The Wedding Shop on Wexley Street. Rachel Dove

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СКАЧАТЬ grabbed a red dress and thrust it at Maria. ‘Put this on.’

      Maria looked at the dress, which had been a daring purchase, never worn. The tag scraped at her arm as she laid it on the bed. ‘I can’t wear that, I should never have bought it!’ Trust Cassie to have rescued that from her old place, Darcy’s home. She should have left it there. She pushed the thought from her head. She shouldn’t be ungrateful; after all, she had got all her belongings back without even having to put a toe near Darcy. Which was good, since the toe was attached to her foot, and if she had seen him, she would have used that foot to give him a good kicking. If Cassie hadn’t got there first and ripped him limb from limb like she’d threatened to, that was.

      Cassie glared at her, oblivious to the violent thoughts swirling round in her friend’s head. ‘Why buy it then? Come on, get your hair dried. We are going out… NO ARGUMENTS,’ she boomed as Maria opened her mouth to protest. Maria felt her foot itch but ignored it. Not tonight, angry toe.

      Two hours later, Maria found herself in Harrogate, squeezed into the red dress, shoes pinching her feet, wondering why the hell she wasn’t sitting on Cassie’s couch eating ice cream, sloshing wine down and crying. She said the same to Cassie as they walked on tottering heels to the nearest trendy bar, Ice, in the wine-bar-and-posh-eatery part of Harrogate’s city centre, which, coincidentally, butted up against the legal quarter of Harrogate, and no doubt the two sides kept each other in business quite well too. Walking into Ice with Cassie, it was hard to ignore the stares her friend attracted. Cassie Welburn was, she had to face it, sex on a twenty-nine-year-old stick. She was always tanned thanks to her meticulous salon treatments, plucked and shaped to perfection, and tonight, as usual, she was dressed to kill. Even Maria’s daring red slinky number looked tame in light of Cassie’s black and silver dress, slashed to the thigh, combined with sparkly silver heels that made her even taller than her just-under-six-foot frame. Maria blushed and nudged Cassie’s elbow with her own.

      ‘People are staring, Cass.’ Cassie shrugged, propelling them both forward into the bar with a determined swagger.

      ‘Let them stare, girl. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.’ Maria belatedly realised that tonight, thanks to that ridiculous article, the stares might indeed be for her and not her glamorous friend. She cringed inwardly and planted a smile on her face. She took her friend by the arm and, pushing her boobs out and her chin up, headed to the bar. ‘Let’s get smashed,’ she declared.

      Four bars later, the two friends were knocking out shapes on a dancefloor. They were now in a place called Fresh! which had a large dancefloor in the back, complete with strobe lighting and a large DJ booth that overlooked the whole area. It was all neon lights, tacky road signs, and club kitsch, but it went well with the Eighties pop they were currently playing. Maria was laughing at Cassie, who was singing her head off to a Wham! hit while several suitors flanked her, unseen, ready to make their move, like big cats on a gazelle. If only they’d known Cass was the biggest cat of them all. No man could take her down; just ask her clients. Cassie illustrated the point by wiggling gracefully away from a man who dared to wrap his arms around her, shooting him a look that could curdle milk. As the song merged into another, Maria licked at her lips. The remnants of the last shot were sticky on her mouth and she needed something to rehydrate. Motioning to Cass over the loud music that she was heading to get something to drink, Maria took a rare empty stool at the surprisingly quiet bar. It seemed everyone was writhing and thrashing on the dancefloor, all the stools occupied but hers and another next to it. The bartender, a bored-looking youth in a uniform consisting of a black T-shirt and the tightest jeans known to mankind, gave her an enquiring nod as she sat.

      ‘Bottle of water, please, thanks,’ she said, getting only an eye roll in return. ‘Jesus, who died?’ she said under her breath.

      ‘No one yet,’ came the answer from her left. She looked across, surprised anyone had heard over the music, and met the brown eyes of a man who made the barman look positively cheerful. He looked wretched; bloodshot eyes under hooded lids, a near-vacant expression, all topped by a head of very unruly brown hair. He had a look of Droopy the cartoon dog. Cute, though – what Maria would call a fixer-upper. Good bones, just needed a bit of renovation. The cut of his rather creased but obviously expensive clothes did him no favours either. He looked like he needed to be steam-cleaned from head to foot.

      She shook her head, snapping herself out of work mode. When it came to suits on men, she was always dressing them, rather than undressing. She thought of Darcy’s honeymoon suit, the time she’d taken designing it from scratch, making it with her own two hands, just to hang in some wardrobe, untouched and unloved. A bit like her. Unless he had taken it with him, to hang in some foreign wardrobe with another woman’s clothes. A traitor suit. One that waggled its sleeves at any bit of clothing going. A slut suit, with no ounce of honour among its fine threading.

      ‘Bad day?’ she asked, paying the bartender and taking a refreshing swig from the ice-cold bottle of water. He turned to her again, a half-smile playing on his lips.

      ‘A bad month, to be honest,’ he said glumly, throwing back a shot with a flick of his head. Maria nodded in understanding.

      ‘I get that – me too.’ He looked across at her, and Maria felt his eyes run over her, scrutinising her from head to foot. She blushed, remembering she looked like a damn Bond girl.

      ‘Ignore the get-up. My mate Cass “dressed me” and dragged me out to cheer me up.’

      The man nodded, turning towards the dancefloor, where it seemed everyone but them was. Maria pointed to Cassie, who was currently rubbing body parts suggestively with a man who looked like Channing Tatum’s slightly better-looking stunt double. Cassie caught them watching and waved emphatically, tossing her hair into Nearly-Tatum’s face, not that he seemed to mind. Maria laughed despite herself. Her friend was mad, but she loved her to bits, despite their normally different views on romance. The man peered back over his shoulder at her, flashing an amused grin. ‘So, she’s supposedly here to cheer you up, yet you’re sitting at the bar alone, drinking water, while she does that?’ He pointed again to Cassie, who was now pretty much in danger of being mauled by the males surrounding her. Mauled or peed on territorially. Neither was an appealing prospect. Nearly-Tatum looked all set to beat his chest and run up the speaker tower with her under his arm, taking a few rivals down along the way. Maria sighed and turned back to the bar, hailing the lazy barman, who looked like he was reading a comic book in the corner.

      ‘Two of whatever he’s having, please,’ she said, motioning to the empty shot glasses.

      ‘Make that two each,’ the man added, thrusting a twenty onto the bar. Maria couldn’t be bothered to argue, so she grabbed a twenty from her purse and put it on top of his. He smiled.

      ‘In the mood to get drunk?’ he asked. ‘I’m Mark by the way.’

      She looked across at the unkempt but handsome man. Cassie was with her, she was pretty safe where she was, and the thought of getting blasted and having a laugh with a man who wasn’t going to jilt her at the altar and take another woman on honeymoon sounded like a pretty welcome way to spend the evening.

      ‘Maria,’ she said in reply, as the shots were lined up. ‘And you bet your ass I am.’

       Chapter 4

      Maria was pretty sure her head had been sawn off in the night, jammed with nuts and bolts, and then stapled back on. Even opening her eyes caused her physical pain, but she had a horrible feeling of dread that forced her to push back the pain and peel apart her crusty eyelids. СКАЧАТЬ