Page 17 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

My stomach twists.

Nico and I haven’t spoken since that deeply awkward morning in Vegas. He was already with Jack and Cynthie in LA by the time I got hold of my brother to tell him about Gran’s heart attack. The three of them flew into London together, but I managed to dodge seeing Nico at all on his brief visit. Avoiding confrontation is a particular skill of mine, honed over decades, and it was simple enough to make sure my visits home to sleep and shower just happened to coincide with Nico turning up at the hospital. A military operation couldn’t have run more smoothly.

Jack didn’t seem to realise Nico and I had bumped into each other in Vegas, and almost immediately it felt too late to mention it without it being a big deal. The whole thing was suddenly a secret that the two of us were keeping, which only added to the strange illicit thrill, swirling in with all the humiliation.

I’ve spent the last year ruthlessly quelling the urge to even think about Nico. That night was a lesson learned about the consequences of letting my guard down. Well, no danger of that now… with my focus firmly on taking care of my grandmother, my life for the last twelve months has been the picture of safe, steady respectability.

Which is probably why the sight of the photograph leaves me feeling winded.

Unhappily, I hit reply on the email and write out a brief message, informing the administrator at littlechapeloflove.com that I’ve been sent their message in error, that I only partook of a photo opportunity, and that I’d like to be removed from their mailing list. I certainly don’t need this popping up once a year for the rest of my life. An annual haunting courtesy of my childhood crush… no thank you.

I’m surprised to receive a response almost immediately.

Dear Ms Turner-Jones

I’m afraid there seems to have been some misunderstanding! Here at the Little Chapel of Love, photography comes only as part of our exclusive range of wedding packages. Our records indicate that you and MR NICOLAS HART purchased our HUNK OF BURNING LOVE package for $329, which includes two song performances by one of our ordained Elvis impersonators, a fresh rose boutonniere, the photograph, a witness (if necessary), the admittance of up to eighteen guests, and – of course – the ceremony itself, officiated by an impersonator officially licensed by Elvis Presley Enterprises. Following the ceremony you were presented with your signed and recorded marriage licence. If you have misplaced this then a copy should be available to you for a fee via the Las Vegas Marriage Licence Bureau, and I have copied their details below.

I hope this clears things up for you!

Have a love-filled day!

Jaime Miller

Customer Care Operator

It takes a moment for the words to settle on the screen. I blink several times as the letters dance around in front of my eyes. I read the email again. Then I read it six or seven more times, just to make sure I understand. Because what I’m reading seems to heavily imply that Nico and I actually got married in Las Vegas.

And that’s ridiculous.

Right?

Chapter Seven

Lee

After several minutes of serious freaking out, which – because I am me – occurs in the sort of absolute, unmoving silence that you might expect to find on a frozen tundra, I attempt to pull myself together.

It is ridiculous. It’s also not possible. You can’t get married without the proper paperwork.

I snatch up my phone and dial the number for the Las Vegas Marriage Licence Bureau, navigating the automated menu to try and reach an actual human. When the plinky-plinky hold music (an instrumentalised Elvis medley, naturally) is finally interrupted and someone does pick up, it’s a perky-sounding woman who introduces herself as Megan.

‘I’m looking for information about a wedding licence,’ I say, then I hesitate. ‘Or I suppose I’m looking for information about the non-existence of a wedding licence.’

‘You want me to do a search to make sure a wedding licence isn’t on our system?’

‘That’s right,’ I agree. ‘I’ve been getting some spam mail from a local wedding chapel and I want to make sure—’

‘Say no more,’ Megan breaks in, her tone still upbeat. ‘We get a lot of this sort of stuff here.’

‘Oh,’ I say weakly, not sure if that makes me feel better or worse. One night of hedonism and I have become the ultimate Las Vegas cliché.

‘So what are the names?’

I give her our details and the seconds that pass as I hear her clacking away at her keyboard feel like they’re stretching out into years.

‘Okay,’ Megan says finally, ‘got you. The marriage licence was registered on October 12 last year. Oh! Happy anniversary!’

I drop the phone.