Chapter Twenty-Two
The next evening is the rehearsal dinner.
Now, I’m going to let you in on a secret: I don’t really like weddings.
I know, I know, you’d assumed I’d love them, right?
I’m joking. I think there’s actually a very narrow subset of people who genuinely like weddings.
And you know, if that is your thing then fair play.
I’m not dissing weddings per se, I’m just saying that a lot of people pretend to enjoy them and I’m not the biggest fan of forced joviality.
But there is something far worse than weddings. Rehearsal dinners. I mean, it is literally the run-through of the wedding, so you get all the spoilers but none of the wine.
I make a total pig’s ear of the practice for the ceremony, coming in at the wrong time and standing in the wrong place and taking Cesca’s bouquet at the wrong time.
Rachel and Dad aren’t here for the rehearsal and so I have to stand in for them as well while we practise other elements of the wedding.
In some ways I’m sad not to see them; if there’s one thing that would make everything seem better it’s a hug from my dad.
But I think he’d know. Straight off, no need to elaborate.
He’d just know I wasn’t his Bethany, that I was an imposter.
And I really don’t want to freak him out just yet.
At least when he and Rachel arrive for the actual wedding they’ll be so preoccupied with the fact that finally one of us girls is getting hitched they won’t notice me at all.
Or at least that’s what I’m hoping happens anyway.
Tyler catches up with me as we file out of the ceremony venue and there’s the usual scramble for who will travel with whom to the restaurant Cesca and Helen have booked for dinner. ‘I have my car if you need a lift,’ he says.
I glance to my left and Nessie gives me a huge thumbs up. ‘I think Nessie would be rather distraught if I said no,’ I reply.
‘Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I’ll take it.’
Conscious that perhaps I seem a little too rude – or at least even more rude than usual – I row back my sarcasm slightly. ‘Sorry, I only mean she was particularly enthusiastic at our dress fitting yesterday.’
‘She’s desperate for me to find a nice girl and settle down,’ he says, although there is a dry edge to his words.
‘I mean, two things on that.’ I take his arm and we head towards the car park. ‘Aren’t you almost my brother-in-law?’
‘No.’ He’s adamant.
‘No? You sound very sure about that.’
‘I … well …’ He seems flustered.
‘You looked it up, didn’t you?’ I tease him gently. Or at least I hope it comes across as gently.
‘For scientific purposes, yes.’
‘Scientific purposes. Oh yes, of course.’
‘What’s the second thing?’ he asks.
‘Well, I’m not …’
‘Really here. Yes, I’m fully aware of that.’
So. I’m going to level with you. I probably shouldn’t have had three glasses of champagne – actual real champagne and not prosecco, which I know isn’t the best excuse but it’s the one I’m using – before we ate.
But I did. And then I watched Helen and Cesca and realized that in this world their relationship was just as toxic as in Decanting Bethany’s.
And then I forgot that Tyler and Helen were related and maybe I shouldn’t bitch about his sister to him. It’s probably considered bad form, but I couldn’t help myself by that point.
‘She needs to stand up for herself,’ I tell him.
‘Who?’
‘Cesca! She needs to tell Helen that this isn’t what she wants.’
‘But what if it is?’ Tyler says, his voice level and entirely unaffected by the three glasses of champagne he drank with me. Evidently this Bethany is something of a lightweight.
‘Huh. My sister wouldn’t want this.’ I wave my hand around as if to indicate that none of this is what Cesca would have chosen.
‘Except that she does.’
‘She doesn’t.’
‘She chose to marry Helen, remember?’
I stare at my sister, at this sepia version of her.
This sepia version with the traditional wedding and the blue bridesmaids’ dresses and the bouquet of white roses she will hand me during the real ceremony.
It’s all so … provincial. So … traditional.
And one thing Cesca has never been is provincial and traditional.
She was always the girl with the blue hair and the bad-ass girlfriend and the who-gives-a-shit attitude.
‘I’m just trying to help.’ I pour another glass of champagne and pout slightly, almost daring him to tell me to slow down.
Instead it’s Helen who admonishes my drinking. Of course it is. And she does it without a single word, just a pointed look and a subtle head shake of disappointment. My cheeks flare in embarrassment.
‘She doesn’t like people having fun,’ I mutter into my drink.
Tyler laughs. ‘I will concede on that.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘Perhaps they don’t need your help?’
‘There is no “they” in this. It’s Cesca. All Cesca. She needs my help.’
‘So you’re blaming Helen? Saying it’s all Helen’s fault?’
‘Err. Yeah!’
‘Seriously?’ He seems genuinely put out by my comment.
‘You just can’t see it because you’re biased.’
‘Un-fucking-believable.’ He shakes his head and for a moment I see a brilliant flash of that same supercilious attitude oozing from Helen’s pores.
But then I remember it isn’t this Helen and this Cesca.
Given how different I am in each of these worlds, then how different might this Helen be?
Am I measuring her constancy against Tyler’s, assuming she must be a carbon copy of herself in every world just like he seems to be?
She could be anyone here, and so could Cesca.
Maybe in this world they are happy. Maybe in this world Helen is kind and supportive and actually it’s Cesca who’s a bit of a nightmare?
I feel the wind leave my sails in an instant, and the change must be visible as Tyler instantly takes a step back, his face creasing in concern.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s just … I have no idea, do I? No idea what is going on, and who is who, and why any of this is happening, and it’s all so messed up and right now all I can think about is kissing you again—’
I stop myself, but the words are already out, hanging in the heavy space between us. Ripe.
He looks vaguely confused. ‘Again?’
‘Well, I …’
He leans towards me, his gaze roaming from my eyes to my lips and then back again. ‘Again?’
I lean towards him. The air suddenly charging.
Then his lips are on mine and all memory of the argument is forgotten.
The kiss is raw, urgent. Different from the last world on the doorstep of my flat …
but yet somehow so familiar. I melt into the moment, allowing the sensations to take me.
The scent of his aftershave, the gentle rasp of his stubble on my skin, the heat of him against me.
I graze my nails gently down his exposed forearms and am rewarded by a hiss from the back of his throat.
Despite an evening spent drinking champagne, he still tastes of custard creams.