Page 6 of The Wedding Forecast

‘It’s not bleeding?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Want me to check?’

‘No, it’s okay.’

‘You could have a concussion.’

‘I don’t have a concussion.’

‘Is your vision blurry? Are your ears ringing?’

‘My ears are definitely ringing.’

‘That is a sign of a concussion.’

‘They’re ringing from your scream.’

That feels borderline sexist, but I don’t say anything. I am swallowing down every emotional reaction I have this weekend.

He sits on the bed, and I hover nearby. I should leave the room, but that would feel like I was relinquishing it. I need this room. I can’t be in the room right next to Joel and Bianca. The success of the whole weekend hinges on me sleeping more than two metres away from them. I have to find a way to convince him to move.

‘So you’re not a fan of knocking?’ he says after a moment of silence, and his tone immediately annoys me.

‘I thought you weren’t arriving until tomorrow.’

‘I switched flights,’ he says. ‘I came straight from the airport and showered.’ He yawns, and I assume he’s jet-lagged, or else he’s simply terribly bored by me. All the more reason he can have the shitty room—he’ll sleep through anything tonight.

‘Oh. Well. I’m very sorry for walking in. It’s just that, this room was supposed to be mine,’ I say, with what I hope is an apologetic but firm face.

‘Oh. I didn’t know we had assigned rooms.’

‘Well, I helped Hayley book the house, and the plan was for me to be in here.’

‘What room is supposed to be mine?’ he asks, after a beat.

‘I’ll show you,’ I say. He puts down the tea towel of ice and follows me.

I lead him to the child’s room, which had twin single beds in the pictures, I am sure, I am certain, but now that I step into it, it has a single bunk bed. A very small bunk bed. And two framed pictures on the walls, in big pastel lettering, one saying ‘Dream big, little one’ and the other saying ‘You’re amazing just the way you are’. And a basket of toys, including a very creepy-looking doll. Her eyes are staring into the abyss.

He walks into the room, saying nothing.

‘It’s actually a nice room. It gets the most light,’ I say, sounding like a real-estate agent. I quickly grab the doll and turn her facedown, because her intense gaze is not going to help matters. I want to explain to him that I am already working against the image of being the sad single bridesmaid whose ex has moved on and she hasn’t, and I can’t also be in the kiddie room on bunk beds. I need the surroundings of a big bed, tasteful abstract art and my own shower. I need to be swanning around in a robe, metaphorically. And literally. I definitely can’t share a bathroom with Bianca. I can’t step into the shower after she has stepped out. I can’t have my feet standing in her leftover shower water. My self-esteem, my sanity, hinges on this.

‘I won’t fit in that bed,’ Mac says.

‘It’s bigger than it looks,’ I reply. What I really mean is, you aren’t as tall as you think you are. Studies have shown that men always overestimate their height. He’s probably just barely six foot. I could check IMDb, but that’s never accurate. I’m five seven and a half. We’re talking a matter of inches between us.

He walks over and lies down on the bottom bunk. His feet touch the end, but he’s not really trying to fit.

‘If you squidge up a bit, it’ll work. Your head needs to be closer to the wall.’

He looks at me, and then shuffles up, so his neck is bending at an odd angle.

‘Like this? You want me to sleep like this?’ he says. ‘My poor damaged head, pressing against the wall?’

‘We’ll get some extra pillows. I’ll make it comfy.’