‘You’re one lucky son of a bitch,’ congratulated Reilly, clapping him on the back and shaking his head. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, that was something.’
‘Yeah, well done,’ said Frankie, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her arms around Reilly’s waist.
Dorian grinned. He couldn’t believe his luck. His head stopped spinning and, remembering who he was and where he was, his vanity took over and he wiped his mouth with a napkin and smoothed down his hair, which had become fluffy and tousled in all the excitement. Rubbing his hands together, he watched as a waitress dressed in a skimpy gladiator’s costume, revealing a Roman bust that was definitely not made of marble, wiggled towards him carrying a magnum of Dom Perignon. ‘The management offers you their warmest congratulations,’ she beamed as she recited the oft-repeated patter. ‘How many glasses do you need, sir?’
Dorian looked at Reilly, who shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’
‘You’re not going to celebrate with me?’ Dorian looked disappointed.
‘We’re going to pop back to the room to freshen up,’ explained Frankie, resting her head against Reilly’s shoulder.
Rita rolled her eyes and grinned. She knew exactly what freshen up meant. And it didn’t involve cold water and flannels. ‘OK,’ she said, winking conspiratorially and nudging Dorian. ‘But don’t be too long. The band’s on soon.’ She nodded towards the dance floor, decorated with hundreds of helium balloons and silver and gold streamers, where, in the middle of the raised stage, a drum kit, keyboards and a microphone had been set up. A troupe of sequined dancing girls and the perma-tanned crooner himself – Tom Jones – were all set to pelvis-thrust Vegas into the twenty-first century.
Watching Frankie and Reilly weave through the floor, all love-birdy and wrapped around each other like elastic bands, Rita felt a pang. It was New Year’s Eve and she didn’t have a fella. Even Valeen and Bunt had each other.
‘Are you OK?’ Dorian caught her expression.
‘Yeah,’ she breezed, trying to hitch herself on to her barstool. Wearing a miniskirt while under the influence of half a dozen Long Island Ice Teas, two Tequila Sunrises and a couple of glasses of champagne made it slightly tricky. Like trying to get into the saddle. At the third attempt she gave up pretending to be modest and, hitching her skirt up past her G-string, finally got her leg over. ‘I’m all right, you know me.’ Lighting a cigarette, she tried to cheer herself up with a reassuring lungful. ‘It’s just this time of year, counting down to a new century, singing “Auld Lang Syne” and all that.’ Finishing off her drink, she fished around in the bottom of her glass for an ice cube and attempted to suck it dry of alcohol. ‘It just makes me wish I had someone to share it with.’
‘You’ve got me,’ said Dorian quietly, passing her a champagne flute. They clinked glasses and he took a sip. Now that his adrenalin had stopped pumping, he realised he was suddenly feeling rather slushy. And rather pissed.
Rita looked at Dorian through the blurry veil of alcohol. His two faces came back into focus.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and then began giggling as a thought struck her.
‘What’s so funny?’
Rita smiled. ‘If neither of us pulls tonight, at least we can snog each other at midnight.’
Dorian leaned drunkenly towards her, steadying himself on her bare legs as his stool tipped dangerously. ‘You don’t have to wait until midnight.’
Rita looked at his hand, the fingers still wrapped around her thigh. She realised she rather liked his hand being there. In fact, to be honest, she was actually beginning to feel quite turned on. ‘Do you ever give up?’ she murmured, conscious that her words were beginning to slur.
Dorian leaned closer. ‘Do you want me to?’
Rita deliberated. What with Randy, and then Matt, it felt like for ever since she’d had a shag, and looking at Dorian, pissed and horny, he had shag written all over his perspiring forehead. ‘No,’ she whispered, shaking her head.
And, like athletes springing from their starting blocks, they lunged at each other, grappling like two horny teenagers at two a.m. in a nightclub, probing tongues, wandering hands, fiddly bra straps, straining hard-on. Rita hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in ages.
Reilly looked at Frankie lying next to him in the mammoth bed. Her long limbs sprawled lazily across the mattress, half covered by the sheets, hair over her face, eyes closed. Champagne glasses lay next to the bed, together with an empty bottle of Moët and a bowl of half-eaten strawberries. Sleepily he traced his finger across Frankie’s shoulder blade, before moving his hand slowly down her spine.
It was hard to believe they’d only been seeing each other for a week. It felt as if he’d known her for ever. Watching her now, half sleeping, he couldn’t imagine being without her. Neither of them had talked about what was happening between them. To be honest, at first he’d thought that she was probably on the rebound from her ex-boyfriend. That this was just going to be a holiday romance and he was the bloke to make her feel better, to boost her confidence and help her lick her wounds until she’d recovered enough to get back on her feet again. But even after that first night together, he’d hoped that just maybe it was going to be something more. That night had been electric. Mind-blowing. He couldn’t think of any other words to describe it. And it wasn’t just the sex, although, yeah, that had been great. It was just being together. Talking, laughing, looking at each other, the way she smiled, smelled, was. Everything about her just clicked. As if she’d flicked a switch inside him that had been turned off for a long, long time.
At first he’d tried to persuade himself he was getting carried away, that he’d been so long without a woman he was confusing love with lust. That Frankie was only interested in a fling, nothing heavy. He’d tried to play it down on the phone from Mexico, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her the whole time he was working, couldn’t stop counting the days until he flew back to LA. He knew it was too much to hope for that she’d feel the same way about him when he got back. For God’s sake, they’d slept together once and then he’d fucked off to Central America. But that was the most amazing thing about all of this, because when he saw her again, on Dorian’s balcony, wrapped up in that moth-eaten old blanket, she’d looked at him and he’d known, right there and then, that he’d got nothing to worry about. She felt the same way.
Now, just a week later, he was still letting it sink in. After Kelly, he’d never thought he’d meet anyone who made him feel like this again, but Frankie had changed all that. This stubborn, argumentative, headstrong, amazing, gorgeous woman had changed everything. And now, lying next to her, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to tell her how he felt. Maybe it was because he was pissed and feeling emotional, or maybe it wasn’t. But whatever the hell it was, one thing was for sure, it didn’t mean what he was going to say wasn’t true. He just finally had the balls to say it.
‘Hi.’ She opened her eyes and smiled a deep smile of satisfaction that turned into a yawn. Rolling over on to her side, she propped herself up on one elbow and, choosing a strawberry, bit into it.
Reilly smiled, and ran his hand over her knotted hair. ‘What do you want to do now?’
‘Gamble I suppose.’ She shrugged, offering him the rest of her strawberry. ‘What else is there to do in Vegas?’
Reilly hesitated. It was now or never. ‘We could get married.’
His words took a moment to register. A split second, where everything seemed to freeze for a moment before – Wham! – they hit Frankie full force. Married? Her mind whirled like a roulette wheel. Where the hell did that come from? She didn’t know what to say. Surely Reilly wasn’t being serious. One minute she’d been trying not to get too carried away, telling herself that all Reilly wanted was a brief fling. And now here he was telling her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She couldn’t believe it. They’d spent less than a week together, they’d never even met each other’s parents, she didn’t even know his surname . . .
Breathless with confused emotion and unanswered questions, she looked into the dark blue flecks of his eyes.
Then again, she felt as if she’d known him for ever, her parents would love him and . . .
‘What’s your surname?’
He frowned, creasing up his forehead. ‘McKenzie, why?’
The dice suddenly fell into place. Francesca McKenzie. It went together. They went together. She stopped herself. Why was she even thinking about it? They were both drunk, it was New Year’s Eve, they weren’t thinking straight. Getting married to Reilly would be a crazy thing to do.
‘Give me one good reason why I should say yes.’
‘Because I love you.’
Four words. That’s all it took. And suddenly it didn’t seem so crazy any more.
37
‘You’re doing what?’ screeched Rita. After coming up for air after a marathon snogging session, she was trying to gain some kind of composure. It didn’t appear to be working. Wobbling precariously on her barstool, she grabbed hold of Dorian, who, covered in lip gloss, was hurriedly tucking in his shirt, while at the same time trying to hide his enormous erection.
‘Getting married.’ Frankie smiled excitedly, waggling her finger and showing off the ring Reilly had made out of a gold tinfoil champagne wrapper.
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’ Reilly grinned.
There was a gasp, a pause, and then Rita suddenly burst into wailing sobs. Frankie was taken aback. She’d expected Rita to swear, laugh, scream. Anything but this.
‘Fuck, I’m sorry,’ sniffled Rita, trying to stifle her bawling.
Dorian was silent, still reeling from the shock of being manhandled by a redhead from Lancashire.
‘I can’t help it,’ Rita hiccuped, dabbing her eyes with a Bacardi-soaked coaster. ‘Weddings always make me cry.’ And letting out a howl, she threw her arms round the happy couple and clung to them both in a soggy bear hug.
So this was it. She was getting married. Frankie still couldn’t believe it. It was all happening so fast. As soon as she’d said yes, Reilly had scooped her against his bare chest, hugging and kissing her, telling her how happy he was, picking her up and whirling her round the room until they’d both collapsed back on to the bed, laughing at how stupid they looked, how happy they were. And unable to contain their elation, they’d thrown on their clothes and taken a cab to the City Hall to fill out the forms so they could get their wedding licence. The whole procedure had taken less than an hour and it seemed no time before they were back in the casino, breaking the news to Dorian and Rita.
Breathless with excitement, Frankie hadn’t stopped to think. She didn’t want to. Nearly all her life had been spent being rational and sensible. As a child she went to bed early, always did her homework and grew up to be a school prefect. Even as a teenager she’d never rebelled, never dyed her hair with one of those Wash-in-Wash-outs that came free with Jackie Magazine, had her ears pierced or hung out at the smokers’ corner. Always so careful and considerate, she’d done as everyone expected – passed her A-levels, gone to university, got a good job. OK, so she’d smoked a bit of dope and got hideously drunk a few times, but even now, at twenty-nine, she’d never had a one-night stand, never taken E and still only crossed the road when the little green man was lit up. Until Frankie had jumped on the plane to LA, she’d never made a rash decision, never taken a risk. And what had she got to show for it? A P45, an ex-boyfriend who’d dumped her on her birthday and an empty bank account.
But now all that had changed. She wanted to be impulsive and reckless. She was enjoying being carried away on a wave of champagne cocktails and romance. And why not? It was bloody fantastic. So outrageously romantic, it felt as if it couldn’t be true. As if it was a storyline from one of those Hollywood movies, with Julia Roberts in the lead role. Except this time she wasn’t sat on the sofa, watching things unfold on a rented video. Wistfully imaging it could really happen, but knowing it was just make-believe. Because it wasn’t.
This was real life. Her life.
‘What about the beige trousersuit?’
‘Too boring.’
‘My little black dress?’
‘Too Friday night.’
Groaning with frustration, Frankie flung both outfits on top of the other rejected clothes already strewn over monogrammed carpet and delved back into her suitcase. This was bloody impossible. For the last half an hour she’d been with Rita in her hotel suite, trying to choose something to wear, and she was beginning to panic. Time was running out. Deciding what to wear to go to the pub was hard enough, but her own wedding? It didn’t help that her suitcase didn’t hold anything vaguely wedding dressy. Hardly surprising seeing as when she’d packed last night she’d been thinking more along the lines of shorts and a bikini, not full-length satin meringue and matching veil.
‘What about this?’ Lounging on the bed, cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, Rita held up a crocheted dress and a matching velvet-trimmed cardi. It was the Karen Millen birthday outfit.
Shaking her head, Frankie pulled a face. ‘Bad memories,’ she muttered, abandoning the now-empty suitcase and rifling through the heap of clothes on the floor as if she was in Hennes on the first day of the sales. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Talking of which, she needed to do something with her hair, which had that post-shag look about it – i.e. a complete mess. How come she never managed the just-got-out-of-bed look? Even when she had just got out of bed.
‘Are you sure about the trousersuit?’ Feeling desperate, she held up the beige two-piece again. Perhaps Rita would take pity on a bride-to-be in her underwear and reconsider.
She should have known better. Looking aghast, Rita broke off from making vodka and champagne cocktails and waved the bottle menacingly at Frankie. ‘For fuck’s sake, you can’t get married in a bloody suit from Next. It’s a wedding, not a job interview.’ She topped up her alcohol levels with a glug of her StollyBolly. ‘If Reilly sees you in that thing he won’t ask you to marry him, he’ll ask you to do some bloody photocopying.’
‘Well, that’s it, I give up,’ said Frankie sulkily, sitting down on the bed next to Rita, who, in true best-friend spirit, passed her an extra-strength cocktail and a cigarette. Begrudgingly accepting them both, Frankie smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry, I’m being ratty, aren’t I?’
‘Don’t be daft, it’s just wedding nerves.’ Rita grinned, struggling to get off the bed and swaying dangerously towards the bathroom. ‘Every bride gets them.’ With all six brothers married, she was a dab hand at soothing tearful brides.
A bride. Frankie repeated the words in her head. It still hadn’t sunk in. She’d always imagined being a bride meant standing in WH Smith at lunchtime surreptitiously flicking through all those wedding magazines. Devoting twelve months of her life to choosing flower arrangements and organising hot and cold finger buffets. Fitting in visits to Hatton Garden to buy his’n’her wedding rings and trips to Harvey Nicks to try on all the dresses, knowing full well she could never afford one. But she’d never imagined it would be like this. Getting pissed with her best mate in a Las Vegas hotel suite, wearing a tinfoil ring and, by the looks of it, something that wasn’t even ironed.
Watching her bridesmaid stagger into the bathroom, Frankie took a sip of her drink and continued the conversation. After years of going to the loos in pairs she was used to chatting through toilet doors. ‘Ever since I was little I’ve fantasised about what my wedding day would be like.’ She sighed, savouring the sensation of the champagne and vodka fizzing on her tongue. ‘I remember when I was little and I used to dream about having a Princess Di dress, lots of pearls and satin and a big long train.’ She smiled ironically. ‘Don’t worry, I soon went off that idea. But I’ve always thought I’d wear a dress. Not one of those satin marquees, but something simple, with a veil.’ She lay back and rested her head against the pillows. ‘And that I’d have bridesmaids and a three-tiered cake with those
little miniature people on the top. And I’d ride in a vintage Rolls-Royce with my dad to the church, and walk up the aisle and everyone would watch me and think how lovely I looked.’ She laughed, slightly embarrassed, and took a gulp from her glass. ‘And when I got to the top of the aisle, waiting for me in one of those morning suits with a carnation buttonhole would be the man I was going to marry . . .’ She faltered as her memory suddenly flashed up a snapshot of herself a couple of months ago, sitting on the pedal bin in the kitchen of her flat in Fulham, holding the receipt for a Tiffany’s engagement ring. ‘I always thought it would be Hugh.’
She fell silent and, lighting up her cigarette, took a throat-scorching drag. Her head whirled. And it wasn’t just the mixture of champagne and nicotine. Being suddenly reminded of Hugh had knocked her off balance and caused a flood of memories to come rushing in. ‘Tonight would have been our two-year-anniversary,’ she murmured, remembering New Year’s Eve a couple of years ago, being drunk under the duvet, spending their first night together. She caught herself. What was she thinking about Hugh for? A few moments ago she’d been delirious with happiness and excitement and now she was overcome with feelings of sadness and regret.
‘Do you think I’m mad?’
There came a yell from the bathroom. ‘What? For going out with that dickhead for two years or for tying the knot with the sexiest bloke since George Clooney?’
Frankie couldn’t help smiling. She could alwaýs rely on Rita for a blunt answer. ‘So you’re not surprised Reilly and I are getting married?’
‘Well, it is a bit quick. But the only thing I think’s a shame is that you didn’t have a hen night. You could have gone in fancy dress to the Cloudsbar. It would have been a right laugh.’
Frankie shuddered at the thought of the most exclusive bar in Los Angeles, full of supermodels and film stars. Where appearance was everything. And then tried to imagine herself in a veil and L-plates. She couldn’t. Thank God.