Erin Lawless - The One with the Wedding Dress

‘Kiss you?’ Bea had echoed, with a bark of a laugh. ‘He looked more like he wanted to eat you.’

Cleo had felt a little lust shiver down her back, but fought it to silence. ‘He’s really drunk.’

‘No kidding. Look,’ Bea had said, suddenly, in a way that was characteri‌stically frank, with eyes that were uncharacte‌ristically soft. ‘I know a bit about sleeping with people you shouldn’t have, and having to see them afterwards and how when they just get on with their lives it makes you feel like complete crap.’ Cleo had nodded slowly, remembering the stories about Bea’s awkward affairs with colleagues in the past. ‘And it sucks. So, be sure, okay?’ Cleo had just nodded again and Bea had walked away. (Thinking back, that was probably the nicest moment Cleo had ever had with Bea after over a decade of supposed friendship…)

By the time she returned to find Gray (two sickly-sweet shots of Archers with Daisy and Darren later, for courage), he’d been found and adopted by Harry’s brother Archie and the two were locked in an animated conversation about something to do with cars. Cleo had more or less left them to it for what little remained of the evening. Gray had wished her goodbye with a kiss to her cheek so soft she wasn’t even sure if there’d been physical contact there at all. Come Monday morning, he’d been waiting expectantly at the coffee machine as usual – waving his stained mug about as he complained about a bratty child in his first class of the week – and, in that stark moment, the thought that Gray had ever been angling for a shag seemed faintly ridiculous, so Cleo had decided to let it lie (whatever ‘it’ was).

Another month, another party. The birthday girl sighed, and checked the clock again before taking a healthy gulp from her drink: a strong, dark rum with tropical juice; Cleo was off the Disaronno for the moment.

Bea wriggled herself into the small gap between her best friend and the end of the sofa, swinging her body so that her feet were underneath her bum and her knees across Nora’s lap. The – already irritating – angel wings hung neatly over the arm to the floor providing her with, she hoped, a modicum of grace. On Nora’s other side sat Harry, scratching unthinkingly under his bright green wig, knocking it askew; said wig, plus the black shirt and clerical collar combination, served to make him Parsons Green. Trust Cleo to choose a theme as obnoxious as ‘Tube Station fancy dress’, Bea thought, knocking back more of her G&T. The angel-wings grated softly against the carpet, as if chastising her for her bad mood, and she felt herself smile.

Nora abandoned her conversation to turn to her old friend, resting the point of her elbows on Bea’s thighs. ‘Ah, Mel!’ she moaned theatrically, although her eyes were amused. ‘I’m going to regret this.’

‘Regret what?’

‘This, this!’ Nora waved her drink around precariously. ‘I was super good the rest of the week because I knew it would all go to pot tonight, but still. Just this ONE drink is two point five syns!’

‘Is there even such a thing as half a sin?’ Bea mused.

‘I’m not going to get a sticker at the next weigh in,’ Nora continued, drinking away nonetheless.

‘Didn’t we used to take the piss out of women who said things like that?’

‘Yes. But those women were thirty and probably desperate to fit into a size ten wedding dress in a few months’ time. And we were, like, twenty two, and bitches.’

‘Ah. True. Rein it in though, Mel,’ Bea advised, gently. ‘You don’t want to lose your boobs.’

‘That would make the dress hang weirdly,’ Nora agreed with a smile. ‘And, not to mention, give poor Harry a bit of a honeymoon shock.’

‘You’re doing great though,’ Claire interjected from where she’d been perched leaning against the back of the sofa. ‘Your face is looking SO much thinner lately.’

‘Thank you!’ Nora beamed, apparently unbothered at the suggestion her face had been somewhat flabby prior to her starting her pre-wedding diet. ‘I think it’s because I’ve swapped all carbs for quinoa.’

‘Oh, really?’ Claire brightened. ‘I tried the bulgur wheat diet once, but I actually ended up more bloated than I was before I started! And, god, you wouldn’t believe the–’

‘I’m going to get another drink,’ Bea announced hurriedly, levering herself from the sofa, before the conversation turned any more digestive.

The birthday party was in full swing and it was becoming much harder to navigate around the compact living space, for all that Cleo was in to modern, Scandinavian minimalist design (aka, the Ikea catalogue). Bea body-swerved two strangers talking to a long-haired guy she was reasonably sure Nora (or maybe Cleo?) had dated whilst at university and slipped into the kitchen.

‘Yeah, she was at the engagement party,’ Cleo was saying, over by the sink. Her hot colleague Gray had arrived. Apparently he hadn’t quite grasped the concept of a Tube station fancy dress theme – inexplicably, he was dressed as Elvis. He was listening attentively to Cleo as she babbled on, although Bea couldn’t quite read his expression thanks to the false sideburns and oversized aviator sunglasses. She took one look at Cleo’s flushed face and decided to change direction, picking her way through the crowd to where Sarah and Cole were in conversation by the front door.

Bea realised too late she was walking in on something private. Cole’s arms were rigid, like a cage around Sarah as he leaned against the wall behind her. His square jaw was even squarer than usual, her eyes more moist.

‘You know what they say,’ she was hissing. ‘Drink until it’s pink.’ As if to illustrate her point, she took a hearty swallow from her something-and-coke. ‘Besides, why should I be the one to make all the sacrifices? You’re telling me I can’t even have a bloody drink while you’re refusing to basically just have a wank. Yeah, that’s fair.’ Sarah took another too-deep drink.

‘I’m just saying that it wouldn’t hurt to look after yourself a little more,’ Cole snapped back, eyeing his wife’s almost-empty glass like he was minded to snatch it from her. ‘A bottle of wine can’t be good for your, you know, eggs. And things like the amount of salt you eat. And all that butter you put on your roast potatoes on Sunday? Things like that.’

Sarah physically drew herself back, and for a split second Bea was certain Cole was about to get decked. But, in her sudden movement, Sarah had spotted Bea in the shadows of the corridor. All at once she deflated; Cole turned to see himself what had stopped his wife’s rage in its tracks.

‘Bea, hey,’ he managed, after a moment, producing a reasonable impression of normality. ‘What’s up?’

‘Er, nothing.’ Bea groped after the same level of ordinariness. Sarah was finding the array of coats on hooks near the front door extremely fascinating, but her tell-tale fingers trembled against her glass. ‘I was just seeing if anyone needed a top up?’ Bea announced, thankful for the bolt of inspiration.

‘Me,’ Sarah announced, extricating herself from her husband without a second look. She linked arms with Bea and marched them both into the kitchen. Stopping at a just-opened bottle of red, she proceeded to neck what remained of her spirit and mixer and fill up her half-pint tumbler with the dark wine.

***

‘Cleo will wring your neck if you spill that,’ Barlow said gently, taking the over-full glass from Sarah’s still shaky hands. ‘Here, let’s pour a bit out into a glass for me,’ he advised, walking her over towards the sink to do just that.

Cleo had half-turned at the sound of her name, hopeful for distraction; she was tits-deep in a conversation she had not anticipated (the fact that it was entirely of her own making notwithstanding).