Powdered Scrambled Egg and Prosecco
With ten
months to go, we are curled up together in the sleeping bag with dead grass and
beetles. I suggest the M word. All my friends are starting to push babies out
and go to baby massage and yummy mummy yoga. We don’t even live together,
instead we do crummy camping holidays in the rain in the Lake District. Joe
blows beery breaths in my face, he mutters, “yeah, babe, whatever.” He turns
over, pulling the sleeping bag zip wide open leaving me cold and shivering in
the early morning green-dappled tent-haze. Empty beer bottles clink as I push
my toes off the blow-up bed. A honeymoon
somewhere warm, that’s what I need, leave this mouldy tent behind.
With four
months to go, my wedding dress is not new. Mum has organised for me to have
cousin Julia’s dress. She says with such short notice; I have to take what I
can get. Julia’s dress been reimagined, the seams and dreams adjusted. Jilted
Julia. The cutting of the gown, wounding the satin, it won’t heal without a
scar. Julia downs the prosecco—she says it’s the bubbles stinging the back of
her throat that’s making her cry. I can
feel the heat and fury pouring out of her skin.
Mother wants Julia to be my chief bridesmaid. I can’t say no.
With three
months to go, we go out for dinner, tables sticky, half-ripped beer mats dried
in the shape of shells. The chief bridesmaid and the best man. Nigel and Julia.
Nothing like a wedding for initiating another. The beer goes down, the wine
gets poured, the temperature remains three degrees below freezing. Frost
sparkling on Julia’s eyelids, the afterglow face paint on her cheeks, the diamanté
earrings. We walk back, I commiserate with Nigel, she wraps her arms around
Joe. I try not frown; it causes lines.
With two
months to go, the cake is finalised, it will be a creation in the purest of
white, hiding the darkness of the fruit and brandy swirling beneath. It’s a
show-off cake, intricate flowers, spirals and swags. I want a paste model of us
in a tent on the top. Mum and Julia laugh, “I don’t think so.” Mum says. I bite
back my words.
With three
weeks to go, we weekend in Blackpool, my hens around me, sashes and tiaras and
glitter. A spa day, garlic prawns, pizza and acidic white wine. Julia dances on
the table, a hit with everyone, my friends love her. Headaches all-round the
next morning. Powdered scrambled egg for breakfast and there’s no decaf coffee.
Julia smirks all the way home, her lips grazed by the beard of man she was
kissing all night. I should not pass judgement.
With one
week to go, he says I’m being bride-zilla. He raises a finger for me to be
silent as he takes a call at the swanky restaurant we go to for a pre-wedding
treat, just for us. He can’t collect his suit—he will be at the football match.
I will have to do it; I was the one who wanted to get married. But it’s the
rehearsal for my make-up and hair and all my hens will be there, and I will
have to drive home with his suit hanging from the hook in the back, as they go
off to the nightclub. Julia will have to take over as host. I feel a shiver in
my bones.
With forty-eight
hours to go, the stag night in Dublin is all-over social media. They drink all
day, staggering from pub to pub. Guinness froth on their noses. Julia is there, smirking as he gives her a
kiss on her cheek, one hand down her blouse, the other up her skirt. The hens
peck around, in DMs and texts and calls. They call her names, promise to shun
her at the wedding. I know when they have enough prosecco, they will be her
mate again. I can’t cry; I need to look my best.
With ten
minutes to go, we sit on the sofa, Dad holds my hot hand in his cool one. “You
don’t have to go through with it,” Dad says, “the limo is ours for the day. We
could go to the seaside. What do you say love?”
Comments
Post a Comment