5. Jacob

Chapter 5

Jacob

I sit on a sun lounger while Mum attacks the deadheads of the rose bush Dad bought her for their wedding anniversary one year.

"Can you believe he married her?" The snip of the shears punctuates every word.

"It was a shock."

"In Vegas!"

How did she find out? I hadn't decided whether I should be the one to tell her. I'm too afraid to ask in case she turns on me with the shears.

"Well, I hope they're happy together. They deserve each other. Did you know they're having a wedding reception?"

"Yes."

"In a fancy hotel, no less." Snap . "Do you know what your dad and I did for our wedding reception?"

Yes, but she doesn't give me a chance to answer.

"We went to the pub and sent your granddad to a chippy to pick up fish and chips for everyone. Your dad promised me that when we could afford it, we'd renew our vows and have the ‘slap-up do we couldn't afford'."

Amazing how menacing shears can be when used to make air quotes.

"Did it ever happen? No. And now he's giving that floozy the wedding reception he promised me for years and years."

"Mum, could you put those down, please?"

"Put what down?"

I point at the shears.

Mum gives me a withering stare, then returns to lopping every last rose head. They fall on the floor, scattering fragrant red petals everywhere.

"Forty years of marriage, and this is how it ends. With his secretary and the wedding of my dreams."

"You wanted to get married in Vegas?"

She spins around, brandishing the shears. Thank god I'm several feet away.

"You know what I mean. And no, I can't think of anything more tacky than getting married in Vegas."

Some of the wedding chapels on the strip look pretty and anything but tacky. It could be romantic if you wanted to elope rather than deal with the hassle of a wedding at home. I keep my mouth shut.

"But it's fitting. A tacky wedding for a tacky bride," Mum says.

I hate Dad for making Mum so upset, angry, and bitter. I hate that the marriage Mum had perceived as perfect came crashing down around her ears. I hate being stuck in the middle of it.

Mum rants to me about how much she despises Dad now. Dad rants to me about how difficult Mum was about their separation and divorce. Thankfully, I'm an adult. I dread to think how hard it would have been if this had happened when I was a kid. The custody battle alone would have been like being the rope in a tug of war.

"Why don't I come here on Saturday evening? We can watch a funny film together and forget about Dad and Molly."

Mum snips the head of another rose. "You've been invited to the reception?"

"Y-yes."

I don't want to go. Archer will be there. Fuck. Why did he have to be Molly's son? The worst part is I liked him. Okay, no. The worst part is I fucked my stepmother's son. Which makes him my?—

Nope. La, la, la. Not going there.

"Then you should go," Mum says.

"Seriously?"

She waves the shears. "I'm not going to come between you and your dad. He already thinks I'm trying to poison you against him. You should go. And if you don't want to go, find another excuse."

Why did Mum have to choose this issue to be diplomatic? Not that she is being diplomatic. She hasn't been diplomatic about any of it. And why should she be? Dad cheated on her.

She narrows her eyes. "You don't want to go, do you?"

"No. Not really."

"Why?"

I slump my shoulders and rub my hand with my thumb. I can't tell her about Archer. I can't. "Because his affair destroyed your marriage. Why would I want to see him be happy with his new wife?"

"Have you told him that?"

I shake my head.

"Maybe you should."

"I can't."

"Why?"

I sigh. "Because despite everything, he's my dad, and I love him. They asked me to do a best man's speech."

Mum laughs. "Yet they couldn't be bothered to include you in their tacky Vegas wedding. Are you going to?"

"I've told them I won't."

She smiles ever so briefly. "Good."

Not that Dad or Molly have accepted my no. Dad keeps texting and asking if I'll change my mind. They've probably told people I'll be making a speech. I can't. I don't trust myself to be nice about them and their relationship. I'm a terrible son.

"And don't let them bully you into it," Mum says.

"I won't."

She puts the shears down—thank god—and sits beside me on the lounger, clasping her hands on her lap. "I didn't see it coming." She sobs.

"I know." I wrap my arms around her.

"I had no idea he was carrying on with that woman until—until?—"

Dad was the king of working late. One evening, Mum had gone to the office to surprise him with a takeaway dinner. Her reward? Catching Dad screwing Molly over his desk. By the time he got home later that evening, she'd packed up his clothes and left them in boxes in their front garden. I swear Dad was more upset that she'd kicked him out so publicly—the curtain twitchers had a field day—than that their marriage had ended. Dad has always been a keeping-up appearances kind of man.

"What if there were women before her I didn't know about? What does she even see in him? He's old enough to be her father!"

Men get better with age .

Fuck. No. I can't think about Archer's opinions. He's not Molly.

But he is her son.

Fuck.

"I—don't know," I reply after pausing too long.

"Do you know? Has she told you?"

"What? No. Don't be daft. I barely know her."

"Well, she's your stepmother now, so you'll probably see a lot more of her."

I don't need reminding.

"Knowing your dad, he'll want to play happy families. Do you think they'll have a child together?"

Please, God, no.

"Men have active sperm until the day they die, you know. They don't have a biological clock like women do."

I hold her hand. "Mum, you have to let it go. All this anger is consuming you. It won't change anything. He won't see the error of his ways and come crawling back."

"I wouldn't take him back, even if he did."

"Good. Why don't you do something just for you? You always talked about going to India with your fabric painting group. Why don't you book the next trip?"

"That reminds me. I saw some of Rex's photographs the other day."

"You did?"

Rex is a travel photographer. Which means he travels. A lot. Pretty much all the time. And he's almost always in a time zone that isn't conducive to a quick chat. We've been friends since primary school. At one point, I told him everything. Now, not so much, but only because he's never here and not easy to contact.

"Yes. On a website. Photos of India. He made it look beautiful. He's very talented. Have you heard from him recently?"

"We email."

"You two used to be so close. Where is he at the moment?"

"He's travelling around China."

"Any idea when he'll be home?"

"No. Stop changing the subject, Mum. India? With your fabric painting group?"

Mum hums. "I could use some of the settlement money from the divorce."

"There you go. It would be a fantastic adventure. You'd be surrounded by friends, doing a hobby you enjoy, and you wouldn't need to spare Dad or Molly a second thought."

She pats my hand. "It's a good idea, love. Thank you. I might do that."

"When's the next trip?"

"They run two a year. The next one is in two months, but I suspect it'll be fully booked."

"You won't know unless you look. They might have had a cancellation."

"True. You've listened to my rant. Now it's your turn."

"To rant?"

She laughs. "No. To tell me what's going on in your life. Anything I should know?"

"No. Just the same old, same old."

"You must have some news."

I had amazing sex with a guy I shouldn't have touched with a bargepole. If I'd known who Archer was, I wouldn't have gone near him. But I didn't know, and I did go near him, and now I can't get him and his filthy bedroom mouth out of my head.

"Jacob?"

"No news."

"Then what were you thinking about?" She tames my unruly hair by tucking a few strands behind my ears.

"You've probably got enough rose petals to make perfume."

"Eau de Revenge?"

I laugh. "Eau de Fresh Starts would be better."

She sighs. "You're probably right. I do need to start looking forward, don't I?"

"Yes."

"It's hard." Her voice cracks.

"I know. I'm sorry he hurt you."

"Me too, love. Me too. Let me grab my laptop. You can help me book that trip to India." She wanders into the house, leaving the shears abandoned on the lawn amidst a sea of red rose petals.

God, I'm going to be sick. I tighten and straighten my tie. I look the part, but my insides are churning, and my head is spinning. I tried to get out of going to the wedding reception, but Dad laid the guilt on thick. Despite me saying no for what feels like the hundredth time a few hours ago, he's still convinced I'll do a speech.

I can't go.

I have to go.

But fuck, things are going to get messy the moment Archer realises who I am.

Unless he's not there. It's Saturday night. We've only had a few days' notice. He works at a bar. I clasp my hands and pray to any god who'll listen that his boss refused to give him the night off.

For his mother's wedding reception.

Damn. Of course his boss will have given him the time off.

I can pretend I got stuck in traffic. For four hours. Dad will believe that.

I'd be putting off the inevitable. I can't avoid Archer forever. Sooner or later—preferably much, much later—we'll run into each other at a family event. I should have drowned my sorrows. A hangover would have been preferable to the mess I've found myself in.

It's partially a mess of my own making. I shouldn't have run out on Archer but should have stayed and explained why I was freaking out. I'm a coward, but I couldn't look him in the eye and tell him his mum married my dad.

He's going to find out.

What I need to concentrate on is damage control. Archer and I are the only two people on the planet who need to know we had sex. He'll keep quiet. Won't he? If anyone finds out, there will be a shitstorm of epic proportions.

Fuck.

Why couldn't I keep my dick in my pants that night?

I can't change the past, but I can control the future.

I'll find Archer. Explain everything to him and beg him not to breathe a word to anyone.

Ever.

Honk . Honk . My taxi is here. I take a deep breath. I can do this.

Oh, fuck, no, I can't.

I grip the edge of the sink. I'm going to hurl. Better here than in the taxi. If I wait long enough, the driver will go. It's pre-paid. They won't lose out.

Honk . Honk .

Go away. Please go away.

HONK!

My phone buzzes. The driver's text tells me they're outside. As if that wasn't obvious. On the way out the door, I grab my keys and wallet.

I slide into the back seat. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"Where to?"

"Weetwood Hall."

"Nice place that. Great for weddings. Is that why you're going?"

"Yes."

"Who's the happy couple?"

Great, a chatty taxi driver. Couldn't I have got a sullen, silent one?

"My dad and his new wife."

"Is it an evening wedding?"

"No. Just a reception. They got married in Vegas."

"Ah, that explains it. No son would miss their dad's wedding, right?"

Wrong.

"No plus-one?"

"No."

"There tends to be plenty of single people at weddings. I'm sure you'll meet someone."

Please shut up.

"My eldest got married the other week. She looked absolutely stunning…"

He keeps talking, but I don't hear half of what he says. The movement of the car is making me feel even sicker. Labels on the doors tell me it'll cost me seventy-five pounds if I throw up in the car. The knowledge doesn't make me feel any better.

"Are you all right? You look a bit queasy," the driver says.

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine either."

I force a smile and stare out the window.

"Maybe I should take you home if you're sick. I wouldn't want you throwing up in the car."

If he did, it would absolve me of all responsibility for missing the wedding reception. Except it wouldn't. I'm not sick. Not physically anyway.

"I'm fine." Did I sound more confident and less pathetic that time?

"If you say so. I'd have to get the car valeted, meaning I can't use it for the rest of the night. It says seventy-five quid, but that's just the cost of the valeting. I'd be out of pocket a lot more than that."

"I'm not going to throw up."

"Are you sure?"

No. "Positive."

He uses the control on the driver's door to open all the windows fully. The sudden rush of air blasts me in the face and messes up my hair. Not that it was particularly tame. My unruly waves and curls hate to be controlled. Why do I care? My hair is the least of my problems.

The driver falls silent for the rest of the drive, although he keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror, no doubt trying to figure out whether I'm going to throw up.

"Here we are. Beautiful, isn't it? My lass would have loved to have got married in a fancy place like this. Course I couldn't afford it. Congrats to your dad and stepmum."

"Thanks."

I get out of the taxi, which pulls away instantly as if the driver is afraid I'm going to throw up after all. The hotel is beautiful, an impressive seventeenth-century Jacobean Manor House. It's obvious why it's a popular wedding venue.

With lead in my shoes, I trudge into the building through a double doorway. A sign points the way to Mr and Mrs Hart's wedding reception. Should I pause at the public bar to grab a shot of something before I go inside? No. Alcohol will make me feel worse and probably make me say things I shouldn't.

I take a deep breath and—for better or worse—walk into the reception room.