‘OK . . .’ I replied, waiting for her to yell PSYCHE! and drive her damn Monster Truck over the top of my car. But she seemed sincere.
‘And I realise you said what you said out of anger. The easiest way to rile up another woman is to imply that you have intimate knowledge of her boyfriend. I didn’t believe for a moment it was true . . . well, because you’re not Frank’s type.’
‘You’re absolutely right, Sarah. I said what I said to wind you up – I’m absolutely not Frank’s type.’
‘I knew it.’
‘But what you said about Frank was out of order,’ I continued. ‘Really disingenuous.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Look, the bottom line is, I intend to see a lot more of Frank, so I think it’s probably a good idea that we put this behind us and—’
‘And please don’t tell Frank what I heard you say?’ Her motives here were so transparent.
Finally she dropped her pretence. ‘He wouldn’t believe you anyway, dear,’ she replied.
I smiled. It was pointless arguing. This woman was beyond reproach and I was bored. ‘You know, you’re probably right. Just like you were right about your sense of humour being shite.’
‘What? Hang on, I never—’
‘See you at the wedding!’
I drove off before she had the chance to respond. What a conniving, wholly unhappy woman she is.
Lucy is staying with Hazel tonight and we’re all meeting at the hotel tomorrow to get ready. A woman called Sabine is coming to do our hair and makeup at 9 a.m. and it’s our job to make sure Lucy has the best day ever. No pressure then.
Saturday November 11th
2.30 p.m.‘Oh God, my stomach hurts. I might be sick. I might poo myself! Fuck, what if I walk down the aisle shitting myself as I go! Iknewwearing white was a bad idea. OhGodohGodohGod.’
Lucy had spent months panicking over her wedding and five minutes before the actual ceremony was no different. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, her hand rubbing her stomach over her striking ivory wrap wedding dress. She looked magnificent; like a cross between Florence Welch and Guinevere. I quickly straightened the small flower garland which nestled perfectly on her red curls and smoothed down her dress at the back while her eyes darted between me and Hazel, looking for reassurance.
‘Just relax!’ Hazel soothed, placing her hand in Lucy’s. ‘We’ve got you. There will be no shitting on my watch.’
I saw Lucy’s shoulders visibly relax as she exhaled deeply. Taking one last look in the mirror, she said vehemently, ‘Right. I’m ready. Here we go, bitches . . .’
*
3 p.m.We all stood behind the doors at the back of the room. Lucy had stopped panicking, all hair was perfect and no one had lipstick on their teeth. As soon as we heard ‘I’m Kissing You’ by Des’ree start to play, the doors would open and Hazel and I would start walking. But Des’ree doesn’t start playing. The mellow piano chords were nowhere to be heard. What I heard was ‘Hold My Hand’ by Jess Glynne and what I saw was Lucy grinning.
‘Lucy?’
‘Change of plan, ladies. Now dance me down the aisle or lose me forever.’
Before we could respond, the doors swung open and Hazel and I were faced with over one hundred guests, all as bemused as we were. Just as I was about to tentatively shuffle forwards, Hazel threw her arms in the air and began leading the charge, so I followed suit. We owned that aisle like we were appearing on Soul Train and when Lucy appeared behind, out-dancing both of us, there wasn’t a single person in that room who didn’t join in. We danced that woman right down the aisle before entrusting our best mate to the only man we’ve ever truly approved of.
*
3.30 p.m.Kyle started crying during his vows. Lucy got dry mouth and her top lip stuck to her teeth and someone in the back of the hall had the loudest hiccups I’ve ever heard.
*
3.45 p.m.Lucy Jacobs was now officially Lucy Hamilton and my waterproof mascara was a lying piece of shit.
*
4.30 p.m.We hung around the function suite drinking champagne and eating canapés while the main area was set for dinner. The pale yellow room buzzed with the guests’ excitement over the soft background music. I’m certain Lucy had said there were forty confirmed for the meal and at least one hundred for the evening reception, but looking around it seemed like everyone had shown up at once and 99% were fighting for first place in the Most Hideous Fascinator competition I was currently judging. The woman with what looked like a lace seagull was currently in first place.
I caught sight of Oliver making his way back from the toilets, occasionally forced to stop and politely introduce himself to the many women who thrust their hands in front of him. He always did look good in a kilt but for some reason today he looked especially delicious. Maybe it was the romance in the air or the joyful feeling in my heart, but I felt like the luckiest woman alive.
