I stare at him. He smiles when he catches me looking. Then he does the most remarkable thing. He envelops my hand in his.

‘We should be practising, no?’ he whispers. His voice sounds growly when it’s low like this.

‘Definitely. For authenticity.’ That’s the most important part of this whole crazy plan. Everything has to look completely real. One slip-up and the whole thing fails.

‘I have an idea. Excuse me,’ he says to the middle-aged woman sitting opposite. With a bit of squirming, he digs his phone from his pocket with his free hand. ‘Could you possibly take our picture? I’m sorry to bother you but this is a big day. I’m about to meet my fiancée’s parents.’

The woman makes an aw-bless face as she accepts both our phones. ‘Smile!’ she says, snapping away. She’s still smiling when she goes back to whatever she’s watching on her iPad.

Our heads nearly touch as we examine the results. ‘Our first couple photos.’

‘I’ve got one eye closed in that one,’ I say.

‘Authentic.’

By the time we met the other night (far from our office where there was no chance that we’d bump into Jenny), I was certain that I was off my trolley. But Rafael didn’t seem to think so, and we figured out all the details that could scupper the plan.

I really hope we’re not wrong, but we seem to have a water-tight story now. The most obvious question (and one that I get the feeling Immigration will ask) is: why haven’t we got any emails, texts or phone calls till now if we got together months ago? Fair question, Your Honour, and the answer is a bit delicate. Since I was involved with my former fiancé when I met Rafael, naturally I didn’t use my mobile. And I didn’t really need to anyway, since I could just walk upstairs to his office. Which is, incidentally, how we met. Yes, it is very convenient, Your Honour. No, not very nice to my fiancé (former fiancé!), but you can’t stop the heart wanting what the heart wants. I ended things with Matt when I knew I couldn’t be happy with anyone but Rafael.

Hopefully, now, whenever I get weepy, I can blame it on the emotion of being newly in love instead of newly dumped.

Rafael is still holding my hand. ‘Tell me something more about your family.’ He really does have the thickest black lashes I’ve seen outside of a Lancôme advert.

In the interest of a full briefing, I haven’t held anything back from him. This is a straight business transaction, albeit with a walk up the aisle together at the end. It’s quite liberating, this not having to pick and choose my words or worry what someone thinks of me.

We’re all on our best behaviour in a new relationship, right? When it’s real, I mean. Nobody wants to frighten the life out of a partner until they have to. Not that I’m comparing Rafael and Matt in any way, but it was months before I even mentioned my parents to Matt. They’re definitely not a new-relationship topic.

Rafael is under the illusion that having all this foreknowledge will help, that he understands what he’s walking into with my family. He doesn’t. My parents have to be experienced to get the full picture.

‘Well, Mum claims that Dad’s deaf,’ I tell him as the sea comes into view out the window. I love this bit, when we turn towards the north coast after travelling down the middle of Cornwall. ‘But that’s usually when he doesn’t do what she asks. Sometimes he’s stalling for time, till he can come up with an answer she’ll accept. Mum’s sharp, to the point of being prickly sometimes, but you’ll get on well with my dad. He loves playing host.’

As long as he doesn’t get too generous with his drinks. All bets are off with Dad once he’s on a bender.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to warn them about me?’

‘No way,’ I say. ‘I need the element of surprise on my side. Believe me, you don’t know these people … Thanks for coming with me.’

It’s Dad’s birthday weekend. What better time to tell your parents that the wedding is still on, but that they’ll need to spell the groom’s name R-a-f-a-e-l on their cards.

‘What are fiancés for?’ He drops my hand but then flips up the arm rest between us and flings his arm over my shoulder. I could get used to this, despite always agreeing with Matt that public displays of affection are over-the-top yuck.

As we pull into St Ives station, I feel like my tummy is eating itself. If my parents don’t believe us, then there isn’t much point in carrying on with this charade. Mum would never go along with it for the magazine interviews, so I wouldn’t even get out of paying back the advance. Which I can’t do. My entire future is riding on the next few hours.

‘This is stunning,’ Rafael says. He’s looking out over Porthminster beach. The gulls glow white above us in the deep blue sky. The sea is calm today. Mum said it’s been dry here.

I aim my phone at the horizon. #beachtastic. My followers can’t get enough of my Cornwall pics. ‘Bogotá is a big city, right?’ I ask him as I squint at my screen in the bright sunlight. ‘Near the water?’ I add a few more hashtags. ‘Come here. We’ll get one together.’

‘Not even close,’ he says. ‘It’s landlocked.’ Then he smirks as I pull my selfie stick from my bag. ‘Seriously?’

‘It’s very practical.’ A man shoots me a dirty look as he hops away from the waving stick.

‘Yeah, I can tell. Why not just ask someone to take a photo?’

‘Because that’s bothersome.’

‘Much better to take out people’s eyes.’

Ignoring him, I snap a dozen or so pictures.

‘Why did you ever leave here?’ he asks. When he closes his eyes to breathe in the warm breeze, I get a glimpse of what he’d look like asleep. He’d give Matt a run for his money in the gorgeousness department.

Stop thinking about Matt, I chide myself. It’ll only start me crying again, and then Mum will never believe I’m happy and in love with Rafael. What’s done is done. This is my life now.

‘You’re very lucky that your parents are here,’ he adds.

‘Wait till you meet them,’ I warn, shoving Matt out of my head and my phone back into my bag.

It’s a short walk from the station to the house, where we find Mum and Dad sitting in the back garden at the big old farm table that’s been weathered to a shimmery silver. They practically live out here in nice weather. Mum’s munching toast between sips of the no-doubt cold tea that she claims not to mind drinking. She says her job means she has to abandon her cuppa at the office whenever clients call. I think she just likes to be a martyr.

She and Dad have identical smiles to mine plastered on their faces as we approach. ‘I’ve got a surprise,’ I tell them, because there’s no use hoping they don’t notice that it’s not Matt by my side. ‘Mum, Dad, this is Rafael.’

Formally, he shakes my parents’ hands. ‘So nice to finally meet you,’ he tells them both.

I can tell that Mum catches the finally.

‘Nelly didn’t mention … You’re a friend of Nelly’s?’ Dad might look as jovial as Father Christmas (minus the snowy hair and beard), but don’t be fooled. A shrewd man lies just beneath that chubby, red-faced surface. He might not be quite as quick as Mum (nobody is), but he almost always knows when I’m up to something.

Rafael and I reach for each other’s hands. The warmth of his does make me feel a bit better. ‘Like I said, I’ve got a surprise for you.’ They must be able to hear my heart clacking. ‘We’re in love. I’ve broken up with Matt and now I’m marrying Rafael.’

My mother’s mouth drops open. ‘You’re— You’ve— You’re … what? What?’

‘Yep,’ I tell her. ‘Rafael and I are getting married.’ The only way I’m going to survive this is to brazen it out. If I keep talking, there’s a chance I’ll get through it. Mum’s a solicitor. In other words, suspicious for a living. If I let her have any time to think, she’ll only start picking holes in our story. ‘I know it seems sudden, but it’s not, really. We met months ago, at work, didn’t we?’ Here, Rafael’s arms encircle me as he hugs me to him. ‘I’ve never met anyone like him and the more we saw each other, at work, I mean, because we weren’t dating, obviously, because I was with Matt, the more I realised that I couldn’t go on with the wedding plans, given the way I feel about Rafael. It wouldn’t have been right, so I told Matt a few weeks ago.’

This blathering on is part of the plan, till they get over the initial shock.

Mum’s delicate eyebrows scrunch together as she frowns. I didn’t inherit those eyebrows. Or her pale bobbed hair or the kind of figure that makes women half her age jealous (speaking for myself). ‘You’re saying that Matt is out and Rafael is in?’

‘That’s what I’m saying. Everything else is the same: the date, the venue, the registry. And Paul is still standing up for Rafael.’

‘Matt’s sister is still your maid of honour?’ Mum asks.

‘Obviously not, Mum! It’ll be Rafael’s best friend, Mabs.’

‘And Matt knows?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s gone off to Spain on sabbatical. Actually, we talked just last week.’

‘That’s very …’ Dad trails off.

‘Mature,’ Mum finishes. ‘But you’ve known each other … how long, you and Rafael?’

‘Since the beginning of March, but we’ve seen each other every day at work. Not seeing seeing each other. Till I told Matt. Now we’re seeing each other properly. At night.’

Now it’s Dad’s turn to frown. Why did I have to put that image into my father’s head?

‘That’s not very long to know each other before getting married,’ he says.

I’m ready for this. ‘You and Mum were engaged in three months and we’ve known each other almost twice as long. We’re just being practical, Dad, with everything already underway and all. Believe me, I didn’t plan for this to happen.’ That could not be truer.

My mother sits back down. ‘Well, you’re right, this is quite a surprise. I thought you were going to tell me you lost your job.’

Rafael’s frown is almost imperceptible, but I catch it. He hugs me tighter. It’s a little gesture, and I know we’re in character right now, but I am so grateful for it.

‘I’m gasping for a tea,’ I say, instead of thanking Mum for her vote of confidence about my ability to support myself. ‘Who wants another? Rafael can help me.’

Mum bounces to her feet. ‘I’ll do it. You’re a guest, Rafael. You don’t need to work. Nelly can help me.’

No way. She wants me alone for questioning. I’m invoking the Geneva Convention. I have the right to have a representative with me. Yet it’s ludicrous for us all to go into the kitchen together. Like pouring water on teabags is a four-person job.

‘Let me give you a hand, Mrs Fraser,’ Rafael says. ‘If I’m going to be in the family, then I need to learn how you like your tea, no?’

Wow, is he good or what? I watch them walk together towards the house. Rafael towers over my mum as he ambles beside her. ‘Have you been to Cornwall before?’ I hear her ask as they go into the kitchen through the open sliding door.

So far, so good.

‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’ Dad says. He digs another Hobnob from the packet.

‘Don’t you want to wait for your tea?’

‘I’ll have another with my tea. Don’t tell your mother. I had to buy this packet as it was.’ He pats the swell of his tummy beneath his golf shirt. Dad hates golf, but he does love the uniform. His closet is full of them, neatly ironed in every colour. It’s all he wears. Mum’s going to have a hard time getting him into a suit for the wedding. ‘What’s really going on?’ he asks.

‘Nothing, Dad, honest. I know it’s a lot to take in, but this has happened.’ I shrug. ‘I’m in love with Rafael.’

‘Just like that. What about Matt?’

‘Why are you suddenly so concerned about him? You never really liked him anyway.’

‘We never got the chance to know him properly. We might have liked him if he’d bothered turning up at family dos.’

‘One Christmas, and you both hold that against him. He had food poisoning!’ Wait a second. Why am I defending Matt when he’s probably rubbing sun cream into some sexy Spaniard as we speak? ‘It doesn’t matter now. You can get to know Rafael instead. He’s amazing.’

My smile this time isn’t an act. I couldn’t have picked anyone better to pull this off with. He’s as desperate for it to work as I am. Maybe more so. If it were to go wrong, I’d only lose face and my credit rating. Rafael would lose his whole life.

When he and Mum return with our teas, I find myself checking for any signs that she got to him: terrified eyes or maybe the telltale tap of ‘help’ in Morse code on his tea mug. But his smile is as relaxed as usual.

‘So, Bob, Rafael has been telling me about Colombia,’ Mum tells Dad, turning the handle towards him when she hands him his mug. Then she takes the Hobnob packet and tightly twists the top closed. I wait about three seconds before untwisting it. Then I fish one out and loyally offer the packet to Dad. ‘That’s where he was born, in Bogotá. Isn’t that interesting?’

‘But he’s been here since after university,’ I add. ‘That was almost ten years ago.’ The less they talk about his foreignness, the better. Mum’s area of law isn’t immigration (it’s conveyance), but still.

‘Oh? Dual passport, then?’ Mum asks.