you get anything nice for Christmas?’ Cleo asked me as the waiters brought out a selection of lethal-looking steak knives.
‘Thank you,’ I said to the guy. I always made a point to thank waiting staff – you never knew what they were stirring your sauce with. ‘Some books, perfume, Netflix voucher, Waterstones voucher, Beyoncé tickets for Birmingham…’ I left out Sylvanian stuff – the only people who understand how I feel about Sylvanians are Imelda’s five-year-old twins.
‘Ooh, we’re seeing Beyoncé in London in April,’ said Pidge. ‘Oh, I know what it was I wanted to tell you guys…’
Pidge started this inexorably long speech about how she’d gone to six different pet stores before she found the right something for her house rabbits – Beyoncé and Solange. Pidge’s conversation starters were always somewhere between Tedious and Prepare the Noose; almost as dull as Anni’s midwife appointments or Lucille’s Tales of the Killer Mortgage. I zoned out, mentally redesigning the furniture in my Sylvanians’ dining room. I think they need more space to entertain.
Despite the ongoing gnawing fury in the centre of my chest, courtesy of Le Boyf, the meal was nice and I managed to keep it down. I noticed there were fake flowers in the vases on all the tables – which won’t please the Tripadvisor fairy – but as restaurants go, I’m glad I went. It was almost worth the two hours I’d spent crowbarring myself out of the pyjamas I’d lived in since Christmas Eve and dolling myself up. Well, it was until the subject of Imelda’s wedding came up. Lucille was the culprit.
‘So, you got your hair sorted out yet for the Big Day?’
Now this was the rare occasion when Imelda did hear what Lucille said – because she had asked about Imelda or weddings or Imelda’s actual wedding.
‘No,’ she whined. ‘I want something up at the crown but not spiky. French plaits for the bridesmaids, keep it simple. Did I tell you about our photographers? We’re having two. Jack found this guy from London and him and his partner – his work partner that is (cue chorus of unexplained laughs) – are coming down to see the church in May. He’s going to be at the back so that he can take pictures of everyone’s faces as I come down the aisle, and his mate’s going to be at the altar.’
‘No chance of anything being missed then?’ I added.
‘Exactly.’ Imelda smiled, seemingly ecstatic that I was taking an interest.
‘What you wearing for your night do? Did you decide?’ asked Anni, returning from a third toilet break.
‘Oh, the dress again, definitely.’
‘You’re going to have it on all day?’ said Cleo.
‘Yeah. It’s got to be something striking. It is my day and everyone will be coming to check me out so… and that way, the people who didn’t get invited to the day do will be able to see it then.’
‘Yeah, wouldn’t want them missing out on anything,’ I mumbled, checking my phone. And again she smiled, like I was right on her wavelength.
Anni nodded, biting her lower lip. ‘You’ll be stunning, Mel. It’s gonna be such a good bash. And I’ll be able to drink again by then, too!’
I cleaned off my steak knife with my napkin. There was an abundance of veins in my left wrist. I could have ended it all right then if I’d had the balls.
‘I won’t be stunning,’ said Imelda. ‘I’ll probably break both camera lenses!’
Lucille’s turn: ‘Babes, you’re gorgeous. You’ll be all princess-like and there’ll be flowers everywhere and with that amazing church… it’ll be like a proper fairy tale.’
‘Yeah,’ she scoffed. ‘If I can’t shift this bloody muffin top in the next six months it will be a fairy tale – Shrek!’
Cue the shrieks.
‘And June’s always sunny, so you’re bound to have the best weather for it,’ said Pidge, rubbing Imelda’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be wonderful.’
Enough?
‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right.’
(Note: I have cribbed this endless ego massage here but please understand, Dear Diary, that Imelda’s wedding takes up at least 90 per cent of every social occasion.)
Then she brought up the very thing I’ve been dreading since it was first mooted last September – the Weekend That Must Not Be Named.
‘You’re all coming to my hen weekend, aren’t you? No buts. You’ve got six months’ notice after all.’
Fuck it. In a fairly large bucket.
‘Oh, yeah, what are we doing again?’ asked Anni, swigging her orange juice.
‘Not sure yet – possibly Bath for a spa day or Lego Windsor. But it’s deffo Friday to Sunday.’
‘Rawther!’ Lucille giggled. She was matron of honour.
Then it was onto Man Bash Central – Woman Bash Central in Cleo’s case – how Rashan/Alex/Jack/Tom/Amy had stayed out all night on a job/booze run to France/coach trip to Belgium/job/pub crawl/austerity protest. How Rashan/Alex/Jack/Tom/Amy had got so unadventurous in bed these days. How big Rashan/Alex/Jack’s dicks were (Cleo and Pidge always carefully avoided this subject) and finally how Rashan/Alex/Jack/Tom/Amy had given them a Rolex/flowers/Hotel Chocolat salted-caramel puddles/a holiday/a hug just to say sorry after a row that Anni/Lucille/Imelda/Pidge/Cleo had instigated.
The only thing Craig ever gave me that meant anything was bacterial vaginosis, but I kept that to myself.
‘What’s Craig up to these days, Rhiannon?’ asked Anni. She always brought me into the conversation. Imelda sometimes did this when vying for the gold medal at the Passive Aggressive Olympics. She’d ask, ‘Any news on your junior-reporter thing yet, Rhee?’ or ‘Any sign of Baby Wilkins in that womb of yours yet, Rhee?’, when she knew full well I’d have mentioned it if I had news of huge job change (please, God) and/or womb invader (please, God, no).
‘Uh, the same,’ I said, sipping my fifth glass of Prosecco. ‘He’s fitting out that shop in the High Street that used to be a hairdresser’s. It’s going to be a charity shop.’
‘Thought there might be something sparkly waiting under the Christmas tree this year,’ said Imelda, loudly to the entire restaurant. ‘What’s it been now, three years?’
‘Four,’ I said, ‘and, no, he’s not that thoughtful.’
‘Would you say yes if he did propose, Rhiannon?’ said Pidge, her face full of wonder, like she was thinking about Hogwarts. (She and Tom were planning to get married at the Harry Potter Experience in Orlando soon – I shit you not.)
I hesitated, the gnawing in my chest biting down harder. Then I lied: ‘Yeah, of course–’ I was about to qualify that with an If he could stop taking Lana Rowntree up her aisle for five minutes long enough to walk me down one, but Lucille cut me off before I had chance:
‘Talking of charity shops, I bought this great vase in the one opposite
