The wind is a cold hand pushing against my chest, pressing against my leaning body with enough force to support me at a frightening forwards angle. If the wind were to suddenly drop, I could pitch teeth first into the railings or, worse, over the top and into the English Channel. Rachel and Vicky are flanking me, both leaning towards France.
‘You’ve lost too much weight,’ says Vicky.
‘Don’t talk to me about too much weight,’ says Rachel, still checking her watch. ‘And . . . and . . . beep. Exactly twenty-four hours left as a single woman.’
She is visibly pregnant now, and no amount of white silk is going to disguise the fact. But she at least seems to have made her peace with the fact.
Vicky takes a sip from the hip flask and passes it to me. ‘It’s cute,’ she says. ‘Your baby being at your wedding.’
‘Be cuter if it was carrying flowers instead of ruining my waistline. Pass me that,’ she says, holding out her hand for the hip flask.
‘You’re not drinking?’ I say, twisting sideways to the wind, and righting my balance.
‘Of course not, but I can have a sniff, can’t I?’
‘So,’ says Vicky. ‘Where were we?’
‘Must we?’
‘It’s therapy, Zo. So, what have we got? Broken nose,’ she says marking her thumb with item number one on the list of bad things about Henry Smith.
‘Shaved head,’ says Rachel.
‘I like his nose,’ I say.
‘Not helpful, Zoe. Right, dentist; definite black mark.’
‘He does jigsaws,’ I say, smiling at the mental image.
‘Weird,’ says Vicky.
‘Definitely,’ says Rachel. ‘And he’s not exactly trendy.’
‘Good one,’ agrees Vicky. ‘Shapeless jeans. Although . . . quite a nice bum.’
‘True,’ agrees Rachel. ‘He is quite tight.’
‘Left his fiancée at the altar,’ I say, taking the hip flask. ‘End of list.’
‘I would fucking kill him,’ says Rachel. ‘I swear to God, I’d cut his whatsit off.’
‘Such a shame,’ says Vicky. ‘I mean, I know he’s a shitbag, but . . . I liked him.’
‘Me too,’ I say.
‘And, you know . . .’ Vicky takes the flask, ‘. . . better that than go through the motions then get divorced a year later, isn’t it?’
‘Seriously?’ says Rachel. ‘Leave me at the altar? I would cut his little Henry off.’
‘Actually . . .’ I say, raising my eyebrows.
‘Zoe!’ Vicky swats at my arm. ‘What are we talking here?’ She holds her hands apart, her eyes widening as she increases the distance between her palms.
‘Well, he’s no Manaconda,’ I say, and Vicky buries her face in her hands. ‘But . . . I’m not complaining.’
Rachel snips a pair of invisible shears at the air, grabs the severed member and throws it overboard. ‘Au revoir, ’enry.’
‘Au revoir.’
‘So,’ says Rachel, snatching the woollen cap from my head, ‘what’s all this ab . . . oh my fuck, Zoe!’
Vicky takes a full step backwards, as if my hacked hair might be contagious. ‘What did you do? What – did – you – do!?’
And all I can do is shrug. ‘Fancied a change?’
‘Good Christ, Zoe. Dye it red, put a bow in it, don’t . . . oh my God, what about the bloody pictures?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll hold flowers, I’ll stand at the back.’
‘Too right you will,’ she says, taking a deep lungful of whisky vapour. ‘Too fucking right.’
‘Is there anything we can . . .’ Vicky is inspecting my head as if it were something half dead at the side of the road.
‘I swear to God,’ says Rachel, opening and closing her shears. ‘If I ever see that man again.’