‘Not really. My dad’s parents were killed in a car crash before I came along, and my mum’s both died before I turned five, so I don’t remember them much. And I never actually met my real grandparents.’ She stopped, realising she hadn’t told him the full story. ‘I was adopted when I was a baby.’
She waited for him to get that look people got when she told them; that awkward not-sure-what-to-say-now kind of look. But he didn’t. He just looked interested.
‘Are you in touch with your birth family?’
‘No, never.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Mum offered to help me track them down last year when I turned 18. But, honestly, I don’t think I want to any more. As far as I’m concerned, my mum and dad are my real family.’
For a while, during her early teens, she had thought about her birth parents obsessively: what they looked like, where they might be living, whether they lay awake at night and wished they hadn’t given her away. Above all, there was this overriding sense of loss, as though she’d misplaced something but couldn’t remember what. Still, her adopted parents had always made her feel so loved that she refused to regret going to them. It could only have been a trade up, and she couldn’t bear to hurt their feelings by searching for two strangers simply because they shared some DNA.
‘I understand,’ he said, raising his glass to his lips. ‘They sound like great people.’
‘They are.’ She shifted her weight slightly. ‘What about you? What’s your family like?’
‘Can’t complain, I guess. There’s me, the folks, my twin Connor and my sister Andi.’
‘Oh, you have a twin? That must be so cool!’
‘Mostly. He has his moments.’
‘Do you see them much?’
‘As much as I can. They’re up near Windsor – close enough to visit but not so close they can turn up uninvited.’
‘Sounds perfect.’ She smiled. ‘So you live here by yourself?’
‘Yeah. I thought about renting out the spare room once, but I kind of like having my own space.’ He looked around the cosy cottage. ‘At least this way I can mess around on my guitar without disturbing anyone.’
‘Will you play something for me?’
He seemed surprised. ‘Like what?’
‘I don’t mind. Anything.’
‘Oh, I don’t play in front of other people. Trust me, it’s for your own good.’
She put her glass on the wooden floor. ‘Hey, I sang in front of you this week, remember? Not to mention half the uni.’
‘True,’ he smiled. ‘But perhaps we should leave the music to the pros for one night.’ He gestured to a tall, teetering pile of CDs in the corner, which resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. ‘I must have something you like. Though I’m pretty sure there’s no Steps.’
She extracted herself from the chair to inspect his collection, discreetly tugging down the shirt to what she hoped was a respectable length. ‘Alright, let’s have a look. Coldplay, Train – love them – Foo Fighters, Roxette …’ She paused. ‘Really?’
‘What’s wrong with Roxette?’
‘Nothing. I like Roxette. I just didn’t think they’d be your thing.’
‘What can I say? I’ve got eclectic taste. There might even be an S Club single lurking in there somewhere, you know.’
She continued to rifle through the mountain of discs, not quite sure what she was searching for. ‘Travis … The Ramones … ah, Oasis.’ She pulled the CD slowly from the precarious pile, hoping it wouldn’t topple like a giant game of Jenga.
‘Which track?’ he said. ‘Choose wisely.’
‘You’ll see.’ She took the disc out of its plastic casing and switched on his stereo, feeding the flash of silver into the hungry slot. The familiar opening of Wonderwall echoed over the speakers.
‘This is my all-time favourite song, you know,’ said Alex quietly, setting down his wine glass.
She held out a hand. ‘Then dance with me.’
‘What? You can’t dance to this.’
‘You don’t sing, you don’t dance …’ she teased. ‘What do you do?’
As if to answer her question, he rose slowly, strode across the room and kissed her with an intensity that made her knees buckle. She had been kissed before (by 12 different boys, in fact, if you counted those drunken snogs in Fresher’s Week), but this was the kiss to obliterate all others.
She gave into it completely, running her hand through his rain-soaked hair and down to his broad shoulders. He wrapped his strong arms around her back, pulling her in so deeply that she could hardly breathe; his lips were warm, with a faint taste of wine that was intoxicating, his stubble brushing against her skin.
‘Do you want to stay here tonight?’ he whispered.
His question caught her off-guard and she pulled back slightly. She had never done anything like this before – ‘Make ’em wait until at least the third date,’ Megan always said – and the sensible thing to do would be to slow down. She knew that if she didn’t leave in the next 30 seconds, she was going to lose a piece of her heart that could never be reclaimed.
Looking into her eyes, he gently undid three buttons on her shirt and traced the outline of her lacy bra with his finger. She did not want to leave: not now, not ever.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, pressing her lips hard against his, her hands finding the taut abs beneath his jumper. He did not say another word as he lifted her off the floor and swept her into the bedroom.
This time, he did close the door.
As the DJ on the radio teed up yet another 80s power ballad, Lizzie glanced at the plastic clock on the office wall. It seemed to have been stuck at 5.05pm for the past ten minutes. How is that even possible? She hid a yawn behind her coffee cup. Josh had kept her up half the night fidgeting, convinced his recent sniffles were spiralling into full-blown flu. He’d called in sick today and stayed at home, curled up on the couch with the remote control for company, while she’d had to trek into town amid freak summer storms, cursing commuters who nearly decapitated her with their umbrellas.
She hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks, really, which was partly due to wedding stress but mainly Alex’s fault. The questions she was afraid to ask out loud ran through her mind at night: Why is he here? What does he want with me? She wished that he had never come back, so she could be kept awake by guest lists and seating charts like normal brides.
Her eyelids felt heavy, and she allowed herself to rest them for one peaceful moment.
‘Elizabeth? Elizabeth! Are you with us?’ The shrill voice of her boss, an imposing woman by the name of Ella Derville, jolted her back to attention. Tall and wiry, Ella always wore her hair in an immaculate topknot, which was slicked back so tightly it made her skin look eerily stretched. She had the eyes of a hawk and the stealth of a ninja. ‘I do hope we’re not overworking you?’
‘No! I mean, er … sorry. Thought I had an eyelash in there. Did you need me?’ Deep down, Lizzie had a quiet respect for the publishing director (though she knew that Naomi secretly called her Cruella de Vil), but right now she could tell that the woman was in no mood for pleasantries.
‘Yes,