all happens so quickly. Suddenly the car behind – a red sports car with a private plate – pulls out from behind me, moving onto the other side of the narrow country road to overtake me, before speeding off ahead.
I loosen my grip as I watch its lights grow smaller and smaller until they disappear.
Finally alone again, I puff air from my cheeks. What an arsehole, driving like that on a lonely country road at this time of night. I don’t care where he has to be, no one is in that much of a hurry that they have to drive so recklessly. I suppose I ruined his fun, sticking to the speed limit in my Polo that’s seen better days.
The thumping in my chest slows down around the time I spot the Willows Lodge Hotel floodlit in the distance. Thank God. At least when I leave in a couple of days, I’ll be driving in the daylight. Drivers like that are almost always nocturnal, aren’t they? No sign of them during the day and then, under the cloak of darkness, they come out in their ridiculous cars to drive like maniacs. I could just about tell that it was a man in the car – a man with too little in his pants and too much in his bank, if you ask me.
I pull into the hotel car park, turn off my engine and breathe a sigh of relief. I’d say thank God I’m here, but I’d rather be anywhere else. Well, apart from car wrapped around a tree courtesy of someone who is overcompensating for something.
I give myself a brief internal pep talk to try and psych myself up (You can do this, Luca. You’re a strong, independent woman, Luca etc). I’m not sure it works, but I get out of my car, grab my hold-all from the boot, and make my way across the floodlit gravel car park.
As I walk between the parked cars, I can’t help but look over my shoulder every now and then. It feels so lonely out here, with no sign of life anywhere. The only sound I can hear is from the stones crunching under my feet as I walk – at least I’d be able to hear footsteps, if someone were to try and creep up behind me.
I remind myself to keep my imagination in check, but it doesn’t matter. Something distracts me. I’m almost at the hotel entrance when something catches my eye: a red sports car. It’s not the same one that sped past me, is it? I hover a hand over the car and feel heat radiating from its hot body. And then there’s that number plate, that tosser private plate that makes me hate this guy already.
Maybe it’s because I’m all frazzled over this wedding business or maybe it is because he genuinely scared me, but I do something completely out of character from me. I take a pen and a piece of paper from my bag, and I write a note.
I’m not usually the kind of girl to write: ‘no one is impressed by your driving or your car’ on the back of a receipt before placing it under the windscreen wiper. In fact, it’s so unlike me to do something like this that I quickly grab my bags and retreat to the safety of the hotel, before anyone sees me.
As I check in, I notice a little sign on the counter advertising homemade red velvet cake. That’s exactly what I need to take the edge of a rubbish evening.
‘Is it too late to get some cake?’ I ask the receptionist.
‘There might be some left,’ she replies. ‘If you ask in the bar.’
The receptionist points to a small, empty looking bar in an adjoining room.
Another thing that is out of character for me is hanging out in bars on my own, but I can’t really face going to my room just yet, and some cake would be lovely. I might even have a drink too. A quick nightcap, just to relax me little. Then I’ll go to my room, climb into my bed, and get a nice early night in preparation for the big day tomorrow. I do have a tendency to be late, but I absolutely cannot do that tomorrow – I want my friends to think at least one thing changed since the last time they saw me.
I pitch up at the empty bar, like some kind of downbeat film noir detective.
When a barman appears, I order a slice of red velvet cake and a Disaronno and coke, with all the enthusiasm and cheer of a death row inmate ordering their last meal.
‘Cheer up,’ he says brightly. ‘It might never happen.’
Half the problem is that it never happened – nothing has ever happened, and it feels like nothing will ever happen. I’m not the sort of girl things happen to, and, at 31 years of age, I’m not even sure I qualify as a girl anymore.
I mentally pinch myself, and tick myself off for being so melodramatic. My life is not that bad, it just seems it when I compare it to my friends’ lives. Well, it’s not that it seems bad … it’s just … uneventful.
‘This might put a smile on your face,’ the barman says, setting down an extra-large slice of cake in front of me. ‘This is all that was left. It wasn’t enough to cut into two slices, and we only would’ve thrown the smaller bit away.’
‘Wow,’ I blurt. It is huge. ‘Thanks.’
I laugh to myself as I rotate the plate, viewing the giant slice from all angles. There’s no way I’ll eat this – I’d be ashamed of myself if I could – but I’ll certainly give it my best shot.
‘Jack and coke please,’ I hear a man say next to me. The fact that someone else is in the bar gifts me a little comfort. Drinking here alone, I was dangerously close to becoming a cliché. ‘And a slice of red velvet cake, please. Just saw the ad for it at reception.’
‘Sorry, sir. This lady just bought the last piece,’ the bar man replies, pointing towards me.
I look up, to see whose day I’ve ruined.
The man looks down at my giant slice of cake, and back up at me. Suddenly, I feel like a pig. Not just because he’s a handsome guy, but because I look like I’m about to take down this huge slice all on my own.
‘Do you want to share it?’ I ask him. ‘This is way more than I can eat.’
‘Really?’ he replies with a smile.
‘Sure,’ I reply.
‘Can I get you another drink, to say thanks?’ he asks me.
‘That would be great, thanks.’
‘Top my new friend up too,’ the man replies, handing over his card. ‘And another fork please.’
‘Thanks,’ I say again, quickly straightening my back, smoothing out my outfit, and subtly tszujing my hair.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replies. ‘I’m Pete.’
‘I’m Luca,’ I say, shaking the hand he’s offering me. ‘It’s nice to have some company.’
‘You here alone?’ he asks, eagerly plunging his fork into the cake.
‘I am,’ I reply. ‘My friends are getting married tomorrow.’
‘Same.’
‘You’re here alone or you’re here for a wedding?’ I ask.
‘Both,’
