Page 17 of The Wedding Forecast

‘I know.’

‘We could get you a hotel. Or you could stay with the mums?’

Hayley and I refer to our mothers collectively as ‘the mums’, a habit Luke has picked up.

‘I’m not staying with the mums. And let’s not tell them about anything.’

‘Right. Okay. Good idea.’

Luke looks nervous at this. The mums can crack him instantly. My mother can practically smell secrets, and Bobbi will immediately see something up on Luke’s face. Jean is an emergency-department doctor who can break someone with a mere look. Dad is safe, he’s the last to know in any situation. But I am relying on them all being distracted by the wedding.

We drive back and while Luke and Mac are chatting, I hype myself up. This is Hayley’s wedding. You’ve had your dramatic moment—now you just need to hold it together.

We pull into the driveway, and my eyes meet Luke’s in the rear-vision mirror.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.

‘I’m good. I just needed to deal with the shock of it. I’ve done that now. Good for them. Honestly. Good for them!’ I say.

I catch a very subtle quick look between Luke and Mac. I know that look. It’s the same kind of look I sometimes saw between Hayley and Luke in the dark months after my breakup, when I was ranting to them about one thing or another.

What I hadn’t quite prepared myself for in the immediate aftermath of the breakup was the loneliness. I joined a Facebook group for lease breaks, and temporarily moved into a studio apartment near my work that was tiny. (‘Cosy!’ Hayley had assured me as she inspected it, ‘and you can get some cool artwork, and plants, and we’ll make it super cute.’) But then I was in the apartment, with barely any furniture, and no desire to make it cute and girly and aesthetic. I had no desire for anything. Not for sex, or going out, or watching TV or reading or finding new hobbies or getting really active on social media or joining the dating apps. I started going to bed right after work, and staying there all weekend. I’m a bed person, I thought. I just love being in bed. I just love being in bed in my tiny, cold, empty little apartment.

Then I thought, oh wait, I’m probably just depressed.

I wasn’t going to do better than Joel, and the thought hit me like a freight train. He hadn’t ever cheated. He barely ever even raised his voice when we argued. He was the most together person I knew. He voluntarily put extra money into his super. And he was handsome. And so intelligent. He sometimes massaged my feet while we watched TV shows he hated. He took my orgasms very seriously. Sometimes too seriously, but that was better than the opposite. What had I done? In my darkest moment, I had stood looking in the mirror—days of not showering, greasy hair in a squashed bun, food stains on my top, no bra, a stress outbreak of pimples on my chin, puffy-eyed from staying up until 2 am watching the third season of a show I hadn’t watched the first two seasons of—and I thought, I’ll never do better than him. I’ll never be loved again.

I needed to learn the stock market, build my savings, do my own tax, check my super, figure out my health insurance, get better at all the bedroom stuff that Joel let me coast by on, get fit, find new hobbies, spend more time at the hairdresser, at the waxer, buy more make-up, buy more clothes, figure out winged eyeliner, take great photos for my online profile where I look happy, interesting and popular. It was all going to be so much work—dating, going out, meeting people—and so expensive. I did not have the energy for any of it. And for what? To be in a relationship with a boring guy in finance with no personality beyond talking about how great AI will be in a few years or something equally awful, who was not even a pinch on Joel, not even the slightest bit like him.

Knowing that I was depressed didn’t really help. Maybe I should see a doctor, a therapist, a psychiatrist, a life coach, a holistic nutritionist wellness advisor—they all sound extremely useful. But the thought of making an appointment, explaining everything and digging into it all felt like too much effort. Dad said, ‘Sweetheart, it’s heartbreak. The only way over it is through.’

I imagined Joel was thriving, and here I was, falling apart. I had thought I wanted a baby, and now I was alone and the desire for a baby had also left me.

Hayley said maybe I should get a dog. ‘To sit alone in the apartment while I am at work?’ I said. ‘Well, you need something. Let’s go to Ikea!’

We went to Ikea but it didn’t solve anything and I felt hot and sweaty and irritated at all the slow-walking families. I bought a Christmas tree, because Hayley thought it would brighten my apartment. She and Luke helped me decorate it, but I hadn’t bought enough decorations and instead of cheerful and cosy, it looked sad and half-hearted. Luke said, ‘Come and live with us in our spare room.’ Which is what I’d wanted the whole time, I realised, and Hayley had looked at him and kissed his cheek.

I went to live with them, and then my book was released in February, and everything starting to feel brighter, and better. I felt more like myself again.

I slipped into the role of third wheel very easily. Like I was born for it. Luke had to adjust though, because it became apparent Hayley and I were often a twosome he wasn’t part of. We would have Friday-night cheese platters and yoga on Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoon selfcare and Monday night icecream. And suddenly I could feel the wedding looming like a big full stop on the very happy, very co-dependent life I had created for myself. Because I was sure that Luke, at least, expected me to move out once they were married.

I broached it with Hayley one day.

‘I can’t keep living here once you’re married,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ she said. She was baking chocolate muffins and eating the chocolate buttons as she went. She tossed me one and I caught it in one hand. Hayley didn’t like cooking much but she was an incredible baker. We were about the same level of messiness, which was perfect. Hayley said we were much more compatible as housemates than she was with Luke, which was true, but I felt the danger in embracing this. I could not stay. This was temporary. I couldn’t get too comfortable.

‘Because it’s the right time to move out. So you can be newlyweds,’ I said.

‘We’ve been together for eight years.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re not moving out.’

‘The mums think I should.’

‘They do not.’