Chapter Eight
Jake
‘Is my makeup a state?’
The toilet cubicle snaps back around us and this time we’re still holding hands, which doesn’t surprise me – I wanted to get out of that horror show as quickly as possible.
The same buzz of voices vibrates through the door, same pitch, same energy.
No time has passed. Her hand moves from my palm to her chest – fingers pressing there briefly, like she’s checking for something – then it drops.
The tears that were spilling down her face a moment ago have vanished, replaced by the slightest hint of a flush. She still can’t quite look at me.
‘You look great.’
She doesn’t trust me. She crouches to the floor, holding her dress, to peek under the stalls.
Seeing no one is there, she opens the door and heads straight to the sink, inspecting her face in the mirror.
She’s doing some weird thing with her lips, sucking air in through her nose and out through her mouth.
‘Thank fuck for setting spray,’ she mutters, voice monotone, no emotion, not like how she was in the bedroom just then.
She’s a robot in comparison, all composure, all business.
Like the tin man, except at least the tin man was looking for his heart.
This Dorothy has already clicked her heels and gone home, leaving her red shoes in the past.
She reaches into her bra, pulls out a folded square of paper and scribbles something quick against the edge of the sink.
Her eyes flash to mine as she tucks it away again, long enough to know I’ve spotted it, before she looks back at her own reflection.
‘Can I trust you to go back up to the bridal suite and stay out of the way?’ she says to my reflection as I stand behind her. There’s no warmth in her tone and she can’t even be bothered to face me. Who has she become? I’d have thought she’d at least have wanted a hug. I feel like I need one …
‘Absolutely!’ I chirp. ‘Don’t mind me, I’ll get out of your hair.’ This comes across as more patronising than I expected, but who cares? This robot before me doesn’t seem to have a conscience anymore.
‘Thanks, I appreciate it,’ she calls out as I leave the room.
Outside, I’m hit by a bustle of activity – waiters carrying champagne flutes on silver trays, their waistcoats and shirts making them look like waddling penguins.
Timothy is still standing by the photographers, making small talk, big teeth flashing white.
His suit is a bog-standard tux, no personality, which screams that he’s either very confident or very boring and traditional, and I’m gonna go with the latter. What does she see in him?
I spy a line of wine bottles by the bar and dodge my way through a crowd of women in sequins that I don’t recognise to grab one, stuffing it under my arm.
New mission: find out if I can actually taste anything yet.
Just then the bathroom door opens and Belle waltzes out, head held high.
Her face lights up when she sees Timothy. She doesn’t see me.
I head for the saloon next door, where the majority of the crowd are waiting for the happy bride- and groom-to-be to make their entrance.
There’s a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the doorframe between the two rooms and as I pass, a couple swoop in next to me, his hands on her waist, her fingers in his collar, kissing like they’ve forgotten where they are.
I stand there for a moment, right next to them, close enough to hear her laugh into his mouth and I feel … absolutely nothing.
Deflated, I move deeper into the room, scanning the crowd eagerly, looking for anyone that looks familiar to me.
Then I spot her, Aunt Susan. Just as superb as I was expecting.
She’s dolled up in an emerald dress that reminds me of those shiny two-tone suits blokes used to wear in the office, the ones that changed colour when they moved.
Camera flashes go off in the room next door as I slip through the crowd, catching snippets of conversation.
‘I can’t wait to see her dress tomorrow! What do you think it’ll look like?’
‘Oh, it has to be a Disney-style ballgown, doesn’t it?’
I move deeper into the room.
‘Does he have a girlfriend? Can you introduce us?’
‘Kelly, we’re at a wedding, not a fucking speed-dating event.’
‘Same-same.’
Finally, I spot a crowd of faces I know.
The majority of Belle’s family are standing at the bottom of a large staircase.
I watch as Belle’s dad takes a sip, too large for the occasion, like he needed it, while her mum straightens his tie.
I loved those two. They always made me feel welcome in a way that didn’t require effort.
They probably think this absolute circus of a wedding is just as silly as I do.
That may or may not be true, but it makes me feel better, so I’ll go with that.
To the left, Grandma Juliet is deep in conversation with Harry, Belle’s cousin.
He has his hand around the waist of a blonde-haired guy about his height, good-looking, relaxed – clearly a permanent fixture – both of them keeping a careful distance from Aunt Susan’s shiny dress, presumably.
I spot one of Belle’s oldest friends, Anisa, laughing into her hand as she chats to … Vik?
Vik was my best mate. Is my best mate? Can you still call someone that when you’ve been dead for ten years?
Belle wasn’t a fan of him at all … Bad influence, bit of a twat, a player – the usual stuff.
So, since when have they become mates? In what realm is Vik here, chatting happily away, at my ex’s wedding, like he belongs in this crowd?
I suppose a lot can happen in ten years.
He looks good – tall and broad – he always was a big lad, but Christ, he’s massive now.
Proper grown-up, impressive. The kind of geezer you’d want on your side in a fight.
I almost want to go slap him on the back, squeeze his biceps like I used to, though I suspect the comparison would not be in my favour these days.
He’s also removed the big blingy diamond stud earring he used to wear – thank God.
I loved the guy, but that thing was tragic.
A real ick, as I hear the girls say now.
Without it, he looks like someone’s husband, which, as it turns out, he is.
A woman approaches him now, tall and striking in a vibrant pink dress, her nose stud catching the light and a beaded clutch under her arm.
Vik grabs her hand as she reaches him, pulls her close and introduces her to Anisa as his wife.
I watch them all standing there – laughing, making small talk, completely at ease – a part of Belle’s life now.
They all got to stay when I had to leave. I make to turn back to the bar.
Chatter grinds to a halt when a small, svelte and well-dressed man with teeny-tiny glasses taps a fork on a glass three times and everyone turns as he shouts, ‘Let us all welcome the newlyweds-to-be!’
Belle and Timothy – or the soon-to-be Smalls, should I say – enter the saloon as the guests erupt in applause.
They walk hand in hand, and I lean slightly to the side to better see them as they come in.
Timothy’s grinning like he’s won the lottery, the smug bastard.
But Belle’s smile is all wrong. It’s polite and demure.
The kind of smile you give a coffee-shop barista, not the man you’re marrying tomorrow.
I remember her smile when it was real – toothy, dramatic, her whole face involved in it. This one is careful. She is performing happy, rather than feeling it, and I know, because I spent four years being the reason for the real smile.
My jaw tightens, but I force myself to keep watching.
The tiny-glasses man makes his way to the staircase with the couple as I dip behind a group of lads beside me. He clears his throat into a microphone, feedback reverberating as he starts.
‘I’m aware this isn’t strictly traditional, but when your son is Timothy Small, you find you simply have things to say. And so, a little speech for my son, to say how proud I am of you today, this weekend, and always.’
I roll my eyes. When your son is Timothy Small … I mouth the words back to myself. The man’s been waiting to say this his whole life, I’m sure.
‘I always knew you were destined for greatness, Timothy. Since you were young, your mother and I have been completely in awe of you. We both agree that one of our favourite memories is when you took your first step outside the Eiffel Tower on a family holiday – we captured that moment on VHS and the tourists’ reactions were priceless.
I have the tape in our room if anyone wants to watch it later. ’
Blimey. My first steps were probably in our council flat on the Shepway Estate, no video evidence taken, no tourists to impress.
‘I also fondly remember the first time you baked the family a cake at the age of eight but used salt instead of sugar … We’re glad you’ve not made that mistake since.
Also, of course, when you ran the London Marathon at the age of twenty-two, raising over ￡20,000 for the Stroke Association, as a tribute to your late grampa Bertie. ’
My eyes widen. At twenty-two I was still working out how to pay my phone bill.
‘We are constantly amazed by your determination, loyalty, and commitment in everything you do. From completing culinary school at the young age of nineteen, to opening your first restaurant and receiving a Michelin Bib Gourmand just a year after opening.’
My fists are clenched so tight, my knuckles ache. I don’t know why this is winding me up so much … Is it the fact that his dad is reading the speech from his phone? He could at least have printed it off.
‘The first time we heard you talk about Belle, we knew you’d fallen in love. And when we saw how you both laugh together as a couple, well … we wish that for you both forever.’