Monica stopped in at the portaloos on the way into the reception, to check that she didn’t have mascara running down her face. She’d blubbed just a little bit in the church, at the sight of the two brides, both dressed in floor-length white. Weddings always did that to her, even those of people she didn’t know. It was mainly happiness for the couple, of course, but she was uncomfortably aware that it was mixed in with a tiny bit of envy and regret.
Hazard was waiting for her as she came out, and they walked together into the marquee. The entrance was decked with white roses, and on either side a waiter stood holding a silver platter bearing glasses of champagne. Monica and Hazard took one each.
“I thought Riley said you’d quit drinking while you were in Thailand,” said Monica. Or had Alice told her that? She was sure someone had, anyhow.
“Oh yes, I did,” replied Hazard. “I was drinking way too much. But it’s not as if I’m an alcoholic or anything. I can have just one or two drinks, on special occasions. Like this one. I’m all about moderation, these days.”
“Quite right,” replied Monica, who thought staying in control an underrated art form. She was liking Hazard more and more. “Don’t forget you’re driving us home, will you?”
“Of course not,” said Hazard. “But it’s several hours before we’ll be leaving, and it’d be rude not to join in, don’t you think?” And he raised his glass at her and took a large gulp. “What do you reckon’s on the dinner menu? Chicken or fish?”
“Judging by the crowd, I’d opt for fish. Poached salmon,” she replied.
Monica was really enjoying herself. Hazard kept up a hysterical running commentary on all the other guests, despite the fact that—with the exception of Roderick and the brides—he knew none of them. They shared stories of weddings they’d attended in the past, both the wonderfully romantic and the totally disastrous.
It was so much more relaxing being on a date with someone she wasn’t dating. At every previous wedding she’d attended, she’d found her imagination fast-forwarding the relationship she was in. She’d make mental notes of how her wedding would differ, which of her relatives might make photogenic (but not too photogenic) bridesmaids, and who he might choose as best man. She’d give him sidelong glances during the service, to see if he was overcome with emotion and having the same thoughts as her.
With Hazard, it was just—fun. She was really glad she’d come.
They were at the same table for dinner, although it was huge and round with a giant floral display in the middle, so Monica couldn’t talk to Hazard and could only see him if she craned her neck around the flowers. There was a dinner menu in the center. Poached salmon. She did love being right. She caught his eye, pointed at the menu, and gave him a wink.
The meal seemed to go on forever, as each course was interspersed with speeches. Monica was doing her best with the men sitting on either side of her, but was rapidly running out of small talk. They’d done how they each knew the happy couple, wasn’t the service lovely, and weren’t house prices in London astronomical, and then ground to a halt.
She was getting increasingly worried about Hazard, because she was pretty sure that he’d accepted a glass of white wine from a waiter, and then a glass of red, and it looked as if they were topping both glasses up regularly. She tried to catch his eye, to give him a meaningful stare and remind him about the drive home, but he seemed to be deliberately avoiding her gaze. The girls on either side of him kept tipping their heads back and laughing uproariously. One looked as if she had a hand resting on his thigh. He was obviously being hilarious. But it wasn’t hilarious. It was irresponsible and selfish.
As the meal, finally, drew to a close, and people started wandering away from the table, Monica went and sat down in an empty seat near Hazard, clutching her glass of sparkling water, as if to prove a point.
“Hazard,” she hissed at him, “you’re meant to be driving us home, not getting drunk.”
“Oh, Monica, don’t be such a killjoy. It’s a wedding. You’re supposed to get drunk. That’s what weddings are for. Let your hair down for once. Live a little,” he said, draining another glass of wine. “Monica, this is . . .” he said, waving in the direction of the blonde sitting next to him, with lips that had definitely had something artificial pumped into them. She obviously hadn’t heard the sartorial advice about only displaying legs or cleavage.
“Annabel,” she finished for him. “Hi.” How was it possible to draw out a two-letter word for so long? She waved at Monica with only the tips of her fingers, as if Monica didn’t deserve a whole hand. “Hazard? I’ve got some Charlie in my bag if you fancy a quick snifter?” she said, not even bothering to hide the conversation from Monica, or to include her. Did she think Monica was too square to take drugs? Well, she was, but that wasn’t the point.
“Now you’re talking, gorgeous,” said Hazard, pushing back his chair and standing up, rather unsteadily. “I’ll follow you; apart from anything else, it’ll give me more opportunity to check out your gorgeous arse.”
“Hazard!” shouted Monica. “You’re the arse. Don’t be such a bloody idiot!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Monica, stop being such a bore. Why don’t you go and de-stress in a haberdashery? You are not my mother, or my wife, or even my girlfriend. And thank fuck for small mercies.” He left, weaving through the crowd after Annabel’s capacious backside, like a rat following the Pied Piper. Annabel shot Monica a look over her shoulder, tossed her head, and brayed, her lips peeling back to reveal overly large teeth.
Monica felt as if she’d been slapped. Who the hell was that? He certainly wasn’t the Hazard she’d thought she knew. Then she remembered. He might not be the Hazard she’d got to know recently, but he was one she’d seen before, the one who had barged into her in the street and called her stupid bitch. The one who meddled with her life, then crashed her Christmas lunch, expecting a round of applause. And how dare he bring up her haberdashery obsession? She’d totally forgotten about writing that in the book. That was a low blow. She didn’t want to be here any longer. She just wanted to go home. Monica took her mobile out of her bag, found a quiet corner of the marquee, and called Riley.
Please answer, Riley, please answer.
“Monica! You guys having fun?” he said in his wonderfully upbeat voice.
“Not really, no. At least I’m not. Hazard’s having rather too much fun, actually. He’s completely plastered. And not slowing down, either. I don’t know how to get home. Hazard’s too drunk to drive, and I don’t know how to. I can’t leave the minibus here. They need it first thing tomorrow for an outing. What am I going to do?” Monica hated asking for help, and particularly hated acting like a damsel in distress. It went against all her feminist principles. Her mother would be turning in her grave. If she ever managed to get herself out of this damn tent, she was going to book a course of driving lessons.
“Don’t worry, Monica. You stay there, I’ll jump on the train and come and get you. I can drive you and the bus home. Just text me your address and I’ll get a taxi from the station. It’ll take me a couple of hours, but the wedding will go on for a while longer, won’t it?”
“Riley, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Thank you. I have no idea what’s gotten into Hazard. I’ve never seen him like this,” she said.
“I guess that’s the problem if you’re an addict. Once you start, you just can’t stop. He was doing so brilliantly, too. Nearly five months, totally sober,” said Riley. Monica’s stomach lurched. She was such an idiot.
“Riley, I had no idea. He told me he could handle it. I should have stopped him,” she said.
“It’s not your fault, Monica. I’m sure he deliberately misled you. And himself probably. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I should have warned you to keep an eye on him. Still, at least he’s not hoovering up the cocaine again,” said Riley. Monica said nothing. There didn’t seem to be any point. “Look, the sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll get there. Hold tight.” And he hung up.
Sometimes, there is nothing lonelier than a roomful of people. Monica felt like a child, with her nose pressed against a window, looking in at a party she wasn’t party to. Hazard was dancing, showily, in the center of the dance floor, with women sticking to him like those flies on Julian’s ghastly flypaper. She felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Might I request the next dance?” It was Roderick, Daphne’s son. Hazard had introduced them in the church.
Monica, who’d always felt it impolite to turn down anyone who plucked up the courage to ask you to dance, nodded mutely and allowed herself to be led up to the floor where Roderick, ignoring all the conventions of modern dance moves, threw her around in a clumsily energetic version of 1950s rock and roll. This gave him plenty of opportunities to rest a clammy hand on her back, shoulder, or buttock. She felt like a show pony at a gymnastic display.
Hazard, who was obviously finding her predicament hilarious, gave her an exaggerated thumbs-up through the crowd. Roderick leaned over and whispered in her ear, his breath hot and sticky, smelling of whiskey mixed with strawberry pavlova.
“So, are you and Hazard an item?” he asked.
“God, no,” replied Monica. Roderick took such obvious strength of feeling as a green light and clutched her bum even more enthusiastically.
RILEY PICKED HIS way carefully through the thinning crowd, a surefooted interloper among an unpredictably lurching mass. Monica was the only person sitting at a large, round table, like the sole survivor of a shipwreck, stranded on a desert island. Hazard was circling the tables like a shark, picking up abandoned wineglasses and draining them.
“Riley!” Monica shouted over at him, causing everyone in the vicinity to turn and stare at the newcomer. Riley smiled, and it was like the sun bursting through the storm clouds.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you,” said Monica.