‘Sorry,’ I mumble.
‘I think, maybe …’ He makes this face that looks a bit like a bulldog eating a wasp, but in a cute way.
‘I’m not going to tell them,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, about any of it.’
He nods in agreement.
‘You get it. You understand the science and the possibility and you don’t have any vested interest in this situation like Cesca would have.’
He looks disappointed, but the expression vanishes as quickly as it appeared. ‘I am vested, Bethany.’ He keeps his voice low, imbuing it with a sense of gravity. ‘I’m one hundred per cent vested.’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
In the end we don’t talk about the science. Instead, Tyler gives me a crash course on the wedding party and all the details for the big day. And thank heavens he does. Otherwise I might have missed the fact I have a bridesmaid’s dress fitting tomorrow morning.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, just before ten, I find myself standing in a bridal boutique in a pair of skin-coloured Spanx shorts and this thing called a ‘Magic Bra’. It’s hideous; literally bra cups made from a jelly-like substance that adhere directly to the skin. I cannot for the life of me figure out how to get my boobs to sit evenly. This was obviously not part of the info dump Tyler had given me last night as we sat and nursed a bottle of Merlot in the cosy corner of a small pub not far from my flat.
Helen is an absolute bridezilla. Of course she is. As if I was in any doubt.
Cesca is letting Helen get her own way constantly. She’s not even trying to stand up for what she wants. I can’t see my sister in the choices they have made at all, as if Helen has erased them, one by one, until there’s nothing left but cliché chiffon dresses in baby blue and strappy silver sandals for all the bridesmaids.
‘Will you please stop fiddling with your fucking bra?’ Helen barks at me, like I’m an errant child and she’s a headmistress at her absolute wits’ end. I immediately stop fidgeting, bringing my hands down to my sides. Cesca averts her eyes but for the briefest moment I see a flash of something, like she’s trying to cover up a laugh. My heart soars at the glimpse of my Cesca, my Cesca who would find this whole endeavour absolutely fucking hilarious.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble and immediately hate myself for being such a sap, so quick to please everyone.
I’m rewarded by a withering look from Helen. ‘You didn’t have this problem last week.’
Well, no, Helen, I didn’t. Because last week I wasn’t actually here. That was a different Bethany, one who was evidently far more comfortable with this particular boob support contraption. Or perhaps there was a training course? Or … I manage to catch the laugh before it erupts from my mouth. Because of course this Bethany would have done what I would have and watched a YouTube tutorial. Or, you know, ten YouTube tutorials. There is not a hope in hell’s chance we would have voluntarily ended up in a situation where we had to try to figure this shit out in public.
My phone beeps from the plush velour stool to my right. It’s a message from Cesca. A video link to the website and a crying laughing face emoji.Sorryx, she’s written in another message. I look up and catch her eye.
‘Thank you,’ I mouth, and she nods before crossing her eyes in the exact same way my Cesca does to convey a multitude of messages: that this is bullshit, that it’s nothing to do with her, that she shares my pain, that she loves me.
I make the same expression back, but Helen catches me and huffs loudly.
There is one good thing that comes from this whole dress debacle: I finally meet Nessie. And I immediately understand why she’s Tyler’s favourite sister – not that he would ever admit that, of course. She’s warm and bubbly and I can’t help but feel better the moment I step into her sphere. ‘I brought emergency rations,’ she whispers conspiratorially to me, just out of earshot of her sister who is barking orders at the poor woman who runs the shop.
I take the hip flask gratefully. I’ve always wanted to be the kind of woman who can pull off carrying a hip flask and make it look edgy and exciting instead of alcoholic and desperate. Nessie’s is in a purple camouflage print and filled with a very nice whisky. ‘Thank you,’ I say and pass it back to her. ‘You have excellent taste.’
‘Well, you know what they say … I like my whisky like I like my men: twice my age and from Scotland!’ She accompanies this gem with one of the most wicked laughs I’ve ever heard and I feel my worries ebb away as I join her.
She eventually stops laughing for long enough to add, ‘I know I shouldn’t say bad things about my sister, but she is turning into a fucking nightmare with this wedding.’ Nessie slides down the wall she was leaning against, as if the whole endeavour is exhausting her. I laugh. She laughs back, a slightly manic edge to it, as if she’s been holding it back for too long and it can no longer be contained.
When she finally composes herself, she tilts her head to one side and looks at me. It’s the same gesture Tyler does and all of a sudden I feel exposed, out in the open with my secrets bared for all to see. ‘You seem different,’ she says softly, her eyes roaming my face.
‘Different?’ I manage to make the word sound suitably quizzical, like I couldn’t possibly have any idea what she was talking about.
‘More relaxed. Less …’ She trails off and wrinkles her nose a tiny bit.
‘I know your brother has been saying I’m a hard-arsed bitch for about six years,’ I reply.
‘That’s not what I—’
I reach out a hand to stop her and snatch the hip flask inthe same motion. ‘We made friends,’ I say and then take a sip of whisky, waiting for her reply.
‘Really?’ She sits up straight. ‘No fucking way!’ She sounds … well, she sounds absolutely thrilled, like this is the best news she’s heard in months. ‘Tell meeverything.’ Her eyes dance and I have to stop myself from sitting next to her and spilling every tiny little thing. Especially because I might slip again tomorrow and this world’s Bethany won’t know any of this.
