mean, obviously we can still do all those things with Tash around, too. From the times I’ve spent with her whenever I’ve visited Nora up in Scotland, I know Tash enjoys a drink and a gossip just as much as Nora and I do, and seeing as she’s a fellow bridesmaid, it would make perfect sense for her to come on a wedding-shopping expedition.
But still. It’s not quite the way I’d fondly imagined this week would go, that’s all.
‘Anyway,’ Olly goes on, ‘she’s planning on riding down on her motorbike, and Nora wondered if I wanted to hire a bike and go home that way, too.’
‘Instead of taking your flight?’
‘Yeah. We can do it in eight hours or so, with breaks. I mean, it’s not that I think Tash needs the company, or anything – she’s always seemed pretty self-sufficient whenever I’ve met her.’
I don’t know why the idea of Olly and Tash riding motorbikes all the way from Glasgow to London should make me feel as antsy as it does. After all, even if I did have a problem with Tash (which as I’ve already said, I absolutely don’t), Olly taking the long, uncomfortable route back home with Tash instead of a nice quick flight with me and Nora shouldn’t bother me in the slightest. It’s just because I’ve been a bit thrown by the idea that I might not get to spend this week hanging out with Nora in the way I’d envisaged, I decide. And maybe also by the fact that I hate him riding a motorbike, full stop. I watched a terrifying news segment once about a horrific accident caused by a bike skidding under an articulated lorry, and the memory has stayed with me.
‘So I was going to say no, but I’ve been thinking about it, and … well, a night-time bike ride …’ Olly looks wistful for a moment. ‘Nora suggested it because she thought I might like to clear my head a bit. What with this big week coming up, and all that, it should be pretty quiet on a Sunday night. And I haven’t ridden a bike in so long, I’ve almost forgotten how peaceful it is.’
‘Then you should definitely do it,’ I say. Reluctantly, but as enthusiastically as possible. Because I can tell from that wistful expression on his face that he really wants this.
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely! Just take it carefully, please, please, Olly, and obviously lay off any more champagne for the rest of the afternoon …’
‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ says Olly. ‘I’m here taking care of you today, remember?’
‘I know. And I’ll take care of you all next week, Ol, I promise. I mean, I may not be a dab hand with a hammer and nails, but I’ll bring coffee, and homemade food …’
‘There’s honestly no need for that,’ Olly says, hastily – as well he might, given that he’s a bona-fide foodie and I can’t cook for toffee. ‘Moral support will be fine.’
Which he thoroughly deserves, because he is, indeed, as Grandmother has pointed out, absolutely wonderful.
‘Oh, God … Grandmother,’ I suddenly say. ‘Did she go on and on at you about us, Olly? I’m so sorry, she just gets these crazy ideas into her head, and—’
‘It’s OK, Lib, honestly. I mean, yes, she did mention the concept of you and me a few times during our turn about the dance floor … you’d make an excellent wife, apparently …’
I wince. Not for the first time today and not, I expect, for the last. (I mean, there are still speeches to come, and everything. And if I can get through whatever sentimental mush Dad will have to say about his ready-made new family, I’m going to need a hell of a lot more champagne than I’ve drunk so far.) ‘Ugh, Olly, I’m sorry.’
‘… and she wants to live to see at least one successful marriage for a member of her family, and to see one bride walking down the aisle in her veil who doesn’t make her think the whole thing is doomed from the very start …’
It’s a fair point. Grandmother’s children haven’t exactly managed the most successful set of marriages between them, and if the photos of my own mother in the veil are anything to go by, the clock was running out for Mum and Dad pretty much from the very moment they half-heartedly said I do.
‘… and I remind her of her late husband, apparently. And you remind her of herself. And they were blissfully happy for forty-six years. So really,’ he finishes, with a strained-sounding laugh, ‘what more evidence does anybody need that you and I ought to be together?’
This is mortifying.
I mean, yes, people are always accidentally mistaking me and Olly for a couple: I think both of us are pretty used to that now. But to have it coming from as stern and proper a figure as Grandmother feels, somehow, too real for comfort. It’s a bit like the moment we shared our one and only kiss, in Paris – the Mistaken Thing we’ve never talked about since, after far too much wine and far too intense a conversation about love. I can’t quite look Olly in the eye, and I’m certain, from the strain in his voice, that he’s just as embarrassed as I am.
‘Again,’ I say, sounding pretty strained myself, ‘I’m really sorry. She’s unstoppable when she gets the bit between her teeth. I had no idea she was going to latch on to you like that …’
His phone is going: ‘Auld Lang Syne’ again.
‘You really should get that this time,’ I say, grateful for the diversion. ‘Tell Nora to let Tash know she’ll have a companion for the road ahead.’
‘All right,’ says Olly, taking the phone out of his pocket. ‘And then I’ll just need five minutes online to pre-order a bike. Promise you’ll come and grab me the minute anyone starts speechifying, Lib?’
‘I promise.’
I watch him wander away from the noise of the jazz band, putting his phone to his ear as he goes. And then I take a deep, deep breath, and head for the trees, to see if I can persuade Grandmother, politely, to put a sock in it for the rest of the wedding. After all, if I can stand around here on Dad’s big day and bottle up all the things I might quite like to blurt out, Grandmother – a fully paid-up member of the Blitz generation – can surely do it too.
Like I say, it’s only been eight weeks. But I really think I might actually be falling in love with Adam already.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should point out that a) I’m an incurable romantic and b) my standards are embarrassingly low. I mean, if you’re the sort of girl who’s constantly being showered in dozens of red roses just because it’s Tuesday, or whisked away to five-star luxury in the Italian lakes before being proposed to on a gondola, in Venice, at sunset, then my reason for suddenly realizing that Adam might be The One is going to seem a bit … silly.
But then, they do say that it’s the little things that make a relationship go the distance. The offer to dash to the shop at eight a.m. on a drizzly Sunday morning to pick up milk for a cup of tea. The random text message in the middle of a stressful day that tells you how great you make someone feel. The surprise scrawl, at the bottom of the tedious weekly shopping list, that simply announces Thinking about you.
My new boyfriend
