My Sister's Wedding: For better or worse, two families are about to become one . . .

by Vicky Pattison

  WHAAAAAT? Last week he was in love with this woman, now he’s not? Men are so fickle. But on this occasion, I don’t mind that so much.

  ‘Oh?’ I say casually.

  He nods quickly. ‘Yeah. Turns out I’m not the one for her.’

  He looks so sad that my pleasure about his ex no longer being in the picture quickly disappears. I nudge his arm in what I hope is a companionable way. ‘You’ll get over it, I promise. It will suck balls for a while, but you will get over it.’

  Then Justin looks down at me with a smile on his face. ‘Hey – do you fancy going for a drink sometime? Maybe tomorrow night, if you’re not busy?’

  Yes. All of the yesses. A million yesses for ever and ever.

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug casually, coolly. ‘Why not?’

  Is it a date? Do I have a date? A date with Justin De Luca from The New Design? No. It must just be a friend thing. Despite what he said about his ex, it must still be painful for him. He’s still getting over what sounds like a pretty serious relationship. Yes, he’s just being friendly towards me, nothing more. Get to know each other, chat about bands we like, get a pint, maybe even a sympathetic ear. Total friend-zone stuff. I mean, let’s be rational about this. The first time I met him I was crying, and I’m an ugly crier. I’m not just that – I’m a fugly crier. The fugliest. Then, the second time I saw him, I was wearing my disguise of baseball cap, sunglasses and no make-up. And just now, I was in the cap again, scoffing my face with delicious yet pungent Monster Munch and probably had dried dog drool on my face. He most certainly does not want to tap this ass. But . . . he’s so fit and wants to get a drink. With me. Even if it is just as friends, I can’t help but feel excited. This is the best thing to happen to me in what, let’s face it, has been an abysmal few weeks.

  I look at my watch. Bex will be home soon. I’ll go and wait for her at her place and fill her in on my non-date. I haven’t brought up the photo I saw of her and Nicole at the book launch and now that some time has passed, it doesn’t feel like that big a deal any more. I know I was acting a bit off when we went wedding dress shopping and I feel bad about that. This is an exciting time for her and I want to enjoy it too. After all, I was at the dress fitting, not Nicole. Bex wants me there for the stuff that matters and that’s what counts. It’s time to pull myself out of this funk and start being a better sister. Everything that’s happened since the engagement has knocked my confidence but things are starting to look up. I have a date with Justin!

  Sorry, a non-date.

  I arrive at Bex’s flat a short while later and let myself in with my key. I usually ring the buzzer if I’m going round when I know she and Daniel are home (except when I turn up pissed and then I pretty much don’t know what I’m doing!) – I don’t want to catch them doing the dance with no pants – but when they’re not in I tend to let myself in. I’ve never told anyone this, but each time I put the key in the door I pretend that I’m the one who lives there. That I have my own flat in London, that I’ve made a success of myself, that I’m not a complete fuck-up. It’s nice to pretend, even if it’s just for a little while.

  The flat is spick and span as always, gorgeously, tastefully decorated and smelling of one of the divine Jo Malone candles that the pair of them are always burning. I wander into the kitchen, flip the kettle on and wait for it to boil. I’m just pouring the hot water over a teabag when I hear a low, angry muttering from nearby. I startle. I thought I was here alone . . . what if it’s burglars? I grab a ladle and creep towards the living room door, peeking my head around very slowly and very quietly.

  Oh! It’s just Daniel. Of course it’s Daniel. I drop the hand holding the ladle to my side, feeling like a twat. I mean, what if it had been burglars? What good is a plastic kitchen utensil going to be against a hardened criminal? Relieved, I’m about to push the door open and say hi to Daniel when the tone in his voice stops me. He’s clutching his phone to his ear, his brow furrowed.

  ‘I can’t leave yet . . . Yes, she’s distracted with this wedding . . . she doesn’t seem to have noticed, thank God . . . ’

  Hey? What is he talking about?

  ‘I know . . . I’ve never lied to her before. It doesn’t exactly come easy.’

  Holy shit. What is going on? Daniel is lying to Bex? My face flushes in anger and I tighten my grip around the ladle. It would work on him, no doubt – a hardened criminal he certainly is not. I should burst into the living room and ask him what’s going on but for some reason my feet are glued to the spot. I need to hear more. This is Daniel, after all.

  ‘I have to make sure this is certain before I move my stuff out.’

  What the fuck? Daniel is thinking of moving his stuff out? This is all wrong. No, no, no. I’m rooted to the spot, unsure what to do. Get a grip, I tell myself. I need to think. I turn quickly so I can move away before Daniel sees me but I move too fast. My hand grazes the wall and the ladle falls from my grip, landing on the floor with a clatter. I stoop to pick it up but I’m too late.

  ‘Bex? Is that you?’ Daniel calls out.

  Shit.

  The door swings open. I look up and there he is looking down at me in surprise.

  ‘Lizzie? What are you doing here? Are you okay?’

  He crouches down to my level as if I’m a toddler. His eyes are kind and sweet and I’m even more confused. They’re not the eyes of someone who’s about to leave their fiancée.

  ‘I’m all right.’ I say, getting to my feet.

  ‘Are you not dog-walking today?’ Daniel asks.

  ‘Oh, I’m, er, finished for the day.’ I say, for once not feeling guilty about my lie. I’m not the only dishonest person in this room. I straighten up and look Daniel in the eye. ‘Who were you on the phone to?’

  Daniel’s eyebrows shoot up, his cheeks turning red. ‘You heard that?’

  ‘A bit,’ I say.

  Daniel thinks for a moment too long before saying, ‘It’s . . . erm . . . just something to do with, um, work.’

  Cagey. As. Fuck. I can’t get my head around this. Daniel is one of the best people I know. But he’s definitely lying about something and it definitely involves my sister.

  I’m going to find out what it is.

  ‘Right, OK.’ I nod, narrowing my eyes in a way that suggests I know that he’s lying. Daniel’s face turns even redder.

  ‘Were you popping by for anything specific?’ he asks, suddenly stiff around the shoulders.

  ‘No’, I say coolly. ‘Just, you know, checking in. I should be going actually. See you later!’

  I turn on my heel and am out of the flat before he can stop me. I’m halfway down the road before I realise that I must look like a loon storming down the street with no one running after me. I stop on the corner and catch my breath.

  Daniel was definitely hiding something, that much is clear. But what? He can’t really be thinking of leaving Bex, can he? He just asked her to marry him! I don’t know what’s going on but I’m sure as hell going to find out.

  Chapter Twenty

  Becky

  ‘More deliveries for you, Rebecca,’ Carly, one of the junior editors, says as she struggles up to my desk with one big box and a few smaller packages. I quickly help her before she falls over, noticing the heads of other people in the open plan office popping up from their cubicles like meerkats.

  It’s starting to get a bit embarrassing. Every day I get into work there are parcels from various companies wanting me to use their products, wear their clothes, promote their brand. Some of the parcels are insane. I’ve been sent a Balenciaga handbag that there’s an eight-month waiting list for, a set of Bang & Olufsen speakers and a pair of gorgeous diamond bird-shaped earrings from an up-and-coming jewellery designer. I’ve also been sent a mop, some plasters and a year’s supply of cat food (despite my lack of cat). It’s weird. It’s not like I’m a massive social media star. I don’t even have an Instagram. I have a Twitter account that I always forget to update. And I’ve never had a blog in my life. Ever
y day something new comes. And then there are the phonecalls. Richmond Books is getting phonecall after phonecall from the press, wanting to interview me, do a feature, a fashion shoot. It’s bonkers. I don’t quite understand it. I’m just a normal girl, marrying a not-so-normal man. I’m just me. Are people really that interested in me just because I’m marrying Daniel? It’s getting out of hand and it’s starting to affect my work.

  At first my colleagues found it amusing, especially when I gave away a ton of the gifts I was getting sent. But now I can tell it’s irritating them. I think they think I’m inviting and encouraging the attention. I can’t deny that a part of me quite likes the spotlight – I’ve always been a behind-the-scenes kind of girl and to have people noticing me feels quite nice – but I’m not actively seeking it out.

  Carla exits my cubicle and Jane, a fellow commissioning editor, sidles up. Jane’s an odd one. She’s nerdy, passionate about books and makes a mean cup of tea – everything I look for in a friend – but we have never really been able to gel. She’s ambitious, which I respect, but she’s one of those people who seems to think that someone else’s success is taking away from her own success. Like there’s just one bowl of success we all have to share and once it’s gone it’s gone. Whereas I’m more from the ‘we rise by lifting others’ school of thinking.

  ‘Hey, Jane,’ I smile as I open up one of the smaller packages to find a gorgeous coral lip gloss by Chanel. It’s just my colour! I pick up the thick, expensive-looking notecard.

  Dear Rebecca,

  We’re so happy to send you our new Doux Peche lip gloss. One of our artists personally recommended this colour for you.

  With best wishes,

  Ellie Mantiore

  Chanel

  Wow.

  ‘It’s from Chanel!’ I say excitedly to Jane. ‘I cannot believe that Chanel know who I am!’

  ‘Great!’ Jane smiles, coming over to sit on the edge of my desk.

  When she doesn’t say anything else, I put the lipgloss to one side, embarrassed. ‘How’s it going with A Neverending Sense of Time?’ I ask her quickly. A Neverending Sense of Time is a literary novel that came out on the same day as Darla’s book. It was written by a debut novelist called Toby Sweeney and is Jane’s first acquisition at the company too. I’ve read the book. It’s a bit worthy for my taste – I like my fiction to be fast and entertaining – but it’s been very popular amongst our colleagues.

  ‘Yes, great!’ Jane says. Great is her favourite word. ‘He didn’t quite make the bestseller list like Darla, but we can’t all have write-ups in the Daily World.’

  She says this with a smile on her face, but I hear the spite behind it. Ordinarily I’d just let her get away with it. But these past few weeks I’ve been starting to feel a little more confident about myself. Maybe it’s all the lovely comments on the internet, or the steady stream of people who come up to me to tell me how much they admire me. Whatever it is, I can feel myself changing and so I decide to – politely – stand up for myself.

  ‘Actually, Darla hit the bestseller list before the write-up in the Daily World,’ I say. ‘It’s a beautiful book that’s done well because of hard work, dedication and word-of-mouth, not because of a press write-up.’

  Jane blinks, surprised at my answering back. ‘Are you saying A Neverending Sense of Time is not a beautiful book?’ Jane stands up from the desk, a frown appearing in the centre of her already slightly frowny forehead.

  ‘No, of course not!’ I answer quickly. It is a truth universally acknowledged that an editor must never slag off the books acquired by a fellow editor. ‘I’m just saying that Darla’s success was hard-fought. None of it was easy but it all came together and it’s paid off.’

  ‘Great, great. Yes. And how has Darla reacted to the deadline for her next book being brought forward?’

  Ah. That. Because of the unexpected success of I Will Love You, my boss has asked that we publish her next novel four months earlier than originally planned. Which means that Darla has to finish the first draft in the next six weeks. I know it’s for the best, and that it’s important to get her follow-up in shops while the success of her first book is still fresh, but she’s not happy about the prospect of having to rush it out. And I’m not exactly thrilled at the prospect of six Darla-filled weeks of frantic phonecalls, anxious and shameless unanswered texting and possible night visits to my home if I don’t respond to any of her barrage of communication. But what can I do? My boss is insisting and things are so busy in my life right now that I just haven’t got the energy to put up a fight.

  ‘She’s fine!’ I lie. No need for Jane to know that Darla spent an hour on the phone this morning grumbling about the new deadline and how she’s not ‘a writing robot’.

  ‘That’s good. And I expect you’ll be leaving work once you’re married? Who’ll be editing Darla then? Do you have anyone in mind?’

  ‘Excuse me? Leaving work?’

  ‘Well, you know, families like the Balfours don’t like their women to work. They find it unseemly.’

  I pull a face. I’ve never thought of that before. It sounds insane but maybe Jane has a point. Elena Balfour has never worked a day in her life. And while Nicole potters about on various projects, she’s never had an actual job. Even so, I’m pretty sure that Daniel wouldn’t expect that of me.

  ‘Daniel loves that I’m a working woman,’ I say confidently. ‘That’s not going to change just because I’m getting married.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Jane says in a way that could mean absolutely anything at all, none of it good though. Why is Jane being such a cranky cow today? ‘Well, I’ll leave you to your Chanel and your . . . ’ – she gestures towards my stack of parcels with a look of distaste – ‘ . . . gifts. I have a big stack of submissions to get to.’

  She stalks out of my cubicle across the bright open-plan office and I get the impression that I’ve done something wrong. But I’m not quite sure what. It’s not the first time I’ve had this feeling lately. I’ve been having it with Lizzie too. Lauren reckons it’s because I’ve always been at Lizzie’s beck and call but now that I’m busier than ever before I’m a bit less available and she’s not dealing with it well. But I’m not so sure. I know Lizzie’s happy for me but I can’t shake the feeling there’s something else going on with her.

  My phone beeps with a text. It’s Daniel.

  Thinking about that chicken.

  I laugh out loud. Jane looks over from her desk and shakes her head just a bit, but enough for me to notice. It’s our date night tonight. We’ve missed a couple of weeks because we’ve both been insanely busy, but Daniel insisted that we make time tonight. He’s right. Adding a wedding to our already busy lives has been nuts, and I think we’ve both felt a little distance between us. Ordinarily, if we had the slightest annoyance with each other we’d sit down and talk it out until we came to an agreement, or at least an understanding. I know Daniel was pissed off with the way I dismissed his sister at Darla’s launch, but he hasn’t brought it up with me as he ordinarily would do. We’ve just got so much on that when we do see each other, we want it to be stress-free and enjoy the time together. We need tonight to make sure we remember our priorities – which are each other.

  I tap out a reply.

  Thinking about those macho peas. And my macho man.

  I laugh at my cringey comment as I slick on some of my new lip gloss, put the rest of the boxes under my desk to open later and turn back to my emails all the while trying to ignore the evil side-eye Jane the crank is throwing my way.

  I’m sitting in Nando’s waiting for Daniel. I’ve managed to get the booth we were sitting in when he proposed. Tonight, the place is as busy as it usually is of an evening, the music is the usual Nando’s samba and there are no rose petals scattered over the seats. But just being here gives me a thrill, remembering Daniel’s proposal, the look in his eyes when he asked me to be his wife.

  I take a sip of my wine and pick up my phone when it beeps.

&n
bsp; I’m going on what I think is a date tonight. I know you’re busy, but if you have any tips I could really use them. Am nervous AF!

  It’s from Lizzie. A date! My heart leaps. I hope it’s someone nice. She deserves someone who makes her as happy as Daniel makes me.

  I’m about to type a reply when I hear Daniel’s voice.

  ‘Hey, you.’

  Not getting a chance to finish my response to Lizzie, I put my phone down as I embrace him. He looks handsome in gorgeous dark blue jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off his spectacular forearms. He’s a little more dressed down than usual but it suits him. His face looks different, though. He looks, I don’t know . . . a bit worried.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask him. ‘You look a little stressed out.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ Daniel says. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘I know how you feel.’ I say, pouring him a glass of wine. ‘It’s been a crazy—’

  ‘Excuse me, are you Rebecca Ashworth?’ I’m interrupted by the appearance of a twenty-something woman at our booth.

  ‘Um, yeah.’

  ‘I love you!’ she says excitedly. ‘Can I get a selfie?’

  I look at Daniel who smiles stiffly at the interruption but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Yes, of course!’ I say to the woman, still feeling as self-conscious as I did the first time someone asked to take a selfie with me.

  The woman leans in and snaps her phone camera. And then she leaves, happy with her picture. It’s so weird. These people approach me, don’t really want to talk, take a selfie and then leave immediately. It feels like they just want to tell other people they’ve met me, rather than actually meet me. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

  A few other people noticed the selfie-taking and I see the looks of recognition cross their faces. A handful come over to our table, asking for selfies too. Daniel is as polite as he always is, but I can see he’s getting a bit fed up with the interruption to our date night. It’s the only time we’ve been able to properly carve out for each other in ages, after all. Eventually everyone drifts back to their own tables and Daniel and I are alone.