The bathroom door swung open to reveal Rita sat on the loo. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, it’s your life, it’s your decision.’ For some reason Rita always took on the role of a philosopher when she’d had a few too many, and loved nothing better than spending hours sharing her pearls of wisdom. ‘Look at me, coming out to LA to try and be an actress. Me, a Hollywood actress.’ She smiled excitedly, envisaging herself in the role of Tracy Potter that she was to start filming in a few days. ‘Everybody thought I was barmy, but I didn’t give a shit. OK, it was a risk. But what had I got to lose if it all went wrong anyway? A temping job? A knackered old Mini with a leaky radiator. That poky rented flat of ours.’ She pulled a face. ‘But I was lucky. I made the right decision. Look at me now,’
Frankie looked. Pissed as a fart, with her knickers round her ankles, Rita had kohl eyeliner smudged halfway down her face and a roll of loo paper in her hand. Catherine Zeta Jones eat your heart out.
‘Life’s just one big casino. Everything’s a risk. There’s no guarantees. But if you want something badly enough you have to go for it. If your happiness depends on it you’ve got no choice but to take the gamble and follow your heart. Live for the moment. If you don’t you’ll always wonder what might have been.’ Yanking up her G-string, Rita stood up, a little too quickly, and grabbed hold of the marble washbasin for support. ‘And anyway, if it goes wrong you can always call 1–800-divorce. It’s dead easy, I’ve seen the adverts. You just listen to the automated message and then press 1 if you’ve got kids, 2 if you’ve got a mortgage together, 3 if . . .’
‘OK, OK, I get the idea.’ Frankie smiled, shaking her head. She’d heard of dial-a-pizza, but dial-a-divorce? Perhaps they even put leaflets through your letter box with ‘get a divorce and get a second one half-price’ special offers. Dismissing the thought, she hauled herself off the bed and opened a small bottle of Evian from the minibar. She drank it down in one go, diluting the evening’s intake of alcohol. Maybe getting drunk wasn’t such a good idea. All the champagne was making her feel confused, maudlin, over-emotional, nostalgic. Hugh was part of her past. It was Reilly she was getting married to. Reilly who was her future.
‘I think you should wear these.’
Frankie turned round to see Rita, who’d emerged from the bathroom and was holding up an item of clothing.
‘Are you joking? Leather trousers!’ exclaimed Frankie. ‘To my own wedding . . . Isn’t that a bit unconventional?’
Rita gave her one of her ‘I know best’ looks. ‘You’re getting married in the Elvis Chapel, your engagement ring’s made out of a champagne top, we’ll be singing “Suspicious Minds” instead of “All Things Bright and Beautiful” and the vicar’s going to be wearing a white rhinestone jumpsuit.’ She waggled the trousers. ‘Need I say more?’
Unable to keep a straight face at the prospect, Frankie started laughing, and, grabbing them from Rita, disappeared into the bathroom to get ready.
38
‘It’s here; it’s here.’ Jumping up and down outside Caesar’s Palace in a hastily assembled bridesmaid’s outfit of crushed-velvet hipsters and a Lycra halter-neck, Rita waved frantically at the white stretch limo that had been hired to drive them to the chapel.
Reilly and Dorian had gone ahead five minutes earlier thanks to Rita, who, taking her role as bridesmaid very seriously, had told them in no uncertain terms that it was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, and that no, they couldn’t all share a minicab.
Standing next to her, Frankie felt a rush of exhilaration and excitement as she watched the white ribbon fluttering on the bonnet of the limousine as it swept into the forecourt. So this was it. It was happening. She was getting married. Her stomach began jigging up and down in time with Rita, and she felt a lump come into her throat. Even anaesthetised with champagne she still felt nervous.
‘Are you sure I look OK?’ Anxiously she turned to Rita. She was having serious doubts about the leather trousers. They’d gone down a treat at the Beverly Hills party, but her own wedding? She’d probably end up looking like one of those people who want to be ‘wacky and alternative’ and dress up like the cast from Grease and get married on a big dipper. ‘Maybe you were right. Maybe I should have worn the Karen Millen.’
‘Stop worrying, you look fucking gorgeous,’ reassured Rita, giving her lippy a quick touch-up. ‘Reilly’s a lucky fella.’ She clicked her compact shut and shoved it back in her handbag. ‘Most brides look like bloody lampshades. At least you’ll look sexy in all the wedding photies.’
Frankie suddenly clutched Rita’s arm. ‘Oh, shit.’
‘What?’
‘The camera. Have you got it?’
Rita looked blank.
‘Don’t you remember? Reilly asked you to bring his camera to the chapel,’ jabbered Frankie, beginning to panic as she realised that Rita was so pissed she’d be lucky to remember her own name, let alone the camera equipment. ‘We’re not going to have any pictures.’ She felt suddenly tearful.
‘Oh, c’mon, Frankie, there’s no need to get your knickers in a twist,’ soothed Rita. ‘It’s probably still in the room. I’ll go back and get it.’
For a moment Frankie was relieved by Rita’s offer. Until she saw her stumble drunkenly in her stilettos and had second thoughts. ‘No, you stay here. I’ll be back in five minutes,’ she instructed, shoving her bouquet into Rita’s hands.
Cobbled together from the fresh flower arrangement in the hotel room, Rita had been chuffed to bits that her nightschool course in floristry had finally come in useful.
‘Don’t worry, it’s traditional for the bride to be late,’ she yelled reassuringly as Frankie ran back inside the hotel. Watching her disappear into the foyer, she was left to be greeted by the rather tasty-looking chauffeur, who, thinking she was the bride, offered his congratulations and opened the door. She tried to look demure and suitably bridal as she clambered on to the back seat. All this wedding malarky was rather enjoyable, she thought, nestling into the leather upholstery and helping herself to the complimentary minibar.
Caesar’s Palace was jam-packed with gamblers and New Year’s Eve revellers, and with less than twenty minutes to go until midnight, spirits were high and the casino buzzed with anticipation and celebration. Trying to make her way towards the lifts, Frankie pushed through the hordes of boisterous tourists, scantily clad waitresses and die-hard gamblers, before finally reaching the lobby. The lift doors opened and she squeezed in between partygoers laughing hysterically and blowing party trumpets, and pushed the button for the twelfth floor. And then waited.
Squashed next to a couple trying to break the record for French-kissing and a dull-looking, big-boned girl in a flowery dress who’d draped herself in silly string in a vain attempt to make herself look as if she was a party animal, Frankie watched the Roman numerals, denoting floors, light up with agonising slowness. ‘Come on, come on,’ she hissed, as the lift stopped at every floor, emptying out people trailing streamers as they rushed to various parties being held in different hotel rooms, and filling up again with yet more partygoers – everybody going somewhere in time for the countdown. Until finally it reached the twelfth floor and the doors sprang open, releasing Frankie from its claustrophobic confines.
Hurrying down the corridor, she looked at her watch. Shit, less than ten minutes to go. She scanned the numbers on the doors, looking for her room. Before it had been so easy to find, but now, feeling pissed and panicky, it was a lot more difficult. Eventually she spotted it – 1204 – and began fumbling drunkenly in her handbag for the credit-card key. As she did, she was hit by the thought of how comical this moment would seem in the months and years ahead, when she was an old married woman. Smiling to herself, she found her key and began humming the Wedding March as she tried to find the slot in the lock.
‘Frankie?’
A voice. It startled her. The key slid out of her fingers, landing silently on the carpet. Turning, she saw a figure across the hallway, alm
ost hidden in the shadows. And stopped humming as the notes froze inside her body. It couldn’t be. She peered harder, trying to focus. It wasn’t. The figure stepped forward into the light . . . It was.
Hugh.
Her stomach flipped as her knees buckled beneath her. She steadied herself against the door handle. For a split second she had the stomach-churning sensation of being catapulted backwards through time, across the Atlantic, back to Fulham, to October, to Hugh. Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to get her head straight, but it was impossible. Hugh? In Las Vegas? She felt as if she was having some kind of weird champagne-induced hallucination. Surely it couldn’t be happening. Could it?
But it was. Unable to move, she stared at him, transfixed. He looked exactly the same. Wearing exactly the same clothes as he always did – a pale blue Ralph Lauren shirt, jeans that he always ironed a crease down the front of, his JP Tod brogues. Smart and clean-shaven, he’d gelled his blond hair into that quiff, just like he always used to, and had that instantly recognisable smell of deodorant, mouthwash and Hugo Boss aftershave. It seemed so familiar. And at the same time so unfamiliar.
For a few minutes all she could do was stand there, staring, reeling, her heart fluttering like a deck of cards. She tried to speak but her voice seemed to have disappeared into the back of her throat. As if all her senses had shut down with the shock of seeing Hugh, in front of her, only a few feet away. She suddenly felt horribly sober.
Hugh stared at Frankie. Thank God he’d finally found her. He thought he was never going to in this bloody awful town, full of tacky Americans and even tackier hotels. It had taken hours and, what with his jet lag, he didn’t think he was ever going to track her down before midnight. But finally, twenty minutes ago, he’d struck lucky. The receptionist at Caesar’s Palace had said she’d checked into one of the penthouse suites – God knows how she’d been able to afford that – and putting the phone down he’d raced straight over from his motel. He had his speech planned, he’d even rehearsed it a few times in front of the mirror, but now bumping into her like this had thrown him. To be honest, he was as shocked as she was. She looked so different. Almost unrecognisable. Since when did she buy leather trousers? And that little top, there was practically nothing to it. No doubt it was the idea of that daft friend of hers, Rita. He stared at her, leaning against the door of her suite, not saying anything. And suddenly a thought struck him. Was she drunk?
‘What are you doing here?’ Frankie eventually managed to whisper.
‘Looking for you.’ He walked towards her and then, thinking better of it, stopped a couple of feet away. ‘I flew to LA, but when I finally found your apartment your neighbours said you’d come to Las Vegas. I managed to hire a car and drive out here and I’ve been in every hotel in this town, all day, trying to find you.’ He paused and ran his fingers through his hair, like he always used to. ‘I needed to see you, to tell you that I made a stupid mistake. I was such an idiot, Frankie. A stupid bloody idiot.’
Frankie couldn’t believe what she was hearing, what she was seeing. Dumbstruck she watched him, fiddling self-consciously with cufflinks. He always was so uncomfortable when he talked about his feelings, what he always used to call PDA – Public Display of Affection.
Standing up straight, he threw his shoulders back, as if he was bracing himself. ‘Being on my own these last few months . . .’ he swallowed a few times as he remembered the one-night stands ‘. . . has made me realise that I don’t want to be without you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve missed you, Frankie. I want you to give me a second chance.’
His speech was drowned out by the sound of the band starting up from downstairs and the sound of the countdown beginning: Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven . . .
They both stared at each other. Neither of them speaking. And then suddenly, right in front of her, he bent down and, balancing awkwardly on one knee, cleared his throat. ‘What I’m trying to say is this . . .’ Pulling a small velvet box from out of his breast pocket, he tried to open it.
Six, Five, Four . . .
He fumbled with the catch for a few seconds, his fingers hot and sweaty . . .
Three . . .
Finally it sprang open.
Two . . .
It was a Tiffany’s diamond ring.
One . . .
A huge cheer went up. The deafening roar of the whole of Las Vegas celebrating the New Year swept around the building, the sound of fireworks exploding in the sky above, balloons bursting, people screaming. The sound of the band downstairs starting up with ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
But amidst the noise, all Frankie heard was Hugh’s voice.
‘Will you marry me?’
39
The scenery sped past the car window, barren scrubland, a ramshackle general store, a gas station. Frankie buzzed down the electric window. Her head throbbed with the mother of all hangovers. Closing her eyes, she lay back against the headrest and breathed in deep lungfuls of hot dusty air. So this was it, 1 January. The new year. There hadn’t been an apocalypse, the world hadn’t ended in a ball of fire. It was still here, still exactly the same. Except of course it wasn’t. Things would never be the same again.
Last night Hugh had walked back into her life and everything had turned upside down. In just a few seconds – the time it had taken for him to propose – everything had changed, everything had been thrown into confusion and doubt. Her emotions, beliefs, desires – her future. Hugh was asking her to marry him. He was asking her to make the biggest decision of her life. But what he didn’t know was that he was asking her to choose. To decide between a lover of just one week and an ex-boyfriend of two years. Between taking a gamble on a new life and playing it safe by going back to her old one.
Frankie hadn’t known what to think. Looking at Hugh in the dimly lit corridor, balancing awkwardly on one knee, she’d felt a mixture of joy and horror. Out of the blue Hugh wanted her back, wanted to marry her, wanted them to spend the rest of their lives together and live happily ever after. Wasn’t that everything she’d ever dreamed of? A Tiffany ring, a white wedding and Hugh, all dressed up in a top hat and tails with a carnation in his button hole. To be Mr and Mrs Hugh Hamilton. Isn’t that what she’d longed for? All those nights when she’d lain awake next to Rita, her pillow soggy with tears, feeling as if her heart was breaking.
But what about Reilly? He’d be waiting for her at the chapel. Laughing and joking with Dorian, blissfully unaware of what was happening. Expecting her to arrive at any moment. Her heart had lurched. She’d felt sick. Normally she didn’t believe in such things, but maybe this was fate. Maybe Hugh’s appearance was a sign. A sign that marrying Reilly would be a mistake. That Rita had been right all along and she and Reilly were just a fling. She’d been on the rebound and high on hormones and too many margaritas, she’d got carried away by the euphoria of New Year’s Eve and the millennium and confused lust with love.
Feeling shaky, she’d clung on to the door for support. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe Reilly was having second thoughts and would be grateful if she called it off. Maybe he’d changed his mind and wasn’t even at the chapel. The idea had saddened but consoled her, even though it jarred with the memory of Reilly lying next to her in bed, telling her that he loved her, asking her to marry him. She’d tried to blot out the image. He hadn’t meant what he’d said. It had just been the booze talking. By leaving now she’d be doing him a favour. At least this way tomorrow he’d only wake up with a hangover. Waking up with a wife he didn’t want would have been a lot more of a headache.
She’d tried focusing on Hugh. His sudden appearance had sobered her up and brought her to her senses. He made the last few months feel like a dream. Being in LA, living with Rita, falling for Reilly. None of it had been real life, none of it could have lasted for ever – but hadn’t she known that all along? Hadn’t she run away to LA until she was able to face things again, get her life back on track, go back to London?
And now she could.
Wi
thin the last few seconds her wish had been granted. Hugh had come back. Was she going to risk losing him a second time?
With the sounds of partygoers echoing from every room and a jumble of thoughts whirling around in her head, Frankie had known the answer to the question. Looking at the man with whom she’d shared memories, a home, holidays abroad, family gatherings, a history, she’d known she couldn’t take a gamble. This might be Vegas but the stakes were too high. And so in those few brief seconds she’d made her choice. She’d said yes.
Frankie broke away from her thoughts as she saw a sign for the Grand Canyon up ahead. They were going to stay there for a few days. ‘Regroup’, as Hugh called it, before driving back to LA so that she could pack up her things and catch the next plane back to Heathrow. Back to his flat in Fulham and their old life together. She glanced across at Hugh, wearing his driving glasses and furrowing his brow in concentration as he tried to get to grips with the etiquette of freeway driving. It still felt weird, being back together. A couple again. She had to keep checking it was really him sitting next to her, and not her alcohol-addled brain playing tricks.
‘Shouldn’t we have turned off there?’ An exit sign flashed past.
‘Shit.’ He braked, causing the truck behind him to screech its tyres and honk loudly. ‘Christ, what’s wrong with the bloody Yanks? Can’t they drive or something?’ Without indicating, he swerved across two lanes, nearly causing a pile-up as the rented car ploughed off the freeway at a 90-degree angle.
Frankie gripped her seat belt. She was used to relaxing with her feet up on the dash of Reilly’s Bronco, chatting as he drove and laughing at Howard Stern on the radio. She’d forgotten Hugh’s short temper behind the wheel and how tense she used to get when they drove to visit his parents in Kent. Once his road rage had nearly got him punched by a London cabbie.