Eight Perfect Hours by Lia Louis

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘Steve, this is the genius I was telling you about. Meet Noelle Butterby. You know Noelle, don’t you? From work? Come on, you must recognise her now.’

Big Steve in Sales bear-hugs me and pulls back, looking down at me with a wide, beardy, bristly smile. ‘Yes!’ he bellows. ‘Of course, I do. Ah, thank God for you, Noelle, that’s all I can say. You’ve saved our bacon here.’

‘Oh, well, it’s a pleasure. I’m honestly super excited.’ And it’s the truth. I really am. I’d cried a bit on the train here, after Ian had shot round to Mum’s. Ed had called a few times and I watched the calls ring through as the countryside blurred past my window. Confusion twisted in my gut, and I was teetering on the edge – I almost tipped over into it, into worry, into all-consuming despair of ‘I can’t do this. Look. This is proof that I can’t do this, that I can’t actually have this, I’m not allowed this.’ But then I got a text from Candice, and a ‘You’ve got this Gallagher’ text from Sam which warmed me through, like sunlight, and I felt like I could. I washed my face, ordered too much from the refreshment carriage and answered a call from Ed (who explained calmly, black-and-whitely, why he said what he did, and we agreed to forget it, not let it ruin the weekend). By the time the train got in, I was fizzing with excitement again.

Candice pulls a bar stool out and gestures to me with newly tanned arms and square, shiny manicured fingernails to sit down. ‘We’re spoiled, with you. Truly. Honestly, Steve and I were on your Instagram last night and I could barely contain myself. Your work is lush, Noelle.’

‘And you are way too kind,’ I say, and she wrinkles her nose at me and says, ‘Sit! Have some champers with us. Just a tiny bit, we won’t keep you.’

We sit at Bar Prince inside the grand and glittering Balmoral Hotel and I can hardly believe I am here. It’s bustlingly busy, full of guests and diners and drinkers, chatter and laughter and the thick smell of sweet cocktails and charred meat. The Balmoral is as full and as alive as the grand, noisy city outside and I feel I could stand with my arms out and my eyes closed. This is where we used to dream of being, Daisy and I – a part of the world, lost in its busyness and noise and all the delicious nowness. I’m here. I am here.

Steve and Candice hold hands opposite me, their fingers intertwined, and a barman slides a shining glass of bubbles across the bar to me.

‘So Martina, my wedding planner, has set you up in a little room just off the banquet hall in which we’ll get married and it’s fully air-conditioned meaning it’s cold enough to keep the flowers nice and cool. Is that right?’

‘Perfect. And did they say they had buckets?’

‘A few, but not many.’

‘OK, good, well I’ve ordered more from the suppliers anyway. I’ll go there, just after I finish this. I parked in the car park just up the road from here. But if there’s anything else you want, now is the time to say. I’ll just add it to my list.’

Candice grins at me, her diamond studs glistening in the buttery lights of the bar. ‘Nope. I trust you. And your boyfriend is following you up, is he? Her boyfriend, Steve,’ she rubs his shirted forearm, squeezes it, ‘he’s coming up to help, after his shift has finished. He’s a doctor. Paediatrician.’

‘Oh, wow. Straight after a night shift,’ says Steve, champagne flute a ridiculous sight in his gigantic shovel hand. ‘That’s love, that is.’

‘Oh, well, he’s not really my––’

‘I always think that’s what true love really is,’ says Candice dreamily. ‘If they make time for what’s important to you, regardless of whatever they’d prefer to be doing.’

‘Aww,’ says Steve. ‘What about falling asleep with you on the bathroom floor when you’re too hung-over to move because Steve, don’t worry, it’s only two pina coladas and I know my own limit thank you? Does that count as making time for what’s important to you?’

Candice laughs and slaps him gently on the arm. ‘Yep. Pina coladas are important to me.’

I laugh, clink my glass to theirs, and say, ‘So come on, tell me how nervous you really are on a scale of one to ten …’

When Ed arrives, it’s seven p.m. and I’m sitting cross-legged on the cool stockroom floor listening to music and making up a table arrangement. Blue hydrangeas. Gypsophila. Cream roses. I bound out to him, like an excited Labrador, desperately wanting to drag him into the Holyrood room, where Steve and Candice will be having their reception tomorrow. It’s enormous and grandiose, with ten round banquet tables, plus a top table, all of which are waiting for their decorations – their flowers – from me. Look at it! I want to say. Look at what I’ve made happen! We’re here! We’re in Edinburgh, we are somewhere in the world, because of me. Not you this time, but me!

Ed looks pale and dishevelled, his hair damp with rain, but nevertheless, flashes that wicked grin at me across the pearly floors of the lobby and says, ‘Hey, Nell.’ He wraps his arms around me then says, ‘I’m fucked,’ in my ear.

‘Nice to meet you, Fucked,’ I say, pulling back.

‘Is everything OK?’ he asks. ‘Dilly sorted?’ And although there’s a part of me that wishes he would, I know he won’t apologise for refusing to go and be with Mum, and really, should he? He wanted to be here to help me, he said it himself. Of course that is more important to him than Mum. I just wish sometimes, there was more warmth with Ed. Less ‘This is A, this is B, and you should do C, the end’ and more ‘I understand. It’s not perfect and always logical, but it’s you, and I’m here.’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Dilly’s almost home. Ian’s with Mum.’

‘Good,’ he says, simply, then he snakes his arms around me. ‘Come on then, let’s go see this room of ours. I need bed. And room service. Like, the biggest steak they’ve got. Dessert. Cheese. Everything.’

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I’m midway through the table arrangements.’

‘Oh, no, no, come on, take a break with me, Nell––’

‘I can’t. If I come with you now it means I’ll be working late tonight and I want to make sure I get it all done, get it all perfect––’

Ed kisses me then, stops the words in their tracks with his soft lips, and it’s a proper kiss this time. Slow, purposeful, his teeth grazing my bottom lip ever so slightly as he pulls away. ‘God, you look good,’ he rumbles against my mouth. ‘Seriously, you––’

‘Look, why don’t you go upstairs to the room,’ I swoop in, ‘have a sleep and then maybe in a few hours you can – Ed, for God’s sake, we’re in a public place.’ He nuzzles into my neck, lips against the skin sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. ‘I need to work.’

‘Fine,’he groans. ‘Work me to the bone why don’t you? At least let me get a coffee first.’

Forty-five minutes later, Ed is splayed out on the floor of the stockroom holding ribbon between his teeth. ‘Are we done yet?’

‘No.’

‘Let’s just go upstairs. Look. I helped.’

‘For about half an hour!’

He groans again, pokes the arrow on my Spotify list. ‘I don’t know why you still listen to bloody Keane.’

‘I love Keane.’

Ed takes the hessian ribbon from his teeth and holds it in his hand. ‘It’s mental all this stuff, though, isn’t it?’ he says.

‘What, the flowers?’

‘Just – well, they better be paying you loads for this. For sitting on a floor in a cold, dark room.’

‘Well, it needs to be a cold, dark room, to keep them fresh,’ I say, shortly. ‘But it looks good doesn’t it, so far?’

‘If you like flowers.’

I look over at him, something sinking inside of me, like a rock, and he grins as if rescuing himself last minute. ‘They look amazing, you know they do.’ He sits up and brushes hair out of my face, fingertips grazing my cheek. ‘Like you.’

‘Smooth.’

‘I mean it.’ He leans, kisses me deeply, perfectly, well-rehearsedly, and works his hand under my top, warm fingers skimming the wire of my bra. ‘Can we go upstairs now,’ he says into my mouth.

‘Let me finish this,’ I say. ‘But then we’re coming back down tonight.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s why you’re here remember.’

‘Mhmm.’ Ed’s mouth smiles, his lips on mine. ‘It’s why I’m here.’