I’m deep asleep when the burbling of my phone startles me awake.
What the—?
My room’s in pitch darkness and I fumble for it on my bedside table. I peer blearily at the name flashing up on the screen.
PARENTS.
Panic rushes in. Oh God, it’s happening! That middle-of-the-night phone call you start to fear once they get past seventy. It’s happening right now—
I snatch up my phone. ‘Is everything OK?’ I gasp into the handset.
‘Exciting, isn’t it?’
‘Mum?’
‘Have you heard?’
My brain is doing a 180. ‘Huh, what? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?’
‘It’s going on for half past seven. Surely you’re not still in bed?’
I hold out the phone so I can squint at the time, whilst telling (deluding) myself that my eyes are only blurry because I’ve just woken up, and realize that while it might feel like the middle of the night because of my amazing blackout blinds, it’s actually 7.28 a.m. Whoever saw the need to invent an alarm clock has never met my mother.
‘No, of course not, why would I be in bed at half past seven on a Sunday morning?’
‘Haven’t you spoken to your brother?’
Mum, however, does not do sarcasm.
‘No, why?’
‘They’ve set the date for the wedding!’ she announces, cock-a-hoop. Mum’s favourite thing in the world, next to Dad, is being the first one with the scoop. She was wasted as a mobile hairdresser; she should have been a newsreader breaking headline news.
And now, like a sprinter off the blocks, she’s off, filling me in on all the details as I stumble into my dressing gown and into the kitchen to make coffee.
‘Oh . . . great . . . um . . . yes . . . fab . . . lovely . . .’ I mumble through the list of flower arrangements, place settings, wedding venue details and reception locations.
‘I rather thought they might go for a registry office do in Manchester, but they’re going to have it in Liverpool, where Nathalie’s from . . .’
‘Great,’ I reply, hearing the bubbling of my coffee pot on the stove and thinking there really is no nicer sound. I pour it into my cup, then turn to the fridge to get the milk, and notice the cleaning rota on the door. It’s been there since I moved in and I’ve religiously ignored it, but now there’s a bright orange Post-it note stuck on top.
This is not a fridge magnet.
I break into a smile. Edward can be very funny sometimes.
Mum, meanwhile, hasn’t drawn breath. ‘. . . they don’t want a church wedding, so at least your father will be pleased, being an atheist. I had to drag him up the aisle . . .’
Arthur nuzzles my knees, wanting his breakfast, so I busy myself feeding him.
‘. . . it gives them a couple of months before the baby’s born, so she’ll be quite big by then, though of course it doesn’t matter these days, not like in mine . . .’
It’s warm outside, so I sit on the little balcony outside my bedroom and lift my face to the morning sun. Life is so surreal. Who would have thought a year ago I would be back in London, single and listening to plans for my brother and his pregnant fiancée’s wedding, when it was going to be me getting married this summer?
Even more surreal is the realization I feel surprisingly fine about it.
‘So, do you think you’ll be bringing anyone?’
I zone back in. Mum is fishing again.
‘Well, I haven’t really thought about it,’ I begin, only for my mind to suddenly shoot ahead. Maybe I could take Johnny?
‘Because at least now if you know the date, you can give whomever plenty of notice. It’s only June, so they’ve got a couple of months’ notice to make travel arrangements if, for example, they need to book flights or something—’
‘Ethan won’t be coming, Mum.’
Boom. It’s like dropping the mic.
For the first time since my phone rang, there’s silence on the other end of the line. But I’m not racked by my usual guilt at letting everyone down. Now Rich is getting married, I feel I can finally be honest. After all, there’s still going to be one wedding in the family.
‘Well, it’s not for a couple of months; people have a habit of changing their minds,’ says Mum after a moment.
‘I won’t change my mind.’
‘Oh, OK, well, it’s just, you never said . . .’
My lack of guilt is short-lived. Mum sounds so disappointed. And now I feel awful for crushing her hope. She was so excited when I told her I was getting married; she showed all her friends the photo of my ring.
‘Actually, I’ve met someone,’ I blurt. ‘It’s early days, but we’ve been on a couple of dates.’
I wasn’t going to say anything. I mean, two dates hardly merits a relationship – there’s still plenty of time for it to go wrong yet. But . . .
‘Oh, that’s lovely news, Nell.’ She sounds both surprised and delighted, and immediately cheers up. ‘Well, yes, maybe you can bring him as your plus one—’
‘Yes, maybe,’ I say, taking a gulp of coffee. It burns my mouth.