Page 61 of The Wedding Forecast

‘I’m not sure we should have more coffee right now,’ I say. I have lost count of how many cups I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours, partly because I can’t remember when the last twenty-four hours actually began.

‘Well, can you meet him in the foyer at five? I should be back but if I’m not, you two just grab a drink and wait for me, okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘Here’s his number, in case you need it.’

‘Why would I need it?’ I am scared to have his number in my phone—I don’t want to give myself that kind of access to him.

‘Just take it.’

I stare at the number. Should I message him? We haven’t had any contact all year. He could have reached out to me if he was interested in staying in touch.

I change my clothes five times, which is impressive considering I barely brought enough clothes for five outfit changes. I put on a wintery dress of Hayley’s. We are different heights, with different body shapes, but we can occasionally share clothes. The dress is long and figure-hugging, and I pair it with my sexy long boots, that I almost didn’t bring then panicked and squashed in at the last minute. I look good. Close enough to good. The dress is flattering, I had my eyebrows and eyelashes tinted before we left, my hair is freshly cut, Hayley’s lipstick always looks better on me than my own. I layer lots of little necklaces, and put on every ring Hayley and I brought. It gives me comfort to keep adding little flourishes. But now I look too good, I decide. Too obvious. Trying way too hard.

I strip off the dress and the boots and put on jeans and my flat, sensible, lug-sole boots and a black top and leather jacket. This feels better. Understated. Powerful. Ugly heavy footwear that says ‘I don’t care what you think of my looks, I’m wearing these so I can kick someone in the groin or ride a motorbike’, even though I have never done either of those things and I do, unfortunately, care what he thinks of my looks.

It’s ten past five. Shit.

I get in the elevator and my hand is trembling when I press the button. What if I don’t recognise him? Who am I kidding? I have thought about his face more times than I would ever admit. But he might look different. In my head. Or now. I might look different. Or forget looks, because what I’m actually chasing is that feeling I had with him. I need to know if it was just the heightened intensity of the wedding weekend, of Joel’s news, of everything that was happening, that made me feel that way. Was it love, lust, or a mental breakdown? Was it real and, if it was, what can be done about it? Because what does it help me to know I’m hooked on a feeling I had for a guy who lives on the other side of the world and hasn’t thought about me once in the intervening months? That doesn’t help me at all. That only makes my life harder. So it would be better in every way if the feeling is gone.

The elevator doors open and I look around, and there he is, sitting on a couch in the bar area immediately to my left, and he’s looking right at me. He lifts his glass in greeting, and smiles a big, warm, eyes-crinkling, Hollywood-heartthrob smile.

Okay. So the feeling isn’t gone.

‘Hey,’ I say, sitting down next to him, trying not to overthink how much distance I should leave between us.

‘Hey,’ he says, leaning over and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

He smells like he did at the wedding. He’s still smiling. I’m trying to stop smiling.

‘How are you?’ I say.

‘Good. How are you?’

‘I’m in New York. I’m great.’

I am filled with the fizzy energy of being in a new city, of being near a hot man, of possibility.

He seems less scruffy, sharper and more put together here. His hair is a little shorter. He looks slightly more muscular, maybe.

I want to reach out and touch him, touch any part of him, to make sure he’s real. Already I am ignoring the warning voice in my head: Calm down Anna, slow down, Anna, keep your wits about you, don’t immediately flirt, don’t get drunk, hold on to to any semblance of restraint you can find.

‘I loved your book,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Thank you. Did you just finish it?’

‘No,’ he laughs. ‘I finished it on the flight home from the wedding. I just never told you.’

‘I’m glad you loved it.’

‘The twist ending was so good.’

‘Did you guess it?’

‘No. But I’m not clever enough to guess any twist ending.’

‘I don’t believe that.’