CHAPTER 1 Amelia
Amelia
Present day
Here are the five places I’d rather be than standing up on this brightly-coloured, yellow-themed church altar:
At the dentist (root canal, no less)
Getting a Bikini wax (Brazilian!)
Doing my taxes (numbers—ugh!)
Doing a presentation in front of people
On a long-haul plane trip (surrounded by only crying babies).
Am I being a tad dramatic? Maybe. But as I look around, absorbing all the love and romance and gooey feelings of the people surrounding me, I believe I’m justified in feeling this way.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
A swell of joyous applause erupts around me as I watch my bestie, Bella Mancini-now Richardson, kiss the love of her life, her new husband Daniel. My traitorous eyeballs fill with tears despite my previous rebellious thoughts, and my hands clap vigorously. I can’t help myself. They’re such a beautiful couple, both inside and out. If I didn’t love them so much, I’d hate them.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Daniel leans all the way down and kisses the life out of a beaming Bella while the rapturous applause continues. I watch, happiness and dread fighting for pole position in my stomach, because once this overly-long, somewhat inappropriate for a church setting kiss ends, the spotlight will move to the bridal party. AKA, me.
Bella laughingly pushes Daniel away, earning one last peck on the lips from her besotted husband, before they turn hand in hand and face the congregation, all the people who love them the most. And here we are, this is it. The time has come, the reason for my earlier dread, the wishing to be anywhere else but here. Sweat drips down my back as Bella takes her bouquet of yellow roses from her smiling maid of honour and with her arm looped through Daniel’s, the two of them start their married life with the short walk down the aisle towards the now open doors of the church. Following behind them comes the best man and maid of honour, Lucas and Amy Mancini. Another disgustingly in love couple, joining together and all but skipping in the footsteps of the bride and groom. And then? The other bridesmaid, Lilly, and her groomsman husband, Oliver. Another couple. Linking hands and making their way out of the church.
And then there’s…me. Just me. Only me. Apparently, Daniel has only two friends in the entire world and decided, quite rudely if you ask me, to pick Lucas and Oliver to be his groomsman, while Bella wanted all three of us to be her bridesmaids. And when you look at those numbers, well the math ain’t mathing. Leaving me the odd one out. The one who has to walk down the aisle, behind the happy couples. Alone. All alone.
Deep breath, Amelia. No one is even looking at you.
Except they are. The faces of the hundred-plus congregation—how do Bella and Daniel know so many people? And again, how could Daniel not find one person in this crowd to partner with me today?—follow my every step. And it may be that I’m imagining the pitying looks written on their faces as I sprint-walk down the aisle, as fast as my heels and the mermaid skirt of this gorgeous yet restrictive yellow dress will allow me. But it’s like every furrowed brow and slight head shake is a sad indictment of my single status. Like I need that kind of reminding.
Just a few more steps and then freedom.
Except, what awaits me on the other sides of these doors is more couple time, more playing third—seventh?—wheel in this group of twosomes as we make a procession line to accept the hugs and kisses from all the well-wishers, waiting to share their glowing congratulations with the bride and groom. And the friends of the happy couple. Couple, couple, couple…and then one lone woman. Wishing I was anywhere but here.
“You must be the friend, the spinster.” I’m startled from my internal panic at being the odd one out by Bella’s aunty, who had travelled all the way from Florence, Italy to be here today. To insult me, apparently.
“Not spinster, Zia,” Lucas, Bella’s older brother, gently chides the confused-looking woman in front of us. He’s standing next to me in this hellish procession line and has the privilege of witnessing my utter humiliation. “That’s not quite the English word for what you mean.”
The said aunty looks perplexed, and I mirror her expression. I get English isn’t her first language—and being unable to speak anything beyond the tertiary Japanese I learnt in high school, I admire anyone who is bi-lingual—but come on! A spinster is a spinster in any language.
“You mean, single,” Lucas clarifies with an embarrassed chuckle while my cheeks flame. “She means you’re the unattached member of the bridal party,” he continues to try to reassure me while making things worse.
“Ah, ok,” I mutter, happy to see the baffled-looking aunty being moved on by another kindly family member, who is also shooting me a sympathetic glance. When did being single become so taboo?
“Smile!”
The bridal party turns in unison at the command of the tiny but mighty photographer, who according to Bella is the best in the business. She’s working hard to move us into position and making us pose…all while looking natural. An oxymoron if you ask me.
“Are you OK?” Amy, Lucas’s wife and Bella’s new sister-in-law asks me through clenched teeth, as we continue to smile like maniacal evil geniuses. It’s almost painful holding this smile in place at this point.
“Sure, I’m fine.” I don’t want any of the focus of today to be on me. This is Bella’s day and I wish only the most perfect wedding for her.
“Don’t take any notice of Zia Anna. When we last visited Bella and Lucas’s family in Florence, she called me a young prostitute, when she meant to say young professional.”
A loud chuckle bursts out of me as I picture the scene and Amy’s giggles follow mine until we’re both laughing uncontrollably. The rest of the group stop their enforced smiling for the photographer and turn to us, keen to be included in the joke.
“I’m just filling Amelia in on the troubles we’ve all faced with the Italian-to-English language barrier,” Amy gasps out between snorts. “Aunty Anna just called Amelia a spinster.”
Another laugh escapes me as I try to ignore the sting that word still has in its tail. It’s just a silly misunderstanding. Why am I letting it get to me so much?
“Amelia, I’m so sorry.” Bella moves away from the arms of her husband and wraps her own arms around me.
“Don’t be silly,” I mumble into her neck while pulling her closer, drawing comfort from her nearness. I’ve only known Bella for eighteen months, but it feels like we were always destined to be best friends. And given Bella moved from the other side of the world only to stumble into the hair salon where I work on her third day in the country, it makes finding her even more special. “It’s fine.”
She pulls back and frowns at me. That’s the trouble with having a bestie who knows you better than you know yourself. She knows all my sore spots and she can see straight through my lies. She knows that my single status, after so many attempts at being part of a couple, is something that bothers me more than it should.
“Are you sure?” She says this under her breath as we make our way to where the shiny white stretch limousine is waiting to take us to the reception venue. I’ve seen the location, having visited it with Bella many months ago, and I know what awaits us: a beautiful white tented marquee, smothered in yellow ribbons and flowers, perched just by the ocean.
I squeeze her arm to my side and wobble a smile in her direction. “You know me, I’m working on being fine, being on my own. I do not need a man.”
Her eyebrows draw down into an even deeper frown and I use my forefinger to push them back into place.
“Seriously, Bella. Today is all about you and that hunky man who is now your husband. My doomed love life is a discussion for another day.”
She opens her mouth, no doubt to argue with me and is interrupted by her husband winding his muscular arms around her and pulling her back against him. “Everything alright, Mrs. Richardson?”
I watch Bella melt into him and stifle the pang of longing I feel whenever I’m near them. Or Lucas and Amy. Or Oliver and Lilly. Three perfect couples. I could look at them and see what’s possible, but after the disaster that has been my love life over the years, all I see when I look at them are my own failures. My inability to find what they’ve found.
“Everything is perfect, Mr. Mancini,” Bella teases her husband, turning to plant a soft kiss on his lips while he beams down at her. I know Daniel would go against tradition and happily take Bella’s last name, if that’s what she wanted. He’s willing to do anything for her.
“Then let’s get this party started!” This comes from Lilly, who’s already in the limo, an opened champagne bottle in her hand. Oooh, alcohol.Maybe that’s the ticket to making it through the rest of the day?
*****
Maybe not.
I’m on my fifth glass of champagne and have almost given up looking for the numbing effects a good bottle of champagne can offer. Sure, after the first glass went down and the crisp bubbles went straight to my head, things had been looking up. But then we’d arrived at this magical venue, the marquee lit with fairy-lights and candles, and filled with the light fragrance of vases upon vases of yellow roses, adding to the sensual vibe Bella was hoping to achieve, and I had halted at the seating arrangements of the bridal table.
Here’s what it’s like: you know when you go to a dinner party that has just enough room at the table to fit the invited guests? Say, in this case, three happy couples? And then someone brings an extra stray person along, so the hosts have to find a fold-out table, stick it on the end, slap on a tablecloth and hope no one will notice where the real table ends and the add-on table begins? Well, that’s where I am today, at the end of the table, the extra part that’s not supposed to be there. I feel like my mere presence is making everything lopsided and slightly wrong. And I know I’m being overly sensitive and this perception of my role today is most likely all in my head, but I can’t get over the notion that my being here without a partner is throwing the entire bridal party off.
“Aren’t they the most beautiful couple?” Lilly’s slightly slurred words draw my attention away from my unhinged internal monologue about seating arrangements and direct it back to the dancefloor where the bride and groom are sharing their first dance. The haunting notes of Etta James’s “At Last” fill the air and goosebumps pop up along each of my arms as my attention is glued to the two of them gliding across the floor, lost in each other’s gaze, their utter devotion to each other palpable.
I swallow hard. “They are.”
“Do you want to get married?”
My head turns sharply to look at Lilly, wondering where this question came from. Since becoming friends with Bella all those months ago, I’d been adopted into her friendship group, which comprises Amy and her best friend Lilly, who is also Bella’s business partner. We’d spent enough time together for Lilly to know that love and romance are not a popular topic of conversation for me.
“What about me makes you think I’m the marrying kind?”
She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes at me like she’s attempting to peer into my soul. And it’s working. Her intense inspection of me has my hands sweating.
“I think you’re totally the marrying kind.” She nods her head firmly after she says this, like the decision has been made.
“Lilly,” I start, keeping my voice firm like I would if I were talking to an unruly toddler. “You know I don’t want a relationship, that I’ve given up on love.”
Her expression softens as she looks from the happy couple back to me. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right man yet?”
I snort. “Well, I’ve met enough wrong men to know when to give up. It’s just not in the cards for me.”
“You haven’t met anyone who you’d want to settle down with?”
A pair of emerald green eyes flash in my mind without permission, and I promptly shoo them away.
“Nope. Not a single one.”
Lilly opens her mouth—to argue? to console me?—and is interrupted by the MC of the night, a role taken seriously by the fire station captain from where Daniel works. His deep commanding voice makes him perfect for the job, asking for the members of the bridal party to join the newlywed couple on the dance floor.
What fresh hell is this?
My mind races as Lucas leads Amy to the dance floor, followed by Oliver and Lilly. No, no, no. This can’t be happening! I’d been prepared for the awkward walk down the aisle, the uncomfortable photo shoot, the uneven numbers of this seating arrangement, but this? This is too much.
I’m rooted in my seat, staving off a panic attack, when my blurry vision stumbles on a large figure coming towards me. Daniel, the groom.
“Come dance with us,” he says with a dimpled smile and an offer of his hand. “We’re all dancing together.”
It’s only now that I focus on the dancefloor. I can see the six of them in a circle, arms around each other, dancing as one. Not as three separate couples. My breath rushes out of my lungs and those pesky tears tremble on my lashes.
“You know Bella would never do anything to make you feel left out,” Daniel says as he tucks my hand into the crook of his arm and walks us to where our friends are waiting. “I know you’ve been dreading being the ‘odd number’ today, but it’s just that, we could never have had our wedding without you being right by our sides.”
My insides flood with warmth; Daniel isn’t typically very effusive with his words. Except for when he’s with his love, Bella. With her, he’s a walking love sonnet.
“Thanks, Daniel.” My hand squeezes his arm as I’m filled with affection for the people in front of me. So what if I’m alone, the spinster of the group? Who needs a boyfriend when you have friends just like these?
*****
A boyfriend wouldn’t be the worst at a time like this.
This thought is playing on a loop in my mind, as I find myself several hours later, after the festivities are over, hobbling down the gravel path away from the magical fairyland wedding reception venue, towards where a car was supposed to be waiting for me. The rest of the bridal party had all left in groups of two (very Noah’s ark of them), only leaving me alone once I’d given them several dozen reassurances that I had a ride home. And I thought I had, except now it’s dark and my feet really hurt and the silver Subaru, licence plate TKO065, is nowhere in sight.
“Come on,” I mutter at my phone, which is refusing to find 4G (or is it 5G now? Or is that the bad G that is trying to take over the human race?). “How am I supposed to order an Uber without the internet?”
My phone remains stoic in its non-answer and I huff out a breath. Which I can now see in front of me. Thank you, frosty spring nights in Melbourne. The day had been so blindingly sunny, that I hadn’t given one single thought to bringing a jacket. Or a shawl or anything to cover my naked shoulders, left bare thanks to the flattering deep sweetheart neckline of this strapless lemon-coloured bridesmaid’s dress.
“It’s going to be OK.” I say this into the darkness because the only person I’m reassuring with these words is me. And I’m not doing a great job at it, if I do say so myself.
With a sigh that I feel from the depths of my soul, I force my tired, aching feet to walk back up the hill to the reception venue, where, hopefully, there is a phone I can use. Surely these places still have landlines?
“Are you able to order me a taxi?” I ask the first person I stumble upon, who is busily clearing the tables we’d just vacated.
A blank stare greets this request.
“Do you have a phone?”
Nothing.
“Do you speak English?”
A slight shake of the head. Great. My night keeps getting better and better. I reach into my impractically small clutch purse and pull out my phone. Holding it up and pointing to it, I ask again in a loud voice, “Do you have a phone I can use?”
Now, I know speaking louder will not get her to understand me, but my tired, slightly intoxicated brain is working off fumes at the moment, so I’m hoping this will excuse my culturally insensitive behaviour. Just this once.
“Here.” My new non-English-speaking friend hands over her phone and with a grateful smile, I take it from her, happy to see her service provider has granted her network privileges, and use it to call for a taxi. A taxi that will take thirty-five minutes to get to me. Wonderful.
“Thank you,” I say, this time keeping my voice at a normal decibel, as I give her back her phone, hoping that she can understand the gratitude on my face and in my tone, if not my words themselves.
“Welcome.” She gives me a timid smile and gets back to work, leaving me alone. Again. Geez, talk about a theme for the entire day.
The blister on my right toe takes this opportunity to burst, and this is my cue to take the sparkly, so pretty, silver torture devices off my throbbing feet and brave the walk back down the gravel path to the roadside, to wait for my taxi. Leaving a small trail of blood in my wake, I limp away from the warmth of the building into the night.
“Ouch,” I hiss, walking on my tippy toes and debating with each step into the stones coating the pathway whether I should put my shoes back on. This is just a perfect end to what has been a really trying day.
Reaching the end of the driveway, I sink down into the grass, wincing at the grass stains I’m inevitably inflicting on this beautiful dress and blink furiously. I’ve made it through the day without giving in to the tears that have had my throat tightening every fifteen minutes. I’m not letting one little (enormous) blister and a missed Uber ride break me now.
A partner to share some of these burdens wouldn’t be the worst thing.
I’m too emotionally spent to squash this annoying voice in my head that always seems to pop up when I’m feeling at my lowest. I hate this voice. It makes me feel weak and useless, like I can’t be a fully-fledged, fully-functioning person without a boyfriend. But then, at times like these, when all my friends disappear into the night as couples, entwined and happy, I can’t stifle the idea that things would be easier, better even, with someone by my side.
“You are a strong, independent woman, who doesn’t need anyone to get you through this life. You have the tools to be successful and whole, all on your own.”
I repeat this mantra out loud because there’s literally not a single person nearby to hear me, until the taxi driver approaches, offering me a way to bring this day to an end. A ride home to bed. To sleep and then start tomorrow without this sense of loneliness dripping over me.
“Miss? You need a taxi?”
I slowly bring myself up to a standing position and gingerly walk to the car.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“You ready to go?”
Am I ever!“Yes, I’m so ready to go.”
I sink gratefully back into the soft leather car seat, letting the rambling, running sentences of this particularly chatty taxi driver wash over me, only inserting the occasional “aha” and “yep” when it seemed appropriate.
“This is you, Miss.”
I open my eyes, wondering if I’d actually fallen asleep and see my apartment building through the fogged-up car window.
“Thank you.” I pay the exorbitant fare—geez, my savings are taking a hit with this one taxi ride—and, looping my fingers through the straps of my shoes, I walk the final few steps through the front door of my building.
“Stupid staircase!” I curse this older, elevator-free building, as I do daily, and gripping the handrail tightly, I pull my heavy legs up the one, two, three flights of stairs, summoning the last of my energy to trudge down the final hallway to my apartment. 3F.
“What in the mother of all that is holy is this?”
I say this out loud, out very loud, as I stare at the note taped haphazardly to my front door.
“Oh no, not today, Satan!”
With a burst of energy that would have seemed impossible to find a mere thirty seconds ago, I wrench the note off my door, crumple it in my hand, throw it down on the floor and using my foot—the bleeding one—I stomp on it.
“How dare he!?”
My angry words bounce off the walls in the silent corridor and when no answers are forthcoming, I use my phone to order an Uber (thank you, 4G) and run—no sprint—back down the three flights of stairs, to wait for it. It may be one o’clock in the morning, and this may be an overreaction, but this is not happening. Not today.
The car I ordered has barely screeched to a halt when I vault inside, telling the driver to step on it. He shoots me a startled glance in his rear-view mirror before doing as I ask and taking off at high speed. The force of this pins me back against the back of my seat and it’s only after I’ve found my balance again that I’m able to look at the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. It’s from my ex-boyfriend Robby. The ex-boyfriend who dumped me unceremoniously six months ago and then disappeared without a trace. And the note has the nerve to say:
“I miss you and I want you back.”
I. Don’t. Think. So!
Oh Robby, you’re in for a world of pain. And I’m so in the right mood to inflict it on you.