Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
OCTOBER 2012
When you ask Abbie about her and Matt’s wedding, she says that the best bit – the bit she remembers most clearly – is Matt’s speech. Which is funny, because he never actually made a speech.
I remember that bit too, of course – Matt standing up, tall and awkward in his suit, surrounded by his friends and family, all willing him to do his best, make them proud, not fuck it up. And Abbie next to him, gazing adoringly up at him, seeing the exact moment when the words he’d composed so carefully and practised so thoroughly simply refused to come, leaving him standing there mouthing mutely like a goldfish. That’s when Abbie stepped in, stood up, poised and graceful in her white dress, made the speech for him and brought the house down.
For a good few months after that, anyone who went round to their house had to watch the wedding video. If you protested because you’d seen it before (perhaps multiple times), she’d say, ‘Okay then, just the best bit,’ and make you watch that, while Matt laughed, shook his head ruefully and said he had no idea what had come over him.
That’s not the bit I remember best, though – not at all.
I remember when we were all standing together at the entrance to the chapel – or rather, the hotel function room where the ceremony was to be held. Abbie was trembling with nerves, white as her dress under her glowing make-up, surrounded by her three bridesmaids: Kate, Rowan and me.
Abbie’s mum fluttered around us, taking a final look at her daughter before she would become a married lady. Her father stood to one side, waiting to walk in with his daughter on his arm, proud but shy, as if he wasn’t used to being surrounded by all these women. Abbie pulled herself upright, shaking out her skirt, and said, ‘Come on, let’s do this.’
Just in time, Rowan clocked the tissues someone had tucked under Abbie’s arms to soak up her nervous perspiration, and whipped them out. Abbie’s mum took them, used one to wipe away a tear from her cheek then tucked them in her handbag and sailed through to take her seat, her rose-coloured hat almost too big to fit through the door.
‘Are we doing this or are we going to hang around out here forever and have me die single?’ Abbie demanded, her nerves apparently forgotten.
‘Come on then, let’s go,’ Kate said.
And then Zara arrived. In defiance of all convention, she was wearing white – a full-length satin dress so long it dragged on the floor like a train. Her hair was longer than I remembered ever seeing it, and seemed to fly out behind her like the banner of an invading army.
‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘Late as always, haha.’
She swept into the room as if her entrance was the most the important thing that would happen that day. At the end of the aisle, I saw Matt turn, his face alight with excitement and then falling into bewildered surprise – Wait, what? They’ve changed who I have to marry?
Just in time, we hustled Abbie out of the way so that he wouldn’t see her, even though he was going to in a few seconds anyway.
‘My God,’ Kate whispered. ‘What is she like?’
‘Unreal,’ murmured Rowan.
I might have said something too, but I have no idea what it was. I felt numb with shock, all the excitement of the day vanishing like the bubbles in a bottle of champagne that had been shaken so vigorously there was no fizz left.
Somehow, we got Abbie into the room and up to the table where Matt, his brother and the celebrant were waiting. Then we took our seats and the ceremony began.
I can’t recall a word of it. Throughout, I was conscious of Zara behind me, feeling her eyes burning the back of my carefully pinned-up hair like lasers, so I could almost smell the popcorn fumes of it. Patch was there too, somewhere behind me. I imagined her sitting next to him, her hand in his where mine should have been.
I wouldn’t have put it past her.
‘It’s okay,’ Rowan whispered to me, in the few moments when the register was being signed and a ripple of happy chatter filled the room. ‘You’ve got this. Just ignore her.’
And so I did. As best I could, throughout the champagne reception and photographs and into the dinner. We bridesmaids were seated at the top table with Abbie, Matt and their families. I could see Patch, a couple of tables away, sitting next to a woman in a yellow hat who I didn’t know, Andy on his other side. He’d been briefed by Matt, clearly, because I saw him topping up Andy’s glass with water whenever it was empty, before filling it with wine again when the water was drunk.
Zara had found herself a seat, somehow, over in the corner of the room with a group who I guessed were university friends of Abbie’s. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her chatting, drinking, laughing, the plate of food in front of her untouched. Although she was in my peripheral vision, her presence filled my mind as if she was inches away from me, laughing in my face.
The speeches happened. The cake was cut. Abbie and Matt had their first dance, their bodies pressed together and their smiles radiant.
Then other couples began to fill the dance floor in the appointed pattern: Abbie’s mum and Matt’s dad, Kate with Matt’s brother Ryan, me in the arms of a colleague of Matt’s whose name I can’t recall. He’d spilled something down the front of his shirt, and I worried that it would rub off on my dress.
Zara was dancing with Patch. Of course she was. I couldn’t know whether she’d asked him or he’d asked her, but there they were, the best-looking couple in the room – her hair the same colour as his black jacket, but shinier, her skin almost as pale as the white shirt pressed against her cheek, only pearly and perfect – her body twining against his like jasmine climbing a wall.
But she was also drunk. I could see how she needed to cling to Patch’s shoulders to stay balanced in her high heels, and when I caught a glimpse of her eyes I noticed that their brilliant green irises were red-rimmed.
Leave him alone , my mind screamed. Stay away – he’s mine. Don’t break what I’ve waited so long to have.
My relationship with Patch had never felt as fragile as it did in that moment, or my love for him as intense.
When the music changed and the couples pulled away from each other, laughing, clapping and regrouping for the next dance, Zara stayed where she was, her arms around Patch’s neck, her face turned up to his. I smiled at the man I’d been dancing with – or tried to – and muttered something to excuse myself.
Pushing my way through the crowd, I moved to the other side of the room, trying to get closer to Patch – to rescue him, or rescue myself. When I got close enough for him to see me, he caught my eyes and smiled, a rueful, weary, eye-rolling smile, then held up his hand, the fingers outstretched to make a number two.
I’ll be with you in two minutes.
That wasn’t good enough. I needed to reach him now, prise Zara off him if I had to, claim what was my own.
But before I could approach them, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder.
‘Don’t stress, babe,’ Rowan said. ‘Abbie’s going to throw her bouquet now. Chin up, smile. You’re beautiful and he loves you.’
‘But she?—’
‘It’s going to be okay. We don’t want a scene, do we? It’s Abbie’s day.’
That was the reminder I needed. I reached over and squeezed Rowan’s hand and let her lead me away to the table where the cake was resting, three tiers of white icing as smooth as Zara’s dress, twined with green leaves and silver bells.
‘Gather rounds, folks!’ Ryan called over the music, which immediately dropped in volume. ‘Ladies at the front. Let’s see who’s going to be the lucky one.’
Someone helped Abbie up on to a chair. She teetered as if she was about to fall, laughing, and then grasped Matt’s shoulder to steady herself, her bouquet held high in her other hand.
‘I was always shit at PE,’ she warned, ‘this might not go very far, so come close.’
Zara hadn’t needed telling. She was already there, pushing to the front of the polite little circle of young women who were gathered round, no one wanting to seem too eager, too desperate.
Abbie reached behind her, the bunch of white roses and trailing ivy gripped in her fist. As she brought her arm forward again, I saw that her eyes were squeezed tight shut.
She hadn’t lied – she couldn’t throw for toffee, bless her. But it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d pitched the flowers like an international cricketer, because Zara was right there. It was impossible to tell whether the bouquet had even left Abbie’s hand before she snatched it in mid-air and held it triumphantly aloft.
There was a little ripple of surprised applause and laughter. Someone towards the back of the group said, ‘Hey, that wasn’t fair,’ and someone else said, ‘Ssssh.’
‘I got it!’ Zara’s voice carried clear as a bell over the background voices. ‘He’s mine!’
‘What’s she on about?’ grumbled the woman who’d complained about fairness.
‘Not that it makes any fucking difference,’ Zara said. ‘No one will ever marry me. Ever.’
She gripped the bouquet in her two hands, lifted it high over her head and pulled. At first nothing happened – the florists had done their job well. But Zara was strong – I could see the definition of the muscles in her arms and back as she pulled, and quickly whatever was holding the stems together gave way in a cascade of petals.
Her initial fury apparently spent, Zara’s arms fell to her sides, the two halves of the ruined bouquet dropping to the floor.
‘Fuck you,’ she said. It wasn’t clear first who she meant, then a second later she added, ‘Fuck you all. Especially you.’
She turned to me with a look so full of venom that I physically recoiled, my hands flying up to protect my face.
And then I put them down again, clenched into fists by my side. I took a tentative step towards her and then another.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked, keeping my voice as calm as I could. ‘Why are you trying to ruin Abbie and Matt’s day? I don’t understand.’
‘Ruin their day?’ Her voice rose, clear in the suddenly silent room. ‘Who cares about their bloody day when my whole life is ruined, thanks to you?’
‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ I said softly, my eyes stinging with tears. I tried again to approach her, but I couldn’t – it was as if the force field of her rage was blocking me. ‘Please, Zara. Don’t do this. We can make it all right again. We can be friends.’
Zara stared at me for a second, then gave a shriek of high, hysterical laughter that turned almost immediately to tears. Her hands over her face, she pushed through the watching guests, now all standing immobile with shock.
‘Oh no,’ Abbie whispered, ‘make it stop.’
Someone helped her down off the chair. Someone else – perhaps the girl who’d complained about not catching the flowers in the first place – picked them up off the floor.
‘I’d better go to Zara,’ Kate whispered to me.
She hurried away, but seconds later I heard Zara’s voice, high-pitched with distress, saying, ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me.’
Trembling, I turned to Abbie. ‘I’m so sorry. Your special day. It’s all my fault.’
I saw her stand a little straighter, squaring her shoulders and determinedly smiling – a physical manifestation of the phrase ‘pull yourself together’. It was as if, in that moment, she faced a choice – to have her day ruined, or not. And she’d chosen the second.
‘Don’t be daft, Nome. It wouldn’t be a wedding without a bit of drama, would it? Come on, Matt, let’s cut that cake.’
I tried to recover my own composure – I really did. But I could feel myself shaking, shock and embarrassment threatening to overwhelm me. Biting my lip, I forced myself to stand and watch while Abbie and Matt, their hands clasped together, sank a knife into the perfect white surface of their wedding cake. Then someone came and took it away to the kitchen to cut it up properly and serve it.
There was something about that moment – the last of the key points that marked the day, the cake someone had laboured over for so long being whisked away and transformed from a centrepiece back into just food, Abbie and Matt standing there together, united in their refusal to allow their happiness to be spoiled – that broke me.
A choking lump in my throat, tears beginning to course down my cheeks, I turned away and fled to the toilet. I couldn’t see Patch anywhere, but that didn’t seem important – I just wanted to be alone with my shame and my sadness.
Because all of this was my fault. If I hadn’t done what I’d done – fallen in love with a man who was taken, pursued the relationship in spite of a friendship that mattered to me, broken the sanctity of the unwritten but inviolable Girl Code – none of this would have happened. Zara would have been here today as Patch’s date. Abbie would have had four bridesmaids instead of three. I would have been the single girl who’d hustled to catch the bouquet, and maybe there’d have been someone else out there for me, someone who I could have a relationship with without breaking another woman’s heart.
I pushed open the door of the ladies’ loos, ignoring the trio of women already in there, gossiping while they freshened up their lipstick, locked myself in a cubicle and sobbed.
I don’t know how long I spent there before I heard a tap on the door and Rowan’s voice saying, ‘Naomi? Babe? Let me in.’
A wad of soggy tissue clutched in my hand, I unlatched the door. Her face full of concern, Rowan put her arm round my shoulder and led me out.
‘You poor thing,’ she soothed. ‘Honestly, what a drama. You couldn’t make it up. Come on, let’s fix your face. There are still a few people dancing and there’ll be bacon rolls in a bit. We’ll get you a glass of fizz.’
‘I don’t think I can. Where is she?’
‘Zara? She went outside. She’s sitting in the garden smoking.’ She hesitated, then admitted, ‘Patch is with her. He was the only person who could calm her down. We couldn’t leave her alone – she was hysterical.’
‘I don’t want to see her.’
‘You won’t have to. Don’t worry. There’s no way she’s going to swan back in there and start troughing bacon like nothing happened.’
‘Still. I can’t.’
‘Okay. It doesn’t matter. Do you want to come up to my room with me? I’ve got the most amazing make-up remover – it’s SkinCeuticals and it’s like magic.’
I noticed my reflection in the mirror about the basins and saw why she’d mentioned it.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Thanks. I don’t want anyone to see me.’
‘Mate.’ Rowan pressed her hands on my shoulders and looked down at me, her face stern. ‘When you rugby-tackle your way to a bunch of flowers then rip them apart like you’re one of those muscle-men who tear up telephone directories, then start effing and blinding at all and sundry, then you’ll have something to be ashamed of. I’ll be sure and remind you if I catch you doing it by mistake.’
I felt a watery smile reach my face, and giggled.
‘And until then, you can hold your head up high,’ she went on. ‘Understand?’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Next time I feel the urge to do that, I’ll clear it with you first.’
‘That’s my girl. Come on now, bedtime.’
I let her lead me out, guide me discreetly round the edge of the room, out to the lobby and into the lift. She took me to her room, cleaned my face and lent me a pair of her pyjamas. Then we made tea and sat on her bed, sipping and chatting about things that had nothing to do with Abbie’s wedding, or Patch, or Zara.
And I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I woke up there the next morning, Rowan asleep in the twin bed next to mine, my mind feeling oddly clear, like it had been scrubbed with Rowan’s magic make-up remover.
I’d tried my best – everyone had seen it. Everyone would understand that I’d done nothing wrong. Everyone had seen the real Zara.