Charlotte Butterfield - A Beautiful Day for a Wedding - This year’s Bridget Jones!

The trumpet player downstairs was in full flow when Eve let herself in the front door of Becca’s flat. She had to stop calling it that. It was now her apartment too, and it was an absolute palace compared to the cupboard in New York she’d called home for two years before moving back to London. Living above a live music pub was a godsend when the iPod ran out of charge, but a tad annoying when the band in question was an avant-garde experimental Cuban quartet. Which, thankfully, tonight’s wasn’t. Toe-tapping jazz seemed to be the soundtrack to her evening, which suited Eve just fine.

Becca had already set up camp on their tiny balcony, which overlooked the pub’s beer garden, placing two beanbags next to a wine cooler that had a couple of bottles already chilling in it. Eve smiled, this was the perfect way to spend the evening. Tonight’s workout had been brutal. Juan’s girlfriend had just dumped him, and his hatred of all women seemed to extend to his clients too. Forty burpees was thirty nine too many for Eve, and every inch of her was crying out for a restorative shower, a glass of something with a strong alcohol content and a night with her best friend listening to Sinatra classics.

‘Evening!’ Eve shouted from the hallway through the open door to the living room. ‘Just going to de-sweat myself and be out in a minute. Have you got snacks out there?’

‘I have the Chinese delivery menu, which is sort of the same thing,’ Becca shouted back. ‘And you had some post, it was heavy, a book or something. I put it on your bed.’

Eve knew what it was. She’d recently organised the delivery of sixty-five guidebooks to addresses all over the world ahead of her brother Adam and his boyfriend George’s nuptials on the last weekend in August. The fifth, and final, wedding of the year. It was in the South of France and they wanted all their guests to get as excited as they were, so despite being three months away, stage one of Operation Hype Up The Wedding was the delivery of the guidebooks about the local area. There were three more deliveries planned over the coming months: a bottle of the local wine, passport holders and luggage tags. All of which Eve had dutifully sourced, ordered and, at the moment, paid for on her credit card.

Ten minutes later, wearing her pyjama bottoms with her long wet hair dampening her hooded top from university, Eve settled down onto the spare beanbag and gratefully took the glass of white wine from Becca’s outstretched hand.

‘Now this, this is pretty darn perfect.’

‘I’ll say so.’ Becca agreed, stretching her legs out in front of her to poke them between the railings of the balcony, which must have looked pretty odd to anyone sitting in the garden beneath them. ‘They’ve been practising since I got home from work,’ Becca said. ‘It’s been great, like having a mini concert in our living room. I’m going to miss this.’

Eve knew when she’d moved in that it wasn’t a long-term arrangement as Becca’s wedding to military man Jack was wedding number four of the summer and Jack had been faithfully promised a family house on the base after the wedding. Whenever the thought of Becca moving out popped into her head, Eve batted it away. She and Becca had lived together all the way through university, sharing a tiny semi in one of Brighton’s less salubrious back streets with Tanya, and another friend, Ben. Even though eight years lay between them sharing that semi and this flat, Eve and Becca had slotted straight back into being flatmates.

‘Have you sorted your costume for Rob’s wedding on Saturday?’ Eve asked, trying not to wince at the word costume rather than outfit. She really didn’t understand why some couples insisted on their guests joining in their theme by donning superhero capes or flapper dresses; what was wrong with a nice wrap dress?

‘I’m raiding the school drama department’s store cupboard tomorrow.’

‘If you see something for me, can you pick it up?

Perhaps now, Eve thought, with the chilled wine in hand and the soft jazz rising from the bar below, Becca would be open to talking about the logistics of her own wedding. Considering that she’d been engaged for nearly three years you’d have thought she’d have been further along in the planning process. Eve remembered back to when Becca had broken the news of her engagement, calling her across the Atlantic, as she did most evenings. Their calls were Eve’s favourite part of the day, which she had admitted to no one but Becca, because after all, living in New York was supposed to be fun. If you were to ask any single thirty-year old whether New York was a fun place you’d have to cover your ears with the deafening volume of the resounding yeses, which would be promptly followed by the clink of ice into gin martinis. If you were in media in New York it meant you’d made it. Hit the big time. Written your own success story. You were playing in the major league. Everyone knew that. It was only Becca who knew this wasn’t really the case for Eve.

That night, almost three years ago, Eve had just carried her dinner across the tiny hallway to her windowless bedroom in a dodgy part of Brooklyn, when she had felt her phone vibrating in her back pocket. She had set the hot bowl of microwaved soup down on a pile of coffee table books that doubled up as her dining table, desk and nightstand and answered the nightly call from her best friend.

‘Evening lovely, how’s your day been?’

‘Exhausting, soul-destroying, murderous,’ Eve had replied.

‘Murderous. That’s a new one.’

‘I think that one has staying power. Today, I’ve interviewed a man who lived his life dressed as a baby, a woman whose plastic surgery on her bottom went so wrong it was impossible to sit down, a couple who raised pot-bellied pigs in their house instead of children, and I wrote a feature with the headline “ My boyfriend has a Spiderman mask tattooed on his face .”’ Back in the beginning, when Eve had fought off hundreds of other journalists and got the job as Features Editor for What a Life! in the Big Apple, she was horrified at the people knocking on the magazine’s doors to share their stories for the set fifty-dollar fee. There was no way this type of magazine could ever be sustainable, Eve had thought, surely the weirdness would dry up? There must be a finite number of bizarre people around the world? It turned out there wasn’t. And thanks to the page at the front of the magazine listing all the staff members and their contact details, every single weirdo had Eve’s email address.

‘Ask me how my day’s been,’ Becca had demanded.

‘Becca, how has your day been?’

‘Absobloodylutely fabulous. Jack and I got engaged!’

Eve’s face had burst into a spontaneous smile. ‘That’s amazing news! I’m so happy for you, honestly that’s made my day. My week! Heck, you know what? That’s the best news I’ve heard all year. And it’s the middle of December, so the year is almost up.’

‘Jack was such a sweetheart. We went down to Devon to visit Mum and Dad and he took my dad for a pint and asked him, then he took me for a walk through the woods and proposed to me at exactly 3.33pm, my favourite time.’

Eve mumbled through the spoonful of tinned minestrone she’d just scooped into her mouth: ‘You have a favourite time?’

‘Of course I do! Doesn’t everyone? Anyway, stop talking. I wanted to ask you something important. You’re so amazing at planning stuff, and such an organisational fiend, and you’re my best friend, so will you be my chief bridesmaid and also help me plan the wedding?’

‘Yes and yes! Oh my goodness, this is so exciting! What are you thinking? A city do in a posh hotel, or a manor house in the country, or a… oh Becca, we could do it abroad!’