“Daniel invited you to his wedding?” Cara shrieks, staring at the invitation I’ve just handed her. “Is he insane?”
I shrug and take a gulp of wine. “Maybe it’s a gesture.”
“A gesture of what?”
“A gesture of … I don’t know. Goodwill?”
“He is such a wanker.”
I swallow more of my wine. Cara takes a deep breath, watching me closely, and slides the invitation back across the table. We’re in a fancy near-empty bar a few doors down from her office. We tend to end up here whenever something big happens to one of us, like the day after Cara had her wedding meltdown, or the time when I landed my first professional-bridesmaid job, or today, when my ex-boyfriend sends me his wedding invitation.
“What are you going to do?” Cara says, folding her arms.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you going to reply?”
“Of course.” I frown, shoving the invitation into my bag and out of sight. “It’s a wedding. It would be unacceptable not to reply.”
She snorts. “But it’s totally acceptable for him to send the invitation in the first place.”
I shrug and pour myself another glass.
Her expression softens. “Are you OK?” she asks gently.
“I’m fine,” I say, as confidently as I can. “I’m fine.”
“But it wasn’t that long ago you broke up and…” She trails off.
I know what she was going to say. Everyone knows. Daniel was the love of my life. He broke my heart. I haven’t met anyone since. I haven’t even been on a date since. And he’s getting married. To Francesca, the girl he met in June last year, two months after breaking up with me.
Oh, God. I’m going to need tequila.
“We’re going to need tequila,” Cara says, getting up to go to the bar.
I met Daniel in my first year of university. We were in the same halls and became close friends, along with everyone else in our block. He was the one who admitted it first, on a drunken fancy-dress night during the second term. I was dressed as a grasshopper. He was dressed as a ham and cheese sandwich. We were outside chatting with some of our friends, and they slowly drifted away until it was just me and him. We were in the middle of talking about High School Musical 2 when he blurted out his feelings for me. I was so stunned, I didn’t say anything. I just stared at him. Then one of our friends came out of the bar and threw up into the plant pot by the door, and I had to take her home.
After that, nothing happened for ages. Our friends always talked about it. They kept telling me he really did like me, but I wasn’t convinced. We were so different. He was popular, fun, and outgoing, the life of the party, always doing hilarious, crazy things. I, on the other hand, was so sensible and reliable that at junior school my headmistress asked if I would mind being head girl and head boy. I proudly became the first head person the school had ever had.
Not only were Daniel and I very different, but I was also terrified. I felt so lucky to be friends with him. I wanted to protect that friendship. I didn’t want our group to change.
One night, after a few too many vodka shots, I admitted to my friends that, OK, I did quite like him. And that same night he kissed another girl in our friendship group.
“You see?” I wailed, when we got home and I climbed into the empty bath for a deep, meaningful conversation with two of my housemates. “He doesn’t actually like me. Not seriously.”
The confusing do-we-really-like-each-other saga continued until third year, when, in Cara’s phrasing, we decided to “get over ourselves” and started going out properly. And it was perfect. We knew each other so well, we’d been such good friends, that the relationship was easy. Daniel and Sophie. Sophie and Daniel. Everyone had known it was going to happen. It was meant to be. Nothing about our friendship group changed, except nights out were much more fun because Daniel and I weren’t getting irrationally jealous or pretending that we didn’t want to be around each other all the time. When we all moved to London after graduating, we didn’t want to move in together straightaway as that wasn’t sensible, but we spent so much time together that soon it wasn’t sensible to live apart.
I couldn’t believe I’d been so lucky as to find someone like him. He was The One. He made me laugh all the time. I felt guilty when my single friends complained about dating and the difficulty of finding someone. I felt I didn’t deserve to be so happy.
Then eight years after we got over ourselves and got together, he got over me.
I didn’t see it coming. That was the most humiliating thing about it. I had no idea. Not one clue, right up until the evening he sat me down on the sofa to chat. I was completely ignorant. A true idiot to be so smug in a relationship I thought was a happy one.
He didn’t love me anymore, he said. He was so sorry.
“Here we go,” Cara says, placing a shot with a lemon slice in front of me and holding up hers to clink.
We down our shots and I grimace at the burning sensation in my throat followed by the sourness of the lemon.
“Did you know about the engagement?” I ask, as she takes her seat. “Did Jen or anyone tell you?”
As we’re so close, Cara has become an honorary member of my friendship group, having visited me several times at university, then being dragged along to most parties I’ve ever gone to as my support crew. Already a key figure in the circle, she became indispensable after Daniel broke up with me and I had to see him at the occasional pub gathering with all our mutual friends. While others, like Jen, had to be neutral, Cara was firmly on my side.
“Sophie, of course I didn’t know,” she says gently. “I would have told you.”
“They must have been engaged awhile. Or they’re getting married super quickly. I can’t believe they managed to secure Belmond Manor at short notice—it’s one of the most sought-after venues. Although I suppose they are getting married in February, so it’s not peak season. You should google Belmond Manor when you have a moment. It really is the most beautiful place.…” I trail off.
“But, really, why did he invite you?” Cara asks, still confused. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe he felt it would be unfair to invite the whole group from university and not me. He wouldn’t want me to feel left out. He was always quite thoughtful like that.”
“Oh, come on! You’re thirty-one! This isn’t the school playground.”
“Well, that’s the only reason I can think of. We always got on well. And things haven’t been the same with our uni group since we broke up. It’s been so awkward for everyone. Maybe he wants to change that and make it better between us. Maybe he wants us to be, you know, friends.”
“By inviting you to his wedding? Sophie, if he’d wanted to be pals, he would have invited you to bloody dinner at Pizza Express or something. And maybe if he’d wanted to stay friends, he wouldn’t have shacked up with someone only two months after ending an eight-year relationship, and wouldn’t have proposed to her after a year.” Cara shakes her head, her lips pursed. “I hope I bump into him soon so I can punch him in the face.”
I laugh. “Well, then, I hope you don’t bump into him. He never did anything wrong.”
“Ha!”
“Technically, he didn’t! Yes, it was fast, but he didn’t cheat on me. Look, Cara, I know you’re worried but I’ll be fine. I know I will be. It’s just … opening that envelope, it was like all the pain I thought I’d finally got over came flooding back. Eight years of my life wasted on someone who’s proposed to someone else after just one. Meanwhile, I’m sitting at home alone, attracted to premium thick matte envelopes with an eggshell finish. Ugh.” I rest my forehead on the table. “I’m a disaster.”
“You’re not,” Cara says, patting the top of my head. “Although we should maybe talk about the envelope thing another time.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
I lift my head from the table to look at her. A beer mat is stuck to my face. Brilliant.
“For God’s sake!” I cry, as Cara reaches over to peel it off sympathetically. “See? I’m a mess. Someone who downs shots of tequila on a Monday night and walks around with beer mats stuck to their face!”
“That’s a slight exaggeration and you don’t normally do tequila on a Monday night. You’re the most sensible, in-control-of-everything person I know. No one would ever describe you as a mess,” she assures me, signaling for the barman to bring us two more shots. “Look, that invitation was a cruel shock. Reply and forget it. Focus on your career. You have so much going for you right now! Daniel was never supportive of you! Do you remember how he used to tease you about your love of weddings? And not in a nice way but in a really snobby way? And now look! Without him, you’ve made a career out of your passion.”
I nod slowly. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Eugh, don’t let Daniel’s wedding invitation throw you off course. You’re much happier now than you ever were with him.”
The barman brings over the shots and lemon slices. We clink glasses, down them, and slam them back on the table.
“Yes, I need to remain focused on work instead of my disastrous personal life. I need the brides and the brides need me.”
“They certainly do. Any fun weddings you’re working on at the moment?”
“All of them are wonderful in their own way,” I declare, prompting her to roll her eyes. “But I could do with the next big project coming my way.”
“I thought you were crazy busy.”
“It’s coming to the end of wedding season. I have some over the next few months but not many. I need to drive all thoughts of Daniel and his posh one out of my brain. I could do with having absolutely no time to think,” I say determinedly.
“You could try … oh, I don’t know … dating?” Cara says, with a sly smile. “You haven’t done that in a while. It might take up some time and it would be an excellent distraction.”
“I’d rather spend my time guiding people in choosing the perfect napkin color that reflects them as a couple.”
“When was the last time you had sex?”
I pretend to be distracted by the drinks menu.
“Sophie?” she presses. “Have you had sex since you broke up with Daniel?”
“I’ve been very busy with—”
“So it’s been over a year, huh.”
“Hey! That’s not too bad,” I say, throwing the beer mat at her. “I’m busy. And we were together for eight years! It’s not been easy to move on, then jump into bed with someone else. Obviously, he didn’t find it all that difficult.”
“Mike has a colleague I think you’d click with,” she says, throwing the beer mat back across the table at me. “He’s good-looking and loves dogs.”
“What more could a gal want? I’ll consider it but, honestly, I’m all right for now.”
“Fair enough.” She holds up her glass. “To us! Being all right for now.”
I clink mine with hers. “Cheers to that.”
“And you know what else?” she says, a little too loudly. “Fuck Daniel and his eggshell invitation, or whatever you said it is. His voice was so booming and his hair was always stupid.”
I burst out laughing. We spend another hour in the bar, drinking wine and talking about Daniel’s flaws, until we remember it’s a Monday night and we should probably get home. I give Cara a huge hug before I get on the tube to Balham, thanking her for being there in my moment of need.
“Not a problem, favorite cousin,” she slurs, heading toward the Central line. “And remember, let yourself have a moment to be down, then RSVP, say no, and forget about it. You’re all right for now, remember.”
It’s sound advice. I need to let myself be down about it tonight, and tomorrow I’ll move forward. I’ll reply and forget this ever happened.
I get home and slump onto the sofa. I scroll through various playlists on my phone until I find the song I’m looking for and press play. Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away” begins blaring through my Bluetooth speakers. I let out a “Ha.” Cara will find it so funny when I tell her I picked this song to listen to, over all the great songs about love and loss out there.
Then I pull the invitation out of my bag and clutch it to my chest, closing my eyes as tears roll down my cheeks.
TUESDAY, 8:00 A.M. PHONE RINGS.
ME: Hello?
TIMMY: Sophie? It’s Timmy. Why is your voice so croaky?
ME: Sorry, late night.
TIMMY: Working?
ME: Sure.
TIMMY: Is now a good time to chat? I need some advice.
ME: It’s always a good time. I’m your bridesmaid! That’s what I’m here for. How can I help?
TIMMY: I’ve been thinking about the chairs.
ME: Which chairs? Ceremony or reception?
TIMMY: Ceremony. I have a vision.
ME: Go on.
TIMMY: Picture it … Gray. Chiffon. Sashes.
(Pause)
TIMMY: So, what do you think?
ME: Brilliant.
TIMMY: Really?
ME: Yes. Perfect. What sort of chair do you picture it on?
TIMMY: There are different types?
ME: Yes, and you can have whatever you like. The venue offers a selection. I can make a suggestion?
TIMMY: Tell me.
ME: Chiavari. Traditional, elegant, a bit rustic, and it will look classy with the gray sash.
TIMMY: Let me google it, hang on.…
(Pause)
TIMMY: OMG. Love it.
ME: It suits you and the vibe you’re going for, I think.
TIMMY: You’re a genius.
ME: Nah, just doing my job.
TIMMY: Chiavari, eh? Who knew chairs were so important? You’re the best. I’ll be in touch soon about the wedding favors too.
ME: I look forward to it. Have a good day!
TIMMY: You too. Oh, and, Sophie?
ME: Yes?
TIMMY: Strong coffee, ibuprofen, and Hula Hoops, sweetheart. The hangover will be gone by midday.
ME: I’m not—
BEEEEEEEEEP