Chapter 2 – 4 weeks later - Sunday
"I still can't believe I agreed to this."
Michel sat beside me on the plane, drumming his fingers nervously on the armrest. I shot him an amused (and smugly self-satisfied glance) and decided to allow him a little pity. I'd won the argument after all, winners can afford to compromise.
"Aw come on Mike, it won't be so bad."
He looked at me in disbelief, "Ria, I practically just signed up to a three week theatre show! How can it be anything but bad?"
I frowned. I was getting a bit annoyed with all his moaning, really. Was it really that hard to pretend to find me attractive? I knew I wasn't a hag; I had enough attention from men to keep my ego inflated. But then, in Michel's opinion those men were all morons. Their attention probably didn't count.
I opened the book I'd bought to amuse myself in the plane flight. Buggered if I'd offer him any entertainment now.
"Okay," he conceded finally, after a moment of silence. "So maybe it won't be that bad. But Ria, it just feels, I dunno, a little weird."
I raised an eyebrow, turned the page, pretending to be riveted by the story. Truthfully, I had no idea what the book was about, specifically anyway. It had the colourful, happy-go-lucky cover art I usually associated with fluffy, foppy modern fairy-tales and right now, a modern fairy-tale was exactly what I felt like. As long as the characters were happy in the end I wasn't too concerned about the story.
"I mean," he continued, not fooled at all by my page turning, "Come on. It me for chrissake. It's me, Michel. Friend Michel. Doesn't it make you feel a bit uncomfortable that for the next few weeks we're going to actually have to date." He said this a hefty amount of revoltion laced in his voice.
There was something in his eyes I couldn't quite place. Like he was waiting for something. And the answer to what he was waiting for would make some sort of final decision for him.
"God, Michel, its pretend. Im not asking you to sleep with me or anything." I snapped my book closed and folded my arms grumpily.
Honestly, could the man be any more tactless? Okay, so I get it, Michel doesn't like me that way. Duh. We wouldn't be friends now if he did. But he sure knew how to hit where it hurt, za-boom straight to the girls ego.
Sensing my sudden shift in mood he grimaced and took my hand carefully. "Come on Ria, you know I didn't mean it like that. You're a very beautiful woman. I know that, you know that, even Callum knows that." There was marked distaste in his voice as he said this. "And, if I wasn't your best friend, I'm sure I'd be delighted by this turn of events. But all I'm saying is that it's going to take some adjusting okay?"
I saw that the flicker in Michel's eyes had faded abruptly, his decision made. I couldn't help feeling it was a momentous decision, but I couldn't bring myself to worry about it too much. What was happening now was much more important.
I rolled my eyes and snatched my hand back. "This isn't some sort of end-of-world production Mike. It's just me. And my family. And all you have to do is be a bit mushy towards me every now and then. Nothing major. It's really not that big a deal okay?"
Even though it was. Even though I understood what Michel was saying and felt the same way. It was a big deal because I knew, the moment I got there, that acting oblivious to Callum would be impossible. And acting nicely to Veronica would be like saying to a volcano 'Please don't erupt. I know your feeling a bit temperamental, but not today okay?' And Veronica was the Vesuvius of all volcanos. The mighty destructor of cities. And Relationships.
And I knew that as much as I wanted to pretend that I didn't care, I did. Because it was Callum. The Callum who'd shattered my heart into pieces two years ago and left me with all it's broken bits scattered across the floor, from where Michel had helped me pick them up and stick them together again.
More than anything I hoped that Michel being there would stop me from doing anything stupid. God knows I needed someone to pull the brakes every now and then before I tumbled off a cliff. This time, I had a feeling I'd need an iron fence and a thousand pillows to stop my head-first rush into humiliation.
I glanced at Michel, who was busy trying to adjust his headphones around his mop of ruffled chocolate-brown hair, and hoped he'd prove to be just as solid and unyielding as he looked. Especially when it came to his sort-of girlfriend.
XXXX
Day 1 - Monday
"Okay, so remind me again how we met?"
We were sitting in a hired car in front of my parents house, sunk down low in the seats so they wouldn't see my face and come to investigate why me, my date and my luggage hadn't stumbled inside yet. I could see my parents and their guests moving around inside, thin, long shadows against the heavy draperies my mother insisted my father buy for her, despite his protests that they were a) ugly (true) and b) too expensive (also true).
I flipped down the sun visor and quickly checked that all my make-up was still in place and my hair hadn't developed a medusa-esque look. Being the unhappy bearer of a head of unruly curly hair, London weather (rainy and depressing) wasn't the healthiest environment for my vanity to thrive in. It was, though I'd never admit, one of the reasons I left London and moved to New York in the first place. The other reason being, in a word, Bethany.
"Well, my family already know you, right?" Which they did. As disinterested as my mother and sister were in my life, they would have to be stupid, blind and deaf not to know about Michel. None of which they were, though I'd suspected them of being all three at times.
"Right."
"So, we just tell them that the friendship developed a little further, got a little heavier and, well, there we are." Fool-proof, reasonable, just Michel's cup of tea. He didn't even argue about it.
"And how long have we been dating?"
"Six months, long enough for them to take it seriously," For Callum to take it seriously, "but not long enough that mum will drag out the Wedding Planners yet."
Michel winced, imagining the scenario.
He'd met my mother only once, when her and my father come to visit last year ago and had barged through the door, laden in luggage and souvenir t-shirts to find him sprawled on my couch, unconscious and wearing only boxers. When he'd come to, he'd been friendly but quick to leave.
I was sure it wasn't too big a leap of the imagination for my parents, my mother especially, to jump the next step and imagine him in boxers in my bed. Even I'd indulged in that little fantasy at times. Only in my darkest moments of course.
"So, you ready?" I forced a bright smile, but guessed from his pale face that it looked much less 'lets-have-a-fun-and-hilarious-adventure' and much more 'if-you-kill-me-now-I'll-be-eternally-thankful'.
With a shrug and a sigh he answered "I guess so" in a tortured voice and got out of the car.
XXXX
We didn't have much luggage. Michel, being a male, could comfortably wear the same three t-shirts in a kind of rotational cycle over three weeks. I had explained that as my boyfriend, I would clearly never date a guy who wore only three t-shirt varieties, and persuaded him to pack another three. As well as slacks, trousers and jeans.
For my part, I was a light traveler, for a girl. I'd only packed my most fashionable and New-York-girl-clothing, and a scattering of shoes that together, covered most occasions. For the wedding itself I was, predictably, my sisters Maid of Honour and had no doubt that she would dress me as hideously as possible. For the rest of my stay I was determined to look as presentable as I could.
For my first meet with my sister (and Callum. And Victoria) in 2 years I had chosen carefully. I wore loose black pants, flatteringly cut around my hips and that fell nicely around my high-heeled feet. My blouse was simple white, nicely fitted, long-sleeved. I wore sunglasses on my head and had loosely plaited my thick hair. I thought I looked business like and sophisticated. I felt ready, so to speak, to tackle an army of cheating men.
Michel, walking carefully by my side and growing more tense every step we took towards the font-door, was attractive in a dark grey casual suite and open collared white shirt. His brown hair was still floppy, slightly ruffled, but he was definitely cute. Definitely brag material. And definitely hot enough to make my sister jealous. I was more than pleased.
I smiled warmly at him as I knocked on the door, and he, to my surprise, smiled back and took my hand.
And then the door was flung open.
XXXX
