Simon turns to face me. ‘Erin …’
I give him a what-the-heck-are-you-doing smile, but he just beams back at me.
‘You know I am the luckiest man alive to be marrying someone like you …’ A murmur goes through the crowd, mostly from the women. ‘… and I know I’m going to have the opportunity to say this all again tomorrow, but I just want to take a moment to raise a glass to you, and to thank you for taking this “fixer-upper” on.’
I shake my head, smiling indulgently.You know that’s not true,I tell him with my eyes.
But he just carries on. ‘I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you.’
‘Aww,’ a few of the single ladies say. One even wipes a tear from the corner of her eye with a folded tissue.
‘I mean it!’ Simon says, brightening further. Goodness knows the man adores an audience. But I love him for that. He’s brave where I feel conspicuous and confident while I fake it to make it. But I’m getting there. Simon has just as much of a positive influence on me as I have on him. Maybe more so.
‘Erin keeps me grounded, reminds me of what’s important in life.’He turns to me and raises his glass. ‘And she always pairs my socks when they come out of the wash.’
That earns him a laugh, which is what it was designed to do, even from me, because it’s true – I do always pair his socks, but only because I can’t stand to see one blue sock and one black sock propped up on the coffee table when we’re watching TV in the evening. All I can think about is going and getting the other of one of the matching pairs and swapping one out. Totally selfish, really. And maybe a little neurotic. So maybe I’m the lucky one that Simon puts up with my slightly rigid personal rules and tidiness?
Simon lifts his glass higher. ‘To Erin,’ he says and takes a sip. The rest of the guests follow suit, but he can’t help adding, ‘After tomorrow, there’ll be no escape!’ He hands the mic to one of his pals and pulls me into a kiss.
I laugh against his lips. ‘Idiot,’ I whisper.
He pulls back and looks into my eyes. ‘Yes, but I’myouridiot. Don’t forget that!’
People begin talking and drinking again and I step down off the podium, glad to be back on the same level as our guests once again. I love how demonstrative Simon is, how unafraid he is to say how he feels, but I can’t seem to love the spotlight the way he does. It’s too bright, too glaring. Too revealing of all the little flaws, unticked to-do boxes on my personal growth inventory.
But I’m not going to think about that now. Tomorrow is my wedding day, and if there’s one time in my life to let myself feel special, this is it.
I spot Rachel talking to some of my bridesmaids and I nudge Simon in the ribs. ‘Your sister needs someone to chat with reception about her hotel room,’ I tell him. ‘It hasn’t got an interconnecting door.’
My groom rolls his eyes, then squeezes me to him and plants a slightly drunken kiss on the side of my head. ‘Rachel’s a big girl … She’s more than capable of sorting hotel room issues out on her own.’
I’m about to argue with him, to point out it’s our responsibility as bride and groom to make sure our guests are being looked after, when one of his ushers comes over and high-fives him before half stumbling, half dragging him away towards the rest of his rowdy friends. Rachel must have sensed me looking at her because she gives me a cheesy grin along with a thumbs-up gesture, and I sag.
Shooting a longing look at Simon, who is already holding court, having launched into a funny story about his day on the water while many of our friends look on, I put my glass of champagne down on a tall table and head back towards reception. My motto is, ‘If you want something done, you’d better do it yourself’, and if planning your own wedding doesn’t send you crashing headlong into that uncomfortable truth, I don’t know what will.
It takes twenty minutes, but I manage to talk the hotel into swapping Rachel into a suitable room. She won’t have her river view, but I’m sure the interconnecting door is more important, and what else does she want me to do? I’m not fricking Superwoman.
When I’ve finished sorting that out, I spot a waiter heading towards the function room with a tray full of glass flutes. Although I’m wearing heels, I sprint across the lobby and intercept him, shooting him my most winning smile before swiping two glasses. I chug the first one while he’s standing there, looking slightly astonished, put the empty glass down, then dash back into my party.
I can’t see Simon anywhere. I dart this way and that, slopping champagne on people’s toes, but getting away with it because, hey, I’m the bride! I shoot past the buffet, thinking I must grab something to eat shortly, because I realize my stomach has been growling at me for hours, but I’ve just been ignoring it.
Argh … Where is he?
I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re just running, running, running but never getting where you want to go. One more circuit of the room. If I don’t find him then, I’m going to find the first chair I can and collapse onto it.
Just as I’m about to give up, I round the corner and see Simon near the doors to the terrace, along with some of our friends. I swear I’ve searched this spot at least three times before, but they’re chatting in relaxed groups, and it looks as if they’ve been there a while.
I manoeuvre my way past a few of Simon’s aunties and uncles and arrive on the fringes of the circle. It’s only then that I realize I’m standing next to the vulture of doom.
‘Erin,’ he says, nodding slightly.
‘Gil,’ I reply through clenched teeth, although I’m seriously tempted to call him ‘Vulture’. Dressing in all black, like he’s going to a funeral instead of a wedding? What is he thinking? I’m tempted to tell him the Eighties called and said they wanted their gothic vibes back.
‘Erin!’ Simon says, beaming at me and spreading his arms wide. He’s holding an orange juice, thank God. I don’t even have to squeeze between him and his best man, because as soon as Gil sees me coming, he backs away. Maybe it’s a good thing he can’t seem to stand being within ten feet of me.
I try to join in the fun, but I can’t anchor myself firmly in any one conversation.The words keep flowing around me and I drift away on their current without actually hearing them properly. It doesn’t help that, as much as I try to ignore it, a Gil-shaped shadow glowers on the fringes of the group.
Whatishis problem? He greets Anjali like a long-lost friend, actuallysmilingat her, leaving me wondering if I knew his face could actually do that, but also wondering why he never shows me even half that warmth. What did I do to him that was so awful? It can’t be the … well, the thing we never talk about … because Simon was just as much a part of it as I was, and he’s been Simon’s ride-or-die since they were at school together. I just don’t get it.
