Thirteen Weddings by Paige Toon
Praise for Paige Toon:
‘A brilliant piece of chick-lit’
Fabulous Magazine, Sun on Sunday
‘This sparkling, sun-drenched romance is just what you need to welcome in summer’
Closer
‘Another perfect summer page-turner from Paige Toon’
Mirror
‘I loved it – I couldn’t put it down!’
Marian Keyes
‘Wonderful, addictive, sharp and sexy’
Cosmopolitan
‘Laugh-out-loud funny and touchingly honest. This is summer’s poolside reading sorted!’
Company
‘Charming and romantic. Real old-school chick-lit, like they used to make in the old days’
Lisa Jewell
‘Unashamedly girly, this is a book to bring a smile to the face of anyone who has been unlucky in love... Chick-lit at its very best’
Daily Express
‘Pure, sun-drenched escapism... the perfect summer holiday read’
Heat
‘A sun-drenched slice of chick-lit bliss”
New
Also by Paige Toon
Lucy in the Sky
Johnny Be Good
Chasing Daisy
Pictures of Lily
Baby Be Mine
One Perfect Summer
One Perfect Christmas (eBook short story)
The Longest Holiday
Johnny’s Girl (eBook short story)
The Accidental Life of Jessie Jefferson (Young Adult)
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © 2014 by Paige Toon
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Paige Toon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London
WC1X 8HB
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue copy for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-47111-341-3
eBook ISBN: 978-1-47111-342-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
For my husband Greg.
Bronte may not believe in
marriage, but I do.
You’re my Nathan/Johnny/Luis/Ben/Joe/Leo
all rolled into one . . .
Contents
Prologue
A YEAR AND A HALF LATER
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
The Thirteenth Wedding
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Prologue
I am nowhere near drunk enough. I stare with a sinking heart at the sea of neon-wearing, tutu-donning, permed-haired Madonna-in-the-Eighties wannabes going absolutely hysterical on the dance floor below. A DJ is whipping them up into a frenzy as he hands out fluffy white tiaras to a frightening number of brides-to-be.
‘WHO ELSE IS ON THEIR HEN NIGHT?’ he shouts, and I cringe from the sound of screaming behind me.
‘HERE! UP HERE!’ Michelle yells at the top of her voice as she herds a red-faced, laughing Polly past me to the stairs. We’ve just walked in through the door on the upper level.
‘GOOD LUCK, LADIES! ENJOY YOUR EVENINGS’, the DJ shouts, and then the bright lights over the dance floor dim and the music cranks up. Michelle’s moan at not getting downstairs quick enough is cut off by Polly’s sudden squeal when she realises whose song is playing.
‘IT’S KYLIE!’
She clutches at me with fevered delight and drags me onto the dance floor where I plaster a grin on my face and do a reluctant Locomotion with my fellow countrywoman. I wonder how soon I can blame my jetlag and call it a night.
‘I wish we’d dressed up’, Michelle squeals with annoyance as an Olivia Newton-John lookalike in legwarmers shimmies past.
Michelle and I are not on the same wavelength.
I don’t know her. At least, I didn’t, not before tonight. I’d never met Kelly, Bridget or Maria before, either. Polly, on the other hand, I know well. But right now, I almost wish I didn’t.
We’ve been friends since high school in Australia, but two and a half years ago she came to the UK to work and went and got herself engaged to a Pom. They’re getting married next week, and unfortunately, I wasn’t involved in the hen party planning, otherwise I would have made sure we were a hell of a lot drunker before dragging everyone to an Eighties club.
‘Who’s up for a shot?’ Bridget yells before the song is out.
‘ME!’ I reply, darting off the dance floor. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’
We head to the bar. ‘Shall we do tequila or vodka?’ she shouts over her shoulder.
‘Whichever’s strongest!’ I shout back, getting a look from a guy standing nearby. I smirk at him and he shrugs hopelessly in return. Hmm, he’s a bit of a hottie, actually. His dark hair is a little longer on top and styled back off his face and he’s wearing black jeans and a light-coloured shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
‘Here you go!’ Bridget shouts, distracting my attention as she passes me a shot glass. Wow, that was quick. ‘Cheers!’ she says.
‘Aren’t we waiting for the others?’ I ask.
She knocks hers back and winces. Apparently not. I raise my eyebrows and do the same. Urgh. Straight vodka. The barman lines up six more shot glasses and fills them up. ‘I think you and I need extra ammunition,’ Bridget says with a wicked grin, passing me three glasses and nodding in the direction of the others.
I glance at the hottie, but he’s staring straight ahead, looking utterly fed up.
We reach the other hens and hand out the shots. A couple of the girls look a bit reluctant, but drink up anyway, and then A-ha’s ‘Take On Me’ starts to play. It may be the vodka, it may be the fact that I love this song, or it may even be because there’s at least one good-looking guy in this dive, but I feel like the night is looking up.
And then a cowboy dances into our circle and starts to gyrate against Michelle.
And – oh God – she lets him.
Bridget flashes me a ‘WTF’ look and I mirror her expression before taking in the scene. Boys are few and far between, but I can see two Michael Jacksons from ‘Thriller’, and a Michael J Fox from Teen Wolf in a yellow bomber jacket and impressively hairy werewolf gloves. A man-size can of Bud beer is dancing
Suddenly I miss Jason. And I really don’t want to.
My eyes involuntarily seek out the guy by the bar. He’s still there, leaning back against a pillar with his legs casually crossed, playing with his iPhone. He looks totally out of place. I wonder what he’s doing here? I bet he didn’t come willingly.
I nearly jump out of my skin as Batman appears in front of me, the bottom of his masked face mostly taken up by a ludicrously cheesy grin as he starts to boogie on down in front of me.
I don’t think so, buddy... I duck away from him to Bridget and she gives me the universal signal for ‘another shot?’ I nod eagerly.
‘Anyone else want a drink?’ I ask the others.
Polly and Maria opt for cocktails, but Kelly and Michelle decline.
Bridget and I head back to the bar.
‘I’ll get these,’ I tell Bridget as she tries to flag down the barman. There are a few more people waiting to be served, but the bar is surprisingly not that busy. ‘You want a cocktail as well as a shot?’ I ask Bridget.
‘Sure. Whatever you’re having.’
‘So how do you know Polly?’ I ask her.
‘Through work.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a travel writer.’ She sweeps her wavy, medium-length dark brown hair over her shoulder. ‘I did a review on one of her hotel chains in Barcelona last year. She’s sorted me out for a few freebies since.’
‘Cool.’
‘What can I get you?’
The barman has materialised in front of us so I lean across the bar and place our order.
‘Angry Birds?’ I hear Bridget exclaim after a moment and look over my shoulder to see that she’s plucked the phone straight out of the hottie’s hands. He gives her that cute, hopeless little shrug and she hands him back his phone in mock disgust.
‘Anything to pass the time,’ I hear him reply in a deep, gently sarcastic voice.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks.
‘Stag do.’
‘Who’s the groom?’ I chip in, passing Bridget a shot glass.
He points at the dance floor with the hand holding his phone. ‘Somewhere over there.’
‘You don’t feel like dancing?’ I ask him as Bridget sinks her shot.
‘Not drunk enough,’ he replies.
‘We can rectify that,’ Bridget says flippantly, leaning past me to speak to the barman, who’s currently shaking the shit out of a silver cocktail shaker.
‘I’m never drunk enough,’ he mutters to me.
‘I’m Bronte,’ I tell him, knocking back my own shot and grimacing. ‘Yuck.’
‘Alex,’ he replies with amusement. His eyes are blue, I think, but it’s pretty dark in here so it’s hard to tell.
‘We’re on a hen night,’ I tell him. ‘My mate Polly’s getting married next week.’ I point her out. ‘The blonde chick with her hair up in a ponytail.’
‘You Australian?’ he asks.
‘Yep.’ There goes my accent again, giving me away. ‘I’m over for the wedding.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Sydney.’
‘Here you are,’ Bridget interrupts with three more shot glasses.
I’m going to be off my face at this rate. Clink! Down they go.
The barman needs paying so I settle up, my head spinning.
I hear Bridget laugh as I try to juggle the four cocktail glasses and give up, passing one to her.
‘Catch you later,’ she says. I flash the guy a smile as she turns away and meets my eyes.
‘Phwoar!’ she mouths. ‘He’s gorgeous. Have you got a boyfriend?’ she asks as we make our way back to the girls.
‘Nope.’ Not any more. ‘You?’
‘I’ve just started seeing someone,’ she replies regretfully, adding, ‘unfortunately, otherwise I’d be majorly on the pull tonight. You should get in there.’
I hand Polly and Maria their cocktails. ‘I doubt he’s single,’ I point out, humouring her, because even if he is single and interested, it would be too soon after Jason.
‘She Drives Me Crazy’ by Fine Young Cannibals is playing now. As I dance, the soles of my feet begin to burn. I knew I should have worn my trusty cowboy boots, but I bought a pair of electric-blue heels earlier and I couldn’t resist. It’s also been stupidly hot today, considering it’s September and the UK should be cooling down. I don’t know why Polly’s always whingeing about the weather. I’m wearing a thigh-length fitted black dress and my long, light brown hair is styled in a loose fishtail plait that drapes over my left shoulder. My eye shadow is dark green, glittery and probably smudged, and I’m guessing that my lipstick is long gone.
The Beer Can Man bumps into me and I don’t even shove him away. The alcohol thrumming through my veins must be improving my state of mind. But, uh-oh, Batman’s getting amorous ideas again. With a cheesy, sweaty grin, he starts to sidle his blue-Lycra-clad body over. Polly reaches through the throng and rescues me.
‘I’m so glad you came!’ she squeals in my ear, wrapping her arm around my neck.
‘Me too.’ I try to sound convincing.
‘Especially considering how much you hate weddings.’ She gives me an affectionate – albeit slightly violent – shake as if to knock some sense into me.
‘I don’t mind them that much,’ I lie. At least she’s getting married in a register office. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t miss yours, could I?’
‘I would have killed you if you had!’
I don’t doubt it.
‘I can’t believe it’s been two and a half years,’ she slurs. I always could drink her under the table, I muse with affection, before belatedly remembering she can be a really nasty drink. Hopefully not tonight. ‘About time someone came to see me,’ she adds.
Someone, not me specifically, I note.
‘It doesn’t seem that long,’ I agree, taking a swig of my vodka, cranberry and grapefruit Seabreeze. The truth is, I barely recognise her. She’s lost over two stone since getting engaged eight months ago. I was a bit taken aback when I saw her. She didn’t look like herself.
‘How’s work?’ Polly shouts in my ear. ‘I feel like I’ve barely got to speak to you since you arrived.’
‘It’s good,’ I tell her noncommittally. I recently got promoted to deputy picture editor at a weekly women’s celebrity magazine called Hebe, named after the Greek goddess of youth. I used to work at a men’s lifestyle magazine called Marbles, but my boss on the picture desk didn’t appear to be going anywhere, so I had to move on to move up.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind staying at the hotel?’ Polly asks me for the umpteenth time with a worried look on her oddly slim face.
‘Definitely not,’ I reassure her.
I flew in yesterday morning at the crack of dawn. I caught up with Polly for lunch – she’s a manager at the hotel I’m staying in, which is near St Paul’s Cathedral, just up the road. I spent yesterday afternoon sleeping off my jetlag, and then we went out for dinner last night in Soho with her fiancé, Grant, who’s a structural engineer. He’s good fun. Seems to really love my friend and, more importantly, seems to be able to handle her sometimes overly dominant personality, so that can only be a good thing. They only recently moved in together to a new-build one-bedroom flat near the river. Even though Polly offered to put me up on their sofa bed, I didn’t want to cramp their style, not with so much else going on right now. So I plan to explore London for the next few days, although I wish I had longer because it’s my first time here. On Wednesday I’ll head with Polly and Grant to Grant’s parents’ house in Brighton. Grant’s parents are hosting the wedding so I’ll be able to help with the last-minute arrangements and spend some time with my old friend. I haven’t even told her about Jason. She’s been on at me to settle down for ages.
A few months ago my boyfriend of a year moved to Western Australia for work. He asked me to join h
Great. Now I’m not even in the mood for ‘Footloose’.
‘Just going to the loo,’ I tell Polly before she can sense that anything is wrong. I squeeze through the crowd on the dance floor and emerge relatively free from assault. I shoot a quick glance at the bar, but the space in front of the pillar is bare. Oh well.
Polly and the others are by the bar taking a breather when I return, my feet stinging excruciatingly. I really need to sit down.
‘Bronte!’ Polly waves me over. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘I’ll have another Seabreeze, please.’ Hopefully alcohol will take the edge off the pain in my soles. An arm appears around my shoulders. I jerk away from the sweaty, red-faced guy staring down at me, but he grins drunkenly and hangs on for dear life.
‘My best mate’s getting married next week,’ he tells me, slurring his words. ‘This one here.’ He puts his other arm around the guy to his left and drags him closer. ‘He’s... The best. Bloke. Ever.’
‘Wow. Congratulations,’ I say, deadpan, detaching myself from his pincer-like grip before he pulls me to the ground.
‘I’m Nigel,’ the drunk guys says, trying to sound serious and sober – and failing.
‘We’re on a hen night,’ Michelle interrupts.
Don’t encourage him, you idiot!
Nigel’s eyes widen with amazement, as though this could possibly be a surprising thing in this venue. ‘No. Way? Who’s the bride?’
‘Me!’ Polly answers with a giggle, passing me my drink.
‘What’s your name?’ Nigel asks her, stumbling into his pal. They’re both dressed in short-sleeve check shirts and dark trousers.
‘Polly,’ she replies happily, as Maria, Kelly and Bridget join us. I slurp at my drink and stare on resignedly as they all introduce themselves. There are four of them – the groom is called Brian, but I switch off after that.
‘ALEX!’ Nigel suddenly shouts, right in my ear. I clap my hand over my ear and mouth, ‘OW!’ Then Alex – THE Alex – appears beside me. I watch with surprise as Nigel wraps his arm around Alex’s neck. ‘Where did you go, man?’ he asks incredulously as he wobbles from left to right and then backwards and forwards. The strain of keeping him upright is showing on Alex’s face.