We both laughed out loud as he pulled away, blowing me a kiss.
Chapter Ten
THURSDAY 26TH JULY 2012
One more sleep until the long-anticipated wedding.
Rachel, my best friend, arrived from Edinburgh with my cousins. I had the Moet chilling in the fridge and the Grey Goose on standby.
I needed my friends more than ever before, craved their familiar presence as I prepared to turn my life upside.
As soon as the weekend was over, I would approach Rob for a divorce. It had been a long few weeks, but I was on the home run.
Bridezilla was staying at the venue tonight, thankfully. I was delighted she wasn’t my problem that evening. I had enough of my own already. At least Rob was staying at my brothers, so I was free of the awkwardness for the night.
A nervous excitement flickered then bubbled within.
Not about the wedding, but about what I knew was to follow.
Nerves about broaching him with my request, unsure of how he’d take it, how everyone would take it.
Excitement at the prospect of my impending freedom.
I spent the previous month weighing up my actual happiness, my future on the scales versus everyone else’s opinions. There would be a few raised eyebrows, but I was so mad about JohnKelly, whatever I had to go through would be worth it. Was I setting myself up for an epic fall?
Possibly.
But I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t summon enough courage to at least try.
Chapter Eleven
FRIDAY 27TH JULY
I didn’t go to bed until six in the morning. We were supposed to be at the hotel with Bridezilla getting our hair done at nine, but I’d forgotten that while I was drinking champagne with the girls, singing Florence and the Machine’s “Shake It Off” far too passionately for a Thursday night, in an end-terraced house, in a family occupied estate.
Reluctantly, I dragged myself into the shower, threw a bag together and got into the car with Rach. We made our way to the venue, a trendy Novotel by the airport. I probably shouldn’t have been driving, but with fourteen missed calls from Bridezilla, there wasn’t really any other option.
Heidi was her usual pleasant self when we arrived.
‘What time do you call this, Lucy? For God’s sake! And there’s no sign of that bloody hairdresser you booked either. Where is she?’
‘Calm down, Bridezilla,’ slipped out before I could check myself. Thankfully, she laughed. Either she’d been drinking or the excitement of the day had gone to her head.
‘She’s on her way. She text me already to say she was a bit lost. I had to give her directions.’ What she really text was that itwas her birthday the day before, she’d had a few too many that night and was running late. She was in good company.
The morning passed in a blur of make-up and champagne. The first glass was slow to go down, but I soon regained my composure and snuck a quick selfie for John. We didn’t get the opportunity to speak properly last night with the girls there. I missed the comfort that talking to him gave me.
In different circumstances, it would have been great to have him here today. Would family would like him? Would we ever get the chance to find out?
For the millionth time, I wished things were different.
At the church, the organ played softly in the background in anticipation of the first glimpse of the bride. It was surprisingly nice to see so many familiar faces: uncles, cousins, family friends and school friends. In truth, I hadn’t actually given the wedding much thought since I’d met John. Even I had to admit, my head had been well and truly up my own arse. I mentally scolded myself for being a terrible sister, silently promising to do better.
My mother sat in the second row of pews in a lilac, slim-fitting Coast dress with a dainty cream head piece fastened to the side. She was ridiculously good looking for a fifty-year-old woman, and my friends regularly admired her youthful appearance and sense of style, not to mention her fondness of a glass of white wine. She was my best friend, and I was grateful for her every day of my life.
Her partner, on the other hand, was a complete dose. None of us had any idea what attracted her to him in the first place. There was something slippery about a six foot, overly confident salesman with ideas way above his station. My grandfather described him as having ‘notions’.
Trevor didn’t drink. I mean at all. Which wouldn’t be too bad that’s if you could get past wondering if he was a previous alcoholic or if he couldn’t trust his own behaviour with a drink?No, the real problem was he hated to see any of us enjoying ourselves or having a drink. He would regularly say to my mum in a sneering, patronising tone, ‘You’re not having ANOTHER glass of wine, are you?’ The poor woman was made to feel guilty every time she wanted to let her hair down.
