I wake up with a start, banging my head on the low slanting ceiling as I sit upright.
‘Owww!’ I cry out.
‘What is it?’ May startles and does the exact same thing. ‘Jesus!’ She grimaces, rubbing her skull. ‘Why don’t they cushion this area?’
‘Or just put bunk beds in the middle of the room.’
‘Right?’
We both lie back down.
‘What a night!’
‘Was it?’ I groan. My brain feels like a porcupine turned inside out and twisted in two. I attempt to turn onto my side. Oh no. There’s certain muscles that only hurt after I’ve been twerking. I peer under the covers. I’m still in my dress. Which I suppose is better than a number of alternatives.
I sense May staring at me. ‘What?’
‘You don’t remember?’ she gasps.
‘Remember what?’
‘You met Him!’
‘Him who?’
‘Him-Him!’ she urges. ‘You, Amy Daniels, had a kiss with a good premonition – for the first time in your life you got the happy ending!’
I feel a sudden wave of warmth engulf me – as if the sun itself is shining out from my heart. A sense of wonder and delight flares within me. I have never felt so adored, or such a keen sense of belonging. He knows me, really knows me. And he loves me anyway.
‘This is incredible!’ I marvel, waiting for his face to come into focus.
But instead, darker images begin layering on top, stifling the beautiful, grateful feelings – there’s a tussle, a struggle, a splash of red wine on a white shirt.
‘Oh no,’ I bleat as the anxiety increases.
I’m outside on a street now, it’s somewhere I know well yet can’t place; voices are raised, angry words exchanged. I feel a mix of outrage and disgust – someone is being accused of cheating, a phone is being commandeered as evidence, there’s a screeching sound as a taxi swerves and then a shattering crunch.
‘My phone!’
‘It’s right here,’ May soothes me, kneeling beside me, looking concerned. ‘Are you okay?’
‘That was the weirdest thing,’ I say, waiting for my heart to stop yammering. ‘It all started so well then it took a turn. And then another. It was like three different premonitions, one after the other.’
‘Well, that makes sense.’
‘Does it?’ I look confused. ‘What does it mean?’
‘It means you kissed three men last night.’
‘Noooo!’
‘Don’t sound so scandalised, that was our plan.’
‘I was only humouring you!’ I protest. ‘I didn’t think I’d actually do it.’
‘Oh, but you did and I have the proof.’
She gets up and starts padding around the room, lifting up cushions and moving my suitcase.
‘Are you looking for underwear or actual bodies?’ Surely she doesn’t think I brought all three of them back to the room?
‘Tokens,’ she calls to me from the bathroom. ‘I’m looking for the tokens.’
‘If you mean paracetamol, I’ll take one.’
‘Don’t you remember?’ She stands in the doorway. ‘You gave me a bottle top for every man you kissed. Aha!’ She locates her jacket under the bed and turfs out three from the inside pocket, each representing a very different experience for me: one blissful, one vexing, one alarming.
I twirl the crimped metal around my fingers. ‘I think one is Tristan.’
‘He was my first bet,’ May concurs. ‘But what about the other two?’
My head hurts just attempting to use it.
‘Try and give me a visual,’ she encourages. ‘I could do a suspect sketch if you can describe their features . . .’
While May gets poised with the bedside pen and notepad, I prop myself up with a pillow and try to pick out a face from the blurry images in my mind. I can barely differentiate between them, or the associated sensations. It’s like when we were dancing our chaotic version of a Cuban rueda – salsa-ing in a circle, switching partners at every call. I feel dizzy just thinking about it: the steps, the turns, passing from body to body. Some partners were masterful, some grabby, some timid. Some smelled divine, others not so much. But of all the men I danced with, one face is clearer than the rest.
‘You know, I did spend a lot of time dancing with Ernie.’
‘Marcus’s grandad?’
I nod. ‘He was serenading me.’
I recall resting my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes and listening to his warbling. ‘It was so romantic.’
‘Please tell me you didn’t kiss him?’ May gasps.
‘No, of course not,’ I tut. Though I can’t be 100 per cent sure.
‘I do remember that baklava routine got pretty steamy.’
‘Bachata,’ I correct her. ‘Who was that guy? He looked like Bruno Mars.’
‘He really did, so no need to sketch him.’ May reaches for her phone. ‘I wonder if Charlotte has a guest list we could check through?’
‘We can’t bother her on her honeymoon!’
‘It hasn’t started yet, she won’t mind.’ May is already texting her. ‘Besides, you know she’s our best bet for solving the mystery – she’s always the first to get the clues at the escape rooms.’
This I can’t deny.
‘You want some water?’
May nods without looking up from her texting.
I get up and shuffle over to the bathroom, leaning against the wall as I set the tap running. Something about the sound of the water triggers another swoop of emotions – a longing, a tenderness. As I hold the glass under the tap I see my hand is shaking. I let the water overflow and trickle over my fingers. It was raining last night. Did I go outside? I peer into the mirror. Nope. I know what my hair looks like when it’s exposed to the merest hint of moisture. My ‘do’ is no longer up but the strands are fuzz-free.
‘Did you remove my hair vine last night?’ I call to May.
‘Yes, and what a bastard that was – all those little claws.’
So much for amethyst preventing drunkenness. I check my chin for stubble burn. Nothing. Apparently I didn’t kiss anyone for very long or with any great vigour.
This is weird. I should be feeling ecstatic – I met Him! Kissed Him! But instead, I feel confused and slightly ashamed.
‘Did I make a complete fool of myself?’ I ask as I set down May’s glass on the bedside table.
‘Not to my knowledge but I think we need to pool our resources to get the complete picture. Speaking of which. We need to check your phone for photos.’
‘What about yours?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t take any pics.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I knew Charlotte’s photographer was capturing all the special moments and I was saving my battery in case I found Marcus in the coat room with one of the bridesmaids.’
‘We were the bridesmaids,’ I despair.
‘You know what I mean.’
I heave a sigh and start thumbing through my pictures. All of them were taken early on when everyone was still with their make-up and dignity intact, posing in deliberate, self-conscious ways to show off their best angles.
‘Well, that was no help.’
‘Check your contacts,’ May suggests. ‘See if you added anyone new.’
‘How would I know if they were new? I ask, scrolling through the all-too-familiar names.
‘Look at recents – people often call to save entering the number.’
‘Oh my god!’ I grab her arm. ‘Tristan Wedding.’
‘Why are you looking so stricken?’
‘He’s an outgoing call – at three a.m.!!!’
May huddles up. ‘Ooooh! Booty call. I guess that puts him at the top of the Most Wanted list.’
I scrabble around the debris in my mind, trying to remember what was said but finding no trace. ‘This can’t be good,’ I fret.
‘Why don’t you text him, see what he says?’
‘No way. Can you imagine if I called and said, “I had a premonition that you’re The One! We’re going to get married and have kids and grow old together and you’re going to love me forever and ever”?’
‘Well, if you said all that, he would have changed his number by now so you’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘You’re not helping,’ I tsk.
‘Yes, I am. Text him.’
I gnaw at my thumbnail.
May gets to her feet. ‘Knowing how long you take to compose a text message, I’m going to jump in the shower. Be ready to press send by the time I come out.’
‘Bossypants.’
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing when it only makes me more like Tina Fey.’
It takes me her full shampoo, soap and towel dry to come up with the wording.
Hi Tristan. I am one of the many drunken women at Charlotte’s wedding but more specifically the one who called you at 3 a.m. As I have no recollection of what was said, I wondered if I should be apologising or blushing, or both. Then again, perhaps you too have no idea . . .
I add a little fingers-crossed emoji.
‘Now, which face emoji should I add?’
May reaches over me and presses send.
‘What did you do?’ I squeal.
‘Firstly, we don’t have time to assess every possible implication of every eyebrow slant and O-shaped mouth. Secondly, Tristan doesn’t strike me as an emoji kind of guy.’
‘You have a point there,’ I concede.
‘Wahhhh!’ I leap up as the phone buzzes in my hand. ‘He’s replied. Oh god, he’s replied. I can’t stand it!’ I grab the pillow and put it over the screen.
May tuts and reaches for it, cocking her eyebrow and adopting a seductive tone as she reads his words:
Oh, I remember everything . . .
My stomach dips as the rest of me swirls with lust.
‘What do I say to that?’ I panic.
‘He’s typing . . .’ May alerts me.
I peer at the phone over her shoulder, clutching at her petite frame.
‘Amy, you’re hurting me.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’ I release her and pace across to the other side of the room, trying to get a grip. ‘What’s he saying?’
Dinner. Saturday. My treat.
I give a little squeal of excitement. Whatever I said at three a.m., it’s got me a date. Not coffee, not a drink or a quick bite – actual dinner. With a man that could be my warm feeling. I twirl around and then hurry back to May’s side. I should probably reply.
‘Just keep it short and sweet,’ she advises.
Lovely! I type. A model of restraint.
There’s a short pause where I fear he’s changed his mind and then:
Milo’s of Mayfair. 7 p.m.
‘He’s out to impress,’ May notes.
I tell him I’m looking forward to it but he doesn’t respond further. Which is fine. He’s obviously a grown-up, talk-in-person person which is something I am hoping to become.
‘Well, do you think he’s The One?’
‘I don’t know!’ I tap my lip. ‘I don’t know anything anymore. I always get it wrong. I would have said he wasn’t my type; he’s too good-looking for a start.’
‘Talk about first world problems.’
‘It’s just all so weird,’ I sigh. ‘One dream option but two horrible ones. How am I going to know if I’m making the right choice?’
‘Well, I guess the only way is to date all three of them.’
‘I’m not some reality show contestant!’ I protest. ‘I honestly don’t think I’d have the emotional bandwidth to juggle three men. Even one is pushing it.’
‘You really are going to have to get over yourself,’ May tuts. ‘And learn to trust your instincts. On some level you’ll know if it’s right when you’re with him.’
I nod, wanting to believe her.
‘Of course, there’s the small matter of identifying the other contenders in this love triangle.’
‘I think technically it’s a love square,’ May notes, but then her phone bleeps and she punches the air. ‘Yes! Charlotte says to meet her downstairs in the Lilac Room in twenty minutes. I knew she’d be into this!’
‘Isn’t she supposed to be leaving for her flight?’
‘She says Marcus will take care of the packing so she’s got nearly an hour free. And she wanted to see us all before she leaves anyway.’ May reaches for the guest phone and dials the kitchen. ‘Hello? Yes, I was wondering if we could get coffee and some breakfast items for five in the Lilac Room?’
I’m just staggering over to the bathroom when May puts her hand over the receiver and hisses, ‘Amy! Wait!’
‘What?’ I jump.
‘Before you wash off all the evidence, do you think we should cover you in talc and dust you for fingerprints?’
I hate to spoil her fun as she falls about giggling but I’m genuinely worried about making the wrong choice here – I have a horrible feeling there might have been more than a phone crunching under the wheels of that taxi.
