A Beautiful Day for a Wedding

by Charlotte Butterfield

  ‘Thank you dear, I’m going to be buried in it.’

  Eve had just taken a big gulp of wine at exactly that moment, and found herself choking on it. Someone started whacking her back with a force that wasn’t entirely necessary, and when she’d regained the ability to breathe again, she realised angrily it was Ben.

  ‘Easy now, Red.’

  ‘Jesus, Ben, you didn’t need to hit me so hard.’ Eve was aware that her face was an unattractive shade of purple and tried to hide behind her hair.

  Ben held his hands up. ‘I saved your life.’

  ‘You did not. It just went down the wrong way.’

  ‘You moved. Didn’t you like your old table?’ Ben said, his eyes taking on a familiar twinkle. ‘I met Peter at Luke’s stag do. Top guy. Shame about his sniffing. The curtains look lovely, don’t they? It must have taken you hours.’

  The penny suddenly dropped. Eve swivelled angrily round to face him. ‘You? You swapped the names?’

  Ben put one hand on his heart. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. Oh good, speech time.’

  The tinkling of silverware against glass made everyone hurry back to their seats. Eve watched Ben merrily meander back to his own seat with an untamed rage building inside her. The last time she’d spoken to him they were arranging where exactly in Gatwick airport they were going to meet before their flight to New York. She’d said the departure lounge, he’d said check-in. It didn’t matter in the end as he never turned up.

  It was meant to be the adventure that marked the start of Eve and Ben the couple, and not Eve and Ben the best friends. She still didn’t know if he knew that she’d been in love with him the whole way through their degrees, and for four years after that, or whether he assumed that the night they finally got together was because of a sudden change of heart, an opportunistic coupling because both of them were single and a little bit drunk. But for Eve, that night after a bad comedy club where he’d finally slept over in her bed and not on her sofa was the night everything finally slotted into place. The misty filter had been lifted off her life and everything had more colour, more vibrancy – it all just made more sense. They were going to split the rent on a studio flat in Manhattan, and travel to work on the subway together every morning and eat slices of pizza from a neighbourhood Italian restaurant in the evenings.

  When he didn’t turn up at the airport, leaving her a two-line note in her passport by way of an explanation, Eve had stood there alone in the bustling departures hall, a new shiny suitcase at her feet, clutching his letter that promised her an explanation soon. Should she go to New York alone, and live the adventure that was designed to be shared, or should she stash it in the great filing cabinet of life under ‘missed opportunities’? Holding back tears for every minute of the plane journey, she arrived at JFK alone, unsure and utterly heartbroken.

  Without his share of the rent paid, she had to cancel the let on the studio, and live in whatever she could afford, which turned out to be a hall cupboard advertised as a ‘compact bedroom’. She navigated the subway alone everyday, clutching her bag to her chest, eyes wide at the pace of life and magnitude of people, all rushing past with somewhere to go, someone to go to. Her first few dinners in her new city were eaten with just her thoughts for company. Ben hovered near the surface of everything she did, every new experience she had was tinged with sadness and then anger that he had let her down so badly. She’d managed to, if not forget about him, certainly pack up all thoughts of him into a little box in the recesses of her brain, somewhere she rarely allowed herself access to. But now this. How dare he just dance back into her perfectly ordered life, and start playing silly buggers with it.

  Apart from Luke’s cringeworthy opening of ‘That’s not the first time today I’ve risen from a warm seat with a piece of paper in my hand’, which was met with a horrified gasp from his new wife and a smattering of compatriot sniggers, the rest of the groom’s speech was a roll call of thanks and protocol. Before he told everyone to ‘Glaze your arses, I mean, raise your glasses,’ he ended with the customary thanks to the ‘stunning bridesmaids, who have all been incredibly supportive to Tanya in the run up, particularly Ayesha, with the beautiful table plan and decorations.’ Cue a round of applause for Ayesha, who looked at once embarrassed and a little confused at being singled out for praise. Nothing surprised Eve about this wedding any more. The sooner she could wriggle out of the patchwork boa constrictor masquerading as her dress, climb into her own bed and put Tanya’s wedding in the annals of history, the happier she’d be. But that utopia was at least six hours away.

  ‘I’m getting some messages for you from the other side,’ Violet whispered during the best man’s speech.

  Despite a vast amount of media training, Eve had no ready response for that. ‘Um. That’s nice,’ she mouthed back.

  ‘They’re saying dog poo.’

  ‘Dog poo?’ Eve whispered back.

  ‘Yes. Does that mean anything to you?’ Violet’s eyes were filled with expectation, perhaps that Eve would respond with, ‘yes, that’s my surname, Eve Dogpoo,’ or ‘that’s my address, Number 5 Dogpoo Avenue.’ She hated to disappoint her though.

  ‘Um, we once had a golden retriever and I used to pick his business up?’

  ‘That’ll be it then.’ Violet adjusted her large two-handled fuchsia handbag that was resting in her lap and settled back in her seat, smiling.

  The waiters chivvied everyone outside after the meal for the band to set up and a dance floor to be laid. Eve spent most of the time in the toilet with Becca to avoid bumping into Ben again, and away from Tanya’s eagle eyes fixating on her patchwork gown. Re-entering the warehouse they were stopped by the officious master of ceremonies. ‘Have you got your bracelets?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Eve said. ‘Bracelets?’

  ‘For the evening reception,’ he said, pointing to a trestle table where guests were queuing up to have colour-coded bracelets fastened around their wrists. ‘Join the back of the queue, ladies.’

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ hissed Becca as they shuffled their way to the front.

  It transpired that despite Tanya and Luke’s not inconsiderable wedding budget, their generosity did not extend to watering their guests in the evening. A little sign propped up on the table announced that Gold Bracelets were £40, Silver £25 and Bronze £15.

  ‘I don’t believe it, she hasn’t!’

  A rather embarrassed looking student masquerading as a server for the evening was patiently explaining to each guest that should they want to keep drinking the champagne then they needed to purchase the gold package, spirits were silver, and the house wine and beer were bronze.

  ‘I think she has,’ laughed Becca. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Wow indeed.’

  ‘Bronze please,’ Becca told the student, while Eve huffed next to her. ‘You’re not seriously doing this, are you?’

  ‘What choice do we have?’ Becca replied. ‘We’re her bridesmaids.’

  ‘Exactly! She’s making us pay for the privilege of being here. Sod that, I’m going home.’

  ‘Eve, you can’t, we have to stay. Look, just go for the bronze one, we’ll get absolutely plastered on plonk, and then laugh about it tomorrow. Can you lend me some cash?’

  They queued up at the bar to flash their bracelets to the barman before being handed a couple of glasses of acidic white wine. Violet was next to them holding her golden bracelet up to the light admiring its shine. ‘I would imagine this is what it’s like being at a music festival,’ she said. ‘So exciting. Now I will never need to go to Glastonbury.’

  The friends moved away from the bar to let similarly disgruntled guests take their places.

  ‘I see you’ve gone for the cheap option,’ Ben said, joining the two of them. ‘You can take the girls out of the student union, but you can’t take the student union out of the girls.’

  ‘Look at you, flashing the cash with your fancy silver one,’ Becca teased, while Eve stayed silent next to her
, looking at the floor.

  ‘I felt that wine or beer wasn’t going to be strong enough for me to get through the rest of the evening, and I’m not really a champagne sort of guy.’

  ‘Well, can you put it to good use and get us a round of shots?’ Becca asked. ‘Sambuca if they have it, tequila if not.’

  As he walked back to the bar Eve hissed, ‘Why did you say that? Now he’s going to stay with us all night.’

  ‘It’s fine, we’ll drink it then have a dance. Look, I know it must be really difficult for you, him being here after all this time, but he seems like he’s making an effort to be friends, and it’s nice to see him again. I know we haven’t all been in love with him for over a decade like you have been—’ Becca put her hand up to stop Eve from denying it. ‘But that doesn’t mean that we can’t be civil to him. Look, here he is.’

  Ben was carrying three little shot glasses which he divvied out to each of them. ‘Cheers!’

  Eve knocked hers back in a second and then put her empty glass on a nearby table. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you both later.’ And she walked away, with no purpose or place to go; she just needed to not be near him.

  Three hours later, Eve could hear her own voice talking to Becca, but it didn’t sound like her at all. It was like one of those voice-distorters, used by someone wanting to keep their identity secret, slow and pronounced with every syllable. Also, the curtains kept moving, tall white ghosts dancing about the room. She’d managed to dart out of Ben’s way whenever it looked likely their paths would cross, and in a massive open factory, with no dark corners, or indeed walls that weren’t made of transparent cotton, it was a commendable feat. But a few hours spent leaping behind curtains, ducking behind chairs and even at one point sheltering inside the DJ booth had taken its toll and Eve was drunk, exhausted and on the verge of being exceedingly emotional should she not fall asleep imminently. ‘I think I need to go home Becs.’

  ‘I do too, I’m knackered. Shall we split a taxi? By split I mean you pay and I’ll pay you back when I can.’

  ‘Sure.’ Eve was far too weary to even bother arguing.

  ‘Where are you going girls? The night is still young, and so are we. Sort of.’

  She’d done so well avoiding him, to fall now at the final hurdle was too much for Eve and she just burst into tired tears. The weeks and months of bridal demands, the disastrous hen do, the horrific state of her finances, the brutal To-Do List, making sure Tanya never saw her butchered dress, and avoiding Ben, it was all too much, and when you threw a few bottles of paint-stripper white wine into the mix, the result was not pretty. Becca put her arm around her best friend, gave Ben a look over Eve’s head that said, ‘don’t ask’ and gently led her away.

  Weddings. Ah weddings. Joyous occasions celebrating love. Joyous occasions where the guest list is as varied as a seaside town’s pick’n’mix. Imagine the venue as a massive pink and white striped paper bag, where nestling inside you have the ingredients for a massive sensory overload. You have the stars of the show, the bride and groom, the fizzy cherry cola bottles if you will. Sweet and sour little nuggets of deliciousness. Then the bride and groom’s parents, the chewy fried eggs – no one questions their place at the table, they’ve just got to be there. There’s the fudge, or the drunk uncles – everyone likes them but you can’t have too many of them as they take up too much room. Gobstoppers, the boring colleagues that are a bit pointless, have no taste and go on and on. Likewise, the flying saucers, this is the vicar that you felt obliged to extend an invitation to – a bit two-dimensional and tasting vaguely of communion wafer. Dolly mixtures – these are very obviously the extended family. A hotchpotch of different flavours, sizes and shapes, mostly nice, often jelly-tot fabulous, with a pointless square one thrown in because you have no choice when they come as a package. Cue the jelly beans, the old university friends that you haven’t seen for ages. These are usually sweet, you might even get a couple of fruity ones, but sometimes, just sometimes, you’re the unfortunate recipient of the cinnamon one, which makes you feel incredibly sick and leaves a very bad taste in your mouth.

  Chapter 8

  Eve missed the hangovers of her twenties that lasted the length of time it took for a paracetamol and a can of red bull to kick in. This one was still lingering on Monday morning, despite feeding it junk food all of yesterday and staying in her pyjamas for thirty hours straight.

  All eyes were on her in the weekly editorial meeting, and Eve realised that Fiona was patiently waiting for an answer to a question Eve had no recollection of being asked.

  ‘Really, Eve, nothing? You have no column ideas at all to fill the extra page we need?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not feeling too well. I haven’t had time to think, I was a bridesmaid at the weekend and it’s taken its toll on me.’

  ‘Isn’t that an idea in itself?’ Fiona had a whiteboard pen in her hand that whirred into action, scribbling the words ‘How to be the perfect bridesmaid’ on the blank canvas resting on the easel. ‘Ok good, done. We’re nearing deadline though, so if you can get it written today, Stephanie, you can lay it out later. Bev, stand by to sub it, ok? Then we’re good for press on Wednesday.’

  Eve gratefully received the outstretched Starbucks cup and full-fat blueberry muffin that was being offered by Kat, and sat down at her keyboard. Perfect bridesmaid, what an oxymoron. Well, at least where she was concerned. Despite being unsure of how to type her own name a few minutes previously, Eve’s fingers started flying over the keys.

  How to be the perfect bridesmaid. Rule number one: Start mourning the friend you love, because once she becomes embroiled in wedding planning she doesn’t exist anymore. Eve smiled. Writing her diary was like free therapy; some people go for a run, others crack open a big tub of Ben and Jerry’s, she just let her bitchiest thoughts flow through her fingers onto a keyboard.

  … And the best part is, you have to smile like Mary Poppins while cheerily crossing each item off. Hem curtains? Check. Polish floors? Check. Dog-sit for a fortnight? Che— Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

  It took two hours, and Tanya’s flat was by no means ready for visitors, but at least all remnants of Coco’s bodily functions had been removed, the bedsheets were spinning round in the washing machine, the rug was at the dry cleaners, and the Louboutins had been scraped, dettol-wiped and put back in the wardrobe. More importantly, Tanya’s dog was alive. Eve allowed herself a smile at a job well done as she walked back to her office, considerably slower than she’d made the reverse journey.

  There was a yellow post-it note stuck to Eve’s screen from Fiona summoning her to her office as soon as she got back. Kat wasn’t at her desk so she couldn’t ask her what sort of mood their editor was in when she wrote it. Taking a deep breath and hoping that she didn’t smell of abandoned dog too much, Eve hovered by the door until Fiona looked up.

  ‘Come in, close the door.’

  That was a bit unusual. Apart from when she was conducting everyone’s six-monthly appraisals, where people would either leave the office close to tears or jubilant after being given a pay rise that equated to four coffees, the door was always open.

  ‘Sit down.’ This was all a bit too formal Eve thought. She racked her brains as to what misdemeanour she might have inadvertently made.

  ‘I saw what you’d written for the column on your screen.’

  Oh God.

  ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ Eve blurted out. ‘That’s not the real column, it’s my diary. I do that sometimes, write nonsense to get my creative juices flowing and then I delete it and write the proper words, it was just a bit of fun, no one would have ever seen it.’

  ‘I guessed as much, but it’s a cynical side to you that I haven’t seen before. And it’s not appropriate for you to be writing at work.’

  Eve gulped, it sounded horribly like she was being fired. ‘Of course! I’ve just had a difficult few weeks, my three best friends and my brother are getting married this summer, and I’m the go-to for all of
them, and it’s just getting pretty exhausting fielding their ridiculous demands, and all my frustration came out in my writing, but I promise you I was going to delete it.’

  It was difficult to read Fiona’s expression. There was definitely some confusion in there, possibly some sympathy, and if she didn’t know better, Eve thought she glimpsed a smidgen of understanding on her boss’s usually unreadable face.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong Eve, I know myself how difficult it is sometimes to summon up the enthusiasm to be writing about romance when your real relationships aren’t quite so rosy. No one else knows this, but my divorce became final at Christmas, so I totally get the conflict between your day job and your life.’ She cleared her throat. ‘That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  In all the possible scenarios that were running like a ticker tape through Eve’s mind as to where this conversation was going, she didn’t expect what came next.

  ‘A good friend of mine is the editor of Venus.’ Fiona paused, prompting Eve to react in the way she was evidently supposed to, with an audible ‘wow’ and nod of admiration, both for her friend’s amazing job, and for Fiona’s link to woman with said amazing job. Venus was a digital magazine with the tagline, ‘For modern women who don’t take life too seriously’. It was a pithy, often close-to-the-bone read, dispelling the myths, standards and political correctness that print publications had to abide by. In the same vein as the Slummy Mummy blogs that had commandeered a vast proportion of the internet and filled it with humorous stories about serving up pot noodles in china bowls at dinner parties and passing it off as homemade pad thai, the site had a huge following for women who thought life was too short to be excessively well-mannered. Reading it was Eve’s guilty pleasure. These writers had none of Eve’s sense of propriety or convention and she felt nothing but awe and envy for them. Not that it advocated rudeness, just realism, and it was bloody funny. She still wasn’t sure why this was relevant though.