Millie frowned. ‘What? He’s got a lawnmower? They’re not the sole preserve of Scottish people. He’s a bit of a silver fox, though, I’ll give you that. Clearly no stranger to a bench press.’
‘My talents are wasted on you. Look at his arm.’ Zara used the pencil to point at the screen and saw Millie having the same reaction she’d had. Stare. Realisation. Grin.
It was barely discernible to the naked eye, but it was there: the tiny rectangle, with the diagonal lines inked inside it.
‘A Saltire,’ Millie said, with rising excitement as she examined the Scottish flag tattooed on the gentleman’s bicep. It wasn’t huge and it looked faded, like it had been done when he was a younger man. ‘Oh, you’re good. Well done, sis. If the flower shop goes tits up there might be a future for you in private investigation.’
Zara gave a triumphant bow, then held a thirty-odd-year-old photo up next to the screen, a slightly grainy Polaroid pic that showed four people in their early twenties, two women and two men, standing under the iconic Welcome to Las Vegas sign. On the white band at the bottom of the photo, it had four names: Colin Jones, Brenda Fulton, Gary Gregg, Eileen Smith. And the comment underneath –Best friends on tour, Las Vegas, 1993!
‘I still can’t get over how young they look in this picture. So bizarre that they got married when they were younger than we are now. What were they? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?’
Millie nodded. ‘Yep. And we struggle to commit to a Netflix subscription.’
Zara chuckled, because, as always, her sister wasn’t wrong. ‘I gave up on Eileen Smith because there are a gazillion of them on social media and I figured it was a waste of time because she’s probably married and going under a different name now. But this guy… That is him, isn’t it?’ They both peered at the man on the far right of the photo, shoulder to shoulder with their dad, then took their gaze to the image on the screen. ‘It’s him,’ Zara announced, answering her own question. ‘I’m sure of it. Positive. One hundred per cent. Okay, seventy-five per cent, but I’ll go with it if you will.’
Millie puckered her perfect pout, the one that was enhanced by a tiny bit of filler but still looked natural. ‘I think maybe fifty per cent, but it’s worth a shot.’
‘Right, I’m doing it.’ Zara’s burst of decisive action was so abrupt, she almost knocked over the half-finished coffee that sat to the left of her laptop and yelped as she caught it. ‘Bollocks! That was close. Losing one laptop to a cappuccino was careless, two would just be…’
‘Totally in keeping with your general clumsiness,’ Millie finished the sentence for her.
Zara ignored her. Mostly because she was right. Sometimes working with someone who had known you your whole life had its drawbacks. The fact that her younger sister had been there to witness almost every unfortunate incident in at least twenty-seven of Zara’s twenty-eight years, and could not only recall them, but could wrap them up in a story that was hilarious to everyone except Zara, was the bane of her life. No, Mrs Bassett, who popped in for a dozen carnations every second Friday, didn’t need to know that ten-year-old Zara had fallen flat on her face at a ballet recital, fractured her wrist and had been thereafter known as Swan Break. Or that, as an underage, seventeen-year-old clubber, out for the first time in the bars of the city centre clutching a fake ID, she’d ended the night by falling off her platform shoes and face-planting in a kebab shop. Or – oh, the watery eyes – that her first attempt at losing her virginity a few weeks later had been abandoned after she had somehow managed to snag her boyfriend’s penis in the zip of his jeans. He was her ex-boyfriend about three seconds later. It went without saying that Millie hadn’t actually witnessed that incident first hand but Zara had blurted it out in a fit of mortification the next day and Millie had responded with her very own brand of sisterly compassion – she’d howled with amusement, laughed until tears streamed down her face, then suggested Zara stick to blokes with button fly jeans in the future.
Moving the coffee cup well out of the way, Zara flexed her fingers and then activated step one of Operation Vegas Reunion. She clicked the friend request button of Gary Gregg’s Facebook page, and then the ‘message’ button.
Dear Gary,
Apologies for contacting you, but I’m hoping you can help with some research I’m doing on behalf of my family. I’m Zara Jones, and I’m hoping you’ll recognise my parents’ names – Colin and Brenda Jones.
I’m currently trying to track down the guy who was my dad’s best mate back in the eighties and early nineties, and who was with them at their wedding in Las Vegas in 1993. We are hoping that person is you?
We’re also trying to find my mum’s friend, Eileen who was in Las Vegas with them too.
The reason for my search is that my parents will be celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary on May 19th, and my sister Millie and I…
Over Zara’s shoulder, Millie punched the air. ‘Yassss! I got a mention inWar and Peace.’
Zara ignored the dig and kept on tapping her short, unpolished, nails on the keyboard.
…are planning to surprise them by whisking them back to Las Vegas, so that they can renew their vows on the day of their anniversary, in the same place they got married.
We’d love to surprise Mum and Dad even more by reuniting them with their old friends when we arrive in Vegas. Could you contact me please so that we can have a chat about whether you’re the person I’m looking for? My telephone number is UK 141 093 2020.
Hope to hear from you soon.
She pressed send, crossed her fingers and glanced up to the heavens. She was desperate for this to work out. ‘Right, romance fairies, do your bit.’
Zara spotted Millie doing that face, the one that flagged up she was about to come out with a smart-arse comment. She wasn’t wrong.
‘I have it on good authority,’ Millie began, ‘that romance fairies only listen to people who believe in things of a romantic nature, so I think you might need a backup plan.’
‘I do believe in romance,’ Zara countered, feigning outrage. ‘Kev and I have had a solid eight years of romantic stuff.’ Even as she said it, she had to struggle not to laugh. Unless bingeing the latest Netflix series about serial killers was considered the pastime of love’s young dream, then she and Kev had probably last been romantic around Christmas… 2016. And even then, it was only because he panic-purchased heart-shaped chocolates in Tesco.
Millie’s laser glare went to Zara’s denim-clad nethers. ‘When was the last time you had a bikini wax? Give me it in years.’
Zara rolled her eyes. Okay, so she had a point. But she’d bet her last ladyshave that Kev wouldn’t notice or care if she had enough foliage down there to require a Flymo. No, they weren’t swinging from the fluorescent lights, but they were best mates. That’s what mattered. He was her favourite person to flake out with at the end of every day and she wasn’t taking relationship criticism from a woman whose idea of long-term commitment was a second date. ‘Around the same time that you were last in a monogamous relationship.’
‘Ouch. Stung,’ Millie went full amateur dramatics, clutching her heart for all of two seconds, before her priorities kicked in. ‘Right, come on, let’s get these arrangements done or we’ll never get out of here tonight and I’m on the VIP list for that new club that’s opening on George Street. You know, a nightclub. It’s where people go to dance and drink and make irresponsible decisions.’
