2
I DROP MUM at the Airbnb she’s staying in with Dad, Hayley’s mother Bobbi, and Bobbi’s wife Jean. Mum has a lot of bags, and a mysterious box that I am really hoping does not contain more copies of my book. That’s better than Dad at least, who insisted on bringing their giant coffee machine from home, even though the rental house comes with one and they are only away for two nights. ‘It will be one of those pod coffee machines, and I am morally against them,’ Dad told me. He takes a moral stance against a lot of appliances. I have stopped asking why.
Mum leans into the car to kiss my cheek and I start to put my window back up but she stops me.
‘Anna. You can stay with us, you know. Your father can sleep on the couch and you can share with me.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t need to stay with you.’
‘It’s not healthy to be sharing a house with Joel and his new girlfriend.’
‘The bridal party is staying together, that’s what we’re doing, it’s fine, it’s one weekend, I am fine with it, it will be fine.’ I’m a so-called writer who can’t think of another word for fine, apparently.
‘If you say so.’
‘I say so. See you tonight.’
Tonight is the rehearsal dinner. The first of the official events. The rehearsal dinner, the wedding ceremony itself, the reception, and the day-after brunch. Two days, forty-eight hours, probably more like fifty hours, depending on what time I leave the brunch. I can smile and be charming and be around Joel and his girlfriend for fifty hours. If we take out sleeping time, it’s only thirty-six hours. Easy. The events aren’t even the parts I’m worried about. It’s the downtime at the house where things might get difficult.
There are six of us staying there. Hayley and Luke, who are the bride and groom, me, the bridesmaid, Joel, the best man, Joel’s new girlfriend Bianca (she has no role), and Mac, Luke’s childhood best friend who is flying in from overseas and is a groomsman. It’s a lopsided bridal party, but Hayley didn’t mind and Luke really wanted to include Mac once he knew he was coming from the other side of the world. Also there’s a very negative energy having two exes as your entire bridal party, so Mac is there to balance out the bad juju.
Hayley is not a monster. She cleared the idea of me staying in a house with Joel a hundred times.
‘Are you sure?’ she’d asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Sure sure though.’
‘Yes.’
‘Joel is definitely bringing Bianca.’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t think it’s a mistake?’
‘I do,’ Luke had chimed in, but we ignored him, because this was between me and Hayley.
‘I think it will be fun,’ I had said firmly. I wasn’t going to let my breakup ruin a single moment of her wedding plans.
The four of us, together again. Just like old times. Plus Mac, who exists to me mostly as a mythical figure in Luke’s stories about his highschool days. And Bianca. Who I’m sure is very nice. Very, very nice. My heart is beating faster. I can do this. I have to do this, for Hayley.
Hayley and I are best friends. But it’s more than that. There are layers to it. We’re second-generation best friends. Our mothers are best friends, and when Mum and Bobbi both had daughters a few months apart, they decided their daughters would be best friends too. This is the kind of decision that normally inspires a firm desire from the children to hate each other and do everything in their power to prove their parents wrong, but Hayley and I aren’t that rebellious I guess, because we’ve been inseparable from the beginning.
We went to different high schools but the same uni, and in her third year, Hayley met Luke. They fell in love, Luke introduced me to his friend Joel, we fell in love, and suddenly Haley and I went from two to four. We spent our twenties together. Friday night dinners at the pub, poker nights, movie marathons, holidays. We all went hiking in New Zealand together.
‘Is this about us?’ Hayley said, as soon as she saw the title of my book.
‘No.’ On this point I was very insistent. ‘There’s a dead body, for a start.’
‘I know. But. Two couples on a hike. Feels very familiar.’
‘The setting was an inspiration. That’s all.’
‘Just the setting.’
‘Mostly.’
‘I always wanted to be in a book,’ Hayley said.
‘You’re not in it.’
‘A few little bits of me are, though, aren’t they?’
She was hopeful. Hayley had grown up with a mother who revered books, and she liked the idea of being someone’s muse, of being immortalised in art.
‘No. Everything is fictional.’
‘That’s disappointing.’
Joel and I had been broken up for a while when The Hike came out but he came to the book launch. I saw him, at the back of the crowd, and he raised a glass to me. We hugged, briefly. He bought the book, but didn’t ask me to sign it, and then I never heard anything. I haven’t seen him since that night, six weeks ago. He hasn’t bothered to read it, I assume. He’d read parts of it when I was writing it, very early drafts, but then we’d fought over his feedback (‘Is the main character supposed to be so annoying?’) and I stopped showing him.
Maybe he’ll mention it this weekend. Maybe he’ll say, ‘Anna, I was wrong about my feedback. Your main character goes on an incredible journey of emotional growth. Oh, and I’m still in love with you.’
I don’t want him back, but I want him to want me back.
I turn into the driveway of the rental house, and steel myself. These are the last moments I can let my face show my real emotions. I’m not good at poker face. At our poker nights, my tells were legendary. Blinking, darting eyes, nervous smiling, lip-chewing, frowning, deep breaths, head tilts. ‘Are you actively trying to lose?’ Luke once asked with gentle concern as he took all my chips.
But this weekend, from the minute I cross that threshold into the house, it’s going to be a happy face, all the way. Nothing but happy face, happy face, happy face. I’m going to smile, and my smile is not going to waver. Nothing is going to rattle me. I can handle my mother and her bras. I can handle Joel. I can handle Bianca. I can handle Joel and Bianca. It’s fine .
I park in the driveway. There’s no other car here, thankfully. I need time to get changed from my driving clothes into my ‘meeting Bianca’ clothes (which are basically identical to the untrained eye but they feel different), to put on a second layer of mascara, a third layer of deodorant, to practise my nonchalant, breezy ‘oh hi, nice to meet you’ face in the mirror.
Hayley texted me earlier to say she and Luke were ducking out to the winery where the wedding is taking place, and would be back soon, and she’d left the back door unlocked for me if I got there before they returned.
I open the door and wheel my suitcase in. The house is big and airy and rustic looking, with lots of heavy wood and seemingly random beams, a huge kitchen and two lounge rooms and a spa and a ping-pong table, as well as four bedrooms. Hayley and I planned out who was having each room when we booked it online. Hayley and Luke would have the private upstairs room with the spa ensuite, and I would have the next biggest bedroom which also has its own ensuite bathroom, which technically should go to Joel and Bianca, but Hayley has deemed will be mine as a consolation prize for having to share a house with Joel. The third bedroom is regular size, with a queen bed, which Joel and Bianca can have, and the fourth has twin single beds. That one will be for Mac, who isn’t arriving until tomorrow, so he’ll only have to endure the bad bedroom for one night.
I walk through the house, wheeling my suitcase and carrying my bridesmaid dress in its garment bag over my arm, headed for my room. The door is shut, and when I swing it open, I am greeted with the sight of a naked man. Well, a semi-naked man. He has a towel around his waist, but it’s precarious. His back is to me, and he’s bending over a suitcase. I can see just the very top sliver of his butt crack.
I scream, a regrettably very high-pitched squawk of a scream, because I was really not expecting a nude stranger in my room.
The man swings his head up in fright and whacks it against a wooden beam with a disturbing thunk .
‘Fuck,’ he yells, clutching his head. His towel has gone from riding low and loose to slipping off, and he grabs it and holds it in front of himself, and now I can see the full glory of his naked buttocks.
‘Sorry!’ I say, turning away, but I’ve caught enough of his face to realise it’s Mac. We’ve met twice before, many years ago in our early twenties. Once at a party, and once in passing when he came to pick Luke up for something. But that’s not really where I recognise him from. Mac is an actor, not an especially famous one, but an actor all the same. He’s been in things. He had a notable two-episode arc as a patient on Code Blue during its highest-rating season, and he played a supporting character on a little-known sci-fi drama called Arcadia Rising , and he was in a funny indie movie that came out several years ago. I know his face very well from these roles, but I am not going to mention that. From Luke’s stories about him, I’ve always had the sense that Mac might be a little bit full of himself (he is an actor, after all, there are certain professions where one expects a minimum level of ego) and I don’t want to begin our interactions with him assuming I am an adoring fan.
‘Mac?’ I say, as if I’m unsure. I’m a couple of steps down the hallway now, with my back turned.
‘Yes. Anna?’
‘Yes. Hi,’ I say.
‘You can come back now,’ he says, and I retrace my steps to see he’s reinstated the towel around his waist. One hand is holding it there, and the other is touching the back of his head and checking for any sign of blood.
‘Sorry about the scream.’
‘You scared the shit out of me,’ he says.
‘Well you scared the shit out of me ,’ I say. He is the naked one. I am the innocent bystander.
‘You threw open my bedroom door and screamed.’
The ‘my’ has me bristling. No. He can’t lay claim to the room.
‘Sorry. I walked in and saw a naked man and feared for my life.’
He’s still gingerly touching the back of his head so I walk back out to the kitchen, grab some ice from the freezer, wrap it in a tea towel and bring it back to the bedroom for him.
He’s put on a T-shirt and is zipping up his jeans when I walk back in. The thing about Mac is he almost looks like an ordinary guy on TV, not short but not especially tall, not skinny but not especially muscular, brown hair, and brown eyes. He has a face that slides a little more towards interesting than classically handsome, with an ever so slightly crooked nose and notably sharp incisors (no veneers), but now I realise my understanding of him as ordinary is skewed because everyone on TV is beautiful, which shifts the range of what is normal. In person, Mac is definitely handsome, yes, but more than that, he has a magnetism that I can’t put my finger on. His posture, maybe, is part of it. The way he holds his whole body. Even his exposed butt had a certain charisma. Also, his voice. I knew about the voice. He has an excellent voice, kind of scratchy sexy without trying to be scratchy sexy. An Australian accent lightly infused with the sense of having lived elsewhere for a decade. For the last ten years, he’s lived overseas. Mostly LA, but currently New York.
‘Here,’ I say, and I reach up and hold the ice against his head. He looks at me, and then takes the tea towel from my hand and holds it himself.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘It’s not bleeding?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Want me to check?’
‘No, it’s okay.’
‘You could have a concussion.’
‘I don’t have a concussion.’
‘Is your vision blurry? Are your ears ringing?’
‘My ears are definitely ringing.’
‘That is a sign of a concussion.’
‘They’re ringing from your scream.’
That feels borderline sexist, but I don’t say anything. I am swallowing down every emotional reaction I have this weekend.
He sits on the bed, and I hover nearby. I should leave the room, but that would feel like I was relinquishing it. I need this room. I can’t be in the room right next to Joel and Bianca. The success of the whole weekend hinges on me sleeping more than two metres away from them. I have to find a way to convince him to move.
‘So you’re not a fan of knocking?’ he says after a moment of silence, and his tone immediately annoys me.
‘I thought you weren’t arriving until tomorrow.’
‘I switched flights,’ he says. ‘I came straight from the airport and showered.’ He yawns, and I assume he’s jet-lagged, or else he’s simply terribly bored by me. All the more reason he can have the shitty room—he’ll sleep through anything tonight.
‘Oh. Well. I’m very sorry for walking in. It’s just that, this room was supposed to be mine,’ I say, with what I hope is an apologetic but firm face.
‘Oh. I didn’t know we had assigned rooms.’
‘Well, I helped Hayley book the house, and the plan was for me to be in here.’
‘What room is supposed to be mine?’ he asks, after a beat.
‘I’ll show you,’ I say. He puts down the tea towel of ice and follows me.
I lead him to the child’s room, which had twin single beds in the pictures, I am sure, I am certain , but now that I step into it, it has a single bunk bed. A very small bunk bed. And two framed pictures on the walls, in big pastel lettering, one saying ‘Dream big, little one’ and the other saying ‘You’re amazing just the way you are’. And a basket of toys, including a very creepy-looking doll. Her eyes are staring into the abyss.
He walks into the room, saying nothing.
‘It’s actually a nice room. It gets the most light,’ I say, sounding like a real-estate agent. I quickly grab the doll and turn her facedown, because her intense gaze is not going to help matters. I want to explain to him that I am already working against the image of being the sad single bridesmaid whose ex has moved on and she hasn’t, and I can’t also be in the kiddie room on bunk beds. I need the surroundings of a big bed, tasteful abstract art and my own shower. I need to be swanning around in a robe, metaphorically. And literally. I definitely can’t share a bathroom with Bianca. I can’t step into the shower after she has stepped out. I can’t have my feet standing in her leftover shower water. My self-esteem, my sanity , hinges on this.
‘I won’t fit in that bed,’ Mac says.
‘It’s bigger than it looks,’ I reply. What I really mean is, you aren’t as tall as you think you are. Studies have shown that men always overestimate their height. He’s probably just barely six foot. I could check IMDb, but that’s never accurate. I’m five seven and a half. We’re talking a matter of inches between us.
He walks over and lies down on the bottom bunk. His feet touch the end, but he’s not really trying to fit.
‘If you squidge up a bit, it’ll work. Your head needs to be closer to the wall.’
He looks at me, and then shuffles up, so his neck is bending at an odd angle.
‘Like this? You want me to sleep like this?’ he says. ‘My poor damaged head, pressing against the wall?’
‘We’ll get some extra pillows. I’ll make it comfy.’
He props both his hands behind his head and studies me.
‘I think the rule is first in, best dressed. Or best bed in this case.’
My job this weekend is not to get in a fight with a groomsman within minutes of arriving. My job is to be an accommodating, gracious, calm problem solver. Who would have thought the man to annoy me most in this house was going to be this one and not my ex? But I’m speaking too soon. Joel hasn’t arrived yet. He still has plenty of opportunity.
‘What about we switch it out? We each take the bunk bed one night,’ I say.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I guess that’s fair.’
‘You take the bunk bed tonight, and I’ll take it on the night of the wedding.’
‘But my stuff is already in the other room.’
‘But you might meet someone at the wedding and want to bring them back to the bigger bed.’
We need to be practical about this. Also, I am banking on him getting drunk at the wedding and just passing out in the bunk beds again.
‘I’m not planning on hooking up with anyone,’ he says, looking faintly amused.
‘I wasn’t sure, if you were single, or what,’ I say.
‘I’m single. I’m just not really here for that,’ he says.
‘Good. Neither am I.’ I don’t know why I add this.
‘Are there going to be a lot of single women at the wedding?’ he asks.
‘So you are interested.’
‘I’m just wondering now. Because you brought it up.’
‘There will be some, yes.’
He looks at me, expectantly.
‘You want a list?’ I say. I’m being sarcastic but he doesn’t seem to register that. He’s been in America for too long, he can no longer parse Australian tones.
‘Yes please,’ he says.
‘Okay. There’s Theresa, Hayley’s work friend. She’s lovely. And Alyssa. Also lovely. She’s mostly dating women at the moment but she might make an exception. And who else? Oh, Sara. And Diya. And Luke’s cousin, I’ve forgotten her name. Oh, and the celebrant. She could be single, I don’t know.’
‘You think I should hook up with the celebrant?’
‘I don’t think you should , I was just including her to be thorough.’
I haven’t included myself, but that’s because I’m in a different classification. I’m still in the healing and self-discovery period post long-term relationship.
‘That would be sacrilege, surely.’
‘It’s a secular ceremony.’
‘It’s definitely frowned upon.’
‘I’m not saying do it, I’m saying, theoretically, she could be single. You could have a Fleabag situation.’ I was actually hoping Hayley and Luke would choose a young Catholic priest so I could have my own Fleabag situation, but the fact they’re not Catholic apparently meant that dream couldn’t be realised.
‘Well, as appealing as that all sounds, I am very jet-lagged and I need the good bed tonight. So I’ll take my chances with the bunk bed tomorrow,’ he says.
‘Great,’ I say.
It’s not great. This leaves me next to Joel and Bianca tonight, and, worse, sharing a bathroom with them tomorrow, during the crucial getting-ready period.
‘I have one little caveat,’ I add.
‘What’s that?’
‘I need to use your room’s ensuite bathroom tomorrow for getting ready.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll need access from about six am.’
‘Six am!’ He sits up in slight outrage and whacks the front of his head on the bottom of the top bunk.
How many head injuries can this man take?
‘Fuck,’ he says, rubbing his forehead.
‘Sorry. Hayley wants me ready to go by seven.’
Maybe I need to get him the ice again.
‘Should we write this down? Draw up a contract?’ he says.
‘It is already written down. Hayley sent you the itinerary for the whole weekend.’
‘Right. I haven’t had a chance to look through that email in detail yet.’
Of course not. He probably thinks he’s too good for the bridal-party schedule. Meanwhile, I helped figure it out and proofread it and I am doing half the tasks on the list. Being a bridesmaid is basically being an unpaid intern. The better bedroom is mine by rights.
I look him in the eyes.
‘Please. This is important to me.’
He looks at me, and his face is unreadable, which is annoying because I know mine isn’t, but then he nods.
‘Okay. You can have the bathroom whenever you need it.’
‘Thank you. I might also need it before the rehearsal dinner tonight.’
‘Why is it so important?’ he says, carefully getting off the lower bunk.
‘Because the other groomsman, Joel, is my ex. And he’s bringing his new girlfriend, and they’re sleeping in that bedroom next to this one. And using the bathroom. And I just—I really need distance from him.’
As these words leave my mouth, someone clears their throat from behind me. I stop talking and turn around.
‘Hi, Anna,’ Joel says.