Sunshine on a Rainy Day: A funny, feel-good romantic comedy. Bryony Fraser
Читать онлайн книгу.
at the sheet, he’d filled in Mr and Mrs Bestwick and I felt a different kind of exhaustion when he gave me a jokey wink. Up in our room, we lay on our bed, vases of flowers from friends and family all over the sideboard and dressing table, and I reached out and put my hand on the small of Jack’s back. Then, with the lights still on, fully dressed, we both fell fast asleep.
The next morning we woke up to blinding light and sixty missed calls on my phone. We’d slept right through the bacon sandwich brunch for all our guests, and were being called by reception on the blaring landline to gently enquire whether we’d be checking out shortly or staying for another night. I was all for staying for another – hide away a bit longer, make the most of this massive bed and giant bathtub – but Jack reminded me that we’d blown our budget with even one night here. We’d debated for ages about whether to go home after the reception, back to the flat my parents had helped us buy, full of wedding presents that had already been delivered. But we’d thought we’d splash out because that’s what you do, right? You lose your mind and do everything that’s out of character and out of budget. And if for a moment you wonder if really that’s the right decision – to get outfits that cost more than a white tiger, and the hotel room that you won’t even notice because you were so tired and drunk and emotional you could have spent the night on a park bench and not noticed the difference – well, you just take a deep breath and repeat But It’s My Wedding, and stamp your feet to really get into the role.
I stripped off my wedding jumpsuit and climbed into the shower, while Jack rang our families and packed up our stuff. By the time I’d got out, rubbed in some coconut oil and got into my favourite jeans, headscarf, soft sweater and Nikes, reception was calling again with a slightly less gentle enquiry. Jack said the Bacon Brunch had gone ahead without us at my parents’ place, and everyone had had a great time. Both his dad and my parents were fine, understood completely, and everyone sent their love.
After finally managing to check out, wrapped in scarves and coats against the cold, we hit the Tube to discover that the only free seats were at either end of the row. Jack sat me down with the bags then turned to the man next to me.
‘Sorry, mate, would you mind taking the seat at the end? We only got married yesterday, and I’d like to sit next to my wife.’ He giggled a bit as he said the final word.
The man beamed at me, saying, ‘Sure! Congratulations, guys!’ in a sunny Australian accent, but I’d already covered my eyes with my hands and was trying not to set the carriage alight with my blushes. It’s fine, I thought, it’s fine, he’s just being romantic, he’s just excited, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. One day I’m sure I’ll get used to that word. Wife.
Everyone was watching us now, so I was too self-conscious to start up a conversation with Jack. We sat in a sleepy silence, holding hands, bags at our feet, watching everyone watching us. At Seven Sisters, we stepped out and heard someone call, ‘Good luck, newlyweds!’ and a few people in the carriage laughed. I squeezed Jack’s hand, trying to swallow my nausea.
‘Do you remember when we used to use actual words to talk to each other instead of hand actions?’ he said. That got a laugh out of me, and he said, ‘Thank god! I thought one of us might have had a stroke and forgotten English. Right. Lunch. Pub? Or home?’
We chatted about the various options, and it felt like normality again, the two of us planning meals and making plans. In the end, we picked up bits for lunch from the shop on the corner, and by the time we’d got to our front door I’d forgotten completely about what was waiting for us inside.
Boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff. Bedding, picture frames, coffee cups, lamps, a blender, an espresso machine, vases, cushions; piled up on our sofa, the floor, the kitchen counters, even balanced on the big hatch between kitchen and living room. Like the whole of the Generation Game conveyor belt had been carrying its load into our flat. Upstairs Jan, the neighbour above us in the top half of the house, had also left a bunch of flowers and a card for us at the door, and we added them to the pile like a tiny cherry on a huge, sprawling cake.
‘I’d forgotten this lot was here. Do you remember asking for all this stuff?’ I said.
‘Not really. That day was a bit of a blur. Remind me why we unpacked it all already?’ Jack was scratching his beard, wide eyed at everything filling our living room.
‘This cushion, though. I don’t even remember seeing it, let alone wanting it.’ I picked up a needlepoint cushion with a white terrier picked out in murky shades of beige and brown.
‘Or this vase.’ Jack held up another vase. ‘Or that one.’ We worked for a few minutes, going through the gifts and lining everything up on the kitchen hatch and along the coffee table. We stared around us. Eventually, I said, ‘Hang on, why would we want … seven vases?’
We looked through everything around us, at the plaid garden kneeler and the brass rabbit ornament.
‘This isn’t ours,’ we said at the same time. The giddiness and bustle of the upcoming wedding had meant we’d opened and unpacked every box without really noticing what was in there; it was only the coffee maker which looked familiar from our own list.
‘Mmm. Can we keep the espresso machine, though? Didn’t we want one of those?’ Jack looked at me pleadingly.
‘Hell yes. We’ll claim it as compensation for our missing gifts.’
While Jack made us a barrel of coffee each, I started on the sandwiches: bacon, avocado and feta, slathered with hot pepper chutney. My sore head and tiredness got the better of my manners, and I’d almost finished mine by the time Jack brought the coffees to the sofa.
‘That coffee machine was literally harder to set up than an actual spaceship.’
‘Literally.’
‘Having flown many, I’m confident in that comparison.’ We peered into our mugs, staring at the black speckles scattered through the frothed milk. ‘I might not have entirely mastered it quite yet.’
‘Tea?’
‘Tea.’
I swallowed my last bite of sandwich, headed into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. Hungover-peckish, I opened the fridge.
‘Oh my god!’
Jack leant in through the hatch. ‘What? What’s wrong?’
‘Look!’
Inside the fridge was the whole top half of our wedding cake, in all its creamy, buttery, sugary glory – one of my sisters must have dropped it off this morning, before we’d got home. Jack gulped down the sandwich he was holding, pulled out the cake, and said, ‘Right, you keep doing the teas, and I’ll get the forks. Do we need plates?’
I shook my head at him with mock horror. ‘Plates? Please, who are we, the Queen?’ Within five minutes we were back on the sofa, giant mugs of tea in our hands, forking wodges of cake from the platter. As we lazily watched The Antiques Roadshow, I cuddled up under Jack’s arm.
This was better. This was the married life Jack had promised me.
He started laughing.
‘What?’
His eyes creased up with how funny this genius thought was, and soon he was barely able to get the words out.
‘I bet you’re thinking … how if this is married life … it really suits you!’
‘That’s it? That’s your searing insight of the day? How much I like lying on the sofa, eating cake and watching TV with you? Well done for having registered the basic facts of my life preferences.’
‘Is this how you always saw yourself when you were grown up?’
‘Unlike every other normal child, I didn’t spend my youth fantasising about the chosen decor and potential TV habits of my adult self. I was too busy getting skinned knees and crushing on the local