Page 13 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

I lean over his shoulder to have a look, and even on the small screen it’s easy to see he’s right. There’s one of Frankie, a cigar clamped between his grinning teeth, a winning hand of cards fanned on the table in front of him. The light is diffused through a cloud of cigar smoke, and every expressive line of his face is perfectly captured.

‘That’s gorgeous,’ I say. ‘I want a copy.’

‘I’ll send you one,’ Nico promises, flicking through image after image. ‘I wish I’d shot some on film,’ he adds absently.

‘Frankie’s pretty sure we headed off for flaming sambucas after poker,’ I say, moving over to the sofa and grabbing my jacket off the back of it.

‘Yeah,’ Nico rubs his eyes, ‘that tracks.’

‘Mmm,’ I murmur in agreement, running my hands over the fabric and checking the pockets for any other clues. ‘He also said I had my handbag when I left so it looks like that might be lost. Apparently it was stuffed full of my poker winnings.’

Nico grimaces. ‘Shit.’

‘At least my phone wasn’t in it,’ I say, trying to sound philosophical while the thought of cancelling all my cards in my current condition makes me want to lie down on the floor and weep.

I pull a receipt out of my pocket and smooth it out. ‘Okay, seems we left the hotel and headed out on the strip,’ I say, handing him the piece of paper, which is a bar bill for an astronomical amount of money.

‘And now we know where your poker winnings went.’ He points to the bottom. ‘You paid cash.’

I eye the lengthy bill. ‘I must have been buying a round for everyone there, right? There’s no way we drank that much. I mean, I know we feel bad now, but surely we’d have died.’

‘Unless you think we drank fourteen appletinis, that’s my guess,’ he replies, scanning the itemised receipt.

‘Wait, this is ringing a bell. Didn’t we run into a hen party?’

‘Okay, yes.’ Nico’s forehead furrows as he stares into the middle distance. ‘I’m definitely having flashbacks to sashes and… penis straws?’ He looks slightly haunted. As well he might – I don’t need a clear memory to know that Nico would be catnip to a bunch of drunk women on a hen do.

‘What’s this?’ A small square of cardboard is slipped deep into my pocket and I ease it out. It’s a Polaroid photograph and I flip it over. ‘Oh. My. God,’ I breathe.

‘What?’ Nico ranges himself over my shoulder.

All I can do is stare at the photo.

My voice sounds very far away when I say, ‘I think we… got married?’

Chapter Five

Lee

The picture clutched in my trembling hand is a group shot. We’re surrounded by a pack of women who are smiling wide and wearing bejewelled denim jackets with bright pink BRIDESMAID sashes. Two of them are enthusiastically embracing a man with a very orange spray tan, who has donned a rhinestone-studded Elvis jumpsuit, slashed down to his belly button, and a pair of giant sunglasses.

In the centre of the picture Nico has swept me up into his arms and is laughing down at me. My hair has totally escaped its braid. I’m wearing a veil and a white sash emblazoned with the word BRIDE over the top of my suit, and I’m beaming up at Nico like he’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.

Behind us there’s a neon sign that reads: LITTLE CHAPEL OF LOVE.

‘Oh my god,’ I manage again.

I try desperately to remember anything about this, certain that I couldn’t forget getting married, but it really is like my mind is reaching for something that isn’t there. I stare at the Elvis impersonator, and maybe he does look familiar… I’m having misty visions of curled lips and lots of ‘thank you very much’ and enthusiastic hip thrusts, each one followed by high-pitched squealing, presumably from the gaggle of bachelorettes we’d collected along the way.

Over my shoulder, Nico starts laughing. ‘Have those women got tiny pink penises bedazzled all over their jackets?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Panic has my voice climbing breathlessly high. ‘How can you be laughing about penises at a time like this?’

‘Daisy.’ Nico reaches out and holds onto both my elbows, steadying me. ‘Take a breath. We didn’t get married.’

‘We didn’t?’ I whisper, and I sound humiliatingly disappointed while I blink up into his face.

I’m far, far too hungover for this emotional rollercoaster. My pathetic jelly-like limbs are about to collapse. Maybe I’ll give in entirely, slide down onto the floor and dissolve there into a sad puddle of sambuca and confusion. Honestly, that sounds pretty good right now.