The End
‘We’re getting a divorce.’
There’s a moment, just a single heartbeat of a moment, where no one says anything. Then Dad puts his arm around Mum, and my sister Kat starts laughing, and Liz is standing up, cheering, and Jack’s best man, Iffy, is raising his pint to us, and everyone else is chattering like am-dram extras. My other sisters tell off Kat for laughing, and Mum throws her hands up, and at the back of the room someone drops their glass, and Jack and I just look at one another.
Thinking about it again, maybe our anniversary party wasn’t the best place to announce it.
Now
I stirred my rum and Coke with one perfectly manicured finger and took a large gulp. I hadn’t smoked since my teens, but I’d have pushed a vicar through a stained-glass window for just a couple of puffs.
‘You alright, love?’ Dad sat opposite me, nursing his own rum. I blinked at him.
‘Besides the obvious?’ I said, gesturing with my glass at my outfit, our location.
‘We’ve got plenty of time, Zoe. Have a drink. Take a deep breath. Decide what you want to do.’
That was what I needed to hear, ever since this morning, when I’d woken up in my old bedroom. Or when I was booking marquees. Or when Jack first asked me.
I sighed and stared out of the window. ‘Did you and Mum never fancy this?’
Dad shifted in his chair a little. ‘Did it ever bother you and your sisters that we weren’t married?’
‘No! God, no. It was quite cool, actually. But I’m just wondering, now … Why did you two never fancy it?’ I turned my engagement ring round and round on my finger, gold band … sapphire stone … gold band … sapphire stone …
‘Things were different. And it just didn’t suit us, back then. But we weren’t who you and Jack are.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’
‘The thing is, love … sometimes you just have to do what you think is right.’ He took a sip. ‘Even if it might seem like the hardest thing in the world.’
I looked at Dad’s pale, smiling face, then knocked back the rest of my drink, stood up, and pushed my veil forwards over my face. ‘Let’s do this, Dad. Let’s get me down that aisle.’
We stepped out of the Queen’s Head into the cold, thin January sunlight, where the wedding car was waiting for us, driver Al in the front with a Daily Express and a bag of salt and vinegar. As he saw us coming out, he started up the engine; Dad tucked me into the back seat, passing me the second-hand Chanel clutch he and Mum had surprised me with last night, as if it were a vaguely radioactive but very precious baby, then sat down beside me, trying not to crumple my outfit.
‘Fifteen minutes, Al,’ Dad said. ‘Do you think we can make it?’
‘Nooo problem,’ Al shouted over his shoulder, revving the engine and sweeping out into the traffic.
Fortunately, having huge wedding ribbons
