At the Wedding

by Matt Dunn

  ‘If you tell him, I’ll never forgive you.’

  Livia was looking at him imploringly, suddenly vulnerable, so Patrick let out a long sigh. ‘Of course I won’t,’ he said. ‘But if you don’t, he might never forgive you. Have you thought about that?’

  After the third person had spotted him and burst out laughing, Liam had peeled himself up off his sun lounger and hurried into the poolside toilets – and now, standing in front of the full-length mirror, he could see what the source of the amusement was. Thanks to Izzy’s ‘artful’ application of sunblock, his back was now an angry red, apart from . . . a pretty anatomically accurate, white-outlined representation of a certain part of the male anatomy stretching from just above his buttocks all the way up between his shoulder blades. He’d assumed the people walking past and pointing had been doing so because they’d recognised him – but now he knew differently.

  Frantically, he grabbed a hand towel from the pile next to the sink and scrubbed at any part of the ‘design’ he could reach, hoping it might come off, but to no avail – Izzy’s factor 50 had done its job. Mouthing a silent ‘Fuck!’, he stalked back outside, keeping his back to the wall as best he could, though when he reached his sun lounger, a gruff voice from behind him made him jump.

  ‘Look at that prick!’

  Angrily he wheeled round, to see a huge, muscled man dressed in a tiny pair of Speedos staring at him, a gorgeous woman on his arm, and before Liam could help himself, his ‘What did you say?’ made the pair stop in their tracks.

  ‘I said, look at that prick.’ The man pointed at him. ‘The one someone’s drawn on your back, I mean.’

  Liam glared at him. This happened a lot. Someone – or more accurately, usually someone’s girlfriend – would notice him and point him out to their partner, which for some reason would turn them into Mister Aggressive. And while Liam knew it normally came from insecurity, worried the reality star might give their relationship a dose of reality – it didn’t stop it being incredibly annoying. He’d normally laugh it off, and try and diffuse the situation with a joke. But there were some times he just didn’t find it funny.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  The meathead opened his mouth, then closed it again. He obviously hadn’t thought this through any further than the first insult. ‘There’s a huge prick. On your back,’ he repeated after a moment, just in case Liam wasn’t aware of it.

  The way the man’s girlfriend was smiling, Liam suspected the balance had swung in his favour. He winked at the woman and – perhaps not thinking things through himself – said, ‘I’d be more worried about the one in front of me, if I were you!’ And while he’d meant it as a reflection of his own physical attributes, by the way the man’s expression had darkened Liam could see how his comment had perhaps been open to misinterpretation.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Here!’ said Liam, quickly, glancing down at the front of his shorts. ‘As opposed to . . .’ He nodded at the man, then realised to his horror he’d possibly just accused him of being somewhat underdeveloped in the manhood area. Though given the fit of his budgie smugglers, he guessed that accusation wouldn’t have been wrong.

  The man took a menacing step towards him, so Liam held both hands up. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you started it!’

  ‘And I’ll finish it, if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Leave it, Darren!’ The man’s girlfriend was grabbing on to his arm, holding him back in an almost comical way, and Liam half-expected her to add ‘He’s not worth it’ – though judging by the way she seemed to be sizing him up, he suspected she possibly thought he was.

  The man – Darren – mumbled something to himself as he allowed himself to be led away, and Liam breathed a sigh of relief. He found his T-shirt and hurriedly pulled it on, though as he grabbed his bag and marched back into reception – surely his room was ready now? – the hotel manager beckoned him over.

  ‘Excuse me, señor?’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Liam protested. ‘The girl who was next to me earlier drew something on my back with sunscreen, and he just . . . well, I don’t know what he just. Some people . . .’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said the manager.

  ‘Nor do I. It’s as if they’re jealous because I’m a celebrity, and for some reason they think I’m going to steal their girlfriend. Obviously I could if I wanted to, but . . .’

  The manager gave a quick shake of his head, as if trying to clear it. ‘Let me start again. You are Liam Woodward, yes?’

  Finally, thought Liam. ‘Yes!’

  ‘You are . . .’ The manager narrowed his eyes. ‘El mejor hombre?’

  Liam hesitated. Maybe that was what Big Brother was called here in Spain. Though he didn’t want to take any chances. ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry. I am trying to remember how to translate. The . . . best man? For the wedding of Jed and Livia?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah, that’s me,’ said Liam, a little deflated.

  ‘You maybe have a small problem.’

  ‘Nah. I’ll keep my shirt on, and—’

  ‘It is not your shirt.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You are in charge of the wedding?’

  ‘I suppose so . . .’ said Liam, suspiciously, hoping the man wasn’t going to ask for any money. That kind of thing was Livia’s department. Plus, his royalty cheques (rather than reality cheques, which Jed kept telling him were something he needed) had starting getting scarcer, and in terms of other employment . . . he had to admit that ‘being famous’ hadn’t turned out to be the best career option so far, didn’t quite get you that many enquiries via LinkedIn, and Liam wasn’t sure exactly what else he was qualified to do.

  ‘Because the DJ is here. For tonight.’

  ‘And that’s a problem because . . . ?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  Liam followed the manager through a door and down the stairs to the hotel’s car park, where a man in a baggy Hawaiian shirt was unloading a pair of gigantic loudspeakers from the back of a battered old Volvo.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have said “hear for yourself”.’ The hotel manager placed a finger on his lips. ‘Listen,’ he said.

  Liam did as instructed for a moment, then he frowned. ‘Is that . . . sobbing?’

  The manager nodded. ‘His wife left him.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘So why is he crying?’

  ‘Because I have just told him that tonight there will be a wedding. And today is his wedding anniversary.’

  ‘Ah.’ Liam made a face. ‘Can we find a replacement?’

  ‘No. And neither can he,’ said the manager as they walked across to where the man was struggling with an armful of cables. ‘Which is part of his problem.’

  Liam stood there for a moment, wondering what to do. He’d been the cause of more than a few tears in his time, but the people crying had always been women, and while he’d usually been able to get them to stop, his tried-and-tested method had never been – and wasn’t ever going to be – tried or tested on a man. Thinking that perhaps a brush with celebrity might lighten the mood a bit, he cleared his throat, put his smile on full beam and tapped the man on the shoulder.

  ‘Hola!’ he said, cheerily, adding a begrudging ‘I’m Liam’ when the man failed to recognise him. ‘From Big Brother?’

  ‘Roberto,’ said the DJ, miserably. ‘From Barcelona.’

  ‘No, I meant . . . Never mind. Can I help you with that?’

  ‘If you like.’

  Liam hefted one of the speakers, then followed Roberto back up the stairs and into the hotel. ‘Where do you want this?’

  Roberto shrugged indifferently. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Right.’ The manager indicated that Liam should put it in a small room behind reception, and he did as he was told before following Roberto back downstairs. ‘So listen, amigo. Are you going to be okay to DJ this evening?’
/>
  Roberto shrugged again, and showed Liam the playlist on his iPad. ‘I press play, everyone dances. It’s not, how do you say . . . ?’

  ‘Rocket science.’

  ‘A rocking séance.’

  ‘Close enough,’ said Liam.

  He peered at the tablet’s screen, and swiped up and down the selection – mainly bands from the ’60s and ’70s that you possibly had to be in your 60s or 70s to appreciate. From what he could see, Roberto’s choice of songs wasn’t going to lead to a rocking anything.

  ‘Is okay? The music?’

  ‘Not my taste, to be honest, but I’m sure the olds will like it.’ Liam carried on scrolling, pausing when he saw a group called ‘Three Dog Night’. He’d had a few of those in his time. ‘You’ve not got anything a bit more . . . modern?’

  Roberto looked offended. ‘I have some Dire Straits.’

  ‘Which is exactly what this playlist is. You do know there’s going to be a wedding?’

  Roberto had visibly flinched at the word. ‘Ha!’ he said, contemptuously, and Liam and the hotel manager exchanged glances.

  ‘Is your wedding?’

  ‘No!’ Liam let out a short laugh. ‘I’m the best man.’

  ‘Qué?’

  ‘The best man. El . . .’ Liam hesitated – what was the rest of it? But before he could go with ‘besto mano’, Roberto glared at him, burst into tears again and stomped off towards his car. ‘What the . . . ?’

  The hotel manager made a face. ‘His wife. She ran off with his best man.’

  ‘Great.’ Liam winced at the screech of tyres, then peered after the rapidly disappearing Volvo. ‘He is coming back, I take it?’

  The manager shrugged. ‘I think perhaps no.’

  Liam recalled Roberto’s playlist, and found himself hoping exactly that. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. After all, women loved a DJ, didn’t they? Up in front of everyone, looking cool (if a little sweaty), throwing down some bangin’ choonz, MC-ing the evening, responding to ‘Do you do requests?’ with ‘I’ll do whatever you like, love’ . . . He’d been to Ibiza a few times, and while this was hardly Pacha, all he had to do was stand up there, nodding his head in time to the music, a set of earphones held casually to one ear, his shirt open . . . Or maybe he’d forego the ‘open shirt’ bit in case it fell off and exposed his back, thus exposing Patrick’s crazy girlfriend’s handiwork. Even so, once he’d smashed it as the DJ, he’d have his pick of the female guests. Which meant he could relax for the rest of the afternoon, perhaps try and get his tan evened out.

  With a smile, he headed upstairs to the bar, ordered himself a cold beer, pulled his phone out of his pocket and navigated to Spotify.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Jed was flicking through the photos he’d just taken on his phone, before noticing that the last one of Livia in front of what the guidebook had reliably informed him was another of Gaudí’s masterpieces – not that he could pronounce the building’s name – seemed to show her frowning at her watch.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Something wrong?’ he said, though he really hoped there wasn’t. For the last half an hour, they’d enjoyed a pleasant stroll down Passeig de Gràcia, Barcelona’s grandest street, alternately admiring the boulevard’s incredible architecture and popping inside the various shops to make the most of their air conditioning – and so far, Livia hadn’t mentioned the word ‘wedding’ once.

  ‘We’re going to be late.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me what for.’

  Livia gave him a look. ‘Plus we’re just a little far from a toilet for my liking.’

  ‘Can’t you hold it?’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You haven’t got your baby putting all its weight directly onto your bladder whenever you take a step.’

  Jed returned Livia’s smirk. It was a running joke between them that their baby always became ‘his’ baby whenever it was causing some problem. He made a mental note to remind her of that when – if – the child ever did something good, then smiled supportively.

  ‘Well, department stores always have toilets, and we’re not that far from the El Corte Inglés in Plaça Catalunya . . .’

  ‘We are if you’re six months pregnant and wearing heels.’

  ‘Well, if you hadn’t insisted on . . .’ Jed swallowed the rest of the sentence, deciding it might be in his interest to change tack. He knew Livia felt the size of a small planet, and any occasion she had a chance to dress up and remind herself she was actually a woman was a good thing. ‘They’re renovating that building over there. Maybe there’s a Portaloo?’

  ‘Hardly, Jed.’

  ‘Do you actually need to go now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, what’s the . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t always get a lot of notice.’

  ‘Oh-kay . . .’ Jed peered up and down the street. ‘There’s always behind a tree.’

  ‘That’s helpful. Thank you.’

  She took the arm he was offering her, and they walked on in comfortable silence for a while, Jed trying to work out where this mystery tour was taking them, Livia making a selection of faces at her side-on reflection in the various shop windows, until she suddenly stopped in her tracks.

  ‘This is the place,’ she said, pointing excitedly at the jeweller’s on the corner in front of them, and Jed grunted in acknowledgement as he squinted at the building. He’d begun perspiring heavily the moment they’d exited the cool confines of the hotel, and while he longed to set foot in what was sure to be the shop’s air-conditioned interior, he knew what was inside might make him sweat even more.

  ‘What place?’

  ‘Hello?’ Livia was pointing at a display of extremely sparkly rings in the window, and he almost wanted to facepalm. Of course she’d need a ring. He guessed she hadn’t brought one with her, just in case he’d said no yesterday – that would be a refund no one would want to go in and ask for – and the idea that she’d considered he might have refused her proposal made him feel terrible.

  ‘Looks expensive,’ he said, taking in the security-locked door, armed guard and – always the telltale sign – the lack of prices in the window.

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to contribute?’

  ‘It does. Just saying.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Would you rather we had a look on eBay? Or maybe waited until we got home and then went to Argos?’

  Jed kept quiet, suspecting ‘yes’ wouldn’t be the most diplomatic answer. And nor would ‘I’d rather we didn’t go anywhere’.

  Livia mock-glared at him, then pressed the door buzzer, and as the security guard hauled the heavy glass door open for them and ushered them inside, Jed nudged her. ‘You realise he probably adds about twenty per cent to the price of everything in here?’

  ‘Will you stop moaning? It’s not as if you’re paying, is it?’

  For a moment, Jed wanted to point out that seeing as he and Livia had a joint bank account, then technically he was, but he decided to do as instructed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But let me do the talking.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Well, they might see that you’re, you know . . .’ Jed glanced at her stomach. ‘First rule of sales – if you know the prospect’s desperate for what you’re selling, you can inflate the price by quite a—’ He stopped talking again, though this time because Livia’s look suggested it might be good for his continued well-being.

  As she marched up to the counter, he trailed unenthusiastically behind, hanging back like a reluctant child at the dentist’s as she smiled at the assistant.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ she said, brightly.

  ‘Of course,’ said the man, with a more refined accent than Jed had. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Olivia Wilson? I phoned ahead?’

  Livia mimed putting a phone to her ear, and Jed sniggered. ‘He’s already said he speaks English, Liv. You don’t have to mime everything.’

  ‘Maybe you could make like a mime and keep quiet?’


  The assistant smiled politely through their exchange. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, once he was sure they’d finished. ‘From England. You’re here for the rings.’

  At the mention of the plural, Jed looked up suddenly. ‘Rings?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Livia, and he frowned.

  ‘How many were you planning on wearing?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘So . . . ?’

  ‘So we need to get you one too.’

  Jed’s jaw dropped. ‘Hold on. You didn’t say anything about me wearing a wedding ring.’

  ‘What did you think you’d be doing?’

  Jed frowned at her. He hadn’t thought he’d be ‘doing’ any of this, so it wasn’t really a fair question. ‘Well, I thought I might just get a tattoo saying “Property of Livia” . . .’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘Well, that’s what it feels like to me. I don’t want to wear a ring.’

  Livia placed a hand on his arm. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Jed thought for a moment. The real reason – that what a wedding ring represented was so abhorrent to him – possibly wasn’t the best of arguments right now. Nor perhaps was he saying he’d always thought jewellery on men was naff, though Livia knew he’d never been a fan: she’d tried to buy him an expensive watch for his thirtieth birthday but he’d rejected it in favour of the cheap Casio digital model that Liam had given him years ago. In the end ‘I don’t wear jewellery’ was the best he could come up with. And, perhaps not surprisingly, Livia had an answer for that.

  ‘But this is a wedding ring.’

  ‘It’s still a ring,’ he said, petulantly. ‘From a jeweller’s. So it’s jewellery.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ Livia was already sounding exasperated, and Jed suspected this was an argument he wasn’t going to win, even though he might be within his rights. ‘It’s symbolic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Symbolic,’ said Jed, though he didn’t want to ask, ‘of what?’

  ‘Of our commitment.’

  ‘We’re already committed, Liv.’