3

I press my lips together and make a smacking noise before stepping back and giving myself a final once-over in the mirror.

Looking good, Lexi.

Of course, I’m deliberately not looking too closely or my eyes will be drawn to the white hair that I know is lurking amongst my up-do. And let’s not get started on the bags under my eyes that not even industrial amounts of touche éclat have managed to hide. But aside from that, I look pretty good.

I probably should put my dress on, but while I’m a little bit ahead of schedule I take the time to practise my smile – trying to gauge the perfect amount of teeth. For some reason, whenever I see myself in someone else’s wedding pictures, I seem to be smiling so hard that I look like I’m having my teeth X-rayed at the dentist.

I think I simply get carried away – there is nothing I love more than a good wedding. I mean, how often do you get to dress up in a fabulous frock and get plied with free booze and food all day? Then, it’s not only socially acceptable but expected for you to dance around like a sweaty baboon until the early hours of the morning. And even better, today’s wedding is not just that of a casual acquaintance or a cousin I haven’t seen since way back when, it’s one of my best friend’s. And the only thing that I think I could possibly love more than going to one of my best friends’ weddings would be to go to my own. But, as we all know, with my boyfriend, that isn’t going to happen anytime soon.

‘You better get ready soon,’ I say, as Will walks into the bedroom. He’s still dressed in his baggy weekend sweatpants and one of his many old Southampton football shirts.

I curse the fact that men have it so easy that it takes them mere minutes to get out of the door, and yet my beauty regime for the wedding started yesterday lunchtime with a trip to get a mani/pedi. Which was followed after work by a long bath with extra exfoliation and shaving in all the necessary places. I even brushed my lips with my electric toothbrush last night to make them all super smooth for seamless lipstick application. And yet all Will needs to do is have a quick shower and shave before he throws a suit on.

Unlike me, Will hates weddings with a passion. It’s not that he hates the social awkwardness of being forced to sit on a table with strangers, or the fact that he has to get dressed up in a suit on his day off. Oh no, in his opinion weddings are the devil’s work if they happen to fall on a Saturday. You see, Saturdays are known in our household for being for one thing, and one thing only: the religious worship of sport. It’s probably a good thing that we’ve never got engaged. I mean, when would we ever get married? With a boyfriend like mine, there’s always something he wants to watch. Cricket, snooker, rugby league, televised pool, and then there’s the American sports that have started to trickle in: NHL, NFL, MLB – FFS – it’s never-ending. Most days of the week have some sort of sporting activity that would create a conflict. There’s rugby or football on Sunday, Speedway on Monday, football of some description usually on a Tuesday and Wednesday, darts on a Thursday, rugby on a Friday night and so on.

I know what you’re thinking: why on earth would I put up with all of this? But as I watch Will in the mirror, I know why. Because it’s him. I know that’s a rubbish answer, but how do you describe the love you have for the person that you’ve been dating for what seems like forever?

So maybe he’s got a spare tyre or two round the belly (who hasn’t), and his hair is almost always in a perpetual state of bed hair, but he’s still cute. And it’s not about the way he looks, anyway. In the wise words of Michael Jackson: it’s the way he makes me feel. We’re content and comfortable, and that’s how I like it.

I know I get ignored on a regular basis in favour of a team of men, but when he’s not in super-fan sports mode, he’s sweet and loving, and, well, he’s my Will. And I’m usually happy, as while he’s watching sports, I can write. It’s as if he’s given me the gift of time: win-win.

I’m just about to apply some more eye shadow, when I see him in the mirror doubling over and steadying himself on the chest of drawers.

‘Are you OK?’

I stand up and instinctively go over to rub his back.

‘I think I’ve got a bad belly,’ he says, a hint of a groan in his voice. ‘I’ve spent the last half-hour on the toilet and I’ve got these cramps.’

I look down at him rubbing his stomach.

‘You poor thing. Do you think it’s something you ate?’

I quickly think back to what I cooked for tea last night, panicking that I’ve given him food poisoning, but I soon remember we went out for a Thai meal. Phew, at least I’m not to blame. ‘Yeah, maybe. I did have prawns last night. Right, I’ll slip on my suit.’

He winces as he hobbles over to the wardrobe, pausing for a second before bolting to the door. I hear him thunder across the landing to our bathroom.

I wrinkle my nose up at the thought. It may be a pain that we don’t have an en-suite and the bathroom is about as far away from the bedroom as it could be, but at this moment in time it’s a blessing. I can’t think of anything worse than hearing what’s going on in there.

Poor Will.

Of all the times he could get struck down by food poisoning, it would have to be right before Vanessa and Ian’s wedding. It’s the one wedding he’d been marginally excited about as it’s being held on one of the docked ships in Portsmouth Historic Dockyard and it’s not every day you get to go on a warship.

I’m pretty excited about the boat as well after hearing all about it for the last few months, or at least I am since I managed to find amazing wedges to wear with my vintage-style prom dress. I’d been in a mild panic when Vanessa first mentioned the no stiletto/narrow-heeled shoes rule.

I slip on my dress and finish getting ready while I wonder what we’re going to do. The taxi is picking us up in half an hour, and I know Will only has to throw on a suit and stroll out of the door, but I can’t see this belly problem disappearing in time.

Damn it being such an early wedding. If it was later on in the day perhaps he’d have time to get it out of his system.

I try and think of solutions. Perhaps I could pump him full of Imodium and rehydration sachets, or he could just cross his legs all day.

Will appears back in the doorway. His face looks pale and he’s clearly agitated, a bit like he was at the restaurant on Monday. Maybe it’s not food poisoning after all and he’s been coming down with something all week.

‘I better get ready,’ he says with a slight moan as he rests his head on the doorframe. He seems to be wincing in pain, and I know I’m no doctor, but I think he’ll need more than Imodium to get him to the wedding.

He can’t go in this state. Even if he could stand up straight, it’s not the ideal venue to have a tummy problem in, not when you have to shimmy up and down little ladders between decks to get to the loo.

I can’t remember the last time I went to a wedding on my own and I feel my heart racing slightly at the thought. Whose hand will I squeeze during the service? Who will I talk to when I’ve got an empty space next to me on the table? And what am I going to do when I get all frisky at the end of the night?

No, no, no. I can’t go by myself.

I look up at Will, and all my selfish thoughts fade away. He’s screwing his eyes up and I think he might even be shedding a tear of pain. Not even I’m cruel enough to force him, no matter how much I don’t want to be left on the sidelines when everyone joins in after the first dance.

‘You can’t come, not if you’re feeling this bad.’

‘I can’t let you go on your own,’ he says, pulling his head back upright and walking across the bedroom. ‘Ah.’

He doubles over and I go over to support him, leading him to the bed.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, lying. ‘You stay here in bed. I’ll dig you out a rehydration sachet.’

I’m no longer thinking about getting him to the wedding. I just want him to get better.

‘Thanks,’ he says, using a lame man-flu voice.

I’ll forgive him this once for feeling sorry for himself. No one likes a dodgy belly. It’s not even like you can lie on the sofa binge-watching TV when you have to keep running back and forth to the bathroom.

‘You look nice, by the way,’ he says. ‘I’m gutted I can’t come with you.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ I say, walking over and rubbing his hair affectionately.

‘I’ll go and sort out your medicine.’

‘OK,’ he says.

I pad down the stairs to the kitchen and see that I haven’t got long before the taxi arrives. I better pack a bag quickly and get the man sorted.

I hope Vanessa doesn’t notice that he’s missing, or if she does, I hope she understands. She’s laboured over the guest list and the seating plan for months and I know that she’s agonised over who could and couldn’t come, and who they’d be sitting next to. I hate to think we’ve messed all that up. She’s one of those people who gets stressed out really easily, and I don’t want to do anything that might upset her on her special day.

I search the messy kitchen drawer until I find the required medical supplies and fill up a large glass of water.

When I go back upstairs Will is under the covers, his eyes scrunched up – presumably in pain.

Blimey, he must be in a bad way if he hasn’t even switched on the TV. I know we don’t have the sports channels upstairs, but still.

‘Are you going to be all right if I leave you here by yourself? Do you want me to stay around and look after you?’

I’m sure I could do a good line in playing Florence Nightingale. I even have a nurse’s outfit kicking about somewhere from the time when we used to make an effort with our sex life. OK, so it’s white PVC and probably not something Florence would approve of, but I’m sure the sight of me in it might cheer up Will a little.

I run my hand over his forehead; he doesn’t feel hot or clammy.

‘I’ll be fine. You go. Enjoy yourself. There’s no point in two of us having our day ruined,’ he says, batting away my hand. ‘Plus, Vanessa would kill you if you weren’t there.’

That’s true.

‘If you’re sure? Are you going to be OK on your own?’

‘I’m sure. Have a great time.’

I lean over and give him a kiss on the cheek, careful not to touch him too much, just on the off-chance it’s infectious. I hesitate for a second and wonder if I might have already caught it. What if I give it to everyone at the wedding? I try and weigh up what would be worse, passing on some infectious gastro-illness or facing the wrath of Vanessa? I shudder. Definitely the wrath of Vanessa.

‘I will do. I’ll try not to wake you when I come back.’

Will winces again and I leave him to it. When you’re feeling that rotten all you want is your own space.

‘See you later, honey,’ I whisper, but he doesn’t reply. Presumably too lost in his pain.

I head downstairs and just about have time to shove my lippy, phone and camera into my clutch bag, shove my feet in my shoes and pick up a pashmina before the horn of the taxi goes outside.

‘Here goes,’ I say, taking a deep breath and trying to imagine what it’ll be like to go to the wedding alone. I know that when I was single I used to hate weddings, but it’s different now that I’m with Will, isn’t it?

And it’s not like I’m not going to know anyone. I went to school with Vanessa, and when I was a teenager I think her family saw more of me than my own did. Plus, Cara will be there. Or at least she will be if she doesn’t go off with one of those ushers.

Suddenly, I’m feeling a bit more upbeat about the wedding. Even though it’s always nice having your other half with you at one, Will does hate them and he spends an awful lot of his time moaning about whatever sports he’s missing. Perhaps this is even for the best. I can enjoy the wedding without feeling like I have to babysit a man who’s sulking in the corner checking the footie scores on his iPhone.

I slam the door behind me and walk over to the taxi. Yes, this wedding isn’t going to be too bad. I mean, as long as I don’t get so drunk that I accidentally battle Cara for the usher, then what’s the worst that could happen?