Boyfrenemy Read online

  “Sorry I’m late. It got busy at my stall. Anyway, it’s finally calmed down enough for me to leave my assistant by herself.”

  I shrug, knowing exactly how full-on it is to be a small business owner. But unlike Mia, who seems like such a together, single mother to an eight-year-old, I still feel like I’m just playing shop. “You’re the second one here.”

  “I got a text from Penny. She’s running ten minutes behind,” Mia tells me.

  Luckily, Isabella’s fourth, and last, bridesmaid rocks up, before I need to make small talk with Mia. I’ve never been good at schmoozing. Fiona—the Mouse of the group—arrives pushing her youngest offspring in a stroller.

  “How are you, Jess? I like your top,” she says, always the quiet crowd pleaser. She has some God-awful “mum clothes” on—some chiffon patterned loose material for a top over black crop pants and canvas shoes misshapen by her swollen feet. She’s dressed like she’s a couple of years away from forty, instead of twenty-eight—like the rest of us.

  “Can’t complain.” I suddenly feel a little better about my singlehood. If that’s the price of a husband and kids, then I’ve got even more reasons not to get married.

  With Fiona there, the two of them start talking babies, and I’m left in peace to stare at the inviting bodies of water again. Fiona’s baby is cute as far as little humans go, but I have no idea what to say to him. It gets especially awkward for me when it’s milk time, and I see more of Fiona than I want to before she could put the modesty blanket over her breastfeeding infant.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late,” Penny says as she joins us twenty minutes later. She’s wearing jeans and a shapeless top, accessorised by a long, light green beaded necklace that I bet is real jade. She greets us warmly, and within seconds strikes up an animated conversation with the others.

  They are so comfortable hanging out together like they’ve become friends over the years. And they have. But not me.

  I never saw any of them without Isabella around, and I definitely never invited them to my house. Only Isabella knows what it was like in my dysfunctional home. The house was always a mess, our clothes not properly washed (hence my well-deserved smelly kid reputation), my younger brother and I not properly fed. Most of the time, I stayed at Isabella’s instead of the other way around.

  So I watch them now, still the outsider. I have no idea how to join in.

  “Have you guys ordered?” Penny asks after a few minutes.

  “I’ve already eaten.” I had my diet food ration before I left the house. “You go ahead though.”

  Fiona picks up her menu and peruses it like it’s a tennis match—she looks left at the food description, then right at the price, all the way down the list. Eventually she settles for one of the cheapest things on the menu. I’m exactly the same, and I don’t even have a million children like she does.

  Mia orders a pasta dish, and Penny gets a steak. Obviously, not a vegetarian anymore again. It will be tough sitting across from them while they feast. The aroma wafting from the kitchen is torture enough.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone,” I start. “Bels wanted me to keep track of how things are going. She wants me to send her monthly updates.”

  I scan my diary for my list of things to talk to them about, reminded that they’re busy and even less committed to Isabella’s dream wedding than I am. She sends the emails to all of us as a group but not everyone replies as often and as much as me. I guess they figure it’s my job to chase them up for the important stuff. Or they have a life.

  “Okay, I’ll start,” I say to fill the silence. “I’ve tentatively booked the church—St. Stephen’s Cathedral in the city, but not the venue. Stamford Plaza and Customs House are both fully booked out. Even the Treasury Hotel is not available.”

  “I don’t think it should be at the Treasury,” Penny puts in. “Bad juju.”

  The others nod. We all remember the spectacular way our ten-year high school reunion was interrupted last year when the McAllister brothers fought over our friend.

  “Bels wants a fancy hotel though. And I’m running out of options. We’re pencilled in at those three venues in case of a cancellation, but it’s close to Christmas, so we’re competing with other weddings, fancy work parties and Year 12 formals.” The others nod but offer no suggestions. “There’s also a bridal expo next weekend. Can anyone come with me? We still need to find a photographer and videographer for the day. And probably a million things we haven’t even thought of yet.”

  “Has Bels decided on a colour yet?” Mia asks. “I’ve already started making her accessories but I can’t do the bridesmaids’ stuff until I know the theme.”

  “Not yet, but she wants a colour we can all feel comfortable in as long as it’s not pink, patterned, multi-coloured or black.”

  This is followed by a long discussion about dress styles and colours as eclectic as our group. Mia mostly doesn’t care. Penny has her eye on some expensive sack but it’s thankfully black and can’t even be under consideration. And Fiona comes up with, “I can’t wear white. It’ll be stained before I’m out the door.”

  “True. And white makes my arse look even more gigantic,” Mia adds as a cute waiter arrives laden with their lunch.

  “White’s nice and simple,” Penny, the minimalist, contributes. Eyes following the retreating form of our server, she distractedly cuts up her steak.

  “I’m with Fiona and Mia. I can’t wear white, either,” I say. Three against one. I make a note in my diary to tell Isabella that white has at least been taken off the list of possible bridesmaids’ dress colours. “Anyway, Isabella wants to wear off-white. It’ll probably be too close to what she’s wearing if we wear white, too.” I turn to Mia and Fiona and fill them in on the bride’s wishes regarding their kids’ roles in the wedding party.

  “Are children allowed at the reception?” Fiona shifts her son to her other breast, and she accidentally flashes me a saggy tit again.

  Oh, God. Breastfeeding is so mean to your boobs.

  “I’ll ask,” I say, distracted by the size of her nipples. I make a note in my diary planner: Are nipples kids allowed at reception? “So, any takers to come with me to the bridal expo?”

  I can’t think of anything worse than going by myself, surrounded by girly girls and their mothers, sisters and friends when it’s not even me getting married. I already mentioned the idea to Jillie who dramatically shivered and told me she was allergic to monogamy and weddings.

  “I’ve got four kids’ parties on next weekend,” Fiona says, feeding herself with one hand while the other holds her son’s head in place so he can continue to suckle.

  I’m so glad I’m not eating. I am so not cut out for motherhood.

  “Market stall. My assistant, Juliana’s backpacking in Europe from tomorrow. She won’t be back till the end of this month.” So that’s Mia out.

  A look of panic flits across Penny’s features as she seems to draw a blank on excuses.

  “My parents are coming back from Singapore that weekend. They’ll expect me to be around.” She looks relieved to come up with that excuse, then busies herself, cutting up steak. “Who are Byron’s groomsmen? Anyone we know?” she asks me after chewing a mouth-watering piece.

  “Well, Keats is the best man.” They all perk up at the mention of his name. “Then there’s their family friend’s son, Blake; and two of Byron’s uni friends. That’s a groomsman for each of us.”

  I’m definitely the only one paying attention to Isabella’s wedding-related email updates.

  “I hope I get a cute one,” Penny says around her steak.

  Fiona’s eyes gloss over like she’s imagining a strapping groomsman walking at her side. Mia checks her watch like she has better things to do than discuss Isabella’s grand wedding.

  When Fiona’s breastfeeding blanket slips off her shoulder again, my eyes get stuck to the sight of her baby sliding off her nipple as he starts to doze. He reattaches himself as the movement wakes him up, then goe
s for another couple of sucks before he begins to fall asleep again.

  “One day, you’ll have your own kids and this will feel totally natural,” she tells me, probably seeing the frozen cringe on my face.

  “I’m not having kids. No way.” I would just mess them up with my issues.

  “Your husband might want some,” Fiona says with an encouraging smile.

  “Well, I’m not getting married either, so…” I would just mess him up, too.

  They all look at me intrigued. But it’s too embarrassing to share my reasons with them. They don’t need to know that whenever Dad got drunk, he would reminisce about the early years with my mother when they were in love. This story always ended with the collapse of their relationship after they got married and had children. The straw that broke the camel’s back was the addition of yet another child, my brother. My mother abandoned us soon after.

  “So,” Fiona begins later after a stretch of silence while they ate their food and I doodled in my diary, “have you met up with Keats yet?”

  “Just once. Yesterday. He flew off to New York last night for his bank. He’ll be away till Friday next week.”

  “How is he with the wedding?”

  “He, um, has plans for it, ideas on what he wants to happen on the day.” I’m enjoying the double meaning of my words.

  “Aw, that’s sweet!” Penny gushes. “I thought he’d try to sabotage it, considering what happened.”

  I grimace inside but keep my expression neutral. No point letting any of them in on Keats’ stupid plan. I’ve got it covered anyway.

  “How’s he looking?” Penny asks.

  “A little thin, and kinda scruffy.” But still super-hot, I don’t bother to add.

  “Shame.” Penny absently chews her steak like she’s thinking of Keats’ shirtless photo that used to be on Isabella’s phone. “Poor guy. They shouldn’t have asked him to be part of the wedding party. Must be tough for him.”

  “Wedding photos are forever,” Fiona chimes in—the only married one in our group. “If he’s not part of the day, one day, they’ll all be okay again, and they’d regret not having him there.”

  I stay silent, hoping there will be a wedding at all. I might be blasé about Isabella’s nuptials, but the thought of Keats ruining her day and succeeding in his plan to win her back makes me promise myself that I wouldn’t resent Isabella the perfect married life as long as it’s with Byron McAllister.

  Chapter 6

  I’ve never been to Keats McAllister’s house in my life. I was never in his circle of friends, and I figured Isabella was only ever invited to birthday parties and barbecues there because of their parents’ friendship. I wasn’t a stalker enough to look up his home address, but I was definitely tragic enough as a teen to daydream about being invited to his home and making out in his room.

  It was difficult listening to Isabella while she regaled me with stories of school holidays spent being babysat by Mrs McAllister with her own children. It was sweet torture as she prattled on, totally oblivious to my pain. But I hadn’t wanted her to stop. I’d wanted to know all about Keats.

  And I still do.

  He’s currently living at home with his mother. At twenty-eight, that’s not a sexy fact. However, if you consider that he rented out his bachelor pad to keep his mother company after her nervous breakdown, it’s actually kind of sweet. He and Byron had even helped her pay the mortgage until his father’s life insurance money took care of the rest of the loan.

  I unlock the low picket fence and let myself into the McAllisters’ yard. Loud yipping sounds before a tiny dog bounds up to me. I step over it as I make my way up the front veranda steps. It chases after me, barking and jumping all the way. Luckily, I’m too tall—even with the flat shoes I have on today—for it to accidentally nip my nethers. I’m not sure whether Keats is intimidated by a woman towering over him, but if I put on high heels, that’s exactly what would happen. He might be six feet tall, but so am I.

  I knock on the glass-panelled front door, the tapping probably inaudible with the loud yipping. Do I even need to knock? There is obviously someone at the door—the canine doorbell has already announced it to the whole street. This is why I prefer cats—quieter and not so needy and excitable. I give the white and brown dog a wary glance—those little teeth look very pointy.

  I knock harder when seconds pass. Nothing.

  I lift my hand to knock again but locks click and the door opens to reveal a small, old woman. She looks too much like Keats to be anyone other than his mother, or perhaps grandmother. Traces of her faded beauty are still visible, her eyes so similar to her son’s but lacking the same wicked spark. Perhaps there used to be some there, but her divorce has snuffed it out. Wearing a God-awful muumuu, her look is made worse by the fact she has the air of someone who has let herself go. I’ve never seen anyone more in need of a makeover. Well, except maybe me just a few years ago.

  “You must be Jess,” she says. Even after years of living in Australia, her British accent is still clipped and posh, just like Byron’s. “Isabella’s maid of honour? I’m Heather McAllister, Keats’ mother. Come in.” She’s smiling but her eyes betray her real feelings.

  “Hi.” A niggle of awkwardness trails along my arms as she opens the door wider and steps aside to let me pass. Inside, furniture and boxes are stacked against the walls.

  “We usually use the back door for guests,” she explains, clocking my gaze. “Feel free to enter that way next time.”

  It’s times like these that I wish I grew up with a role model other than repeats of The Nanny. Then maybe I’d have a repertoire of things to say to parents, or know how to behave with people from my dad’s generation. “I was supposed to meet Keats here? We’re going to the bridal expo together,” I say as she shows me a seat on the sofa. She offers me some tea which I turn down.

  “He’s playing golf with a couple of his bank’s investors. I’m sure he must be on his way home,” Mrs McAllister says, refreshing her cuppa. “When Jeff—that’s Keats’ father—used to play golf with his doctor mates, he came back at all hours, too. It just depended how fast they could get the little balls in the holes and how fast the group in front was.”

  I nod, not knowing what to say. Isabella told me that Dr McAllister had divorced his wife four years ago when he thought he had only months to live. He’d left Mrs McAllister to return to Oklahoma to be with his childhood sweetheart. He only died last year. And she looks like she’s still grieving for him now.

  “I used to go to the golf course with him sometimes. I don’t go out much these days,” she tells me.

  “We should do something sometime,” I offer automatically to be polite. All this over-sharing makes me think she’s lonely, and my invitation seems like something one of the Sheffield kids would offer a depressed old woman. Mrs McAllister looks like a recluse. There’s no way she’d actually—

  “I’d like that,” she says before taking another sip of her tea.

  I smile at her, hoping she’s just being polite in return but she continues. “Jada, that’s Byron’s ex-girlfriend, used to take me out sometimes. I love Isabella like my own daughter, but Jada was a lovely girl. I really thought she and Byron would get married. They probably would have, too, but as soon as Isabella was back in town, I could tell Byron was on his way back to square one. That boy’s been smitten with her since he was ten.”

  I nod my head—Keats’ mother knows her sons pretty well. Even through her depression, she notices things about them. I wonder where my mother is now. Is she dead? Does she have a new family? I hope she’s living with a lot of guilt and regret over abandoning me and my younger brother with our dad.

  “We should have a girls’ day out.” The words are out of my mouth before I could think. Though, other than worrying about not clicking with Mrs McAllister during the outing, I find that I actually like the idea. Especially when her sad face lights up and I realise she’s not as old as she seems.

  “That would be
lovely.”

  “When are you free?”

  “Every day.”

  “Early retirement?”

  “No, dear. I was a housewife. If Keats didn’t keep me company, I would have even less to do with myself.” She takes a sip from her cup. She pauses a lot, each silence filled with a latent sadness. “He’s a good boy. I’m sure living at home with his mother can’t be good for his social life. He hasn’t had a girlfriend since Isabella—no one serious, anyway. Maybe if he got a new woman in his life, he’d get over her.”

  I agree about the last part. Keats definitely needs someone to stop his obsession with “the one that got away”. But I don’t think his social life is that hindered. Plenty of women would still take Keats McAllister, depressed mother and all. Even if they didn’t realise he’s only living with her because she’s emotionally fragile, and not because he’s a freeloading mama’s boy.

  The fox terrier barks again, rushing out the back door.

  Mrs McAllister looks up at the sound. “Keats must be here.”

  “I’ve got a free Sunday mid-May,” I find myself telling her. “We can make arrangements closer to the date. I’ll come up with something.” I take a pen and my little notepad out of my handbag—I always keep them there in case I come up with ideas for my website—and scribble my number on a piece of paper. For some reason, I want to keep my outing with her separate from my scheming to get her son.

  Keats enters the house in almost comical grey and light blue tartan trousers, white polo shirt, flat cap and spiked golf shoes. Of course, on him, the outfit looks more GQ than RSL retiree—especially with his face sporting only the faintest of five o’clock shadows. I suddenly have the biggest urge to check my reflection in a mirror. The last time I looked, I felt presentable. But now, I’m worried I’m underdressed. The vee-neck of my smock should draw the eye while the skirt that balloons out should camouflage the bumps and lumps of my hip and thigh areas.