In a three-thousand-pound Chloé dress! Literally should be illegal. Also, the use of the word “frock” is criminal. I texted back.
Come here and I’ll sort it out for you.
Sorry, I forgot to say that the wedding party has to meet outside Hookborough Hall at 11 to do some reveal photos before the ceremony. We’re getting dressed here because it’s quicker. See you at 12 xx
My heart had somersaulted into my stomach. So they weren’t coming here before the wedding. I was going to get dressed alone and make my way to the ceremony alone. All the things Daisy had promised wouldn’t change have in fact changed.
The tape goes on your boobs first.
Make sure your skin is clean and dry.
Then I’d thrown my phone onto the bed and not looked at it since. Instead, I’d slumped into my desk chair, booted up my laptop, and typed into Google“What the fuck am I doing with my life?”
Unsurprisingly, it didn’t yield any useful results, so I switched to my favourite guilty pastime of online stalking Harry Ellis. I’d found a new news article published earlier in the week in which his name was only mentioned in the accompanying picture’s caption. The headline of the article was something like,“Is it time for a shakeup at the Cents?”and the photo was of Harry—just Harry—standing in the centre of the pitch with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face as he looked off into the distance, probably at the goal posts.
I read the entire article in case it gave any specifics about the choice of picture, or of Harry. It didn’t, but I did spend an inordinate amount of time staring at it.
I hate you. I really, really hate you. Why did you do this to me?
“I genuinely have a stomach ache,” I lie, and Daisy gives me that look that lets me know she doesn’t believe it. “I’m just not hungry. I’m not about to stick a potato in a melting pot of dust particles and other people’s mouth germs and then putthatin my mouth. Ew.”
“Orlando Oakham-Goodwin, you once told me you gave a BJ to a man who claimed to be Jesus,” Daisy argues.
“I wanted to see the second coming of Christ,” I counter. Behind Daisy’s back, Serasi snickers. “Besides, he gave me diamond earrings.”
“Which he probably stole.”
I shrug. “So? What’s your point?”
Daisy lets out a long sigh. “I don’t really have one. It’s just that it’s Dad’s wedding and you’ve been nothing but miserable all day. Can’t you at least pretend to be happy for him?”
“Iamhappy for him,” I say, but the words are weak, and diluted further as another crowd of potato munchers joins us beside the gravy fountain.
Okay, time to be honest, I guess. “I just . . . missed you this morning. I thought things would be like old times, you know. I made snacks and got drinks ready and . . .”
I want to tell her about my horrible new job, and my horrible new colleagues with their disgusting shoes, and even though I’ve been working there nine to five every day this week, I still haven’t got a fucking clue what I’m supposed to be doing. That all I’ve done so far is watch hour after hour of training videos, and go to meetings where I’m expected to keep my mouth shut at all times, and that I’ve spent more of my working day on Oakham Industries’ toilet, than I have at my desk. I want to tell her I’m sick of her one-word answers to my texts.
Things have happened to me this last week that I naively presumed would never happen, and I miss my friend. I miss her unwavering support. I miss her dismissing everyone else as a “stupid prick” and taking my side no matter what.
“I’m sorry I’ve not been around as much this week,” she says as though reading my thoughts.
Daisy looks over at Serasi. Serasi takes Daisy’s hand in hers and nods, and I feel my wedding breakfast pitch up my throat.
“Lan,” she begins.
“Nope,” I say, because I can guess what’s coming. Visions of last week float through my mind. Of Daisy and me in Harvey Nicks, of her telling me they were planning on getting their own place together.
“There’s something we need to tell you.” The tone of her voice lets me know they’re not planning on moving to Bath or Bristol. Fuck, Cambridge is so far away.
“No there’s not. There’s nothing you need to tell me.”
“Lan, please, we need to have a chat. You’ve been avoiding my calls all week, not replying to my texts.”
Because I’ve been at work. Working a stupid nine to five, like a good little cog in the big-man’s machine.
“Can we meet up tomorrow?” she says.
“No.”
