nods, waits, as I look at the text.
‘How’s Brighton?’
‘Great.’
‘How’s Freddie?’
‘Rach! Will you stop it?’
‘Ha-ha just wondering. We’re all set for the bridesmaids booze up – see you Friday!’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me who’s coming?’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh, come on, can’t you give me at least a hint? I’ve spent all my spare time scouring your Facebook and Insta feeds for clues!’
‘No way, I want to see your face!’
This is a teensy bit worrying. I have, in between ice cream eating with Freddie, been wondering why my best friend cannot tell me who am I going to be walking down the aisle with.
There are several worrying scenarios: 1. One or more of the girls were supposed to be my bridesmaids. This thought makes me a bit queasy; 2. Some of Rachel’s gang are girls that really didn’t like me at all at school; and 3. A combination of both.
‘See you Friday, can’t wait! Love you Rx’
I know they say that your school days are the best days of your life, but how often is that true? I spent a huge proportion of mine worrying about not being liked, not being kissed and not wearing the right gear.
And, as far as friends go, well, I trusted Rach … but the rest? Girls can be bitchy, cliquey and spiteful, as well as supportive, lovely and generous. And there’s often a fine line …
I frown at Freddie, well, not at him. Past him. ‘At least I know it won’t be Andy!’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘Sorry, Rach was talking about the bridesmaids.’
‘True, he’d look rubbish in a dress, not got the legs.’
We grin at each other, mine a bit strained, his soft at the edges. ‘Stop worrying.’
‘I can’t help it. What if they’re people I hate?’
‘Is that really what you’re worried about?’
‘Yes. Well, no. Gawd, it’s the whole wedding thing, Freddie.’ I bury my head in my hands for a moment, which is better than in the sand I guess. ‘Why does all the crap stuff come at once?’
‘It’s to test your mettle as one of my up-themselves teachers used to say.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘You are okay, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, yeah, groovy, babe! I’ve got a rubbish job, got ditched just as I was about to go to New York, and now I’ve got to be thrilled for Rach with all this wedding stuff, and I’ve got to go to her hen party! Arghh.’ I pretend to tear my hair out and he laughs, then hugs me.
‘I mean it Jane. Are you sure you can do this?’ The concern in his eyes brings a lump to my throat. ‘The wedding I mean.’
‘She’s my best friend, Freddie. I can’t not do it.’
‘You haven’t got to do anything. She’ll understand if you say you can’t cope.’
‘I can cope.’
‘It’s not going to send you loopy again?’ His voice is light and his words funny, but I know that he’s bothered. Oh, sweet, sweet Freddie, where would I be without you?
‘Look …’ I’ve got to be honest with him. I’m never anything but, we’ve always been able to talk, and after I’d poured out my heart (and most of my insides) after Andy had dumped me, there’d been no going back. I’d not wanted to go back. ‘Okay, part of me is dreading this.’ He nods. ‘But I’m excited for her as well. I’m just a bit nervous about what it will be like, doing all the stuff I did.’ Our gazes lock. ‘It’s the hen party that’s going to be the weird one, I mean, I never actually walked up the aisle, did I? So that can’t be such a biggie.’
‘It can.’ He smiles, a soft smile that reaches his eyes – and my heart.
‘Okay,’ I sigh, ‘it can, it is. I think I need to know that these other bridesmaids are going to be there to pick me up if I fall.’
‘I’ll be there, if they’re not.’
‘You’re too nice for me.’ I kiss him on the cheek, and the roughness of the slight stubble against my lips sends a shiver down me that I didn’t expect.
‘Hmm, I’m not sure nice is what my manly side needs to hear!’ He chuckles, then gives me a brief tight hug. ‘You’re not going to fall.’ It’s odd, but just for a second, with his warm hand on my shoulder, I totally believe him. I can do this.
‘Come on, eat up, before—’
Right on cue a seagull swoops down and it’s heading right for my nose. ‘Shit!’ I scramble up and take a couple of steps back, and it swoops back. I run, dodging the benches, dashing round the bus stop and the damned thing is preparing to dive bomb. Jumping in the air, I fling the ice cream Freddie’s way (it’s all me, me, me it appears when I’m under attack). He swerves, my lovely cornet goes splodge and the bird lands next to it and stares. Giving me the beady eye and a squawk.
I double up, hands on knees, panting from the unexpected exertion, and shock. ‘Bugger, I was enjoying that.’
‘Told you! Never fling food around in Brighton, they’re the food police.’ He nods at the bird.
‘Mafia more like. That bird looks evil.’
We share a look. The dangerous intense-stare bit has been forgotten, which is good. Lick the icing off the cake and you risk ruining the lot, don’t you? Then feeling sick and wishing you hadn’t.
I reach for my camera, but the seagull has scarpered, and Freddie is laughing. ‘You always did take photos of everything, didn’t you? I remember at school.’
‘Everything!’ It’s cute that he remembers, but a bit embarrassing. I don’t remember much about him at all. I guess I was one self-obsessed teen who didn’t look beyond my groups of girlfriends, and the odd show-off cocky guy who was hot. I don’t think Freddie was hot back then, he was the quiet, geeky type.
But as I think about it, something deep in my memory stirs. Freddie helping us set up our photo exhibition for our GCSE exam, Freddie embarrassed when we both reached for the same picture, then more embarrassed when we dropped it, and both bent down to pick it up.
Freddie who painted the unassuming black-and-white still-life pictures that made something catch in my throat, even though I was a brash teenager who couldn’t explain why.
‘Your pictures were ace.’
‘Pretentious, “chocolate box” was how one art teacher described them, I think,’
