Over the fortnight that followed Joe’s shocking announcement, Hannah felt as though her feet barely touched the ground. She was busier than she’d ever been, and intensely grateful that the end of Livi’s degree course had coincided with this year’s wedding season – not to mention their brother’s madcap decision to get hitched.
Via email exchanges and FaceTime calls, Hannah had locked Ed and Joe down on a look and feel for the wedding, which had allowed her to develop mood boards and start scouting for suppliers of flowers, decorations and bridesmaid dresses for her sisters. A suitable, available venue remained elusive, however, and she could feel her stress levels creeping up as she continued researching, racking her brain and hoping a stroke of luck might see the perfect location present itself.
She was grateful that – rather unusually – she wasn’t responsible for organising the happy couple’s engagement party. Perhaps as penance for having manoeuvred her into planning the wedding itself, Joe had taken charge, booking the upper floor of a wine bar called Crockett & King for tonight. It was Friday, and Hannah was grateful she had no wedding this weekend – only a smallish affairthis afternoon. Her plan was to travel to Manchester after overseeing the lunchtime nuptials of David and Connor, a pleasant couple in their early forties who would be marrying at a bijou boutique hotel on the outskirts of Chesterfield. She’d then stay overnight at Joe’s flat – now Ed’s too, she reminded herself. She hadn’t been there, but knew that Joe had bought a swaggy apartment a few years ago just two streets away from the party venue, in a ‘reclaimed’ cotton mill. Thinking about how much he must have paid for the place was enough to give Hannah heart palpitations. Based on Ed’s description of it, she guessed it was worth upward of a million pounds.
Work was so frenetic that Hannah was finding it difficult to keep up with Marc’s ongoing drip-feed of miserable social media posts, all of which hinted at his recent heartbreak. The latest – which Charlie had sent her a link to while she drank her morning coffee – conveyed a suspicion his ‘lost love’ might have cheated, and it had made Hannah’s blood boil. The notion that she’d ever have had the inclination, never mind thetime, to conduct two relationships simultaneously was laughable. It was pure fantasy, dreamed up to raise the stakes of the story Marc had imagined himself the main character of – as well as inflate his follower count.
Inventing this plot twist also gave him good reason to share an ‘unplugged’ performance of one of his band’s biggest hits, ‘In Your Bed’: a dark, jealousy-laden track that featured the frankly reprehensible line ‘he’s in your head, he’s in your bed, I want you back in mine instead’. Hannah somehow restrained herself from commenting.
In truth, she felt more unnerved by his self-pitying charade than she was letting on. She’d gone from feeling utterly untroubled by Marc’s TikTok antics, to knowing that unfollowing him was not an option. She needed to keep an eye on everything he was sharing until he met someone else and the inevitable ‘new love, new life’ posts started appearing. She prayed this would be soon.
Being busy had also stopped her from ruminating too hard on the question of how she’d handle seeing Jude at the engagement party. She’d studiously ignored him during Sunday lunch, excusing herself for her ‘urgent meeting’ with Charlie before he could even consider trying to talk to her. He’d almost looked like he was thinking about it as their party departed the pub, but it had felt fair to blank him pre-emptively; an eye for an eye. The silence between them would have to break sometime, however, and she supposed it would happen tonight.
After saying goodbye to David and Connor, whose wedding ‘breakfast’ was a lunchtime feast of artisan pies, locally sourced meat and Derbyshire cheeses, Hannah made her way to her van. She’d stashed her carefully packed overnight bag in the back this morning, and felt a little quiver of trepidation about the outfit she’d chosen for the party.
Charlie
What u wearing this eve?
Charlie had WhatsApped her this morning, and Hannah had answered:
Hannah
The Red Dress
Charlie
OOF. Not mucking about then
The garment in question – always spoken of with reverence and afforded capital letters via text – was a fit-and-flare mini with a low square neck: a design that nipped in tightly at the waist and revealed far more leg and cleavage than Hannah would ever normally display. It was bright scarlet, made of thick cotton jersey, with demure cap sleeves that served to keep the overall look decent .?.?. but only just. Last January, when Charlie dragged her to the Trafford Centre branch of Selfridges for the post-Christmas sale, Hannah had protested it was far too sexy, and she’d never have the occasion to wear it. However, Charlie’s relentless badgering, plus the seventy per cent discount, had ultimately seen it go home with her. When she’d plucked it from the back of her wardrobe last night, Hannah had felt sure it was the right choice. Both times she’d crossed paths with Jude she’d been in distinctly ‘blah’ clothes: a simple work outfit and an old sundress she’d have reconsidered if she’d had more than five minutes’ notice he’d be joining them for their Sunday roast.
Now, she rather wished she’d put an alternative option in her holdall. The last thing she wanted was to look like she was trying too hard to .?.?. what? Impress him?Attracthim? Cringe to infinity.
Sadly, it was far too late to circle back to her flat and collect something less showy; nor would she be able to borrow something from one of her sisters, or beg them to swap outfits with her. Livi was away with a trio of uni mates this weekend, and Claire had Alfie’s first ever parents’ evening tonight – so neither could make it to the hastily arranged party in Manchester.
Hannah glanced at the clock on the van’s dashboard and groaned. It was already 5.06 p.m., and the party was due to kick off at eight.
She started the engine, put her foot down and prayed the A6 would be kind. She needed as much time as she could get to freshen up .?.?. and calm down.
Crockett & King, like Ed and Joe’s flat, was in Manchester’s Northern Quarter. Formerly something of a post-industrial wasteland, it was now a gentrified oasis for bohemian, creative types. The bar was set across the multiple storeys of an old Victorian department store, and it was as stylish in real life as it looked on social media. The lighting was low and moody, and the decor a strange mix of opulent and utilitarian that somehow worked. As Hannah took it all in, she felt like she should also be taking design notes.
Spider’s webs of bare bulbs were suspended from the ornate, white-painted ceiling on thick, woven wires. These were interspersed with intricate, cut-glass pendant chandeliers. Together, they sent sparkles cascading down the walls, which were painted a grey so rich and deep it might as well have been black. Much of the furniture, as well as key fixtures and fittings, were made of dark matt metal – but here and there were huge, gilt-framed vintage paintings, silvered antique mirrors, swags of crushed-velvet curtain and soft, jewel-coloured cushions. The bathroom smelled expensive when Hannah ducked inside – like the Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir candle she’d bought her mum for Christmas last year. The sinks had shiny gold taps and were made of a blush-pink marble so pretty, she felt the need to photograph it and send Charlie the image.
Charlie
OMG, GORGEOUS
Then, a moment later:
Send me a selfie x
Hannah complied, taking a shot in the freestanding, full-length mirror that leaned against an aubergine-coloured wall.
Charlie
Fit AF
Hannah
