The Notting Hill Diaries: Ripped / Burned. Sarah Morgan
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powerful like a warrior preparing to repel an invading army.
I waited for Rosie to leap to her feet and execute one of her incredible scissor kicks that would flatten him, but my useless sister was doubled up with tears pouring down her face and Nico was still striding. I guessed it would take a lot to flatten a man like him.
Just for a moment I shivered because whatever he lacked in the emotional warmth department, physically he was truly spectacular—stomach-melting, willpower-destroying spectacular. The sort of man you couldn’t look at without thinking about sex.
Dark, glittering eyes were focused on me like a laser-guided weapon programmed to destroy.
His role as best man was to support the groom and solve problems and right now I was the problem. Or at least, my breasts were. They were loose and free and I could tell from the look on his face he thought breasts like mine shouldn’t be allowed out without a permit.
The elderly aunts had their eyes averted, but the elderly uncles were staring at me, their bulging eyes reminding me of sea creatures. I saw sweat on their brows and was just wondering whether I was going to be responsible for adding more bodies to that pretty churchyard when Nico reached me. He removed his jacket in a smooth movement that made me think he’d be good at undressing women, and wrapped it around my shoulders. Actually ‘wrapped’ was too gentle a word for what he did, but either way my bouncing breasts were now safely buried under Tom Ford. His jacket felt warm. It smelled delicious. It smelled of him.
‘Move!’ It was a command, not a request and I opened my mouth to point out my legs were tied together, but his hand was on my back and he was propelling me down the aisle. Down the aisle. That’s right, I, Hayley Miller of 42 Cherry Tree Crescent, Notting Hill, was shuffling down the aisle with a man, something I always said I’d never do, except that I was doing it backwards and half-naked, so it probably didn’t count.
I staggered past a sea of faces, all with their mouths hanging open. They reminded me of a nest of baby birds waiting to be fed and I wasn’t just feeding them morsels of gossip—I’d given them a banquet. At least they wouldn’t need to eat at the reception.
And behind the fascinated horror was the delight some people felt when they witnessed someone else’s public humiliation. They’d be talking about this moment for weeks. Who was I kidding? Years. One thing I knew for sure—I was never trusting a condom again.
But I had more immediate problems to worry about.
I had no idea where we were going.
This was a small private church in the grounds of a stately home. England was full of that sort of thing and, since the credit crunch, even the very rich were looking for ways to supplement their income. Hiring out the dusty family chapel for weddings was a clever way of allowing less privileged folk to pretend for that one day of their lives that they actually lived like this. I didn’t think it was any more fake than exchanging vows and promises about loving each other forever and then splitting up a few years later. In other words, none of it meant anything, so why not go over the top? If dressing like an over-whipped dessert made you happy, then go for it I say (but for God’s sake get one that fits).
Everyone wanted to get married in this particular chapel, not for religious reasons but because the door was pretty and looked good in the photos.
‘Oh, God, the photos! What about the photos?’ I stopped dead, but he pushed me forward into a room and slammed the door.
It was just the two of us and the silence was really loud.
I looked around me and saw we were in a room with wood paneling and portraits of unsmiling dukes on unsmiling horses. In the corner was a perfectly decorated Christmas tree. No wonky home-made decorations like the ones Rosie and I used in our apartment, but designer perfection.
I was pretty sure we weren’t supposed to be here, but I guessed Nico wasn’t giving much thought to protecting the assets of our hosts. He was more interested in hiding my assets from the gawping guests.
What was I supposed to say?
What was the etiquette for a serious wardrobe malfunction?
I had a feeling ‘oops’ wasn’t going to cut it and asking for a needle and thread would have been like asking for a teacup to bail out the Titanic.
‘Er—nice jacket.’ And because I was wearing his jacket, he was in his shirtsleeves and I could see the swell of hard male muscle pressing against the fabric. His shirt was pristine white and I noticed his skin was golden, not pale and pasty like Charlie’s, and his jaw had the beginnings of a dark shadow. Thick, dark lashes framed eyes that were indecently sexy—the only thing that spoiled it was the dangerous glint of anger.
He dragged his fingers through hair that was usually smooth and sleek, exploded into Italian, and then switched language in midsentence as if realizing that if he wanted to insult me he’d better do it in a language I understood. ‘Cristo, what were you thinking choosing a dress that revealing?’
‘I didn’t choose it.’
‘Then you should have refused to wear it.’ His gaze was fixed on mine and didn’t waver.
Clearly he’d had no desire to ogle my bare breasts. I told myself that didn’t bother me.
What did bother me was the unconcealed look of disapproval on his handsome face.
I was sure he was a very successful lawyer. I didn’t even know which bit of the law he dealt with, but whatever he did I was sure he was the best of the best. I knew that if I were on the witness stand and he fixed me with that penetrating gaze I would have confessed to pretty much anything.
Yes, Your Honour, it’s true that on the twenty-second day of December I wore a giant condom to a wedding…. No, I had no idea I would be arrested for antisocial behavior—condoms are supposed to only have a 2 percent failure rate, but in my case it was 150 percent. Yes, I understand there were serious consequences. Wedding interruptus.
I wondered why he was so angry.
It wasn’t as if the groom had ended up with me. This episode could have just been labeled ‘narrow escape’.
Outrage started to simmer inside me. I was the victim of a cruel fashion crime, blameless in everything except my proportions and I wasn’t about to apologize for my breasts.
And anyway, I felt a bit funny inside. Not queasy exactly, but a bit dizzy and swimmy-headed. I thought it was probably hearing him speaking Italian. The only Italian I knew I learned from a menu and there was nothing sexy about Pizza Margherita even if you tried saying it in a sultry voice.
This man, however, was spectacularly sexy and everything that came out of his mouth made me want to grab him and do very, very bad things which was definitely off limits because Nico was the sort who was always ruthlessly in control of himself and behaved impeccably in public. I assumed lawyers weren’t allowed to misbehave.
‘Why the fuck are you here, Hayley? You are the master of bad decisions.’ He spoke through his teeth as if he were afraid that if he opened his mouth a tirade of insults would escape.
Frankly I was surprised to hear him say ‘fuck’.
But now he’d said it, I started thinking about it. Not the word, but the act. I couldn’t help it. Truthfully I’d been thinking about it long before he’d said that word. I doubted any woman could look at Nico and not think of it. Not love or romance, you understand. He wasn’t the hearts and roses sort of man. I couldn’t imagine him risking his suit by changing a nappy or rolling up his perfectly ironed sleeves to wash a greasy saucepan, but sex? God, yes. All it took was one look to know this man would know everything there was to know about hard, hot, sweaty sex.
For a wild moment I wanted to ask if he’d impart some of his knowledge, but then I remembered he’d just told me I made bad decisions. There was only so much abuse a girl could take in one day and I was right up to my limit. When you work in a male dominated profession as I do, you’re used to being judged. Most of the time I let it wash over me. If