Page 3 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
I think that’s what I resent most; giving Pierre some of my best years before he walked away. All that time wasted believing we’d marry, juggle our careers and a family, have it all. Instead, I’m staring down the prospect of nothing. Fucking bastard.
But I’ll be damned if I let him win. Distancing myself from my friend and her wedding because it hurts to see her have what Pierre promised me—that would only be an admission of his power over me still. I won’t allow it. This week, the tears pricking my eyes will stay hidden. My smile will be wide. I’ll laugh and joke like I don’t have a care in the world. Behind closed doors, I can fall apart—but outside them, I’ll be the same old Rachel. Strong. Happy.
She wraps me in another hug, leaning her dewy cheek against mine. This girl is the sweetest person I know, so kind and unselfish. Christian is a lucky guy to have Haley—a fact I remind him of at every opportunity. I wasn’t sure about him at first, but it’s obvious he loves her, and I trust him not to hurt her. Besides, I warned him if he ever did, I’d hunt him down, and he knows it’s not an idle threat.
“I’ll see you downstairs soon. Just follow the sound of drunken laughter. We started without you.”
She pads across the polished timber floor, her footsteps muted by the most ridiculous pair of reindeer slippers. I can’t help but smile. Time spent with Haley always makes life feel a little brighter, and god knows I need people like her in mine right now.
As she opens the door, the band’s music surges up from below, louder now as if they’ve switched into high gear. Beneath the melody, the drums pound a relentless rhythm.
“Have you put a curfew on those boys?” I call after her.
“Absolutely,” she laughs. “Nothing allowed between seven and seven—that’s my rule. Don’t worry, they won’t keep you up.”
If only. I can’t tell Haley, but it won’t be the band that keeps me awake. It’ll be the case files wedged in my suitcase, the midnight zoom calls squeezed between fittings and rehearsals, and the gnawing guilt at the double life I have to maintain—because if I don’t, my shot at the partnership vanishes.
Once the door clicks shut, I haul my suitcase onto the bed and snap the locks open. The manila folders I’d stuffed on top of my clothes spill out in a waterfall. I scoop them up quickly, tucking them into the dresser’s top drawer.
Then I unpack my laptop, finding a power point beside the bed to plug it in. As I slide it under the bed, the glowing orange eye of the charging light stares back at me accusingly. I smooth the bedcover back into place, hiding my secret in the dark.
“There we are, ladies. Next round.” Our hostess, Loreena Bunt, arrives in the lounge with an exuberant throaty chuckle.
It might be the last Friday in November, bleak winter outside, but looking at the tray set in front of us, anyone would think we’ve just landed in the Caribbean—not a stately manor in the country nearWatford. It’s laden with a rainbow of cocktails, complete with little parasols and cheerful garnishes on toothpicks.
“I’m just so excited to have you all here.” Her blue eyes, framed in enormous false lashes, twinkle with delight. “Cheers,” she says, and the five of us raise our glasses in unison, clinking them together companionably.
“I’m so looking forward to getting to know you girls better. Haley’s told me so much about you.”
I’m looking forward to getting to know Loreena better too, beyond her status as a reality-TV queen fromThe Real Wives of Watford. For this wedding—hosted here in her palatial mansion next Saturday—she’s cast herself as a surrogate mother to both bride and groom. Her husband’s auto-parts empire, built from humble beginnings, has catapulted them into the nouveau riche, but there’s nothing pretentious about Loreena herself. I’ve only met her briefly once or twice, yet already I can see the qualities that drew Haley and Christian to her—the side of Loreena Bunt the TV cameras never capture.
But I’m not so sure about what her getting to know me better will reveal. I’m not confident in this version of me. Not when my life has become the script for a Bridget Jones movie; a sick joke.
What would I tell Loreena?
That I’m a successful thirty-five-year-old lawyer, although most people wouldn’t pick me as being over thirty. Always wearing sunscreen and religiously slathering expensive serums on my face every night has paid off.
That I’m told I’m fun to be with once you get to know me and can see past my potty mouth. Capable. Responsible. Own a niceapartment in Notting Hill; financially independent. And now, most likely doomed to be serially single.
That two months ago, my fiancé dumped me for his twenty-three-year-old PA. He claims he had the decency not to fuck her until he’d broken the bad news to me. As if I should be pleased about that.
That I’ve gone from the front of the queue for a happily ever after to languishing at the back with no prospects in sight, while I watch the people I love leapfrog past me.
My childhood best friend, Jenna, has found the love of her life in the form of my brother. Thankfully, it happened back in my Scottish home town, out of sight, although unfortunately not out of mind, with her texts alluding to sordid details of things I’d rathernotimagine my baby brother doing with her. But he makes her deliriously happy. There’s no trace of the sad jilted bride of a few years ago. And I love my brother more for that.
Samantha, seated next to me, with her tumble of dark curls and mellow brown eyes, oozes the contentment the care of a steady man brings. Her current boyfriend has passed the nice-guy test, and six months in looks a solid bet for a long-term relationship. I’m so pleased for her.
Relaxing back in a huge armchair opposite is Liv, married to Garrett, the bass player in the band. Lithe and blonde with the face of an angel that lights up even more the moment he walks into a room. She’s the smiling poster child for young love between high school sweethearts blossoming into a mature and enduring relationship.
And then there’s Haley, the reason we’re all here in one of the five lounges—yes, five—in this grand mansion that could have been the set for Downton Abbey. One week from today, she’s goingto dash the hopes of his fans and marry Christian Steele, guitarist for Stellar Riot, and her brother’s best friend and bandmate. This usually introverted, brusque man loves her so fiercely and openly it makes even my tightly bound heart flutter at the sight.
And I’d tell Loreena I’m the sort of girl who can be happy for all of them. Really, I am. They deserve every bit of their fairytale romances. I’d just like one of my own—like I thought I had until it unexpectedly evaporated overnight. I can’t shake the feeling it’s never going to happen, not for me.
Fortunately, right this moment there’s a distraction from all these gloomy thoughts: the beautiful man leaning in the doorframe, while his bandmates huddle in the hallway without him.
My eyes are drawn to the source of a voice smooth as milk chocolate, a man with a boyish laugh who joins in their conversation, while fixing a pair of velvet-brown eyes on me. His mouth tips up in a slow smile, and I melt inside.
“Rachel MacDonald, are you staring at who Ithinkyou’re staring at?” Haley, sitting opposite in the perfect spot to observe my wandering gaze, flashes me an accusing look.
