Date with Destiny

Chapter Two

‘How close to the use-by date do you feel confident consuming a food substance?’

Daniel doesn’t look up as I walk in, too busy examining the back of a bottle of Baileys. ‘Like, obviously if it’s milk or something, it’s probably fine until day of and day after, too, right?’ He holds the Baileys up to the light now, squinting as he tries to see into the black bottle. ‘But when something has a two-year shelf life and you’re down to the date wire, I’m more suspicious.’

‘Your logic is flawed,’ I mumble, throwing myself down onto the nearest sofa. ‘If you have seven days to drink milk, one day over the date is a much bigger deal than one day and two years. It’s basic maths.’

‘Maths!’ he makes a dismissive noise. ‘Maths and logic have nothing to do with it – this is about instinct.’ He glances over at me now, lowering the liqueur as he takes in my broken-ness.

‘Welcome home,’ he says, and though my eyes are now shut, I can hear the amusement in his voice. ‘Fun weekend?’

‘In parts,’ I reply, trying to find some fun in there somewhere, in among the exhausting madness.

‘Was, er, this costume part of things, or did you change into it on your way home, just for me?’ Feeling him move closer, I crack an eye to find him perching on the settee arm, giving me a leery once-over with a wry smile.

I pick up the hem of my skirt; it’s encrusted with an array of alluring stains. That one is grass, I think. That must be pink tequila. Ah, that one is definitely sick. All covered in a thick layer of edible glitter from the cupcake-making course we did this afternoon.

Answering with only a low groan, I roll towards him. He slides down onto the sofa cushions, pulling my fragile head into his lap and cradling it gently.

‘Poor Ginny,’ he murmurs, stroking my lank, greasy curls. The blow-dry Celeste made us all have on Friday – before activities began in earnest – now seems a million years ago.

‘There is one thing that would make me feel better,’ I say, my voice muffled by his jumper.

‘A glass of almost-out-of-date Baileys that may or may not give us the shits, but we should definitely drink tonight in its entirety anyway?’ he suggests.

‘No, god, please no,’ I groan.

‘Oh, I know!’ he tries again, his voice several octaves above hopeful: ‘A blow-job?’

‘Nice try.’ I sit up now, trying not to laugh at his crestfallen face. ‘What I really need – what would cure my hangover and make up for the hellishness of this weekend – is a huge puppy cuddle.’ I smile widely and he rolls his eyes.

‘After the wedding,’ he tells me for the hundredth time to my sigh.

I’ve been on a dog mission since we got engaged last year. I am sooo broody for a dog-baby. Every time we pass one on a walk, I start pulsing with longing. I just want to stroke a silky ear and play fetch. I’ve never felt such a ridiculous longing to throw a ball.

But Daniel says we need to wait. And I know he’s right. We can’t exactly have a carefree wedding and honeymoon in Madeira with a new pup at home.

‘OK, fine,’ I reply, kissing him lightly on the lips. ‘I guess I’ll have to settle for a Daniel hug instead.’ He leans in, wrapping big arms around me. He smells like fabric softener.

I feel my eyelids droop as the exhaustion hits me like a wall. Physically, mentally, emotionally; all of the different ways to be tired, I am there.

I’m so jealous of extroverts, who get energized by interaction. I find parties, events and conversation so draining. I’m even depleted after a short exchange with the Tesco delivery driver about replacement items. A single night out requires at least two days of quiet to recover and recharge, never mind three days straight of socializing with women I don’t know, when I’m meant to be the guest of honour.

‘How was it really?’ Daniel asks nicely. ‘Did Celeste follow your instructions?’

I side-eye him and snort. ‘Of course she didn’t.’ I reach for his hand, squeezing it and enjoying his warmth. ‘If she’d followed my instructions, I wouldn’t have had a hen do at all. But in the end, it was the hen do to end all hen dos. It was like a hen do went on a really bad hen do, got food poisoning and threw up hen do all over the rest of the hen do. That’s how hen do the weekend was. Everything that has ever happened on a hen do in the history of hen dos, happened on this hen do.’

‘Willy straws?’ he asks seriously.

‘We got a fresh supply of them each morning,’ I reply, matching his serious tone. ‘Mine were personalized with both our initials, and so graphically realistic, there were veins on them.’

‘I wasn’t going to tell you…’ he begins, looking sheepish. ‘But Celeste actually asked me for a mould of my penis.’

‘What?’ I sit up straight, staring at him. ‘You’re not being serious?’

‘I am,’ he nods, suppressing a laugh. ‘She wanted to use it in one of your activities. A kind of Mr and Mrs game, but with my willy, I guess?’

‘Oh my god,’ I breathe out, familial humiliation radiating. ‘Did she use her three stages on you?’

He nods. ‘Always. But I stood my ground.’

Celeste uses a three-stage technique to get what she wants from people, and it’s usually incredibly effective. First, a question: ‘Would you be interested in making a mould of your penis?’ The second stage is all about guilt: ‘You really should give me a mould of your penis, it would mean so much to Ginny and show her how much you love her.’ Then comes that all-important third stage; if stage one and two haven’t worked, she gives up all pretence that you have an option: ‘You’re doing a mould of your penis for me. I’ve sent you the kit and I’ll be in your house at 7pm helping to fit it.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ I say, head in hands.

‘I’m used to it,’ he laughs. ‘So it sounds like you’ve had a very wild weekend.’

‘So wild,’ my voice is muffled by fingers. ‘Aggressively wild. Won’t-take-no-for-an-answer wild. It was the party to end all parties. It was like Downing Street during lockdown.’

‘It sounds like a lot.’ Daniel bounds out of his seat with that boyish energy of his, grabbing me a glass of water.

I love that about him. I love his exuberance for life. He’s always excited for the next adventure, the next party, the next fun thing. He’s always making plans: plotting our next holiday, making lists for Christmas in August, talking about where we’ll go travelling when we retire. It brings me out of myself and makes me more fun. I can’t believe I get to marry him. Even after five years together, I still can’t get over how lucky I feel.

‘I wish we hadn’t agreed to her paying for everything,’ I sigh, shifting around to face him. ‘It just means she thinks she’s in charge.’ I pause. ‘And that she can keep changing things…’

He catches my tone, eyeing me warily. ‘What do you mean – what has she changed now?’

I look down at the carpet, feeling ashamed. ‘She told me this morning she’s amended the booking for a bigger room at the hotel – because she’s invited an extra fifty people.’

‘But we’re already up to two hundred!’ he cries. ‘And we only know about twenty-five of them.’

‘I knowwww,’ I wail. ‘I just don’t know how to tell her to stop.’

He sighs heavily. ‘Oh Gin, you’re such a people pleaser.’ I don’t reply because this is a common refrain from Daniel. And Myfanwy actually. Because it’s true, I know it is. I am a people pleaser. If we’re being more specific, I’m mostly a mother pleaser.

But I just don’t seem to have the mental equipment that other people possess. I see others – people like Myfanwy – drawing lines, setting their boundaries, saying no, explaining that they don’t have time or don’t want to do something – and I watch with open-mouthed awe. How is it possible? I go to say no or tell someone off and find myself staring at the wall or trying not to cry. I just can’t face the awkwardness or the confrontation. I don’t have the capacity. To be clear, it’s not something I’m proud of. In fact, I feel very embarrassed about being such a child. But I can’t seem to fix myself.

Until this wedding, it didn’t matter that much. Daniel drew his life boundaries, I fitted mine around his, and it didn’t impact our combined lives that much. But this last year, planning this huge, huge joint thing, it’s become a Real Issue.

When we got engaged, we decided on a small wedding; nothing too flashy or expensive. We wanted an intimate ceremony to accommodate my introversion, followed by a cheesy disco in a nice venue. It would be a very average wedding, but full of details that made it us. Our colour choices, our table decorations; flowers Daniel and I chose. I work constantly around weddings at work, and I was so excited to plan my own for the first – and only! – time.

And at first everyone seemed pleased and happy to let us have our very normal, ordinary wedding.

At the beginning, Celeste said she just wanted to help. She asked to come along to view the venues or meet the officiants. Then, when I flinched at the prices, she offered to foot the bill. And once that happened… boy howdy, things changed so fast. She started amending bookings and adding random third cousins to the guest list. She would change our table plans without consulting us and booked a world-famous photographer who only does ‘abstract’ pictures. She cancelled our ‘crappy’ DJ and booked a jazz wedding band – and when I asked why, she claimed I’d once said I liked jazz. But I only said that when I was fifteen, because I was trying to impress Ian Pervis in GCSE Music.

And, like the blinkered, brainwashed fool I am, I didn’t really notice she was taking over until it was too late to stop her. So now poor, sidestepped Daniel has been dragged into my people-pleasing by osmosis. He’s trapped by my uselessness and it’s not like he can tell off his future mother-in-law.

‘It will all be fine,’ he smiles brightly at me, reciting our mantra. ‘Better than fine, it will be wonderful. We will ignore the hordes of people at our wedding we don’t even know, and just focus on each other. When we’re up there saying our vows, it’ll just be about you and me, no one else. Trust me.’

I meet his eyes, still worried. ‘Are you sure? It just feels like it’s become this huge wedding monster that no one can tame.’ I sigh. ‘And it’s not just Celeste, it’s everyone.’ I slump deeper into the sofa. ‘Has getting engaged always meant you became, like, public property? I feel like I’ve been a museum exhibit this past year, opened up to the general population to view, comment on and review. Two stars, very lacklustre, would not visit this bride exhibition again. And every time I try to speak up or say what I want, I get shushed, like I’m ruining the experience for everyone else.’ I pause. ‘It’s all just so intense, Daniel. I feel railroaded and bamboozled – and then pathetic for letting myself be railroaded and bamboozled. I’m a grown-up after all – shouldn’t I be able to tell Celeste no?’ I throw my hands up. ‘The whole wedding is starting to feel like one big, bloated mess. Don’t you just want to scream?’

‘Sometimes,’ he says agreeably, not looking the least like he wants to scream. He’s better than me at all of this.

‘Shall we just run away to Gretna Green or Vegas?’ I suggest hopefully, only ten per cent joking.

‘Our families would never forgive us,’ he grins. ‘Especially your mum.’

‘I know,’ I sigh dramatically, picking up the glass of water.

‘Ooh, actually, can I have some of that?’ he asks, grinning cheekily as I laugh and hand it over.

He downs it in one. ‘Ugh, water!’ He makes a face. ‘Let’s have the dodgy Baileys, Ginny! Take our lives in our hands!’ He jumps up with exuberance, grabbing the bottle. ‘Let’s drink this and then go meet Jimmy in the pub! The lads are all down there.’

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I have the hangover from hell and would really like to sleep for, say, thirty or forty years, but I haven’t seen Daniel in three days. I should make an effort. Even if it involves hanging out with his overly loud best mate, Jimmy.

‘OK, I’m ready to risk it,’ I say with determination. ‘But I’m bagsie-ing the toilet now, so you’ll have to take the bathtub if things get really bad!’ I stand up, noticing what a state the flat is in. Tonight, I will be fun, and then tomorrow, I’ll clean and tidy. Daniel has so many good qualities, but looking after himself is not one of them. But that works – we work – because I love looking after him. Plus, I need to do something to make up for my family; to make up for my flaws.

In the kitchen, I fetch glasses from the cupboards and he comes up behind me to wrap hot arms around me.

‘Sorry to moan,’ I begin, trying to shake the dread away. ‘How was your weekend? Any willy straws involved?’

‘Almost none,’ he tucks his head between my shoulder and neck. ‘I was mostly just chilling out.’ He shrugs against me.

‘Maxin’? Relaxin’? All cool?’

He nods. ‘Shooting some b-ball outside of school.’

‘Did a couple of guys, who were up to no good, start making trouble in your neighbourhood?’

‘Exactly that,’ he nods solemnly.

‘OK,’ I spin around, taking the bottle from his hands and sloshing suspicious liquid into glasses. ‘Let’s do this.’ He laughs as we clink glasses.

I feel a rush of pride that I can make this gorgeous man happy. I will make him so happy, I know I can.

OK, so I’m not excited about the wedding itself, and the next hellish few weeks leading up to it, but if I can just survive it, Daniel and I will be married. And I am excited to marry him. We’re going to be married! And I’m going to make him so happy.

That fortune teller didn’t know what she was talking about.