Life is full of surprises.
“Freya, have you got your story?” Kelly asked with a bright smile, jolting me from my depressing stroll down memory lane.
I noticed that all the other hens were looking at me expectantly. I was the only one still holding a piece of paper, so they must have already handed theirs over. I tried to answer but my throat had tightened.
Because Matthew was my story. And now he’s gone.
“What about Isabelle?” Niamh announced, causing the heads to swivel toward her. “She surely has to write a story, too. Please tell me that you have all heard about the guy she met in Ibiza? The nickname ‘Gladiator Gordan’ ring any bells?”
Isabelle shrieked with embarrassment and covered her face with her hands, while the other girls immediately started hounding her to tell them the story. I gave Niamh a grateful smile and pulled myself together to concentrate on Isabelle’s hilarious antics with Gladiator Gordan, who was so muscly he could throw her about the dance floor, and the bedroom, like she was a feather. When it came to reading through the confessions, I was ready to enjoy myself again and had managed to quickly jot down a few lines about the time I went to the theater, fell down the steps while looking for my seat, causing a ripple of gasps through the audience, and then, when I scrambled to my feet and people could see I wasn’t actually hurt, received a round of applause.
Just the memory of it makes me break out in a sweat, and it was thirteen years ago.
The next wave of just-bearable agony enveloped me during the classic hen game “Mr. & Mrs.” Kelly had filmed clips of Isabelle’s fiancé, Ryan, answering certain questions, and before playing each one, Kelly would read out the question and Isabelle had to guess what Ryan had answered.
The way Ryan spoke about Isabelle, laughing bashfully as he answered prying questions about her likes and dislikes, their sex life, what he loves most about her, and what their future will look like—it reminded me of when Ruby played the clips of Matthew answering these exact same questions on my hen do.
He’d said all the right things, acted precisely how he was expected to. All my friends went “aw” and placed their hands on their hearts, when at the end he said that he hoped I was having the best time on my hen do and he couldn’t wait for our big day.
I hadn’t thought about those clips of Matthew playing this game until that very moment. My chest tightened at the horrifying realization that he’d known even then he wasn’t going to marry me. But he still sat in a room with Ruby and looked straight at the camera and said he couldn’t wait to marry me with that charming smile of his, knowing that I would watch it, surrounded by my closest friends. He fooled all of them, too.
Bloody hell, that hurt.
When “Mr. & Mrs.” came to an end, I found myself almost gasping for air, but I was relieved it was finally over and we could move on. I sat in the corner next to Niamh, who could see I needed a moment, so she didn’t bother me, chatting away to others nearby, while I pressed down on the inner corners of my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, barring any tears that were threatening to form. I couldnotmake this about me. It would be the worst thing I could do to Isabelle, and, I told myself firmly, it would have been better for me not to have come at all if I was going to make her think I was having a miserable time.
I had committed to this hen do. I shook my head as if that might shake Matthew right out of there, took a deep, calming breath in, and asked Niamh to top up my prosecco. She promptlydid so, we clinked cups, and then I threw myself into the fun and cheery conversation she was having with Isabelle’s cousins.
But there was one more stab to the heart to come. We had all gone upstairs to our allocated bedrooms to get ready for the night out. Niamh and I had done our makeup side by side and we’d been joking about how we used to attempt makeup back at school. We were not very good at it then. The photos capturing that bright blue eyeshadow smeared right up to our eyebrows do not lie.
I came downstairs in a good mood, excited for a girls’ night out in Bath. We still had half an hour before we needed to be anywhere, so the people who were ready were milling about in the sitting room, chatting.
“Before we go, can everyone please write in Isabelle’s hen book!” Kelly called out over the room, gesturing to where it was on the table. “I’m just going to go get dressed.”
People had crowded the book at first, eager to look through the funny photos of Isabelle through the years that Kelly had sourced for this collection. I waited until the coast was clear and then took it to a chair in the corner of the room, so I could flick through it quietly as the crowd in the sitting room got drunker and rowdier.
Isabelle was a super cute baby. There were some hilarious pictures of me and Niamh with her at school, including the blue-eyeshadow moments. Smiling down at the images, I turned the pages until I got to the back, where Kelly had left a bunch of blank pages for us to write in. At the top of each one it said, “My message to Isabelle,” and then, leaving a gap for a few lines, it stated, “My advice for the bride,” followed by another gap.
I clicked the pen and wrote a short and, quite frankly, hilarious message about how she might not remember, but she’d lost a bet to me that she made in year seven, when she declared she’d marry one of the cast members ofThe OC,so I expected her tocough up that Freddo chocolate bar I’m owed. Then, without being overly gushy, I finished by saying how proud I am of her. She knows what she means to me, I didn’t feel the need to write it.
My pen hovered over the next gap. “My advice for the bride.”
A lump formed in my throat. How could I possibly give her any advice? What did I know? Here’s some advice, Isabelle: Make sure the guy you’re marrying wants to marry you. Just because he’s given you a ring and you’ve planned a weddingdoes not guaranteethat the marriage will go ahead.
I was blind.
That was the moment it overwhelmed me; after a day of building up, it all came bubbling over.
Now here I am on the floor of the bedroom, my head buried into my knees, my face wet with tears. I’ve finally given in to the sadness.
After a while there’s a knock on the door.
“Freya, you in there?” Niamh asks. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, of course! Just… uh… sorting some things. Is it time to go?”
“You’ve got about ten minutes.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be ready.”
