How Do You Like Me Now?

by Holly Bourne

  ‘I love how you were married already.’

  ‘IT WAS A GOOD FIRST DATE. You don’t understand what that means, Tor. Aaaaanyway, I’m all ready to forgive him and tell him I’ll wait while he’s away on service or whatever it is. Until he says: “So, yeah, there’s no easy way to tell you this but I’m married.”’

  I shake my head and check my rear-view mirror. Wishing I was more surprised. But, after hearing Dee’s many, many dating stories, I am no longer surprise-able.

  ‘And I said, “rii-iiight”, and then he totally panicked and said, “It’s not like that, I promise. I’m not looking to have an affair.” So I ask him why he’s not divorced yet and he says, “Well, I want to get a divorce obviously, but I can’t find her.”’

  ‘He can’t find her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like she’s a pair of car keys?’

  ‘Like she’s run away from him and vanished into the night. That’s what he told me.’

  I tune her out for a moment as I have to merge onto the M4. A looming deathtrap of a lorry won’t let me in and I have to speed up to about 90 mph on the slip road to just about get in front of him. I join the clug of cars roaring away from London on their way to perfunctory Saturday activities and it takes several moments for my heart to recover from our almost collision.

  ‘So, yeah,’ Dee continues, oblivious to the near-death situation. ‘What has he done to her to make her vanish into the night? But then he tried to claim she was the crazy one. Totally crazy. He went on and on about what a psycho she was and how running away was “so like her”.’

  ‘I bet she wasn’t crazy until she met him,’ I point out.

  ‘Exactly!’ She waves her hands as she speaks and her gold nail polish glints in the sunshine. It sets off her auburn hair just perfectly and I get the stab of jealousy I always get whenever I think about Dee and her hair. ‘The last six guys I’ve dated have fed me the “all my ex-girlfriends were crazy” line. And I’m like, “Dude – who is the common denominator in this pattern? You!” Anyway, fuck this. Can we sing “Elephant Love Medley” now?’

  ‘Only if I can be Nicole.’

  ‘You always get to be Nicole!’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m driving us all the way there.’

  ‘And I’m doing you a favour by being your plus one.’

  In the end we decide to take it in turns. Four replays of ‘Elephant Love Medley’ and three of ‘Come What May’ get us onto the M40 where city life and urbanisation give way to trees and sheep and space. Hawks swoop and cartwheel overhead, floating on invisible air currents. Valleys of green lines stretch out for miles on either side of the car, and I get that gasp of … something I always get when I leave London. The feeling that there is more, that I deserve more space than the city gives me. But mixed with a pang of superiority that tells my gut, ‘Yeah, but what do people out here do with their lives?’

  We stop for coffee at a service station and I take various photographs of it to show off my painted nails.

  ‘I’m going to pretend you’re not doing that,’ Dee says, tipping two sugars into her flat white.

  ‘Oh shut up. I saw your post about the “beautiful sunset” last week.’

  She holds her hands up. ‘Guilty as charged.’

  We fold ourselves back into the car, which has already become an oven in the short time we’ve left it parked. It’s a gorgeous day and forecast to get even nicer. Jess is so lucky. Now, not only will the photos look great, but the unexpected sunshine will give everyone a great conversation opener for the pass-the-time-before-the-food-comes section of the day. I merge us back onto the M40, clutching my coffee in one hand and steering with my spare.

  ‘So remind me whose wedding this is again?’ Dee asks, with a croissant hanging out of her mouth.

  ‘Jessica. She’s a friend from home.’

  ‘And who’s she marrying? Do you know him?’

  I bite my lip before replying. ‘Tim. He’s an accountant.’ I add.

  ‘Poor Jess,’ Dee says sympathetically.

  ‘Don’t judge him too quickly,’ I say, smiling. ‘I mean, he has told me, at least twice, that “he’s not like regular accountants”.’

  Dee tries to grab the wheel. ‘Turn the car around, Tor. I am not going to this wedding.’

  ‘Stop it!’ I yell, laughing and slapping her hand away.

  ‘There’s going to be more than one accountant at this wedding, isn’t there?’

  ‘Probably.’ Dee’s hilarious wheel-grab means I’ve strayed into the fast lane. I smile and flirt with the male driver of the car that honked me, mouthing ‘sorry’. He still shakes his fist as he speeds past.

  ‘No wonder Tom bailed.’

  ‘He didn’t bail because of the accountants. He has this podcast thing.’

  ‘Yeah yeah, I know. Convenient though, isn’t it?’ My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Dee finishes her pastry and brushes the leftover flakes onto my car floor like buttery dandruff. ‘Can we start a drinking game where we have to do a shot every time someone says, “I’m not like regular accountants”?’

  ‘We won’t be able to see by the time the speeches start.’

  ‘Precisely! Can we just make the whole day a drinking game?’

  ‘I don’t know. Livers are apparently quite essential organs. How is this game going to work?’

  ‘Simple!’ Dee digs in her black leather handbag and pulls out a biro and a receipt. ‘We have to drink whenever a wedding cliché happens. Like, umm, we have to drink if the bride stays silent throughout all the speeches.’ She starts writing it down in her loopy, cursive writing.

  I grin and start thinking. ‘And if there’s a photo booth with hilarious props for everyone to use?’

  ‘Yes!’ Dee punches the air and starts writing that down too, using her croissant-littered leg as a desk. ‘And if someone makes a shit joke during the “if there’s any reason you shouldn’t get married, speak now” part of the ceremony.’

  ‘Brilliant. And if someone does that reading from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.’

  ‘If the best man makes a hilarious joke about the hilarious objectification of strippers during the stag do.’

  ‘If they’ve “done something a little bit different” with their wedding cake – like cupcakes!’ I put forward.

  ‘Oooh, yes! With novelty iced figures on top. This is great, all great.’ She runs out of room on the receipt and digs about for a new one. ‘Right, it’s on the list. Oooh, how about if the photographer takes photos of a) All the bridal party jumping into the air, and/or b) All the groomsmen holding this Jess girl up horizontally.’

  I remember Jessica’s group shot from last night and know, without a doubt, that there will be a photo of the bridal party all jumping in the air. I nod in agreement. ‘If the groom says, “and you look so beautiful today”, or, “I knew from the moment I met her” during his speech.’ I point out my finger so she writes it down.

  ‘BONUS POINTS FOR CRYING,’ Dee shouts. ‘And, Tor, I’m telling you, if there’s a choreographed first dance, I will make both of us down an entire bottle of vodka through our eyeballs.’

  I’m laughing so hard I almost veer into the next lane again. And I think, thank God Dee is here and not Tom. I don’t know what that means and I don’t have the emotional energy to even think about what that means right now. I take one hand off the steering wheel and pat her shoulder to let her know she is brilliant and amazing.

  ‘Are we terrible awful people?’ I ask her, still laughing too hard to sound like I care.

  She shakes her head, her face suddenly serious. ‘No Tor, we’re not.’ She sighs and puts down her littered receipt. ‘I just find it weird that no one can see how lemming-like it is.’

  *

  I wind my car along the twisted driveway and pull up to the country hotel that has everything you’d want in a wedding venue. A lake with bowed willow trees grazing the water. Stone, weathered statues collecting just enough moss to look pretty. A view
. A neatly trimmed expanse of lawn.

  I check us into our room that, even with Jessica’s ‘brilliant guest discount’, costs £215. I help Dee carry everything in and she lumps her stuff down on the best bed, silently claiming it as her own. The room heaves with tired grandiose. It still looks good enough that you want to take a photo to post on the Internet, but yawns with the need for refurbishment. The four-poster bed with draped, white silk curtains just about distracts from the scattering of damp spots Dalmatianing the ceiling, or the chipped paint flecking off the bay windows.

  ‘Right. Help me decide what to wear,’ Dee says. She parades a cornucopia of possible outfits while I curl my hair and offer feedback, and check my phone, and check my phone, and check my phone. My post from this morning is doing really well. I spray heat-protective spray on small sections of my thin hair, comb it through, and then use a gentle flick of my wrist to curl the sections with my GHDs. I then twirl each curl with my finger while it sets before letting them cool and separating them. I finish by gently coating my head with L’Oréal Elnett hairspray because everyone says that’s the best.

  Dee eventually decides on a black-and-white spotted wrap-dress that she twins with red lipstick and eyeliner flicks. She looks like she’s just walked out of a Fifties film.

  ‘I’m so fucking fat,’ she moans, as we fight for mirror space with good lighting.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not fat.’

  I mean, she is a little bit fat. She has been since she started working at the school, where she says the teachers passive-aggressively force-feed one another biscuits. But you can’t ever say that.

  ‘It’s OK for you,’ she complains, tracing the outline of her lip in red pencil. ‘You’re so skinny.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ I protest. Even though I wiggle into the compliment and bathe in its warmth. Thinking, it’s OK because you’re thin; everything is OK because someone just told you you are thin. ‘Anyway, if I am thin, it’s only because I’m legitimately miserable,’ I say. ‘I’d rather be happy.’

  Dee laughs and almost smudges her lip liner.

  ‘It’s nice to know my unhappiness is so hilarious,’ I deadpan.

  ‘Oh, but it is. Self-help guru …’

  ‘Shut up.’

  We smile at one another’s reflections and my love for her bubbles up like hiccups.

  ‘Do you really think everyone else is happier?’ she asks, returning her attention to her outlined lip.

  I think about it as I try and figure out which particular curl to pin back to add volume without squaring my jawline. ‘They seem happier,’ I say. ‘I mean, Jessica is bound to be happy today, isn’t she? It’s her wedding day.’

  ‘Yeah, but would she have married this guy if she wasn’t thirty-one?’

  I open my mouth to lie.

  ‘Honestly?’ Dee warns.

  I think about it and shake my head. The Jessica I grew up with would never have dated an accountant. I always worried that Tim was an overcorrection from her terrible break-up. But now she’s marrying her overcorrection …

  ‘I knew it.’ Dee nods, her hair cascading down her back and making me jealous. ‘Tor, be grateful that you’re not trapped with Tom. Honestly. Getting married doesn’t mean you’re happy. Especially if you’re suddenly getting married to whoever you’re with at thirty because everyone else is doing it.’

  ‘That does seem to be what’s happening …’ My phone vibrates and I check it again. It’s full of more validations and likes and favourites. It’s running out of battery already so I turn and rummage in my suitcase for my travel charger. The thought of it running out makes me feel mildly panicked.

  ‘Of course that’s what’s happening,’ Dee says. ‘Turning thirty is like playing musical chairs. The music stops and everyone just fucking marries whoever they happen to be sitting on. Now, Tor?’ She turns around and pouts. ‘Does this colour lipstick clash with my hair?’

  *

  Soon we are preened and perfect and ready to have our photographs taken by the two roaming professional photographers who will have cost over a thousand pounds. One photographer is in charge of collecting ‘official shots’ to display on Jessica and Tim’s mantelpiece, or to sit within the tissue-papered pages of their official wedding album (an extra £700). The second photographer is there for the ‘natural shots’. The shots that show just how fun the couple is, and how fun their friends are. Look how we talk and laugh in groups and how fun we look as we do so.

  Dee and I mill around outside the hotel’s chapel, making pre-ceremony talk with people we don’t know very well. I cannot concentrate as the photographer crouches around us. I’m trying to be interested in some random guy’s job and what a nice day it is and how lucky they are with the weather, but I’m highly aware that the ‘natural shot’ photographer is getting my bad angle. The angle where my chin looks weird. I’m conscious of laughing attractively, so when the photo goes up on the website in two months’ time, people will think I look pretty. Even though they’ll probably only scroll past to see what they look like, I must still look pretty.

  We eventually trickle into the chapel and I manage to locate the friends who also weren’t picked as bridesmaids. Andrea calls my name and beckons us over to the seats she’s saved for us. I hug her hello, and Olivia, whose pregnant stomach blooms out from under her tasteful maternity dress.

  ‘Oh my God! Look at your stomach!’ I say. I make my voice high-pitched and enthusiastic and tell her she’s glowing and congratulate Steven. ‘This is my friend, Dee, from uni. She’s my plus one for today.’ I introduce them to Dee who shakes their hands and dazzles them with her primary-school teacher charm.

  ‘I love your dress,’ she tells Andrea. ‘Where did you get it from?’ And, just like that, they slot in together, discussing how Marks and Spencer’s really going through a surprisingly good patch then laughing that maybe that’s because we’re all just old now.

  ‘Where’s Tom?’ Steven asks, realising he’s the only man on our aisle and looking panicked. Also, everyone always wants Tom to come to everything. He’s such very good company. I spend my whole life watching people be disappointed when it’s just me attending.

  ‘Oh, he’s got a podcast thing he can’t get out of,’ I say. I take care to mention which newspaper it’s with because it’s impressive and I want Steven to know that Tom is only missing this wedding because of his huge career success as a travel journalist.

  Steven takes the bait. ‘You two really are a little power couple, aren’t you?’

  I laugh and deny it but bathe in the glow of how we must look from the outside.

  The mood of the conversation next to me has turned bitchy and I tune into their frequency.

  Andrea is whispering under her breath, complaining about Jessica banning children for the day. ‘Well, I had to leave Dylan at home with Sam,’ she sighs. ‘I know it’s her day and all, but we couldn’t afford a babysitter and … I was just really shocked, you know? It’s typical I guess. You just don’t understand what it’s like until you have children …’

  Olivia nods along, stroking her stomach like her bump is personally offended. She mutters ‘of course’, and ‘I can see why it’s difficult’, and ‘people don’t understand how expensive babysitters are’. She turns to Steven and asks him what he thinks and Steven is smart enough to say how unfortunate it is. I try to nod noncommittally in the right places but Andrea’s really worked herself up into a state now. She’s been boiling since the cream invitation dropped onto her doormat, politely requesting she leave her baby at home for six hours until the evening.

  Bored – and secretly, selfishly, glad there are no bratty children running about – I look around the ornate hall they’ve tried to make as churchy as possible. Daffodils drape every available surface and I feel a tug of annoyance because I always wanted to have daffodils at my wedding and now Jessica will think I’m copying.

  ‘Is that the accountant?’ Dee whispers, pointing towards the front of the hall w
ith her head.

  I nod. Tim the accountant sits on the edge of the front bench, looking like a cute child playing dress-up in his baggy, powder-blue morning suit. I would put all my life savings on it being Jessica’s idea that he wear a pink cummerbund. Aware he’s the centre of attention, he catches many people’s eyes and pulls a hilarious freaked-out face – all over the top, chewing on his fingernails. Laughter ripples around us. I hear the click of the ‘natural shot’ photographer. Tim’s asked to do it again by the ‘official shot’ photographer. And we all watch as both cameramen crouch in the aisle and make Tim hold the pose for half a minute.

  ‘He really isn’t like other accountants, is he?’ Dee muses and I giggle.

  ‘I told you. Just wait until the dancing later. Then you’ll—’

  The room quietens all at the same time. Someone at the back must’ve given the signal. Without being told, we all stand up. Jessica is about to arrive and walk in a straight line and we need to stand to witness this miraculous event. A violinist pops up from nowhere and stands alongside some guy on an electronic keyboard. They obligingly start playing James Blunt. We turn towards the daffodil-lined aisle and watch the bridesmaids shuffle up it self-consciously. Their faces are frozen into demure smiles. Their bodies are stuffed into clingy, pink dresses which I’m sure Jessica is pretending, even to herself, are tasteful and flattering. Their hair is plaited down over one ear. Their cheeks are rosy, their lips are pink and glossy. It’s time for the big moment and the air in the room fills with anticipation, like someone famous is about to come in. And I guess Jessica is famous – for today at least. She is getting married and therefore this little microcosm will orbit around her all day, making her feel the most special and totally worth blowing twenty grand on. Here she comes.

  She steps forwards and we twist and crane to get a look of her. I am immediately analysing her for how pretty she looks. For what the dress is like, what her body looks like in it. How her hair is done and if her make-up is enough but not too much. It is what we are conditioned to do. How pretty do you look? Have you managed it? Have you made all the right style choices? Oh, how we will notice if you haven’t and discuss it privately, bitchily, at the end of the day.