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

by Vicky Pattison

  ‘How’s the honeymoon planning going?’ I ask. We’ve divided the wedding tasks up between us. I’m taking care of clothes, flowers and guest list, while Daniel is in charge of catering, venue and our honeymoon, which he has insisted will be a surprise.

  He smiles at me. ‘It’s going well, but you know I’m not allowed to give you any details.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ I say, although I don’t really do well with surprises. It doesn’t sit well with my need to be in control and I’m already wondering how I can trick him into telling me something, anything about our first trip as a married couple.

  After we’ve placed our orders at the counter I update Daniel on recent events at work. I tell him about Darla’s deadline being moved forward and the fact that my unsolicited submissions pile has grown considerably since budding authors have seen me in the press.

  ‘The attention isn’t all bad,’ I say. ‘I just don’t really understand it and it means that anyone who’s ever thought about writing a book now knows I’m an editor and they’re just sending me their work unbidden. It’s a lot to get through.’

  ‘Do you really love your job?’ Daniel asks.

  ‘Um, yeah. I mean it’s stressful at times but it’s wonderful and what I’ve always wanted to do.’

  He nods and bites his lip which he only ever does when he’s nervous or worried. What’s going on?

  ‘So . . . you want to stay working there?’ he asks slowly.

  Why is he asking me this? Oh, God. Does he want me to stop working? Was Jane right about his family not approving of women working? Is Daniel expecting me to quit my job to become a full-time wife?

  No. Daniel wouldn’t want that for me.

  ‘Yes.’ I say firmly. ‘I plan on working in publishing for as long as I can.’

  Daniel nods again, but I can’t quite read his expression. ‘I just need to nip to the loo,’ he says, standing up abruptly. I watch him stalk across the restaurant. It’s only when he disappears into the gents’ that I realise he’s taken his phone with him.

  Stop being suspicious, I tell myself. People take their phones to the loo all the time.

  But he is acting strangely tonight.

  While he’s gone I take the opportunity to check my emails. I’ve been getting so many recently. It’s not just work either. I’m constantly being invited to parties and emailed offers to guest on various YouTube channels. I even had an email from someone from ITV interested in having me on Loose Women.

  For the most part, I’ve declined all of the invitations and I’m trying not to encourage the attention but then I spot an email from someone at Vogue. Vogue! My favourite magazine. The magazine I’ve been collecting since I was thirteen. I open it with shaking hands.

  They want me to do a photoshoot with them! Jesus Christ in a cardigan. They want a photoshoot and an interview and I – oh my God – I get to keep the clothes!

  Vogue!

  I type out a quick reply, agreeing to call the fashion features writer tomorrow.

  ‘Can we have a quick talk about something?’ Daniel asks as he returns to the booth, placing his phone back on the table.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I say. ‘But look at this first!’ I scroll up to the top of the email from Vogue and start reading it out. As I’m doing so, another email pops up on my phone. And my heart, which just five seconds ago was bursting with excitement, drops to the floor.

  Because the email is from Tracy Ashworth.

  Someone I haven’t seen or heard from in years.

  My mum.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Lizzie

  I wait for an hour for Bex to reply to my text. She’s usually so efficient. After overhearing Daniel’s weird conversation yesterday I’m trying to avoid calling or FaceTiming her like I ordinarily would do if she doesn’t reply to me straightaway. I don’t trust myself not to spill out with what I heard if I hear her voice, and quite frankly I don’t know what I heard. Daniel was clearly suspicious that I’d overheard what he was saying, but I still don’t know what it was referring to – I need to do some digging and find out what’s really going on before I say anything to my sister.

  With a sigh I pour myself a large glass of wine. Shit. I’m nervous. Not that it’s a proper date, but my stomach is still full of butterflies.

  When Jay walks through the door a few minutes later, I fall on him in relief.

  ‘I need your help,’ I say, grabbing both of his hands in desperation.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have a sort of date.’

  Jay presses his hands to his chest. ‘Say what?’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s an actual date, or whether he just wants to be mates. I think he still might be in love with someone else . . . ’

  Jay grabs my wine and takes a huge swig, grimacing slightly as he does – it’s not quite up to his usual standards but it was cheap, alcoholic and wet. (Actually sounds a bit like me?) He grabs my hand and pulls me towards his futon.

  ‘I have questions. When did this happen? Why the fuck am I only finding out now? Is he hot? If so, how hot? And who IS he?’

  ‘Right, well, it happened yesterday and you were out when I got home and you had your phone turned off so I couldn’t get in touch. Yes, he is hot. And as for who is he? Well . . . you know when we went to that gig to see that band?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The New Design.’

  ‘Yesssss . . . ?’

  ‘OK, so it’s the guy from that. The singer. Justin.’

  Jay puts both hands up to his cheeks. ‘What the actual—? The lead singer?’

  I feel my cheeks warm a little as I nod. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Saying he’s hot is like saying Mariah Carey is a little bit extra. He is DIVINE. Jesus, Lizzie.’ Then he looks me up and down. ‘What are you going to wear?’

  ‘I was gonna borrow something off Bex but she’s been busy, so I turned up at her flat yesterday, let myself in, and . . . ’ I trail off.

  Jay cocks his head to one side, a quizzical look on his face. ‘What?’

  I think about telling him what I overheard. I still don’t know exactly what I heard. And Jay, God bless him and I do love him, but he is the biggest mouthpiece in London. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but I don’t want to tell him things when I don’t even really know for certain what I heard or the context and if I do start making my mouth go I’ll just make everything worse – like at the engagement party. So I fib. (It’s a fib when you’re telling a lie for a good reason, isn’t it? Like ‘the dog ate my homework’ or ‘I was stuck in traffic’ or ‘no, I didn’t drink all those Ice Blasts, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’)

  ‘I couldn’t find anything that was right,’ I say instead.

  Jay nods. ‘Yeah. Well your sister’s a lot taller and skinnier than you.’

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ I sigh. ‘I feel like the ugly sister. Like Khloé Kardashian before she lost all her weight and totes had her epic glow-up.’

  ‘Au contraire, ma cherie!’ Jay pulls me up off the futon and twirls me around. ‘You have this.’ He points to my face. ‘And these,’ he thumbs in the direction of my D-cups. ‘And you have ass for days.’

  I laugh at his sweet description of my slightly-larger-thanaverage bum.

  ‘You have va va voom,’ he continues dramatically, getting into his stride. He’s starting to sound like a Girls Aloud track.

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t have anything to wear. I want to look,’ – my voice quietens with embarrassment – ‘more sophisticated than usual.’

  A massive grin spreads across Jay’s face. ‘You’re forgetting the best thing you have.’

  ‘My charming personality? My ability to down a double G&T in twenty seconds flat? My twerking skills?’ I turn around and attempt a twerk that is not fit to be seen in public. Jay looks at me seriously.

  ‘Never do that again,’ he says solemnly.

  ‘All right, so what’s the best thing I have?’

  Jay puts his hands
onto his narrow hips. ‘Me, you fool. You have me.’

  I laugh. ‘Of course! My fairy godmother.’

  ‘Let’s get you dressed for sex!’ Jay declares. And he says it with such confidence and enthusiasm and charisma that I let him. What have I let myself in for?

  Two and a half hours later I walk into The Camden Lock Arms feeling not like myself at all. To be fair to Jay, he’s done a pretty incredible job on me. He’s used Olaplex on my hair so that my blonde curls are soft, shiny and loosely tumbling around my shoulders. I’m wearing one of my own black strappy dresses. Ordinarily, I’d dress it up with a sequinned bomber jacket or statement earrings, but Jay instructed me that less is more, so I’ve kept it simple. On my feet are a pair of nude heels. Jay helped me decide on my make-up too. I don’t usually wear a whole lot, but we’ve gone heavy on the eye with a dark eyeliner smudged all around the socket and layers and layers of mascara so that my eyes look big and doelike. The look has been finished with a slick of simple shiny lip balm that emphasises my pillowy pout in a way that isn’t ostentatious. Just – as Jay calls it – kissable. I don’t look anything like the usual me, which is a good thing. I still get recognised and I could do without anyone running away in fright tonight, or crying, or people mentioning the article in front of Justin.

  Looking around the pub for him I feel my stomach dip and spin with nerves. I’m usually pretty confident, but to be honest I haven’t been on that many proper first dates. I usually meet a bloke when I’m half-cut so the idea of spending the evening with someone I met when sober is new territory for me. I tell myself once again that he’s probably just looking for a mate and he’s not thinking of this as a date. But I’ve been telling myself that all day and it doesn’t seem to be doing anything for my bastard nerves.

  I spot Justin sitting at the bar, and take in his profile for a second. Oh God, he is gorgeous. His dark waves flop down across the side of his face. His stubble is just the right side of sexy, and his long eyelashes soften the effect. He’s wearing a black shirt and black jeans. I can’t tell if he’s made an effort or not. It doesn’t really matter. This guy could wear a bin bag and still be the hottest man I’ve ever seen.

  I notice a couple of other guys glancing in my direction and looking me up and down. Shit. What if it’s obvious I’ve made a real effort? Will that freak Justin out? Scare him off? Will he think I’m too keen and backdoor it before I even reach him at the bar? I’ll just have to pretend I always dress like this in the evenings. By day, a total tramp, by night an absolute glamazon.

  I go over, noticing that he’s not ordered a drink yet – he must have just arrived – and tap him on the shoulder.

  ‘Hiya, Justin,’ I say, immediately annoyed with myself for sounding so high-pitched and nervous.

  He spins around, his eyes widening as he takes me in. It’s not even subtle. If this were a cartoon he’d rub his eyes with both fists or do a slapstick double-take.

  ‘Lizzie?’ he says, his voice tilting upwards at the end in a kind of question, like he’s not sure it’s actually me.

  ‘Justin,’ I say firmly. ‘Hey. What are you drinking?’

  ‘You look – you look . . . different.’

  ‘Oh, this old thing?’ I say in a stupid faux-modest American accent that sounds like I’m taking the mick out of his accent. I give myself a mental shake. Stop being a weirdo. ‘Have you been here long?’

  Justin seems to give himself a mental shake too. ‘No, a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Good. I thought I might be late. Shall we get a drink, then?’

  He breaks out one of those devastating smiles. ‘Cool. But I’m buying. What will you have?’

  I’d ordinarily just ask for the house white wine but that’s not very sophisticated, so I ask for what Becky always orders.

  ‘I’ll have a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, please.’

  Justin nods, repeats my order to the barmaid who is openly drooling over him, which to his credit he doesn’t seem to notice, and he orders himself a bottle of beer.

  When we’ve got our drinks, we head over to one of the small tables in a snug corner of the pub. As I take the first sip of my wine a David Bowie song bursts out of the jukebox.

  ‘I love this song!’ we say at the same time. Which is just what we need to break the awkward tension.

  And from that moment on, I don’t quite worry about whether I’m acting sophisticated or not. I decide that I’m just going to enjoy myself, whether this is just a date, a casual fling or just friends hanging out. After these past few weeks I deserve a little fun.

  I’m having the best time. Seriously. Justin is genuinely, genuinely a good guy. I know! How can someone look like him and sing like him and not be even a little bit of a dickhead? He’s funny and smart and he’s asked me so much about myself – he’s, like, genuinely attentive. He’s asked about my family and my interests and where we grew up. I’ve been mostly fine answering his questions but I have changed the subject when the conversation looks like it’s turning to family. I’m not ready to tell him about my mum, it’s a bit heavy-going and we have only just met, but also I don’t want him knowing who my sister is just yet. It sounds silly, I know, but I worry that once he finds out Bex is my sister he’ll see me as the lesser sister. Or maybe he’ll google her and come across that stupid news story. Anyway, it’s much more fun to talk about life, and love and pop culture and music and how Americans say the word ‘mirror’ wrong.

  After we left the pub Justin suggested that we go to a nice restaurant to get a bite to eat. I was up for it, but on the way to the restaurant we passed a hot dog vendor and those hot dogs smelled too good to walk away from, so I suggested we just scoff those on the street, forgetting about my vow to appear more sophisticated. Justin had looked surprised and then laughed out loud, saying he’d never met a girl who’d rather eat a greasy hot dog than go to a fancy restaurant. He seemed to think this was a good thing. And so was the hot dog, I might add.

  Now we’re at The Dash House – a popular music venue in Camden, where the band playing are friends of Justin’s. They’re a blues band called Rusty Pockets and they’re good, really good. Justin and I are watching them from the bar, drinking shots of tequila, chased with beer.

  ‘So! How many siblings did you say you had?’ Justin asks.

  ‘One sister.’

  ‘Older? Younger?’

  ‘Older.’

  Justin nods. ‘And what’s she like? Do you get on?’

  I nod. ‘She’s everything. She’s my rock and my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

  ‘And are your parents still together?’

  Fuuuuuuck. I sidestep the question by downing another shot and making a big show of how strong it is.

  The drummer starts performing an incredible solo so I remark that his fatback game is strong.

  Justin’s head whips round, eyes wide. ‘You speak drum?’

  I laugh. ‘Speak it? I play it.’

  You don’t spend two years deeply in love with a drummer without learning a thing or two.

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ Justin laughs. ‘You can’t be a drummer. You don’t look like a . . . ’ Justin trails off as I hop off the bar stool.

  ‘You think I’m a liar?’ I say. ‘You think just because I’m a girl I can’t pound the tubs?’ That sounded way cooler in my head.

  Justin laughs out loud as I throw more drum-speak at him. ‘It’s nothing to do with you being a girl! Girls rock. It’s just that . . . they usually don’t look like you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Justin blinks, his expression serious for a moment. ‘Beautiful.’

  We both go quiet for a second. Did he really just call me beautiful? I’m at a loss for words. No one has ever called me beautiful before (and no, my dad and sister don’t count). Justin shakes his head as if he can’t believe he said that out loud. Like he didn’t intend to even think that about me. Meanwhile a happy rush of adrenaline runs through me.

 
‘Didn’t your parents ever tell you that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover,’ I tease, marching over to the stage.

  As Rusty Pockets finish their latest song, I head to the lead singer and whisper into his ear. I’m buoyed up with confidence from this amazing evening – Justin calling me beautiful, this sassy new look of mine, but mostly the tequila – and it feels as though I can do anything in the world. He holds his hand up for a high five, lets the band know what’s going on and says into the mic, ‘Guys, we’re going to do a John Lee Hooker cover with,’ – before he can finish the sentence the audience starts cheering – ‘with sensational guest drummer, Lizzie—’

  He puts the mic under my mouth so that I can tell the audience my full name. But I’m having a pretty nice time with no one knowing that I’m Lizzie Ashworth, Jealous Sister and Burberry-Clad Thug, so I yell, ‘Just Lizzie!’

  ‘Just Lizzie!’ the lead singer repeats and as I take my place behind the drum kit, the band’s drummer tells me to ‘smash it, bruh!’ Then my heart is thudding in my chest. It’s been a while since I played and this is not really the ideal location for a lowkey warm-up back into the art of drum playing – the pressure is on. Then I hear the song, one of my favourite ever songs, and as soon as the bass guitar starts up it comes back to me. The muscle memory kicks in and the sticks start flying and I’m right in there, drumming like my life depends on it, like the gorilla in the Cadbury’s Dairy Milk advert, literally going for gold.

  When the song is over, I step off the stage to wild cheers from the audience. I sidle over to where Justin is sitting at the bar, an astonished look on his face. I turn to him with a big grin plastered right across my face.

  ‘And that, my friend, is how it’s done,’ I say with a nonchalant shrug.

  Justin shakes his head in amazement, his expression somewhere between confused, delighted and completely surprised. ‘Yes. Yes it absolutely is.’ He’s staring at me in wonder and I feel something inside me shift, like everything’s about to change.