The Good, the Bad and the Dumped Read online

  ‘But you drove here, right? It wasn’t a coincidence.’

  ‘Oh, no. Margie gave me your address.’

  ‘Who?’

  Posy reminded him.

  ‘Oh God, yes, can you ask her to stop sending me pictures of her cats dressed up for Christmas?’

  ‘No, I shan’t,’ said Posy. ‘In fact you should send her a thank-you card, she’s devoted to you.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t ask for that.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ said Posy, ‘but still. It’s your own fault for being handsome and nice without being sappy and a good listener. It’s a dreadful combination for London women. They’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s like giving them poison.’

  ‘OK,’ said Almaric.

  ‘You know,’ said Posy, ‘I wasn’t sure what would happen when I saw you.’

  ‘Hysterics,’ said Almaric.

  ‘Yes,’ said Posy.

  Almaric looked awkward.

  ‘What’s she like?’ asked Posy. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Don’t ask me that.’

  ‘Really? That young? Or really ancient and minted?’ Almaric smiled. ‘You don’t think much of me.’

  ‘I think entirely too much of you,’ said Posy, realising as she said it that it were true. She thought entirely too much of him, too often.

  ‘She’s twenty-four.’

  ‘A child! Child abuse! She’s not even old enough to vote!’

  ‘Posy, you can vote at twenty-four.’

  ‘Yes, if you’ve learned to read.’

  Almaric smiled again. ‘Oh, Posy. You haven’t changed.’ ‘You have though,’ said Posy, feeling weary finally.

  ‘OK. Well.’ Almaric looked thoughtful. ‘I’m marrying her because she’s right. For me. Not what anyone else thinks is right, not on paper, not following a life plan. Don’t start crying again, you were wonderful, too, until you tried to kill me, and please don’t apologise again. You were wonderful, Posy. She’s home. That’s all. That’s true love. I can’t explain it any better than that.’

  ‘What was so wrong with me?’ said Posy. ‘Really? What makes me so fundamentally unmarriageable?’

  ‘What do you think it is?’ said Almaric, glancing at his watch and leaning back.

  ‘My big hands and feet,’ said Posy instantly. Almaric’s face creased up.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your feet,’ he said. ‘Christ. Is that what you thought?’

  ‘It’s definitely noticeable though.’

  ‘No, Posy, it’s not your feet. Your feet are cute, in fact.’

  ‘Cute. That means enormous,’ said Posy.

  Almaric rolled his eyes.

  ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘I was hoping it was my feet, then I wouldn’t have to find out it was something else really awful about me.’

  ‘Like your ears.’

  ‘What’s wrong with . . . Oh, shut up.’

  Almaric put his hands on her face and drew it close to his.

  ‘Darling Posy. You weren’t looking for me. You were never looking for a life partner. You were always, always looking for a home.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A home. A mummy who looked after you and a daddy who loved you. A home. It was completely obvious.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘That’s right, that’s what all the cooking was for. Who taught you to cook, your mum?’

  ‘Shut up about my mum’s cooking.’

  ‘What time are you coming home? Who are you with? Where are you going to be? If we don’t get married I’m going to throw a crock pot at you.’ He paused, gently stroked her cheek. ‘Did you ever have a man in your life who didn’t come home?’

  Posy shrugged, feeling one long tear drip down her cheek. She thought about it. It couldn’t be. But then Adam had spotted that vulnerability and taken advantage of it, her very willingness to please. And Chris had just been perfectly happy to play the daddy, until she had realised how very unsexy it was. Which made sense, she supposed. And what about Matt? Was he a man on his own terms? Who didn’t want to be put in a box, or made to fit something she needed? The thoughts raced through her head.

  Almaric sat up.

  ‘So you see, sweetheart - it was never me you needed to find.’

  Almaric walked her up the street.

  ‘You’re not driving back to London?’

  Posy shrugged.

  ‘No, don’t. I know a good B&B.’

  ‘Is it full of your wedding guests?’

  Almaric was surprised. ‘Oh, yes. I suppose it is.’ He looked at her. ‘You’ll get over me, won’t you, Pose? I mean, it’s been too long, don’t you think?’

  Posy looked at him. He was pushing back his black curls with a long hand. He was ridiculously gorgeous - and getting married. It hurt, of course it did. But on the other hand, she had been slightly worried she would end up prostrate on the floor in front of him, and yet here he was - beautiful, heart-breaking, kind, but . . .

  ‘I couldn’t say your name,’ she said suddenly, shaking her head. ‘I found it so hard to get over you . . . I couldn’t even say your name.’

  ‘It’s a stupid name,’ said Almaric.

  ‘I know. Steve would have been better.’

  ‘It would.’

  Their last fight. Over what, she just couldn’t remember. It had blown up out of nowhere, it seemed, until Posy felt herself shouting like an old shrew.

  ‘Why are you never here when I need you?’ she found herself yelling.

  ‘Why do you need me?’ Almaric had shot back defiantly.

  ‘You’re a grown-up woman who’s perfectly capable of looking after herself.’

  ‘I just . . . I just want you to come home when you say you’ll be home, that’s all. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘It’s too weird to ask,’ Almaric had said. ‘What are you, eight? Are you sure you’re talking to me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Almaric shrugged. ‘Well, it just doesn’t sound like you’re talking to me, that’s all.’

  ‘Tell me what you mean by that.’ Posy started banging the chilli stew into the sink and running it away.

  ‘Well, it sounds like you’re trying to replicate some damn family life you’ve never even had. I mean, look at that. Why are you cooking me dinner? Some days I don’t even eat dinner. You’re not my wife.’

  Posy bit her lip. Almaric caught her expression.

  ‘Oh Posy,’ he said. ‘Is this what all this shit has been about?’

  ‘No,’ said Posy. ‘I’d just like to know where we’re going.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Almaric. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen in my life, do you?’

  Posy shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘I mean it. I don’t want it. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to get married, I don’t want babies on the rug, I don’t want any of that. Any of it.’

  And before she knew what was happening, she’d hurled it. The cooking pot. The noise was unbelievable, it smashed off the back of the kitchen wall, chilli and vegetables exploding everywhere. As Posy stared in horror, Almaric dropped to the floor, clutching his right hand.

  Posy had felt as if she’d boarded a holiday plane full of hope and expectation, only now to find it plummeting to the ground. And she didn’t know what to do; didn’t know how to make him look at her the way he had looked at her the night they ran away and went to the bar, or the music festival where they forgot to see any bands, so happily ensconsed they were in love and cider and wellingtons. The secret jokes, the midnight feasts, the pillow fights; the plans, the travel, the future she had always had in her heart.

  And here it had ended, in a dank Accident and Emergency, where they had sat for four hours barely speaking, waiting for a grumpy nurse to get him stitched up. The nurse asked him pointedly if he’d like to see a policeman to file a complaint. He’d shaken his head briskly. Posy would have almost welcomed it, just to get him to engage with her. As it was,
she sobbed and apologised, but he just stared at her like she was an alien species. There was no getting through to him. She had crossed a line, done something unforgiveable. To the man she loved.

  ‘I didn’t mean it,’ she’d said. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  But he had smiled wanly and stared out of the window. They took one cab back from the hospital. It made two stops. And she was at home, by herself - her stew, her heart, her guts, her life, all in pieces on the kitchen floor.

  ‘I was going to say, if you wanted . . . I mean, I’m sure you don’t, but, if you like you could come to the wedding tomorrow. ’

  ‘And torture myself some more? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Almaric. ‘It’s at ten at the chapel though.’

  ‘I think I’ll just turn in,’ said Posy. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  Almaric nodded. ‘I’ll show you the B&B.’

  Posy wearily followed him up the road.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?’ she asked.

  Almaric shrugged. ‘Oh, just the wedding dinner with Sukie’s family. I don’t care, they’ll be fine. Don’t give me that look.’

  ‘What look?’

  ‘That look. That “Almaric doesn’t visit my family enough” look.’

  Posy dropped her gaze. ‘Did I really do that?’

  ‘Totally.’

  Posy shook her head. Had she really given him such a hard time? Without even realising she was doing it?

  ‘OK, here you are.’ It was dark as they came to a small half-timbered inn with a welcoming glow of light coming from inside.

  Almaric looked at her. ‘Please. Tell me. You are over me now, aren’t you? Please say yes.’

  Posy looked at him. ‘I may not ever be fully over you. But I think . . . it’s OK.’

  Almaric took her face in his hands.

  ‘It’s not me, Posy. Remember that. It’s not me.’

  Posy lay on a comfortable single bed wide awake and staring at the ceiling. From downstairs came the noise of carousing - Almaric’s friends, no doubt. It wasn’t annoying, she found it comforting if anything. Proof that somewhere, somehow, in the world it was possible to be having a good time.

  Falling in love with Almaric had been so dramatic, so sudden. One day she was walking along with nothing in her life, and the next day he was her life. It had knocked her for six, taken her completely by surprise. She realised now, of course, that, in fact, it was first love. A very late first love. Chris had been sweet and comfortable, but it hadn’t been love. Adam had been fun and adventurous, but that wasn’t love either. With Almaric it had hit her hard and fast, and she’d been genuinely surprised by it; it had blinded her to everything.

  Then when Matt had come along it hadn’t been fireworks, passion and fights and drama. It had been low-key, sweet, lovely. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t the real thing. It never had done. Just because it wasn’t surprising hadn’t meant it wasn’t right.

  Posy let out a low groan. Oh God. She had really stuffed this up. Really, really, really. Those other men: they were ciphers from her past. If anything they were reflections of her - who she’d been then; timid, anxious. Looking for something, someone else. What had Almaric said? Looking for her father. Matt had hinted as much too, many times - oh Christ, why hadn’t she listened to him? Why had it taken her ex to even make it obvious? She hadn’t been ready before. She wasn’t ready now, maybe, until she’d found a way to sort herself out. But she’d had the best possible thing right in front of her eyes.

  And she’d stuffed it up. Stifling a howl, Posy bit the pillow. Oh God. Oh God.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Posy thought she would never get to sleep, but the drive and the tears got to her in the end. And, oddly, when she woke up the next morning, she felt a little better. In fact, she felt well enough to eat a large, delicious Welsh breakfast. OK, so her life wasn’t sorted, but somehow, the shadow of Lord Voldemort, her life-defining love . . . it was receding. It wasn’t gone - perhaps she would always have a tiny corner of her heart reserved for the first man who inadvertently stole it - but maybe she could be fine with that. Maybe a lot of people had somebody like that. Maybe that was what Facebook was for. To see them as a person; someone real, not a spectre or a ghost.

  The breakfast room was full of jolly young people all dolled up - very young, in fact. Posy was used to going to weddings with anxious-looking brides in their thirties, but these people were clear-eyed and bushy-tailed and probably on the bride’s side (Almaric was always a bit shifty about his family - they were all accountants and it harmed his cool maverick artist image).

  As she paid up her bill and left, feeling, at least, a slightly older, wiser Posy, a huge group of them pressed through the lobby, bouncing with excitement.

  ‘It’s just over there,’ said one of them in a thick Welsh accent, pointing to the beautiful old chapel, which was festooned with flowers outside and thronged with happy people. This was obviously a big wedding.

  Posy rolled her eyes. She supposed she could just pop in for a second. Just to have a look.

  ‘Bride or groom?’ asked a friendly-looking chap handing out hymnals at the church door.

  ‘Groom,’ said Posy firmly. She would slip in at the back and pop out again after the vows. It would hurt, of course it would. But she had an inkling that, one day, she’d be glad she did.

  Almaric was down at the front, eyes straight ahead. He looked gorgeous in his tailcoat - well, he couldn’t be anything else, thought Posy. It was odd, like being in someone else’s fantasy. Should it have been her? Living on thin air in the Welsh countryside? She supposed it wasn’t really worth speculating about.

  She hoped Almaric didn’t see her. She didn’t want him worrying that she was going to leap up at the bit about there being any just cause. And she wasn’t going to do that. Of course not.

  Suddenly the organ struck up. It was ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams. Well, I wouldn’t have chosen that, Posy found herself thinking, and gave herself a strict talking to.

  At the door of the church, silhouetted in the morning light, was a ravishingly pretty blonde girl in a hugely wide tulle gown with layer upon layer of netting. The congregation burst into spontaneous applause. It was the kind of dress a four-year-old would draw. Posy smiled. The girl was gorgeous. She was nothing like Posy. And maybe that was OK.

  The girl started to walk down the aisle, nodding and winking to friends in the pews and making an ‘Ohmygod’ face. She was carrying a huge shepherdess basket of flowers and was followed by nine bridesmaids from small to enormous, in striped pink and silver, each carrying a parasol. It was full on. Posy, used to discreet and tasteful town weddings, enjoyed it immensely.

  Sukie - that was her name - was progressing slowly to the front when suddenly there was a bit of a flurry and commotion. It was hard to hear what was going on when the organ stopped, and all that could be heard was a loud BANG, the bride shrieking, ‘What the fuck?’, a huge basket of flowers being thrown everywhere and Almaric’s voice shouting, ‘Posy, is that you?’

  Posy dashed forward at the sound of her name being called. Almaric looked furious. Sukie was in a gigantic frothy heap on the floor. And, climbing on top of her, fingers flailing as if trying to claw the dress off her shoulders, was Margie.

  ‘Margie!’ shouted Posy, as the bridesmaids descended on her and started hitting her with their parasols. Margie yelped, but did not give up the struggle.

  ‘You can’t have him!’ she was shrieking.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Sukie yelled back. ‘Get the fuck off my Swarovksi crystals, there’s five thousand of them hand-stitched .’

  Posy started to struggle through the throng at the back of the church, who looked just as delighted as if the service had gone on as planned. She’d got a picture in her mind of Sukie being a sweet gentle individual. This girl looked terrifying. She glanced at Almaric who was looking at Sukie with moist-eyed pride. Then he turned to Margie.

&nbs
p; ‘Yes,’ said Almaric, ‘who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m Margie,’ said Margie, her glasses caught up in her perm as she looked up from where she was prostrate on the floor. ‘Almaric, I love you.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Sorry . . .’

  Posy struggled to the front of the crowd. She glanced at Almaric. He looked confused.

  ‘It’s Margie,’ she hissed. ‘The cat lady?’

  Almaric finally recognised her.

  ‘Oh my God, the cat lady! Did you put her up to this?’

  ‘NO!’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?!’ said the bride, squaring up to Posy.

  ‘Nobody! No one! An old friend of Almaric’s.’

  Sukie turned on her husband-to-be.

  ‘Not again.’

  ‘Not that kind of friend,’ said Almaric, looking uncomfortable. ‘I promise, sweetie-pants. It was ages ago.’

  ‘That’s what you said about the hotel receptionist,’ spat Sukie.

  Posy bent down and beat off the parasols. ‘Margie! What the hell?’

  ‘I knew there was a reason you must be coming this weekend, ’ said Margie.

  ‘There wasn’t, truly.’ Posy gathered her up in her arms.

  ‘So I checked the banns.’

  Posy sighed. ‘Did you really?’

  Margie nodded. ‘I thought . . . I thought there might be a last chance.’

  Posy realised Margie was wearing a too-tight-round-the-bust embroidered purple dress that clashed with her hair.

  Almaric was looking at Posy.

  ‘It had nothing to do with me, you have to believe me,’ said Posy. She knew he would. Almaric’s charming, arty free-and-easy effects on women was just something he lived with and Sukie would have to learn to.

  ‘Come on, Margie,’ said Posy, helping her to her feet. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Yes, you’d better go,’ shouted Sukie.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said Posy. ‘You look absolutely gorgeous by the way.’

  In an instant Sukie changed.

  ‘Oh, do you think so? I thought the dress might be, like, too much, but then Jade said don’t be daft, how can it be too much, you’re getting married and I thought, yeah, might as well, but then we couldn’t get it delivered from Hong Kong in time, and then, I thought, maybe I should make it myself, but Lorraine McConnachie said it would be shit and I thought I’ll show her, but then—’