I feel like to say this wedding has turned into a circus would be grade-A hyperbole … except I just saw an alarmingly muscular man doing press-ups on the lawn with the mother of the groom on his back. So there’s that.
I hurry over to Kat, the bride, with a book full of messages from well-wishers. I’ve done my best to get around everyone – I think I might’ve accidentally asked one of the waiters too, but he was more than happy to write something so all is well that ends well. It’s finished, I can go back to being a regular guest whose only responsibility is having a drink without making a fool of herself.
‘That’s great,’ Kat says, taking the book from me. ‘When I need something else, I’ll call on you.’
‘You’ll call on me?’ I reply weakly.
‘Yeah, I’ll call on you.’
I think the words she is looking for are ‘thank’ and ‘you’.
I pull a face to myself as I walk away, leaving her to the circle of guests that has formed around her. How have I landed myself in this mess? I know how – it’s this stupid, beautiful dress that I spent far too much money on. If I were still a goth I would’ve turned up in something black and slutty and, sure everyone would’ve asked me if I were attending a funeral (perhaps even a funeral for strippers, depending on who was making the joke) but there’s no way I would have been asked to fill in for a bridesmaid dressed like that, and there’s no way I’d be assuming boring bridesmaid duties right now – I’m not even sure they’d let me in the photos.
Tom collars me halfway across the lawn. Great. Just what I need.
‘Hey, are you ready for that catch up?’ he asks me.
‘I think we’re about to eat actually.’ I turn on my heels to walk away but Tom stops me.
‘Luca, wait,’ he starts. ‘I just …’
I turn around and glance at Tom as he runs a hand through his thick, dark hair. I notice the bulge of his bicep stretch the inside of his shirtsleeve to capacity, before immediately telling myself off for looking at him that way. He deserves no credit, at all, for anything, ever.
‘I haven’t seen you in, what, ten years? I can’t believe you’re standing here. It’s made my day seeing you here, but you just seem like …’
I shrug my shoulders casually. I can’t see his eyes, just my reflection in his Ray-Ban sunglasses, and seeing myself be so casual with him when he’s so pleased to see me makes me feel horrible.
‘Luca Wade,’ I hear Cleo’s The Only Way Is Essex accent squeak behind me.
‘Cleo, hello,’ I reply with faux enthusiasm.
‘You look amazing,’ she tells me, pulling me down to her level for a hug. Cleo creeps in at just over five feet – another little lady who makes me feel like a giant beast of a woman.
‘So do you,’ I tell her, kissing the cheek she’s offered me.
As she releases me, she lightly knocks me with her bump.
‘Oops, watch out for little Sunny,’ she says, placing her hands protectively on her stomach.
‘Sorry,’ I say, not that I have anything to apologise for. I’ve always been the kind of person who apologises, even if it isn’t my fault – even if it’s only a lamppost I’ve walked into. I just can’t seem to lose the reflex.
‘Gah. Luca, Luca, Luca. Such a cute name but, you know, I always thought it was a boy’s name,’ she muses.
‘Sunny is a type of weather,’ I reply through my best fake smile. ‘It’s all good.’
Cleo laughs wildly, throwing her head back theatrically.
‘You’re so funny,’ she tells me. ‘Tom, didn’t I always say Luca was a funny girl?’
She playfully digs him in the ribs with her elbow.
‘Yep,’ he replies. ‘Cleo, can you give us a minute please?’
Cleo pouts. ‘OK, sure. But it’s nearly time for food,’ she tells him. ‘Hurry back.’
Ergh, that girl needs to loosen her bun or something, I think it’s stopping her brain from working properly. And telling me I have a boy’s name, pssh. If there’s one thing I remember really well about Cleo, it’s that she has mastered the skill of dishing out backhanded compliments.
‘Why do girls do that?’ Tom asks me.
I look at him for an explanation.
‘Greet each other with all the love and excitement you’d feel if you were reunited with a dead relative,’ he says. ‘Cleo gets all that and you haven’t even hugged me yet.’
Tom flashes me that cheeky smile of his that I’ve always had a soft spot for. It’s probably the first thing that attracted me to him, the first time I saw him in one of our lectures, playing the class clown with such charm and warmth.
I think about how much I want to feel his arms around me but, at the same time, the thought of touching him terrifies me. The thought of him touching me after all these years makes me feel like a nervous teenager again, but it’s all I can think about now.
Before I have a chance to act, I feel my body lifting off the ground, like I’m being beamed up by an alien spaceship which, to be honest, I don’t think would completely ruin my day. I glance down to see that, not only am I only a few feet off the floor, but there are a pair of unusually tanned, bizarrely hairless, absolutely massive arms wrapped around my body.
The person who grabbed me from behind puts me down and spins me round roughly, like an excited child with a puppy, who doesn’t quite realise his own strength. As he hugs me, I realise he’s the almost terrifyingly muscular man I noticed doing press-ups before. This man isn’t just buff in the usual, gym-going way, he’s like … young Arnold Schwarzenegger buff. Huge!
The man quickly realises that I don’t know who he is.
‘It’s me,’ he says, as though that might shed some light on the situation. ‘Tom, my bro, you must recognise me?’
‘I didn’t realise I had a bro.’ Tom laughs, scratching his head. He clearly has no idea who this is either. Still, he shakes his hand. The man must grip him tightly because as soon as he releases him, Tom rubs his own palm with his other hand.
‘Does the name Alan ring any bells?’ he asks.
‘Alan? Her ex-boyfriend Alan?’ Tom says in disbelief.
‘Yeah,’ the macho man says, holding his arms out, a big ta-da smile plastered across his face.
‘What, did you eat him or something? Is he hiding in one of your legs?’ I joke, unable to believe my eyes.
Alan laughs.
‘Alan, I … I can’t believe it’s you,’ I say, looking him up and down, admiring him like I would a statue.
Alan was always a fitness buff, and he was always muscular from the endless hours he would spend in the gym, but now he has to be at least four times the size he was at uni. He barely resembles his former self, it’s so weird. Now that I know it’s him, I can just about make out my ex, hidden away inside this beast of a man.
‘It isn’t Alan anymore, it’s Al Atlantic. Winner of the international Mr Macho competition, 2017 and 2018. Hoping to win this year too, pick up the hat trick.’
Al Atlantic poses in that way bodybuilders often do, standing to one side, lifting a heel and pointing his fist towards the floor to show off his impressive figure. I couldn’t tell you which muscle specifically this pose is intended to showcase, but whichever one it is, it’s huge. They’re all huge. I’d hazard a guess that even his muscles have muscles.
‘Wow, well, congratulations,’ I tell him.
I don’t really know what else to say. He’s another person from my past I wasn’t expecting to see here. I don’t know why this didn’t cross my mind, I was probably too busy worrying about finding a designer dress that didn’t make my bum look too big (or my bank balance look too small) and my embarrassing single status when all my friends are in serious relationships.
‘I was hoping we could have a catch up,’ he says, his eyes wide with optimism.
Ergh, why does everyone want to have a catch up? It’s been ten years, no one has time to cover ten years in a quick catch up, do they? Or maybe I’m just self-conscious of the fact that, in my ten years, not much has happened that is worth catching up on. I haven’t won one Mr Macho competition, let alone two. Plus, Alan and I didn’t exactly end things on the best of terms. When I broke up with him, he took it quite badly, and this is the first time we’ve spoken since.
‘OK, sure,’ I say. ‘But I think we’re about to eat so …’
‘Yeah, OK, I’ll come and find you later,’ he says. ‘Good to see you, Tom.’
Al gives Tom a playful slap on the back, nearly knocking him off his feet. I’d say Al doesn’t know his own strength, but from the way he’s showing off, I know he absolutely does.
‘Yeah, you too,’ Tom replies as he stumbles forward. He waits for Al to leave before opening his mouth again. ‘Well, that was completely emasculating, wasn’t it?’
‘Damn, I can’t believe that’s Alan,’ I blurt, ignoring Tom’s remark. Well, I’m not about to fall over myself to fluff his ego, am I?
‘The gym paid off then,’ Tom muses, sounding almost annoyed at Alan for daring to put in so much hard work, and getting such great results from it. ‘He’s still boring though, isn’t he?’
‘I’d better get to my table,’ I say, quickly changing the subject, trying to end the conversation before it can get going again.
‘Does bridesmaid duty not get you promoted to the top table?’ he asks.
‘It doesn’t even get me a “thank you”,’ I reply.
‘Hmm, I was hoping we’d be sitting together. Well, I asked for a catch up first,’ he calls after me as I head in the direction of the marquee. ‘Don’t go letting Alan jump the queue just because he looks like he could strangle someone without breaking a sweat.’
He does indeed look like he could kill someone with his thumb, but the Alan I knew was always way too boring to be confrontational enough to get into a fight.
I glance at the seating chart to see roughly where my table is, before looking in that direction and seeing that my friends have already taken their seats.
Our table is right at the back of the marquee, where it meets the building, next to the kitchen door. Not only do we have the heat coming from in there, as well as countless serving staff constantly whizzing past us, but we’re being deprived of the same breeze the rest of the guests are enjoying. On a sweltering day like today, a breeze is absolutely needed. I feel like my make-up is melting and slowly slipping down my face – and not even evenly, so I probably look like some bizarre, abstract Picasso portrait at this point.
‘I can’t believe they’ve given us the crappiest table here,’ Clarky whines. ‘We’re his oldest friends.’
‘We’re pretty far down the pecking order today,’ Zach says, knocking back the glass of Prosecco on the table in front of him that I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to save for the speeches.
‘This day is just getting worse and worse,’ Clarky says, knocking back his glass too.
‘I think the drinks are for the speeches,’ I point out.
‘It’s OK, this one was Bella’s,’ Clarky replies.
We all fall awkwardly silent at the first mention of Clarky’s ex-girlfriend. Up until now, we’ve all been quietly ignoring the fact she isn’t here, but as two other guests take a seat at our big, round table, the fact that Bella’s chair remains empty couldn’t be more obvious.
‘Ah, buddy, things aren’t so bad,’ Ed says, patting him on the back.
‘They bloody are,’ Clarky insists. ‘I was going to try and shag a bridesmaid, but they’re all fat.’
‘They’re all pregnant,’ Fiona corrects him angrily.
I loudly clear my throat.
Clarky looks over at me, looking me up and down before saying, ‘Well, you’re not a real bridesmaid, are you? And anyway, I wouldn’t shag you, it’d be like shagging my weird sister.’
‘I don’t know how I’m ever going to heal from this broken heart,’ I say sarcastically, pretending to wipe away a tear from my eye.
‘You know, when I checked in, the receptionist asked where my guest was, and when I told her she wasn’t coming, she got really pissed off with me and told me I should’ve called ahead,’ he says, angrily.
‘You should’ve told her she’d died,’ Zach laughs. ‘Made her feel bad.’
‘I should’ve told her I’d killed her, more like, then she wouldn’t have been rude to me.’
Nothing like the threat of murder to keep a woman in check.
All at once, we’re all very aware of the couple sitting on our table, attentively but timidly observing our conversation.
‘Hello,’ I say politely.
‘Hi,’ the girl says back.
‘Bride or groom?’ I ask.
‘Bride,’ she says.
‘We went to uni with the groom,’ Ed tells them. ‘In fact, we all lived together for a year.’
‘Oh really?’ the girl replies. ‘Toby is Kat’s dentist.’
The girl places her engagement-ring-clad hand on her fiancé’s arm as she explains their connection.
‘What the fuck?’ Clarky whines. ‘We’re his oldest friends and we’re sat at the crap table with Kat’s dentist and his bird? No offence.’
From the looks on their faces, I’d guess they’ve taken offence.
‘Are you not drinking?’ Fiona asks me, nodding towards my orange juice.
‘No, I’m trying to keep a clear, sober head,’ I say.
‘Same,’ she replies, showing me her lemonade. ‘If I start drinking now, I’ll be hammered by tonight. I think I’m getting old.’
‘I bumped into Pete again,’ I tell her quietly. ‘He seems great. I don’t want to drink too much and start talking rubbish, I want to spend more time with him, so he can get to know the version of me that I have full oral and physical control over.’
My friend gives her eyebrows a playful wiggle at my choice of words.
‘Not like that,’ I quickly insist, although I know she knows what I mean really.
We had a spare few minutes after the ceremony, so I told Fi about what happened with Pete last night. It was nice, talking to her about boys just like old times. I miss having a female friend in my life – someone to confide in, someone to give me advice. Fi and I never fell out after uni, we just drifted apart. We all had good intentions to stay in touch and keep our friendships alive, but when you’re all living all over the country, juggling hectic jobs with relationships, and house moves … you just put off that night out you swore you’d plan so that everyone could catch up. It’s especially hard trying to plan reunions for a group of six, which is probably why we only see each other at weddings.
‘Ooh, Luca has a crush,’ Fi sings quietly.
‘That doesn’t usually end well for me,’ I point out.
‘Yeah, I had a quick chat with Tom. My God, he’s gorgeous. He might actually be better looking, now that he’s older.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ I say with a laugh.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s ancient history,’ I assure her. ‘Speaking of which, have you seen Alan?’
‘No?’
I glance around the room for my man mountain of an ex. He’s incredibly easy to spot.
‘There he is,’ I point out. ‘He’s some kind of Mr Universe type now.’
‘Oh my God,’ Fiona blurts.
‘What’s up?’ Zach asks.
‘Over there, look, it’s Anal Alan,’ she tells him.
‘Anal Alan?’ Kat’s dentist’s fiancée echoes. Once again, she seems horrified by our conversation. I feel like I should tell her that things are probably only going to get worse as this lot have even more to drink.
‘We only called him that because he was always very organised,’ I assure them.
‘Yeah, not because he was an arsehole,’ Zach adds with a chuckle. ‘He was though. What’s he doing here?’
‘Probably pulling the weddings cars along by his belt,’ I suggest. ‘I saw him doing press-ups with Matt’s mum on his back earlier.’
‘I bet he’s still boring,’ Ed says.
‘You have a shed where you go to escape from your life,’ Clarky points out. ‘You’re boring too.’
‘I suspect we’re all kind of boring now,’ I say. ‘Mr Muscle over there is probably more interesting than all of us put together.’
‘What do you two do for work?’ Clarky asks the couple.
‘I’m a dentist,’ Toby reminds him.
‘I’m a dental nurse,’ the girl adds.
‘You work together then?’ Clarky asks.
‘We do,’ he says proudly.
‘That must suck. If you’ve got your missus watching you all day, you can’t flirt with the customers, can you?’
I’m not sure if he’s making an observation or asking a question.
‘They’re not customers, they’re patients,’ Toby corrects Clarky, as his brow furrows angrily. ‘And I don’t flirt with them, it wouldn’t be ethical.’
That’s a real shame, because I can think of so many dental puns.
‘What do you all do?’ he asks us all, getting the subject back on track.
‘I’m a producer on a soap,’ Zach says, not that he seems all that proud of it. I think he’d rather be making stylish action movies with international location shoots, guns, sexy women and even sexier cars. Instead he produces a soap opera, set just outside Glasgow, in which one of the characters just died by accidentally drinking a spiked drink that was intended for his mum, who it turned out was actually his dad. I learned this watching an omnibus one night last week when I couldn’t sleep, so I can’t even begin to explain it.
‘I’m an acting agent,’ Fiona adds. ‘But we don’t work together.’
‘I’m a paediatrician,’ Ed says.
‘Oh wow, that’s impressive,’ Toby replies.
‘I do social media for a protein company,’ Clarky says.
‘You want to start using it, mate,’ Zach jokes. ‘You might grow a bit.’
‘Piss off,’ he snaps back.
‘Clarky is so short, I’m his doctor,’ Ed quips.
‘Alright, alright,’ he says. ‘Enough of the short jokes. I’m 5'8".’
‘I’m 5'8",’ I point out. The only way he’s 5'8" is with his arms in the air. ‘I work in PR too, for a fashion retailer.’
We’re interrupted by the starters being placed down in front of us. Everyone at the table gets two tiny canapés, apart from Toby and his fiancée, who get a couple of cherry tomatoes and a couple of sticks of celery.
‘Tight arse,’ Clarky muses, throwing one of the small savoury pastries into his mouth whole. ‘I hope the main is decent.’
‘I hope it’s surf and turf,’ Zach jokes, putting on a scouse accent.
‘Apparently we’re getting a little downtime between our starter and our main,’ Fiona tells us.
‘What?’ the boys all whine in unison.
‘I’m starving,’ Ed says. ‘And drinking heavily, but this is my day off so I don’t care.’
He dances in his seat a little, to demonstrate just how carefree he is.
‘You enjoy it, mate,’ Zach tells him, patting him on the back. ‘Before it’s back to misery.’
Fiona shuffles uncomfortably in her chair.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask her.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she replies quietly. ‘Sometimes he just says the wrong thing and it winds me up.’
‘He’s just joking. Ed knows that.’
I look down at my canapés. One of them has a sort of creamy mushroom paste in, which I give to Clarky because I don’t like mushrooms, and he’ll eat pretty much anything. The other is a ham and cheese thing that isn’t too bad, I just wish I had twenty of them. It’s past lunchtime now, and the lack of food makes me really happy I decided not to drink. I can see Zach, Ed and Clarky getting quite merry already. Hopefully they are different drunks to the ones they were when we were at uni. The last thing we need today is to see these guys regress ten years.
‘Tommy boy,’ Clarky sings as Tom approaches our table.
‘Hey, how’s it going?’ he asks everyone.
Everyone makes small talk for a few minutes. Everyone but me. I just watch Tom as he chats. He’s got this easy way with people. He treats every word uttered to him like it’s important, which makes people feel important, and everything he says in response just oozes with charisma. You know how men have a bad reputation for not really listening? Well, Tom isn’t like that. Tom has a brain like a hard drive, storing every little detail.
‘Luca, can I borrow you?’ he says.
‘Are we allowed to leave the table?’ Clarky asks, worried.
‘It’s not school,’ Tom laughs. ‘We’re not eating our mains for a while, we’re allowed to circulate.’
‘I’m not going to chance it,’ Clarky says seriously.
‘You’ll take a risk, right, Luca?’
‘Course she will,’ Fiona tells Tom.
‘Yep,’ I reply reluctantly.
What could be better than hearing all about my not-quite ex’s perfect life? Literally anything, I’d imagine.