‘But then he said that he was never comfortable being with one of those single-mother types, so I told him to go fuck himself. So back to my original question – can you recommend a new dentist?’
I give Helen a massive hug and she whispers, ‘It’s obvious you broke it off, and I’m glad you did. Saving face is one thing, but how dare he look down his nose at you. You do an amazing job.’
She steps back and hands me my vodka. ‘Have one on me. I’ll see you for the wedding on Friday. I’m just going to wear that cream trouser suit I got in Fraser’s sale. What are you wearing?’
‘Baby-blue Jackie O suit for ceremony and my maroon swing dress with the little straps for the reception.’
I wait for her to launch into why my choice of outfits is unsuitable, but instead she says, ‘You’ll look wonderful. I’ll see you on Friday.’
She kisses me on the cheek and goes back across the hall, leaving me and my raspberry vodka to become better acquainted. I pour myself a small one, mix it with lemonade, then settle down to write my final rules column. There won’t be time later in the week, and I just want to get it down and move on.
The Lowdown magazine – Saturday 22 November 2014
I Followed the Rules
What happens when it all goes tits up?
It’s been a bumpy ride. From supermarket stalking to spaghetti throwing, I’ve followed the rules in the hope that Mr X just might be the one. But when the one still harbours feelings for someone else, not even the mighty rule book can help. Yes, readers, it’s over.
On the eve of the wedding Grace packs her tiny little bag with all manner of non-wedding related nonsense, like tiny plastic farm animals and stickers. She’s excitedly gibbering on about how she has the important job of scattering rose petals and remembering not to run or dance down the aisle, while I watch for Peter at the window. It all feels very surreal.
‘We’re staying in the hotel for TWO nights, Mum! I’m going to sleep in Great Aunt Victoria’s room. Someone is going to do our hair in the morning.’
‘I can’t wait to see how you look!’ I kiss her face and secretly hope that she ignores Peter’s instructions not to dance or run. I hope she fucking hoofs it down the aisle, finishing in a small Charleston or can-can.
The buzzer goes and I let Peter in. He’s flustered but in good spirits.
‘All set then?’ I ask, making an effort at dull yet appropriate conversation.
‘Yes. We’ll see you at the church tomorrow morning?’
‘Of course. Wouldn’t miss it, and I’ll pop along to the reception in the evening.’
He isn’t listening; I know Peter: his brain is wondering how he’s going to cope with his parents for two days and whether the hotel room has a well-stocked minibar. Anything I’m saying is just noise.
‘Let’s go, Dad!’ Grace slinks under my arm and out into the hall. ‘See you tomorrow, Mum. It’s going to be so AMAZING.’ And with a tiny squeal she’s off down the hall towards the front door.
‘See you tomorrow! And good luck, Peter.’
‘Thanks. Have a good night.’
I close the door and lean against it for a second. I’m not sure Helen is the wisest choice of partner, given her need to say everything that comes into her head, but I’m grateful not to be going alone . . . I’ll turn up in my best church outfit, smile and wish them well. It all feels a bit unreal, but for the first time, I realize I don’t feel upset about it. At last we’re all finally moving on.
Chapter Eighteen
The wedding. We arrived seven minutes ago and I’m already wearing shoes that aren’t mine. The right heel of my planned comfortable footwear got wedged in a drain and snapped off as I was getting out of the car, so I’ve been ordered to put on my sister Helen’s silver stiletto hoof-destroyers, which are too narrow for my huge flat feet. I would have been happy going barefoot, but apparently no sister of hers is ‘walking around like a bloody hippy’, so I get her new Kurt Geigers and she’s run off to her car for her ballet pumps while I hide around the side of the church.
As I watch Helen tiptoe over to her car, a taxi pulls up. A pretty brunette I don’t recognize swings her legs out, knees together, expertly ensuring that her pastel pink miniskirt doesn’t ride up and reveal her Spanx, followed by her stubble-faced partner who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than stuck at a wedding on a Friday morning. Behind them I see Peter’s friends Jay and Lonna walking up the car park, followed by a small group of women who’ve chosen to wear black. I predict they’ll be sitting on Emma’s side of the aisle.
I hate weddings. I’ve been to six weddings in the past seven years and the only pleasurable part is purposely finding really shit wedding gifts, like religious-themed salt and pepper shakers or ‘his ’n’ hers’ hot-water bottles in the shape of genitalia. I always try to convince myself I’m going to enjoy it, but it’s always the same old story: I spend the evening floating between tables of couples who are in various drunken stages of loved-upness and who feel compelled to tell me that ‘it’ll be my turn one day’. Sometimes I laugh and smile politely, and sometimes I tell them to shut the fuck up, but every time my heart gives a tiny painful yelp, reminding me that once upon a time I also believed this. This then leads to mild depression, soothed only by ludicrous amounts of buffet finger food, all while wearing a misjudged skirt that doesn’t allow for carbohydrate-induced mid-section bloating
But this wedding will be different. It’s Peter’s wedding. Today I will watch the father of my child, the ‘love of my life’, marry someone who isn’t me . . . and I’m surprisingly OK with this. Better than I thought I’d be anyway. I just want it to be over.
My attention is again drawn to the street, where I spy two wedding cars in the distance, waiting at the traffic lights. I wave frantically at Helen to hurry up; I’m certain the last thing Emma wants to see when she steps out of the car is her future husband’s ex-girlfriend hobbling around the entrance to the church in unreasonably high shoes. Grace will be in the car too – I don’t want to distract her.
Helen pirouettes through the car park in her ballet pumps and helps me inside before we’re spotted. We find seats three rows from the back behind two middle-aged women wearing identical silly hats, which makes Helen snigger so hard she makes the whole pew shake.
I nudge her. ‘Stop giggling.’
