The right thing to do would have been to walk across the road and stop the wedding. The right thing to do would have been to tell Andrew to run — to run as far and as fast as he could, to a place where no one could find him. No one. Not even me. When did I ever do the right thing?
I figured it was easier to stay in the café and finish my coffee than tell him the truth. Easier — and kinder. Why should I ruin the happy day? I’d read the etiquette sheet Jess had provided — specifically points five through seven, underlined and detailing my responsibilities as his best man. Not one included me telling the groom to run for his life.
Andrew was to be at the appointed place ten minutes before the appointed time, preferably sober and wearing clean underwear. I was to bring the ring and hand it over when asked. Afterwards, at lunch, I was to make a speech — amusing and short. Smut verboten. Simple.
I was late, yet still I waited. I nursed my coffee and stared across the street at the bridal party standing in the driveway of the hotel. Late December, it was a perfect summer’s day in Auckland. The sun was shining. What little breeze there was, gentle and cooling. Jess, the epitome of elegance stood to one side — her white satin sheath fluttering against slim curves. She looked serene. In contrast, Carole, her bridesmaid was pacing up and down, examining the faces of passers-by, searching for me, swearing under her breath. Shorter and plumper than Jess, her navy dress was wrinkling in the heat.
Andrew leant against the veranda watching them from behind his sunglasses. I was still getting used to his haircut. Gone were the random shoulder length curls and in their place slicked-back brown hair with fades on either side. Clean-shaven, and wearing his new suit and shoes he looked for the first time, like the wealthy thirty-two-year-old man that he was. He caught Jess’s eye and shrugged, smiling. I know that what-can-you-do smile. I’m his best friend. I’m the person he told that he was in love, and later that he was getting married. I know what he’s going to do before Jess does. He talks, I listen. At least that’s the way it used to be. Until she came along. I said nothing when he told me he’d proposed. It was too late to say anything now.
I finished my coffee, went to the bathroom took a leak and washed and dried my hands. Ducking down to check my hair in the mirror, I paused. People — women and men — tell me I’m good looking. I believe them. Brown eyes, dark hair, good teeth and built like the rugby player I used to be, what’s not to like? I eat well and work out three times a week. I have a stylist who organises my wardrobe — I take care of myself — I have to. No one else will do it. Not now. With a nod at the barista, I left the café and sauntered across the road. Carole stopped pacing and put away her phone. With my best smile, I greeted the wedding party, told the women how beautiful they looked, shook Andrew’s hand, clapped him on the back and muttered about a late taxi.
The venue, chosen by the bride, was a boutique hotel — expensive, discrete, small and to give Jess credit, tasteful. Inside, it was all French flea-market elegance — chandeliers and white-upholstered Louis XIV chairs. Outside, white gravel paths lined with box hedges marshalled us to an archway brought twelve thousand miles from a decrepit French chateau to this garden in New Zealand.
I stood beside Andrew under the archway and handed him the ring at the appropriate time. I didn’t ruin their day.
We risk everything when we love. Andrew knew that. He committed to love Jess in good times and bad, until death parted them. On the happiest day of his life Andrew wasn’t thinking about death. It was not my place to remind him. Not when there was a chance of happily ever after. That chance was my present to my friend.
Keeping quiet saved a whole lot of trouble — it saved me — for a while. What did that philosopher say? Life is nasty, brutish and short. Terrifying, he forgot terrifying. Images of retractable baseball bats wielded by Murray’s mates loomed large when I considered telling Andrew the truth. I feared losing my friend. Even more, I feared what would happen to me.
It was done. I slapped him on the back and kissed the bride — and Carole. I smiled, I laughed, and I posed for photos. At lunch, I made a short but amusing speech with only a smidgen of smut. I did what a best man does — as ordered — as per the etiquette sheet.