Stand-In Saturday: (A standalone romcom. Book 2 in the Love For Days series), Page 2

  “Theo’s non-existent date to the wedding,” Amy replies.

  Jared points the bottle at me. “If you show up without a date, Amy’s nanna is gonna be all over you like a rash. Be prepared. You might wish to try a little harder before it’s too late,” he teases, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  And I know he’s not even a little bit joking. Amy’s eighty-something-year-old eccentric nanna, Peggy, is hilarious … at a safe distance. But if I don’t have a girl to act as a shield, she’ll make me her personal bitch all night.

  My mind flicks to my predicament. I know I’m running out of time. I thought it would be easy to find a date for their wedding. I’ll be honest; it’s never usually hard for me to find female companionship. I simply flash my smile, temporarily suppress my dorky side that most girls don’t like, and—Bob’s your uncle—I’m balls deep in dates. But this time, it’s slim pickings.

  With time running out, I even resorted to going back through my little black book (also known as my WhatsApp conversations and text message threads) to see if there was a good option among my recent hump and dumps, but there’s no one on there I’d be interested in taking with me and having the date immortalised with a family photo. Things got so dire after my mum threatened to get involved and find me someone that, last week, I decided to venture into my Facebook Messenger’s Other folder, hoping to find an eligible bachelorette. Unfortunately, there was nothing in there either—well, apart from unsolicited dick pics and messages from long-lost Nigerian royal relatives who wanted to send me some money. At this rate, if I don’t ask someone quickly, I’ll be eating my plus-one’s food, slow-dancing on my own, and crying myself into a gin coma by midnight.

  Maybe I’ll have one last look on Tinder later when I get home, see if anyone’s worth a swipe. If there’s no one, I’ll likely admit defeat and go alone, let Peggy paw me all night and introduce me as her toy boy plaything, like she did at the last family party we went to. I shudder at the thought.

  “Look, I’ll sort it, all right? I’ll have a date for the wedding next weekend. Stop stressing about it. Everything will be fine, I promise.” I reach up and use one finger to draw a cross across my heart.

  Maybe I’ll have to resort to paying someone. What sort of money would a high-class escort charge for a long weekend? Probably more than I can afford.

  Jared rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation. He hates that I live on the edge and roll through life on a breeze. It makes him nervous and anxious. He’s Mr Responsible and Organised. We’re total opposites.

  I slap my thighs to get everyone’s attention. “Right. Anyway, come on. If you’re ready now, let’s leave the girls to it. You know I get awkward when I’m surrounded by couples. I hate being the third wheel. Let’s go get this stag party started and get absolutely shitfaced!”

  I stand and walk to the door, pulling out my phone and pretending to be engrossed in the screen while the guys spend an exorbitant amount of time saying goodbye to their significant others before they head off to meet the rest of their girl pack for their night out too.

  I’m still wearing Jared’s suit. He hasn’t noticed, or if he has, he hasn’t mentioned it. As always.

  two

  Lucie

  What a sad day it is when you realise your whole life can fit into one suitcase and two boxes.

  I smile awkwardly at my parents as they heft my belongings through my front door. “Oh, you guys didn’t have to bring that over.” Translation: I wish you’d burned all of this.

  My mother smiles sympathetically and waves a hand before pulling me into a hug; it’s a bone crusher, complete with a back pat and rhythmic rocking motion. “Luciella, it’s been too long. Aww, my baby!” Her thick Italian accent feels like a warm blanket wrapping itself around my heart.

  She cups my cheeks, smooshing my lips together uncomfortably, and then proceeds to tell me in fast-paced Italian how much she loves me and has missed me. You’d think it’s been weeks since I saw her, but nope, four days—that’s all. She’s just a drama queen.

  “Mamma, it’s so lovely to see you. You should have called and let me know you were coming.” I try for nonchalance, but really, a little bit of notice never hurt anyone. Plus, maybe then I’d have changed out of my pyjamas and put on a bra!

  I force a smile and look over at my dad, who’s wiping his forehead with a handkerchief after having lugged the boxes up three flights of stairs to the flat I now share with my best friend. Well, share or sublet a room Aubrey used to use as an office—same thing.

  “Ciao, Papà.”

  He smiles, his dark eyes twinkling. “Hello, my bambina.”

  My mum cups my cheek and looks in my eyes. “Luciella, why is Lucas bringing your belongings to our house? Why didn’t you arrange to meet up with him, see if things could be worked out? Huh?” She pouts at me.

  Because he’s a cheating scumbag. I suck on my teeth, so I don’t say that out loud.

  Things are … difficult. Lucas’s dad and my dad are business partners, and also, they’re best friends. Lucas and I pretty much grew up together; it was probably a given we’d get together at some point. Our parents eagerly pushed for it. My mother has always adored him. Lucas is even vice president of sales at my father’s company. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t heap a pile of crap on them and drop the bomb that Lucas, my loving fiancé, had cheated on me. This is our problem, not theirs. So, instead, we’ve told everyone it was an amicable split. Therefore, much to my chagrin, our parents still advocate for us to get back together at every given opportunity.

  “Mamma, stop pushing. It’s not going to happen. We’re over.” He’s moved on. I shrug and raise my eyebrows.

  She lets out a huge sigh, brushing her long, glossy brown locks away from her face. “I know what you always say. But a mother can have a little hope.” She smiles weakly before turning back to glance down at the boxes. “Tomas, where is the food package? Did you leave it in the car? Don’t just stand there. Go get it! Oh mio Dio.”

  My mother is the only one who could get away with ordering Tomas Gordio around like that. He’s an important man, known for having a sharp tongue and an even sharper eye for business, but he adores her too much to argue with her. Growing up, I always hoped I would find someone who loved me as much as my father loved my mother.

  I grin, my ears perking up at the mention of food. My mother, being a traditional Italian woman, loves to cook. Her food packages are legendary, and it means Aubrey and I likely won’t have to make dinners for a couple of weeks. My mouth waters at the thought.

  My best friend wanders into the hall. “Did someone say food?” She grins at my mother before pulling her into an affectionate hug. “Hi, Stella.”

  As my dad makes his way back downstairs and Aubrey drags my mother into the living room, I look back at the boxes and frown. These are remnants of the past, a leftover casualty of my broken-down relationship. My ex-fiancé texted me last week and told me he was boxing up the things I’d left behind at our apartment. He was having a clear-out, apparently. Likely so he could move his new plaything into my home to enjoy my beautifully decorated apartment and newly fitted kitchen.

  There’s an envelope stuck on the top box, so I bend and tear it off, my heart clenching at the familiar, messy scrawl. Inside is a note.

  Lucie, if I’ve forgotten anything or if there’s anything else you want to come and get, do let me know.

  I hope you’re okay.

  Lucas

  There’s no kiss on it. Eight years together, and I don’t even get a measly X tagged thoughtlessly on the end. My eyes trace over his name. Lucas and Lucie—even our names match. Everyone thought that was a sign we were meant to be. Spoiler alert: everyone was wrong.

  I screw his note into a ball, carelessly tossing it into the top box, pushing the packages against the wall with my foot.

  When I stormed out of our/his fancy apartment three months ago after coming home and catching my loving fiancé screwing his nineteen-year-old
personal trainer on our/his couch, I packed up all my clothes, shoes, and a couple of my favourite handbags, and I left without looking back. Whatever is in these boxes is nothing I want, likely just junk and knickknacks accumulated over the span of our years together. Merely brainless and meaningless tat that defined our whole lives at one time, now demoted to being unwanted and dumped in a box to collect dust.

  The boxes clutter the hallway and stop me from being able to close the front door properly, so I grab the handle of the suitcase and drag it down the hallway to my room. It’s not exactly the nicest room in the world. Plain magnolia walls, accentuated with empty picture hooks and Blu-Tack grease marks, and cheap pine furniture the bestie and I sourced from the local charity shop. It’s not the luxurious grandeur of the trendy, sparkly two-bed apartment Lucas and I renovated together. I can’t complain though. I can’t afford to live on my own and am super lucky Aubrey is so awesome that she is willing to give up her home office and instead work from her bed, so I can have a roof over my head without having to resort to moving back in with my parents at twenty-six. What a shameful disaster that would’ve been.

  Unzipping the case, I pop the lid and let my eyes rake over what Lucas has deemed mine. There are framed photos of us, things we bought while on holiday, some key rings, my stuffed bears he bought me when we started dating, a couple of CDs and DVDs, and the Magic 8-Ball I’ve had since I was a teenager.

  I flop down on my uncomfortable bed and pick up the 8-Ball, rolling it in my hands as I think about what a catastrophe my life is now. I have nothing to my name but clothes, this suitcase, and two more boxes full of crap.

  I shake the 8-Ball and close my eyes. “Is Lucie a loser?”

  Flipping it over, I eagerly watch the inky-coloured window as the little triangle floats to the top.

  It is decidedly so.

  “Oh, charming. I get more support from drunk strangers in the ladies’ loo of a club,” I scoff, tossing it onto my bed.

  But to be honest, it’s true. At the moment, I am a loser who has nothing going for her.

  When Lucas and I were together, I naively tied my life around his so completely that I didn’t even think about what would happen if we didn’t make it. He was the one with the fantastic prospects and fast-track programme up the business ladder. He’s five years older than me, so he was just starting his shiny job after graduating university with honours when I was about to head off to start the English degree I’d always dreamed of. I was eighteen, stupidly in love, and just plain stupid. I let him talk me out of it. Me going to university meant less time spent with him—and honestly, what did I need a degree for when he was the big earner anyway? So, instead, I pushed my ambitions aside and took a position at the family company as Lucas’s personal assistant. I didn’t even mind really. Well, not that I admitted anyway. And to be fair, I was an absolute boss at it. With my organisational skills and eye for detail, I practically ran the place—and him! He couldn’t do without me … until he could.

  Hindsight, what a bitch.

  Blissfully unaware of any problematic future, we moved into a fixer-upper apartment he’d bought with his first year’s commission. I was young and a lowly PA, so Lucas paid all the bills and put his name on the mortgage and car ownership agreement. His credit card bought the refurbishment and all the furniture while I paid for food and other essentials. It didn’t matter that I’d picked everything out, that I supported him and enabled him to go get that life he had. It was all his.

  Legally, I could probably fight him for some kind of severance, maybe under the law of civil partners or common-law spousal entitlement or something, but I couldn’t do that without dragging our parents through the mud and into our drama. So, I walked away. Three months ago, I calmly walked out of his apartment with my clothes and announced I never wanted to see him again. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that calmly. Maybe I screamed a little in Italian and set a curse upon his children, cut up his designer jeans, and poured bleach into his houseplants—but I didn’t kill him, so that’s technically calm, right?

  Unfortunately, our break-up left me not only heartbroken and homeless, but also jobless because I couldn’t be expected to work for the man who had stomped on my heart. I’m not a masochist. I went from having everything and planning a wedding, picking out names for our future kids, to no roof over my head, no job, and no real prospects.

  Thank the Lord for best friends; that’s all I can say. My lifelong bestie, Aubrey, stepped in and bumped my life back onto the tracks again. She gave me somewhere to stay, listened to me cry, watched Meg Ryan movies with me until our eyes bled, and bought me chocolate and ice cream until we both gained almost ten pounds. Then—and best of all—when I couldn’t find anyone to hire me as their personal assistant anywhere in the city, Aubrey found me a job where she works. Granted, it’s a (very) low-paid internship, but it’s for a publisher, and as I was a huge bookworm, growing up, working for a publisher is literally everything I’ve always dreamed of. It’s everything I gave up in favour of being what Lucas wanted me to be.

  I’m on the first rung of the ladder right now, paying my dues and earning my stripes, but with a little luck and a lot of hard work, at the end of my one-year contract, I’m hoping to earn the junior editor position, which is awarded to one intern who deserves it the most. All I have to do is beat the two other girls who started the same time as me six weeks ago and prove I want it and deserve it more than them. Shouldn’t be too difficult. I’m not afraid of a little hard work or competition.

  I hear my mother and Aubrey laugh in the kitchen, so I reluctantly push myself up to my feet and head out to them. My mother has taken over the kitchen. She’s heating a lasagne while my dad and Aubrey tear and share some focaccia bread, dipping it in Mamma’s homemade dressing. It smells like my childhood in here.

  I smile and tear off some bread too.

  Aubrey grins, her face flushed with pleasure. “Our freezer is full. It’s official; I love your mother—as if she didn’t already know.” She playfully bumps my mother’s shoulder and stuffs in another mouthful.

  My mum looks up at me. “Lucie, I wanted to remind you about your father’s retirement party at our house. I know you said you would come, but I wanted to check that you haven’t changed your mind. It’s important to your father. It will look so strange if you don’t come. People will ask questions.”

  Oh, there it is …

  My stomach clenches. I chew slowly and nod, my eyes fixed on a drip of oil I spilt on the kitchen counter. “When is it again?” I know when it is. I’m just stalling and praying an amazing excuse will fall from the sky and hit me like a meteor—even an actual meteor would be welcomed.

  “Not next Saturday, but the one after. Lucie, you have to come and show your face.” Her voice is half-pleading, half-instruction.

  “Is Lucas going?” It’s not the question I want to ask. I want to ask if Lucas’s side piece is going, but I can’t.

  “Yes, of course. I can’t very well uninvite the Maitlands because you two are having a blip. You never know; maybe you and he could talk some, dance, remember what you love about each other,” she says softly, her hand covering mine.

  A blip.

  I smile weakly, avoiding Aubrey’s hard glare; she hates that I’ve not told my parents what he did. “I’ll be there.” And I’ll be looking so drop-dead gorgeous that Lucas will fall at my feet and beg for forgiveness. If I must go, I’m going in style, and I’ll be looking a ten out of ten just to spite him.

  I need a drink. I head to the fridge and pull out a bottle of wine, holding it up in offering. “Who wants one?”

  “Me!” Aubrey chimes in, heading to the cupboard where we keep the glasses.

  Mamma tsks her tongue. “Luciella, it’s barely three p.m.!”

  I nod and wink at her. “It’s Sunday. All bets are off on Sunday. Three p.m. is wine o’clock by my count!”

  three

  Theo

  I groan as my alarm chimes annoyingly loud next
to my head. Raising a hand, I blindly slap at my bedside unit, attempting to grab my phone, my brain still in a sleep-filled haze. Finally, my fingers find it; cracking open one eye, I eventually manage to swipe the screen and dismiss the alarm. The clock numbers glare back at me: 7 a.m.

  I’m so tired, I can barely lift my head. I’ve had maybe three hours of sleep. I was working in bed, so I don’t know what time I eventually drifted off, but I definitely remember seeing four a.m. and hearing the birds chirp. As I move and roll to the side, pencils and papers crunch under me, and my sketchbook falls to the floor with a thump.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit on the edge, contemplating my life choices. Do I really need my job? I can live off my savings for a while if I only eat supermarket brand noodles and bread …

  “Ugh,” I moan, roughly scrubbing a hand over my face in a bid to wake myself up.

  It’s Monday—colloquially agreed upon as the worst day of the week. It’s the only day I ever have to set an alarm. The rest of the week, I have a cushy work-from-home job that I usually start around mid-morning, maybe later, depending on what time I roll out of bed. Being my own boss is how I win at life.

  Forcing myself up, I stomp to the kitchen and flick on the kettle, yawning widely. Spooning coffee granules and sugar into my cup, I can barely keep my eyes open, so I add another half-spoon of coffee. I’ll need the caffeine today for sure.

  Today, I’m meeting with my publisher. I’m a freelance book illustrator, but I work for the same firm around ninety percent of the time. Once a fortnight, I have to get dressed up in adult clothes and make the trek to London on the train to meet with them and show them what I’ve been working on for the last two weeks. I show off my mock-up design ideas for the book, they approve them or request changes, and then I spend the next two weeks turning them into reality while mocking up the next two weeks’ worth of ideas. It’s monotonous, especially because, right now, I’m working on a series about an anxious monkey turned detective. No, I’m not joking; it’s an actual monkey detective with anxiety issues. At least it’s better than the cat series I did a year or so ago. That book turned into a massive bestseller, so the author and publisher decided to turn it into a series. After illustrating its twelve books, I never want to draw another cat again. I couldn’t argue with the money though.