Page 15 of The Woman Who Said Yes

A look of unmitigated despair? ‘I’ve got a dress coming from Vinted,’ I tell her. ‘So that might be an option.’

‘You’ll look amazing in whatever you wear,’ she announces, triggering a spike of guilt in me. What kind of friend am I if I can’t simply be delighted for her?

‘We’re not having a huge do,’ Eva continues, picking out a picture of an artfully arranged buffet from a food magazine. ‘Maybe thirty or so? And mostly from my side⁠—’

‘Oh, why’s that?’ Doesn’t Dom have a ‘side’? I want to ask her.

‘He’s not one for big showy parties,’ she explains. ‘If it were left to him we’d have a tiny do…’ She pauses, her dark eyes sparkling. Admittedly, it suits her; this being crazily in love. Her skin is actually glowing, as if lit from the inside.

‘What about his family?’ I ask. ‘Does he still have his parents?’

‘Dad, no. He passed away a few years ago. And his mum… well, they seem to be estranged or something. He hasn’t gone into huge detail. I’m not sure his family life’s been all that happy…’ Don’t you want to know why? I want to ask her. I know it’s all very new, but isn’t this the stuff you share as you fall in love with a person? Isn’t everyone’s deep, complicated backstory part of who they are?

‘Have you asked him about it?’ I venture.

She bites at a chipped scarlet nail. Eva favours a strong colour but rarely gets around to touch-ups. ‘It all seems a bit painful for him,’ she explains. ‘He says he prefers to focus on life now – on the present and the future…’

‘Okay,’ I say, unconvinced.

She smiles tightly. ‘Honestly, if he doesn’t want to go into all the family stuff, then that’s fine with me. I mean, I respect that.’

I nod, regretting even swerving us down this route. ‘Yeah, of course you do. It’s up to him, isn’t it? What he wants to share, I mean?’

Her smile eases, and she nods. ‘Not everyone’s like me and you and Sam, are they? Sharing every teeny little thing that’s ever happened to us?’

‘No, of course not.’ I shrug off any implication that I might believe otherwise. But what does she mean? That it’s immature of us to still be this way? I know Phil struggled with the closeness of our group. ‘God, you three,’ he’d groan, after we’d spent an evening together at our place – meaning, You’re too much.

‘Anyway,’ Eva adds, ‘I’m going to make up for it with my side of the guest list. Because if we’re going to do this thing, then we might as well do it⁠—’

‘Oh, yes. Absolutely!’ I enthuse, and we move on to discussing the kind of venues that would work for thirty in an informal setting. She’s veering towards a buffet rather than a sit-down meal – ‘and music. And lots of dancing!’

‘Sounds perfect,’ I say.

‘It’s just a party, really,’ she adds, ‘for everyone we love.’ Her eyes flood with sudden tears and I hug my darling friend. How lucky he is, I think, to have found such a beautiful spirit; someone so warm and loving and accepting, who’d have been happier with a less blingy ring (or no ring at all!) because it’s not her, this colossal rock, and we both know it.

As we move on to discussing wedding cake options – perhaps I could bake them a bundt! A bundt of doom! – I try to ignore the cold, hard feeling in the pit of my stomach. Yes, I enthuse: that little bar at London Fields looks great with its secluded courtyard garden. And yes, a croquembouche – a teetering tower of profiteroles veiled in spun sugar – would make a fantastic centrepiece. ‘He keeps saying money’s no object,’ she says with a frown. ‘But I’m not having it, Andie – not after the ring. I’m putting it together my way, and I’m paying for it. The profiterole guy’s doing it for mate’s rates.’

‘Good for you,’ I say, relieved to see a flash of her old independence. Because I’ve worried that it gusted away on a breeze on that ship.

Eva jumps up and fetches her Filofax: a well-worn historical artefact adorned with stickers and bulging with pages that she’s treasured ever since I’ve known her. In a section entitled WEDDING PLANS she has jotted copious notes. The sight of her familiar loopy handwriting – purple gel pen a little blotchy – triggers further guilt. Why can’t I brush aside my doubts and just throw myself into it?

‘So,’ I venture as she settles back at my side, ‘tell me more about Dom.’

‘What d’you want to know?’ She darts me a bemused look.

‘Well… did he propose? I mean, how did it happen?’

Eva nods, flushing a little. ‘Yes, he did. After our last dinner on the ship.’

‘What did he say?’ My facial muscles are aching from the effort of trying to appear delighted.

She adjusts the silk scarf patterned with multicoloured birds that’s barely securing her topknot. ‘He said, “I’ve just had the best week of my life. Would it be completely mad to ask you to marry me?”’ Fuck, yes, Dom. It would!

‘And you said yes right away?’

Chuckling now, Eva nods. ‘I actually did.’

Stuck for how to respond, I study a picture of a lavish tablescape – all creamy candles and jugs of spriggy wild flowers – that she’s torn out of a homes magazine. ‘So, what’s his place like?’ I ask.