by Anthology
I started off extremely picky; I was convinced my Prince Charming was out there, waiting for me to find him. As each year rolls on by, I lose a little more faith and let my standards drop a smidge more. Prince Charming’s nothing but a distant memory now, and at this point, my standards have dropped so low I'm looking for anything with a Y chromosome and a pulse.
My little sister Emma’s a different story and is basically my polar opposite. She’s never planned anything. Never worn dresses or played dress up. She was the epitome of a tomboy, and for a few years in school everyone was convinced she’d grow up to become a spinster. She wouldn’t grace the boys in her year with even the smallest sideways glance.
That was until Michael Miller. Mr. Popularity, athlete, and all-around hottie made it his mission to date her, and the rest is history as they say. While I was busy burning my way through half the boys we knew, looking for my Mr. Right, Emma and Mike became the world’s most sickeningly cute couple. I had three years on my little sis, but love knows no age, apparently, and she’s beaten me to the altar.
The real kicker is that she’s having my dream wedding, and all her beautiful ideas are actually mine.
She’s about to be married at the Roof Gardens above Kensington High Street. My first-choice venue. She’s wearing my mother's vintage dress—I can’t even think about it without clenching my teeth. Coincidentally, she’s had it irreversibly altered to fit her tiny frame, and in doing so ensured that I’ll never be able to use it. Not unless I want to add a ton of material—near on impossible to match—to accommodate my arse.
Deep breaths, Zoe, take deep soothing breaths.
The cherry on the sodding cake is that she’s having our grandpa perform the nuptials. Given that he’s older than God, the likelihood of him being around much longer grows slimmer by the day—unlike my waistline from all the stress eating this wedding is causing me. She knew I’d always wanted Gramps to perform my wedding.
I should be happy and excited for my little sister, but the more I try and convince myself to be cheerful for her, the more I catch myself daydreaming about strangling her with her silk garter, or pushing her face into the carefully crafted five-tier lemon and vanilla bean wedding cake she’s had commissioned.
I’m not normally a horrible person, but this wedding is bringing out my inner bitch.
“Zoe, are you dressed yet?” Laura hollers from the master bedroom of the suite Mike booked for us at the Savoy. Laura is Emma’s best friend and maid of honor. She’s a size 4, 5ft 10” supermodel. Okay, she’s not an actual supermodel, but she may as well be. The photographer that’s been documenting our morning has made me pose with her in several overly styled shots that I’m almost positive have been taken to highlight our stark differences. She’s blonde, tall and built like a twig, with a megawatt smile and overall air of perfection. I'm a 5ft 6” brunette mass of boobs and arse, with a decidedly less Colgate gleam to my smile. Don’t get me wrong, I'm not bad to look at; most days I’d even consider myself borderline pretty, but standing next to Britain’s next top model, aka Laura Lynch, would be awkward for Kate Moss, never mind, Zoe bloody Ferguson.
I need a hand to pull the zipper on my dress all the way to the top. I should have dieted for more than three days before the wedding, but I needed the constant comfort of sugar to stop myself from murdering somebody, and truth be told, I’d rather die than have Laura come and help fold my flabby parts into this lilac chokehold of a dress.
“Be right out,” I call, simultaneously breathing in and pulling out every yoga move I’ve ever learned to contort and zip myself up. Satisfied that I can do no more, I smooth down the front of the dress and send a silent prayer to the heavens above that I won't need to use the bathroom at all today. It took an embarrassing amount of effort to pull my Spanx on, and the thought of having to take them off again without a pair of scissors and a stiff drink pains me almost as much as my sister marrying before me.
Emma looks stunning. Not that I’m surprised, she’s beautiful on an ordinary day. A lump rises in my throat when I look at her; she reminds me of how much I miss our mum. She would have given anything to see us on our wedding day. I'm about to put on my older sister hat and tell her how proud Mum would be of her today, but she speaks before I have my thoughts organised.
“Jesus, Zoe, can you not do something about your boobs? You look like a sodding porn star.”
Just like that, I’m back to fantasizing about spilling red wine over her white gown or stepping on her veil in my stilettos.
“I can’t do anything about the size of my boobs, Em. You were the one that chose strapless sweetheart bridesmaid dresses.”
Laura has the decency to look empathetic toward me while my sister tells me to make sure I hide my cleavage with my bouquet of peonies in the group photos.
I draw in a deep breath and decide that there are only two things that will get me through the rest of today: my boyfriend Tom and vodka. Lots of vodka.
2
CHAPTER TWO
“Let’s have one more of the bridal party, and then I’ll take candid shots as the evening progresses,” the photographer calls. My face aches from the amount of fake smiling I had to do throughout the ceremony, and the four-inch stilettos I chose to even out the height difference between Laura and me are proving a bad decision. I'm pretty sure I can feel my blood pooling under my arches.
“You look like you need a drink. Here you go, gorgeous.”
Oh, thank Christ, alcohol. I don’t even care that it’s my slightly creepy Uncle Bill that’s turned out to be my savior. He’s not really my uncle, just an old family friend, but we’ve always referred to him that way. He’s a chubby, eccentric old chap with a lazy eye and dodgy grey comb over. I never know quite where to look when I speak to him because his eyes seem to point in different directions and it’s confusing.
“You’re a life saver! Thank you.”
I take the glass of amber liquid and down it like a real alcoholic. I can’t stand brandy, but I’d drink just about anything with an alcohol content at the moment.
Uncle Bill smiles before giving me a quick once over. “So, where’s that handsome chap of yours? It won't do to leave a lovely lady on her own at a party.”
That’s a good question, I haven’t seen Tom since we arrived and I could really do with him to come and rescue me right now. Preferably with a pair of slippers, a bar of Galaxy, and at least a liter of vodka and tonic.
“He’s around somewhere,” I answer, scanning my surroundings.
“When are you going to drag him down the aisle? What are you now, 30? I’d have thought you’d be the first to marry.”
I can feel the instant flame in my cheeks. “I'm 26!” I all but spit at him.
“Still, you’re not getting any younger, love.”
He’s smiling at me like he genuinely has no clue how insulting he is, or at least I think it’s me he’s smiling at. His good eye rests on me; the other is angled toward Michael’s mother. I’m about to lose my temper and tell him he's a bit of a twat, but Tom intercepts and steals me away in the nick of time.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” I’m equal parts mad and relieved he’s finally showed up. He scrubs up damn fine, and looks positively edible in his navy three-piece suit and tie. His sandy hair is styled to perfection, not a strand is loose and he’s sporting just enough stubble to make him look hot instead of scruffy.
“Why, what’s up?”
“What’s up? Well, let’s see shall we?” I count off my grievances on my fingers. “There’s the fact that I’m pretty sure this damn dress has done severe damage to some of my vital organs, it’s that tight. My shoes are so uncomfortable I can’t feel my toes anymore. I’ve been forced to fake smile for the last four hours, and creepy Uncle Bill just asked if I was 30!”
He laughs. The asshole actually laughs.
“It’s not funny, Tom.”
“Oh, come on Zo, it’s a little funny.”
“It’s really n
ot,” I whine. “Please tell me you’re here to either get me disgustingly drunk or take me home. Even better if you’re here for both.”
The way he rubs the back of his neck and bites the corner of his lip makes me think it’s neither.
“What’s wrong? Why’d you just look like someone ran over your dog?”
I'm not a body language expert, but I know when someone looks uncomfortable, and Tom looks about as relaxed as a white mouse in a tampon factory at the moment.
“I’m leaving.”
“Oh, that’s music to my ears. Can you just wait ‘til she throws the bouquet, though, and then I’ll come with you? You know Emma, she’ll have a fit if I go before she’s done all her bride stuff.”
“No, Zoe. I’m not leaving the party—well, actually I am—but that’s not what I meant. I’m leaving you. It’s not really working out, is it? Surely you know that.”
His tone is serious enough that I don’t need to ask if this is a joke. I sink down into an empty chair a few steps away, and he follows.
“You’re dumping me on my sister's wedding day? I brought you here for support, and you’re giving me the boot. Why’d you even bother to come? You could have done it over the phone and saved yourself from having to break out the penguin suit. ”
“A penguin suit is a Tux.”
I look at him confused. “What?”
“You said about saving myself from… Never mind. I’m actually meeting someone. I kind of need to get going but thought it better to do this face-to-face now and get it over with. I’ve already been asked by a couple of your aunts when I plan on popping the big question and truthfully, I don’t. I can’t see myself marrying you, so I’m calling it quits. I don’t want to string you along.”
“You’re meeting someone, like another date? A woman? What the… You know what, don’t answer that. I can’t believe this, Tom. So, what is it? You don’t see yourself marrying at all, or just me?” I don’t know why I ask; maybe it’s the masochist in me. His face is all the answer I need.
“Just go, Tom.”
“You’re not going to cry, are you? I hate it when women cry. We can still be friends.”
My skin prickles with annoyance. I pick up a handful of sugared almonds from the table place settings and hurl them at his head.
“I don’t need any more friends,” I utter under my breath.
One of the almonds hits him square in the eye, and he ducks and covers it quickly.
Oh God, I’ve hurt him. I should apologies.
He turns and utters, “You crazy bitch.” Tom’s not one for name-calling, which is why I know he means it. I grab another handful and throw them with more force.
“Whatever. I’ve faked every orgasm you ever think you gave me!”
He carries on walking without turning back, and I'd pat myself on the back for that parting dig if it were actually true. I probably only faked about half of them. Someone clears their throat, and a chill races down my spine, causing the hair on the back of my neck to prickle. I turn to see the whole of the wedding party, my family, Michael’s family, mutual friends and perfect strangers all standing open-mouthed and staring right at me.
Well, bugger.
Emma looks like she’s about to murder me, and everyone else looks shocked.
It only now dawns on me that Tom’s led me to the dining area; the busiest place he could find. He must have thought there’d be safety in numbers and less chance I would make a scene. What a twat. Some of the gawkers have the decency to pretend to look for their place settings amongst the pristine white tables overflowing with foliage and pastel coloured roses. Aunt Sarah shoots me a disapproving glare before raising her glass and tapping it delicately with her fork, calling for the speeches.
I’d like to tell you that my little outburst has made me feel better, but it hasn’t. My throat’s burning with the tears I'm choking back, and I don’t think there's been a single point in my life to date that I can remember feeling this humiliated. People start to make their way to their tables, checking name cards and giving me polite but pitiful smiles as they pass. I slowly move to find my seat, thinking this day couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Apparently it can, because it does. Why wouldn’t it? This is me.
I know Emma couldn’t have predicted that I’d break up with Tom today, but surely she could have foreseen that sitting me next to one of my exes was a bad idea. She’s lucky I can’t shoot flames from my eyes because poor Michael would be sitting next to a smoldering pile of Chantilly lace and scorched Jimmy Choo’s if I possessed that particular superpower. ‘Joshua Harkin’ is written in elegant gold script across the place card to my left. The seat to my right is vacant, thanks to Tom. The last time I saw Joshua was the night he made me piss myself laughing. Literally.
It was the week before Christmas break, in our first year of university. Calling him an ex is possibly a little strong; we only went on two full dates, and it was on the third that I called time on our fledgling relationship. Josh was tall and skinny, with a baby face but something in his eyes sparkled and drew you in.
We were at the student union in the middle of what would have been our third date, and it was relatively early but we were all pretty drunk from finishing final exams and handing in our coursework. The union was packed, and someone uttered the dreaded words: ‘Let’s do karaoke’. Not one to shy away from the chance to warble out a tune, I stood on stage with Josh and a couple of his roommates, poised and ready to massacre “Paradise By The Dashboard Light.” There weren’t enough mic’s to go around, and I was trying to be cute and wouldn’t hand over my mic.
Looking back, I'm probably to blame for what happened next, but he definitely played his part. He started to tickle me so I’d drop the mic. It’s here I should point out that I’d been drinking cider all afternoon, and did I mention that I have the alcohol tolerance and bladder size of a toddler? Well, I do. I warned him to stop, told him, even—screamed—that he was going to make me pee. I dropped the mic but he carried on with the assault, and that’s when it happened.
I pissed my pants.
On stage.
In public.
The rest is kind of a blur, but after a week of unanswered calls and text messages he finally got a clue and stopped trying to contact me.
I wonder if he’ll recognise me. It’s been, what, seven years since that night? I'm about to shove my place card under the table, but I'm too late.
“Zoe!”
The voice is deep and familiar; it’s Joshua’s and he’s standing right behind me. I take a deep breath before turning to say hello. I get a lung full of his aftershave that’s not at all unpleasant, and I take a second to mentally prepare for what will no doubt be another awkward moment in this car crash of a day.
“Joshua,” I say in a fake chipper voice, swiveling around in my seat to face him. “What are you doing here?”
Well, bugger me: Joshua Harkin isn’t skinny and baby-faced anymore. He’s like a real-life, dark, tussle-haired Ken doll, but hotter and more muscled. And hotter. Did I say hotter? Good God, the years have been kind to him. I almost touch him to check if he’s real before I recover my mind and realise that would be highly inappropriate—although groping a relative stranger wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened today.
“I was invited, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I play rugby with Mike.” He smirks and I can’t help but mirror it. “How are you?” he asks, pulling out his chair and angling it ever so slightly toward me before sitting.
I decide to give him an honest answer.
“I’ve been better.”
The faintest smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, and his slate eyes crinkle, giving away his amusement. Can ovaries tingle? I swear mine just did. In fact, his face is making all my girl bits tingle in appreciation.
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
I'm puzzled, and it must be evident because he gestures to our surroundings. “I think pretty much everyone heard,” he teases.
“Oh.” I reach over the table and take one of the bottles of Chardonnay chilling in the center and bring it to my glass, slowly filling it all the way to the top. “You’re lucky you got seated next to me. Did nobody tell you I’m tonight’s entertainment?”
Let me just inform you that Joshua’s laugh in university was kind of nondescript. His laugh today is anything but. I can feel it all the way through to my bones. I drain my glass in one very unladylike long pull. I'm not quite sure at this point if it’s because I'm a little hot and bothered or if I’m still subconsciously trying to freeze out that last hour of my life.
“You seem to be on a mission to get hammered,” Josh muses, lifting the bottle and refilling my glass before pouring his own.
His immaculate white shirt pulls deliciously across his wide shoulders with the movement, so I figure in for a penny, in for a pound and don’t bother trying to disguise my appreciation.
I shrug and pull out the crisp white napkin from its silver napkin ring, laying it daintily in my lap. “My boyfriend just dumped me, and I’ve managed to make a fool of myself in front of all my nearest and dearest. I figure the only thing I have to look forward to for the rest of this evening is the food and booze.”
As if on cue the wait staff appear and begin placing our starters on the table.
“Don’t get too excited about the food. I’d hate for that to become another thing to disappoint you today,” Josh says with a furrowed brow, eyeing the plate in front of him skeptically.
“Please tell me this is a garnish to something more substantial,” I ask the waitress who places a tiny plate full of greenery before me.
“This is the chef’s take on the classic Waldorf salad; it’s infused with aromatic spices and a warm, surprising twist.”
I look over to Josh. “What do you suppose the chances are that the surprising twist is a steak hidden under that lettuce?”
He takes a bite of his starter and places his fork down on the table as he makes a face that’s akin to a child being force-fed brussel sprouts.
