I’m discussing who won the sweepstake on the length of the speeches with a group of Georgia’s friends when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Long time no see,’ says Seb, with a wide smile.
‘Bloody hell, how are you?’ I ask, kissing him on the cheek.
‘Brilliant, actually,’ he says. ‘And you?’
‘Yeah, great. How’s work?’
Seb studied physics at university and then took the traditional career route for a science graduate–by getting a job in a building society. It’s not my idea of fun, but then I write stories about talented farm animals for a living. Plus, if all you were interested in was money, then you really couldn’t knock Seb’s career choice. The last time I saw him, he’d risen through the ranks so rapidly, he gave the impression that he commanded the sort of salary a journalist like me could only hope to achieve by the time I reach, oooh, 112.
‘Work’s really good,’ he says. ‘And your job?’
‘Er, not bad,’ I say, really not wanting to get onto the subject of Simon today. ‘Are you still living in Woolton?’
‘No, I moved last year,’ he says. ‘I wanted somewhere a bit bigger so I could fit my pool table in.’
I shake my head in amusement. ‘Your girlfriend must be very understanding, letting you fill the house with boys’ toys,’ I say.
‘Er, yeah. Well, the pool table arrived after she left,’ he says, looking into my eyes. ‘We split up last year.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ he shrugs. ‘It just wasn’t working out so we agreed to go our separate ways. It was all amicable.’
‘Good,’ I say, nodding.
‘It was a nice meal, wasn’t it?’ he asks.
‘Fabulous,’ I say, although as I say it, I realise the funny feeling I had earlier when I was in the loo is getting worse. I definitely don’t feel 100 per cent at the moment. I can’t put my finger on why, but I’m certainly not firing on all cylinders.
‘Well, I must say you’re looking fantastic,’ I go on, determined not to show that anything’s wrong. Besides, this isn’t just polite conversation. I mean it. The years since university have been kind to Seb. His once baby-faced features are now more angular and grown-up, and his previously pale complexion now has a light and very becoming tan.
We spend a good twenty minutes reminiscing and catching up–in equal measures–and discover that lots of things have changed. But lots haven’t either.
‘I’ve got to admit,’ he says finally, ‘I was dying to speak to you today.’
‘Were you?’ I ask. ‘Why?’
‘I dunno,’ he says. ‘When I saw you walking down that
aisle before, well, you looked incredible. Beautiful. And it made me think.’
‘About what?’ I say.
‘About why I ever let you go.’
I decide to go for a walk to see if it makes me feel any less queasy.
But after twenty minutes of trying to stop my hair from being messed up in the wind, all the while listening to the wedding party becoming increasingly lively, I realise it hasn’t worked. As I head back into the reception, I run into my mother.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say.
‘Argghhh!’ she exclaims.
‘What’s the matter?’ Surely my hair doesn’t look that bad!
‘Evie, have you been eating shellfish?’ she asks, her expression full of concern.
I frown. ‘I don’t think so, although…’
Now I think about it, I did eat a couple of canapés earlier with some unspecified gunk on top of them. My eyes widen as I look at the expression on my mother’s face–and I don’t like what I see. I bring my hands up to touch my face, where I find all the proof I need. Apparently, I
have
been eating shellfish. And, for the first time in at least two years, it’s brought me out in a reaction. Which is just about all I need on a day like today.
‘Those bastard canapés,’ I say. ‘I didn’t even want the damn things. I only ate them for something to do while I was stuck talking to Georgia’s Aunt Vera.’
‘Look. Don’t panic,’ says my mum, deciding, rather irritatingly, that she’s going to be the calm and rational one. ‘Let’s go and splash some water on your face. It might take the swelling down. Come on, I’ll smuggle you in.’
My mum and I creep through the double doors, attempting, like two very poor amateur cat burglars, to cross the room without being noticed.
I have my hand across my face as if feigning a headache, and Mum is walking three inches in front of me–the idea being that nobody will be able to see past her to get a glimpse of what I look like. Which would be fine, except for the fact that she keeps tripping me up and I’ve just nearly ended up face down in a nest of meringues.
When we get into the ladies, I take a deep breath and look in the mirror.
‘Argghhh!’ I say.
‘Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,’ says my mother.
‘May I remind you that that was exactly what you said earlier,’ I grumble. ‘And it’s not even your face we’re talking about.’
I won’t go so far as to say I look like the Elephant Man, but with my swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks, I suspect he would win a beauty contest over me at this moment in time. Suddenly, the door swings open, and Grace walks in.
‘
Oh my God
…’ she says, her expression that of someone looking at a car crash.
‘Just don’t scream, please,’ I say. ‘I can’t take much more of it.’
‘What happened to you?’ she asks. ‘You look like you’ve been beaten up.’
‘Well, thank you,’ I say. ‘I really needed someone to make me feel better. I’ve had an allergic reaction to some shellfish.’
‘I thought you hadn’t had one of those in years,’ she says.
‘I haven’t,’ I say. ‘But that’s probably because I haven’t eaten shellfish in years.’
‘So why did you today?’ she asks.
‘I didn’t realise—Oh look, it doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘The fact is, I look like I’ve just stuck my head in a beehive. What the hell am I going to do?’
My mother sighs. ‘There’s not an awful lot you can do, except wait for it to go down,’ she says practically. ‘And look on the bright side.’
‘Which is?’ I ask.
‘There are tribes in Papua New Guinea who find that sort of thing very attractive,’ she informs me. ‘They go out of their way to get that kind of effect on their faces.’
Thanks, Mum. Thanks a lot.
In the absence of a paper bag to go over my head, Grace and I find the quietest, darkest corner in the room.
‘That girl makes Valentina look like an amateur,’ Grace tells me, looking over at Beth.
Despite the fact that she had the pleasure of his company for almost two and a half hours during dinner, Beth seems to have now attached herself to Jack like a leech, albeit a very good-looking one.
‘Why don’t you go over and break them up?’ says Grace.
‘What? Are you insane?’ I ask her.
‘I thought you fancied him,’ she says.
‘Yes, and it’s going to do wonders for my chances when he sees me looking like the Phantom of the Opera.’
She takes a sip of her drink and studies my face again.
‘It’s going down already, you know,’ she says. ‘How long did you say it usually takes?’
‘A couple of hours. I just wish it would hurry up and go dark.’
Grace takes another sip of her drink and looks into the distance.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask. I can’t put my finger on it, but Grace doesn’t seem herself today.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she says. ‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. Scarlett has decided it’s a good idea to start waking up for a play at two o’clock every morning, and it’s all just catching up with me.’
‘What, and you’re not in the mood for a sing song at that time of night?’ I ask.
‘Funnily enough, no.’
Valentina suddenly appears at our table. ‘Still puffed up, then?’ she asks me.
I frown. ‘Why don’t you just say, “still ugly”?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,’ she shrugs. ‘But: “still ugly”?’
I tell myself to just ignore her.
‘How many people are there at this wedding?’ she continues.
‘Just over two hundred,’ I reply.
‘Unbelievable,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You’d expect at least a smattering of suitable single men among that number.’
‘There are loads of single men here,’ says Grace.
‘I said
suitable
single men,’ she corrects Grace. ‘There’s a big difference.’
‘By which you presumably mean someone with the looks of Orlando Bloom and the bank account of Donald Trump,’ I offer.
Valentina tuts.
‘I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m so shallow,’ she says. ‘But yes, that sort of thing would be a start.’
‘Isn’t Seb single?’ asks Grace.
‘Er, yes, but he’s just told me he’s having a break from dating,’ I say hastily. ‘He’s just broken up with someone recently and wants some time by himself.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ says Valentina. ‘I haven’t met a man yet who couldn’t be persuaded. Who is this Seb anyway?’
‘That guy I used to go out with at college,’ I tell her. ‘You know, the one who studied physics.’
She pulls a face. If there’s one thing certain to put her off a bloke, it’s the idea that I’ve been there before. Hang on a minute. Why am I trying to put her off him? What does it matter to me if Valentina seduces Seb?
Oh Evie, get a grip
.
‘You are sure everything’s all right, aren’t you?’ I ask, as Grace and I are alone again later.
She sighs. ‘Weddings just make you think about your own relationship, that’s all,’ she says. ‘When we’d been to them previously, I would stand there, watching someone else walk past, and try to analyse whether we’d ever do it ourselves. Now that we actually have done it, I’ve spent the whole of today trying to analyse our marriage.’
‘And?’ I prompt her. ‘Your marriage is okay, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, everything’s fine, really,’ she says. ‘Patrick’s just in a funny mood lately.’
‘How so?’ I ask.
She frowns. ‘It’s nothing in particular,’ she says, ‘but let me give you an example. This weekend is the first time we’ve had away together since the honeymoon. So, this morning, we’ve checked into a gorgeous room with a fabulous view and, I suppose I just expected us to…I don’t know, slot into our usual roles.’
‘What are they then?’ I ask, hoping she isn’t referring to anything involving nurses and doctors.
‘Well, ordinarily,’ she continues, ‘I would be sensible and
start to hang up my clothes and then maybe say I was taking a shower to freshen up. At that point, Patrick would throw the bags down, grab my bum, say bollocks to the shower and…well, you can guess the rest.’
‘So what happened today?’ I ask.
‘I’d completely unpacked and was halfway through shampooing my hair when he came into the bathroom to announce that he was going out and would only be five minutes. So, you know, I said: “Where are you going?’”
‘What did he say?’ I ask.
‘He said he was going for a walk because he had a headache,’ she tells me.
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Well, for a start, isn’t that supposed to be the woman’s line?’
‘Don’t be so sexist,’ I tell her. ‘Look, this sounds like nothing, Grace, it really does.’
‘Maybe,’ she says glumly. ‘But, you know his walk?’
‘Yes?’
‘It lasted for two hours.’
Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of someone at the microphone and, when we look up, we see that it’s Georgia. She’s clearly emboldened by drink, although not as inebriated as I’d expected, given that the champagne today has practically been served via intravenous drip.
‘I know lots of brides are doing speeches these days, but I actually hadn’t intended to say anything,’ she says, slurring slightly.
‘I mean, you lot have already had to listen to Pete, and my dad and our best man Phil, and I’m sure between them, that
was quite enough. But then, as the day wore on, I started to think: Why let everybody off the hook that easily? Besides, anyone who knows Pete and I will know that I never like him to get the last word.’
There is a ripple of laughter.
‘People used to say to me, “You’ll know when you meet the love of your life”,’ she continues. ‘“You’ll
just know
”. Well, I was sceptical, I have to say. But I’ve known Pete for over a year now, and during that time, I’ve discovered a hell of a lot about him. I’ve discovered that he’s generous, he’s loving, he tells a good joke, he’s clever, he’s crap at remembering dates (so I’m not holding my breath for a first anniversary present)…and I know he loves me, even on the days when I’m not very loveable.’
One or two spontaneous ‘aahs’ come from the direction of Georgia’s aunts, followed by another ripple of laughter.
‘But it’s not just that,’ she goes on. ‘The reason I did this bloody incredible thing today–and got married–is that I discovered that all those people were right. I
just knew
. If I was going to spend the rest of my life with one man, then I
just knew
it would have to be Pete.’
She turns to look at her new husband, who is at the very front of the crowd and grinning from ear to ear.
‘I love you, sweetheart,’ she says quickly.
He steps up to hug her and she throws her arms around his neck, still gripping the microphone.
‘I love you too, you soppy bugger,’ he whispers.
Grace and I look at each other and smile. Pete is clearly oblivious to the fact that the microphone is two inches from his mouth, broadcasting to the entire room what he believes are entirely private sentiments.
‘And can I tell you something?’ he breathes, while two hundred guests wait to hear what he’s going to say next. ‘Your tits look great in that dress.’
This really is no good. Here I am in a place so romantic they could bottle it and sell it as a Viagra substitute.
Yet, I’m sat here talking to my mother’s boyfriend like the girl without a date on prom night. In fact, I could only dream about a date on prom night, looking like this. The swelling may have gone down ever so slightly, but the blotchiness certainly hasn’t. And my desperate attempts to cover it up with Valentina’s face powder has just left me with the sort of pallor that would frighten small children.
‘Is it just your face that’s the matter, Evie?’ offers Bob.
‘Sorry, Bob,’ I say, turning back to him and being momentarily cheered by the sight of his green bow tie and stripy boating jacket. ‘It’s not just that, no.’
‘More boyfriend trouble?’ he asks. After six years with my mother, he’s more than familiar with my romantic history.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘But not really…the usual kind.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s complicated this time.’
He nods and goes back to his tomato juice.
I frown. ‘You’re supposed to say, “Try me”, or something
now, Bob,’ I tell him. ‘You know, persuade me to confide in you. To get it off my chest.’
‘Oh,’ he says, twiddling his beard nervously. ‘Oh, well, obviously I’m all ears.’
‘Okay,’ I say, taking a deep breath. ‘Well, I really fancy this guy who’s here today. That is, I didn’t at first because he was going out with Valentina. But then they split up and I realised I did.’
‘Oh good,’ says Bob.
‘Except now someone else seems to have got their claws into him.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Bob.
‘No–wait, that’s not all,’ I say. ‘Now one of my ex-boyfriends is here and says–and I quote–that he wonders how he ever let me go. He’s
really
nice.’
‘Oh well,’ says Bob immediately. ‘Go out with him then.’
‘I hadn’t finished,’ I tell Bob. ‘I was about to say that he’s really nice but I suspect in my heart of hearts he’s not the one for me.’
‘Oh,’ says Bob.
‘And that the other one is.’
‘Ah,’ says Bob.
I look over to the dance floor, where Beth is currently teaching Jack how to tango. She couldn’t be attracting more attention if she cartwheeled across the dance floor wearing nothing but a pair of Mickey Mouse knickers.
‘I see,’ says Bob, and it’s perfectly obvious that he doesn’t. Bob’s good on vegan cooking and the works of Jean Paul Sartre, but I doubt he’d ever give Jerry Springer a run for his money.
‘This one you don’t think is the one for you,’ he says. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘I can’t remember exactly,’ I say. ‘It’s ages since I dumped him.’
Bob looks pensive.
‘It’s not just a question of what’s wrong with him though,’ I continue. ‘I guess the real point is that when I look at Jack my heart does somersaults. When I look at Seb, well…’
‘Barely a flutter?’ he says.
I smile. ‘And yet he’s lovely and good-looking, and he’s got a good job and, he doesn’t appear to have any terrible anti-social habits or anything like that. And he obviously still likes me. And I like him enough to not want him to be seduced by Valentina.’
‘Hmm,’ says Bob, nodding.
‘So what do you think I should do?’ I ask.
Bob has the look of an eight-year-old who’s just been asked to explain the principles of metaphysics.
‘Well,’ he says, thinking carefully, ‘have you asked your mother?’
I laugh and put my hand on his.
‘Don’t worry, Bob,’ I sigh. ‘By the way, I’ve got to know where you bought that jacket.’
‘Oh, do you like it?’ he asks. ‘I thought it was quite dapper too.’
I can suddenly sense someone walking towards us from across the other side of the room, and when I look up, I realise to my horror that it’s Jack.
‘Oh my God,’ I say, leaping up and grabbing my bag.
‘What’s the matter?’ asks Bob. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. I mean, you look
even more
as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
I frantically touch my eyes and can feel that they’re still
puffed up–enough at least for me not to want Jack to see me this way. My eyes dart around the room. I’m desperate to find an escape route. I’ve got to get out of here.
Fast.