It’s arrived. The big day has finally arrived.
Our Kit stayed at home last night. We watched My Best Friend’s Wedding and drank Prosecco with strawberries. My dad nipped out to get a Chinese takeaway for the four of us: a full-on banquet with prawn crackers and spare ribs, the lot. My mum kept spoiling the film talking on her phone. Everybody was calling her; my nan, Carol, Gareth’s mum. They all kept saying the same thing: it’s tomorrow, can you believe it’s tomorrow, it’s really tomorrow … I didn’t complain, though. She’s been easy on me since I found myself a plus-one for the wedding.
We’ve all woken up this morning with dry mouths from the immense quantities of MSG. We start getting ready, the Spice Girls on full blast, feeling pumped. Even my nan shows up with a smile on her face and a spring in her step.
‘Ready?’ Kit calls from upstairs. ‘I’m coming down!’
In the hallway, my dad puts his arms around me and my mum, and my mum grabs my nan’s hand. The image of Kit standing at the top of the stairs, all Paul Smith-ed and quiffed, is one to cherish. He’s cheeky, he’s calm, he’s fucking beautiful. There’s not a dry eye in the house.
‘The car’s here, son,’ my dad says.
As much as it pains my dad, our Kit won the battle and a traditional wedding car pulls up to take us to the manor house on the Wirral where the wedding is taking place. My dad had originally wanted to pimp his taxis, but even my mum had said no. Her son’s wedding isn’t a business opportunity. A few neighbours stand outside their porches and wave us off. Our Kit winds down the window and gives his best Meghan Markle. My mum’s never looked happier.
‘You still haven’t said who your plus-one is, love,’ she says.
‘He’s just a friend,’ I say, for perhaps the fifth time.
My mum nudges my nan and winks. ‘That’s what they all say!’
Passing a long, manicured garden, we arrive on a gravel driveway. Guests are dotted around the entrance of the manor house, milling about near the wooden double doors. I help my nan out and we leave our Kit in the car. He’s planned to wait for Gareth so they can share a private moment before walking each other down the aisle.
‘We’re practically in Wales,’ my nan says.
And she’s right. There’s a rural feel to the peninsula; the Welsh hills are only across the River Dee. My dress is rather country-style, too. Floaty, off the shoulder, white, and a faux daisy chain in my curled hair. I’m our Kit’s best woman, rather than a groomsmaid, but he’s relieved me of doing a speech later, bless him. He ordered a small bunch of fresh daisies for me to hold, knowing how much I like – well, need – something in my hands these days, and he’s simply delighted I’m here with a smile on my face.
And I am. Smiling.
For our Kit.
There’s nobody I want to be happier than my little brother. He’s the best person I’ve ever had the privilege to know, and he’s in love. He’s loved. I might be sad inside, but it’s easy to smile today.
I usher the guests having a quick ciggie inside. My mum and my nan link arms and my dad leads them to the front row. Yesterday, I spent the day here with Kit and Gareth, decorating the grand hallway where the ceremony is taking place. Ivy entwines the banisters and creates a beautiful archway at the bottom of the stairs. It was a team effort, and we only took a break when the pizzas arrived. We laid out eighty chairs, forty on each side. Now, they’re almost full.
‘Alright Chloe,’ a man says, touching my shoulder. I don’t recognise him. ‘You haven’t changed a bit. Must be twenty years since I last saw you.’
‘I was a redhead twenty years ago,’ I say with a smile and a forced singsong in my voice.
‘Blondes have more fun, eh?’
I laugh, wishing I was sixteen again and experimenting with hair colour.
I wave at a few faces I do recognise, peering through a window to my past. Our Kit’s school mates who I bossed around as a kid and avoided as a teenager. His uni pals I went out drinking with when I visited him during his three years in Manchester. Relatives we saw lots when me and our Kit were little, and never now we’re grown up. I walk down the aisle and take a seat in the front row beside my mum and dad. I keep waving, say a few hellos. I don’t want anybody’s pity, anybody feeling sorry for the poor sister whose boyfriend died. Unless they don’t know. Which is worse – it arouses that dark, sunken feeling that Jack never existed.
Jack.
My recent mission to connect with him had failed. I knew we didn’t have everything in common. I mean, who does? It’s where our banter lay. It made us find adorable silliness in each other. Or was that the picture I’d painted, perhaps? In what Kit had called my ‘little Chloe bubble’?
I hear my name. It’s our Kit’s old flatmate from uni and bless her, she’s so pregnant.
‘Looking fabulous, Tasha!’ I say. ‘How long?’
‘Twins,’ Tasha says. ‘Still got a long way to go!’
I spot Beth and Fergus. Beth’s chattering away to somebody I don’t know; Fergus is reading the order of service. We’ve been in touch since the skiing incident, but only pleasantries about today – you know, the usual logistics. I’m hoping our fight will pass by unnoticed and we’ll be on the dance floor together later.
‘Chloe! Yay!’ a voice chirps from the seat reserved beside mine.
It’s my lovely plus-one. I go straight in for a hearty hug. ‘Hiya, Si.’
We tell each other how fabulous the other looks and I sit down, leaning back into my seat so I can introduce him to my family. He stretches across me to shake hands with my dad, then my mum, my nan.
‘He’s just a friend,’ my nan confirms.
Before my mum can comment, we’re all instructed to stand for the service. Des’ree starts singing through the speakers.
*
I’m cornered in between the starter and the main. In the loo.
‘Of all the men you could’ve brought, why a gay one?’ my mum asks, ironically given we’re at a gay wedding. There’s only two cubicles, both of which we’ve emerged from. She’s still wearing her jade-green bolero but her matching fascinator is off, unlikely to be fixed back on. I run the tap, wash my hands.
‘Oh, Mum. You make it sound like I’ve got a catalogue of men to pick from.’
‘But, why, Chlo? Why a gay one?’
‘He’s not gay.’
She pulls a face as if to say don’t mess with me, like she’s the godmother of all gays.
‘Mum, it’s really none of our business what he is, is it?’
‘Well, he’s having a lovely time with our Kit’s friend Malcolm.’
‘Good for Si. I’m glad.’
She’s either getting a headache or feigning one.
‘But why?’ she moans again.
‘Fine. You want the nice reason? Or the honest reason?’
I dig into the secret pocket of my dress and offer her my lipstick. She declines and opens her beaded clutch bag to fish out her own.
‘The nice reason,’ I say, ‘is that Si’s a lovely person. I didn’t think there’d be anything wrong with having a guy who just oozes loveliness by me side on a day like today. A day which might be difficult for me.’
I hate myself for saying that last part. I didn’t intend for it to sound like that. Not surprisingly, my mum rolls her eyes and puckers up to apply another coat.
The door bursts open and Tasha (having twins) enters. Me and my mum both sing, ‘Hiya,’ and Tasha smiles – with her mouth, not her eyes – and waddles into a cubicle. A fed-up sigh is audible from behind the door. I bet it’s a drag being pregnant at a wedding.
‘It’s great to see Beth still so loved-up with Fergus after all these years, isn’t it?’ my mum says, keeping me from running off. ‘She got lucky with him, didn’t she, love?’
I nod, but my mum looks at me through the mirrors and mouths something at me. I have no idea what she’s saying until she starts to move her hand like a puppet and I realise she wants me to talk. Keeping up appearances, as ever.
‘Yeah, Beth’s one lucky gal,’ I say, to humour her.
Tasha emerges, says something about the more people drink, the more hands touch her bump, although I get the feeling she’s talking to herself in the mirror, not wanting to open up a conversation. My mum tells her she looks stunning and Tasha leaves with a slightly better smile than the one she came in with. I’m on the spot once again.
‘What’s the honest reason?’ my mum asks. ‘Why you brought Si?’ She whispers his name, as if he – or God forbid, somebody else, via the Grade-II-listed wall – might hear us.
‘I didn’t wanna get drunk and shag a random,’ I tell her, giving a shrug.
The noise that escapes my mum resembles a strangled parrot.
‘Chloe, you’re disgusting.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m grieving. And trying to stop meself from doing ridiculous things to numb the pain,’ I say, quite matter-of-factly. I refuse to get upset today. I’ve paced myself with the booze and done bloody well (so far) to avoid heart-to-hearts with certain acquaintances. All that’s left for the night ahead is a boogie and a few mini burgers.
My mum straightens her bolero and smooths down her already smooth, shimmery dress.
‘Having sex,’ she whispers the word, ‘is not ridiculous. Not at your age.’
‘Oh, so you’d rather I was fucking around with randoms?’
‘Making love, Chloe. It’s making love. Don’t say the F word.’
‘You can’t make love to a stranger. And anyway, I’d need to get wasted.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘No. You brought up this insane conversation – it’s your fault if anybody hears it.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that.’
‘Well, it works both ways, Mum. Don’t tell me to sleep with fellas just to prove that your daughter’s not on the shelf. You only want me to have sex on the off chance I might get pregnant by accident, give you a bloody grandchild. Never mind who the father is—’
‘How dare you—’
‘No, how dare you!’
‘You’ve put me in a horrible mood, Chloe. A horrible mood.’
‘I’d say sorry, but I’m only telling the truth.’
‘Even on our Kit’s wedding day, you just couldn’t stop yourself, could you?’
I blink, confused.
‘Nothing’s ever serious with you, Chloe. Ever. Whether it was your schoolwork, that degree you did, your endless stupid jobs, you never take anything seriously. Never. And now you might give up teaching? That’s the last thing you said, wasn’t it? You always piss all over your good fortune and act the goat—’
‘What do you mean? Where’s all this come from?’
‘I bet Jack wasn’t even that serious and you’re just being a bloody drama queen.’
Thank fuck Gareth’s sister shuffles in with her two little girls, one holding each of her hands. I was making confetti cones with these kids yesterday and they light up when they see me. It makes my tummy flip.
‘Oh, don’t you two look beautiful!’ my mum cries out and touches each little girl on the chin. They smile at her, coyly. Gareth’s sister tells them to say, ‘Excuse me’, and awkwardly pushes the older one into a cubicle. She squeezes inside the other with the little one. She gives my mum that look that says, ‘Kids, who’d have ’em?’
‘See you ladies on the dance floor,’ I say, and make a swift exit.
I’ve nothing more to say to my mum and I’m sure she’s as relieved as I am about that.