She grins at me and ushers me out of the house. I lock up and slide into the backseat with Leo, while she takes the front, asking the driver if she can plug her phone in and have control over the music. As we make our way through London toward Stoke Newington, they fill me in on their news from the week and we discuss important wedding-related topics such as whether we’ll be sitting at the same table and what option we chose for our main course back when we received the invitation. As we near the church, Ruby loosens her seat belt and swivels round to face us in the backseat.
“Right, Freya, how are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I meant it, too. On the car journey, I’d had just one moment of feeling an immense wave of heartache when I looked out the window and wondered what Eva was doing right at that moment. Under an hour before her wedding, she’d be in her dress, surrounded by her bridesmaids, toasting a glass of champagne, posing for photographs, and no doubt experiencing an adrenaline-pumping concoction of nerves and excitement.
I smiled as I thought about her having those precious moments. And then I felt struck by a wave of intense loneliness. It was so complicated to feel so happy for someone at the same time as feeling so unbearably sad for myself.
But I can’t go through these weddings resenting anyone for what they have, or feeling bereft about what I’ve lost.
I step out of the car determined to enjoy today. Leo offers me one arm and Ruby the other, and we join the trickle of well-dressed wedding guests ambling into the church. It’s a really beautiful, small, old church that has stone floors and you know as soon as you see it that it’s going to be freezing cold inside, even in the summer. I take an order of service from one of the ushers at the door and follow Ruby into a pew fairly near the back. Sliding in next to Leo, I spot Obi at the front of the church, nervously laughing with his best man. I catch his eye and he gives me a warm smile.
Obi was in our halls, too, so we were close throughout university and beyond, although he has drifted off the radar slightly in the last couple of years. I suppose that’s natural as you get older and it’s been trickier to meet up now that he’s moved to North London, but every time I see him, I get that flurry of excitement that comes with hanging out with an old friend, when you both know each other so well. Obi is generous, kind, and laid-back and has a mischievous sense of humor. He’s a secondary school teacher now and I bet the kids in his class love him.
He met Eva, a pediatric nurse, on a dating app—they have a lot in common, it’s no wonder they matched. They’re both extremely passionate about their jobs and very active outside of them. Obi plays a lot of football and Eva is on a local netball team. A couple of years ago, when I made the effort to trek to their end of London, I went with Obi to watch her play and I really saw another side to her. Eva seems like a gentle, quiet person, but as she plays center on a netball court she’s extremely competitive, focused, and uncannily quick. She was zipping all over the place, I kept losing her. They’re going to Canada for their honeymoon and plan to do “lots of hiking and water sports.”
Not my idea of relaxing, but to each their own.
Some of Obi’s extended family have flown in for the wedding and are sitting ahead of us, their colorful West African outfitsstriking and joyful. As the organ plays some background music while the guests chatter among themselves, I scan the pews. I don’t know too many people, but then my eyes land on a whole row of those I vaguely recognize. I notice that they’re glancing back toward me. I immediately feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I bet they’ve heard all about what happened.
“Are you okay?” Leo whispers, nudging my arm.
“Fine,” I say, glancing back up at the row.
Some of them are whispering now. One turns slightly to look at me with a pitying expression. I look down at the floor, mortified by what they’re saying and horrified to find my eyes welling up with the shame.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell Leo, before standing up and quietly scurrying out.
No one is in the hallway bit of the church entrance, so I linger there for a moment, hoping that the ushers standing outside the doors won’t turn round and notice me. There’s a toilet to the right, but the wooden door has a laminated sign stuck to it sayingOUT OF ORDER.
As I see some straggler guests approaching, I quickly duck into the loo, which is easier said than done thanks to the old, heavy wooden door. It doesn’t matter if it’s out of order, it’s not like I need to use the facilities. I just need a moment of privacy to pull myself together.
The door creaks shut behind me, refusing to properly close. The lock is one of those old rusting metal latches, so it takes some force to get it done, but I get there eventually and heave a sigh of relief. There’s no loo roll in there, so thanking Ruby for remembering my excellent piece of advice, I get a square of paper out of my clutch and dab at the corner of my eyes, careful to keep my makeup intact.
Come on, Freya.
What does it matter if people feel sorry for me because ofwhat happened? That makes them nice and compassionate human beings. I shouldn’t be angry at them for that; I should appreciate their kindness. But I can also show them that it’s unnecessary by having a fun time. Then, their pitiful looks will vanish.
Did you see Freya? they’ll say. The one who got dumped in a broom cupboard the day before her wedding? Yeah, that’s the one. She was partying all night! She looked fantastic! She was having the time of her life! Guess she’s absolutely fine!
Ruby and Leo were right to give me this task. As absurd as it sounds, being the last one standing will go a long way to prove to myself, as much as anyone else, that I’m going to make it through this. I take a deep breath, feeling much better. I have given myself the pep talk I needed. Now, I just have to go out there and have a great day. I owe that to Obi and Eva.
I scrunch up the piece of tissue and pop it back in my clutch. I turn round to open the door.
The lock won’t budge.
I try it again. It’s really stiff. I tuck my clutch under my armpit and use both hands this time, rattling it as much as possible. But it is completely stuck.
Oh no.
I start to panic now as I keep attempting to yank it open. This is not good. This isreallynot good. I kick the door to see if that helps, but that doesn’t seem to do anything. I use all my might to try lifting the lock again, and when it doesn’t come free, I step back and stare at the door in utter dismay.
I’ve locked myself in a toilet. A really old church toilet. At a wedding.
