Petunia
‘Mum said you went home early from your hen party. Are you okay?’ Josh says, bringing me back into the room. We’re in the kitchen and he’s stirring his protein shake.
His chest is all sweaty, and his tank top is stuck down to show the outline of his new pecs.
It was Arm Day today. I can tell because his biceps are more inflated.
He can get as toned and muscly as he likes, but the problem still lies under those thin nylon Nike shorts.
He downs his shake and leaves it dirty in the sink.
‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ he asks.
What I want to say is, ‘Well, honey. I discovered your pegging fetish last night, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it right now. Do you want me to peg you? Do you want another woman to peg you? Is this deep-rooted issue stemming from your dominant mother that perhaps you need help with?’
I don’t say this. ‘Sorry. Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just a dodgy Battenberg.’
‘Pure sugar.’
‘Mmm. Well, we have to go to the florist today,’ I say.
‘Kick-off is at 3 p.m.’
‘Well, we should get going then.’
‘I’ll get ready. Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little . . . vacant?’
‘No, no, no. Not vacant.’
‘You’re overthinking things, I can tell,’ he says, laughing.
*
On the Tube, I find out that Linda has told Josh everything about my hen party, including the failed stripper, and how disappointed she was that her evening was cut short.
‘She was so disappointed,’ Josh says.
‘Poor Linda,’ I mutter.
We move on to his stag do, which Josh describes as ‘a mess’.
I am shown a video of Pete singing ‘Stacy’s Mom’ in a neon-lit karaoke bar and then a photo of him taken a few hours later, trying to climb one of the lions in Trafalgar Square.
Josh said it was one of the funniest evenings he has had in a long time, and I tried not to be offended by this.
Petunia is Rebecca’s recommendation, and it’s clear why. It’s not one of those Instagram flower shops with flower arches and giant bouquets. Petunia is basic and small, with wooden shelves and buckets of slightly droopy flowers.
‘What about lavender?’ Josh says as he points to the bucket full of lavender with his foot. ‘Grandma’s favourite flower. Gramps would be made up.’
‘That’s nice, but no,’ I say and move on. I can’t have another element of my wedding dictated by Gramps. The flowers will be my thing (even though I have no idea about flowers).
Some women are obsessed with flowers and know precisely what they like.
Mum for instance loved peonies. Dad would get her a bouquet of them for her birthday or whenever he did something wrong – which was often.
Even when Dad left Mum for Jean-Ivy, he sent her a bouquet, but that was a big mistake.
The flowers ended up torn to shreds and sprinkled over the seats of his Bentley.
Dad hated Mum after that, and Mum hated peonies.
Josh doesn’t get me flowers. Instead, on Valentine’s Day, he gets me a Lindt Christmas reindeer, which he puts a heart sticker on and calls a love horse.
It’s those things that made me believe he was more innocent than my dad, and therefore safer.
But maybe Mum is right when she says that all men are the same.
‘These?’ I point my foot at a bouquet of a mix of orange roses, white carnations and yellow asters. Below is a sign saying, ‘Recommended for the wedding day.’ Josh glances at them for a split second.
‘Yeah, alright. So, these will go everywhere?’ he asks.
‘Yes. They’re for decorating the venue and for me to hold when I’m coming up the aisle,’ I say tightly.
‘Okay. Yeah. Sure,’ he says and wanders off. I feel like I could be pointing to a row of cacti, and he would react the same. I crouch down to get a closer look at them, then suddenly I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see Josh standing over me with a rose in his mouth.
‘What are you doing? Where did you get that?’ He ignores me, drags me up by my hands, and then adjusts us into a ballroom dance position.
‘Josh, what are you doing? Josh? Josh?’ He starts pulling me round the shop like we’re dancing.
The music is not appropriate, but Josh moves as if it’s a slow romantic tune.
I start to laugh, and his dimples emerge.
‘Excuse me,’ the shop lady shouts from over her book. Josh stops mid-dance but keeps the rose in his mouth. ‘You better be paying for that rose.’
Josh nods, spins me around, and then waltzes me to the counter. He takes the rose out of his mouth and points to the orange flowers.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he says in a fake posh voice. ‘I would like this rose and a ghastly amount of your wedding flowers, please.’
I laugh. I love him like this. Silly. Safe.
We leave the flower shop, giggling, with an order for our wedding flowers.
On the Tube home we play a game of guess-the-name-of-the-passengers-and-their-coffee-order.
Her name is Eloise, and she would order an oat milk flat white.
His name is Noah, and he will only drink Americanos.
Stupid but riveting fun. We used to do this a lot, making games out of nothing.
We are still joking around as we go through the front door. As we take off our shoes, we lock eyes, and I sense something strange but familiar – that spark. It’s right there between us.
This is it. We’re going to break our dry spell.
Josh throws his hand in the air and turns away. ‘Come on, Man-U!’ he shouts and goes into the living room. The football is turned on. I sigh in the empty hallway, then line our trainers up before joining him on the sofa.
It’s Manchester United vs Tottenham, and Josh is yelling at the TV as if the referee can hear him.
The man in the flower shop is long gone and is now possessed by the FA.
He’s glaring so intensely at the screen that you would think he was hypnotised by it.
I am on the other side of the sofa on my phone.
I’m not watching @DrLabby for tips, I am on Cosmopolitan’s online sex manual, Sexopedia, researching pegging.
‘What’s that face for?’ Josh asks, I turn and see that he’s looking at me from the other side of the couch.
‘Nothing. I was just thinking,’ I say.
‘Are you looking at new houses again?’ he says with an eye roll. Before I can reply, he is back watching the football. ‘Fernandes, what the fuck?’ he yells at the screen.
I learnt early on in our relationship that trying to have a conversation with Josh during a football match is a complete waste of time.
It’s like he’s going in and out of a parallel universe, and it’s completely out of his control.
Even when a match is finished, it will take him a minute to be fully present on this planet.
I leave the Sexopedia page and type ‘sex therapist in Southwest London’.
I’m surprised that there are ten in a five-mile radius alone.
The therapists are smiling too hard at the camera, like they enjoy their job a little too much.
The reality of Josh and me sitting opposite any of them and stumbling through the details of our desires makes me want to cringe into oblivion.
Josh makes an animal noise, and I jump out of my skin. ‘What are you doing with your life, Maguire?’ His mouth is wide open, and his hands are gripping his hair. Man United are going to lose.
I bookmark a therapist, just in case. Dr Greenwood is an 18-minute walk away and is the only one who’s not smiling in her photo, which makes me trust her the most. The whistle blows, Josh throws the cushion across the floor. Manchester has lost 2-1.
Josh and Amy’s Wedding 2025
To Do:
Ask Josh if he has any changes to the seating plan.
Go to Lace’s for the final fitting of the wedding dress.
Book Velvet Cats.
Lose half a stone so you can pull off your wedding lingerie.
Go to the gym with Josh.
Dye hair back to mousey brown.
Research sex toys.