Crazygirl Falls in Love (23 page)

I continue to hiccup as the ceremony
unfolds. It’s your usual twenty-five minute shebang, nothing out of
the ordinary. I almost do a great big
HIC
during one of the readings (that
‘love is patient love is kind’ one that features in every single
freekin’ wedding I’ve ever been to) but I hold it in, albeit
painfully. Scotch seemed liked such a good idea at the time. No
regrets.

As the priest starts wrapping a ribbon on this puppy I find my
hiccups are becoming ever more difficult to control.

“I Sarah Daye…”

Hic.
My thirtieth
hiccup, held in successfully.

“…
take you Neville McPhillips…”

“HIC!”

Shit. The hiccup echoes off the stone walls. The couple with
the baby sitting in front of us turn with looks of quiet amusement.
The whole church has heard it and I’m so embarrassed I want to die.
I cover my mouth and look down at my lap, blushing crimson. I can
feel Blue’s eyes on me. Angrypants pauses for the briefest of
moments before continuing. Maybe she didn’t hear? We are sitting in
one of the back aisles, after all.

The ceremony finishes with no more
rogue
hics
.
Angrypants and the new Mr Angrypants walk down the aisle to the
cheers of the crowd, hand in hand. I can’t help wondering, are they
actually happy? Angrypants is smiling but it’s a thin, suspicious
smile. Neville looks merrier but isn’t exactly a beaming mama
bridegroom. Surely the one time you should be at your most joyful
is now, after reciting such beautiful promises to each other? And
technically they’ve checked out of the horrors of single life
forever. Unless they get divorced I suppose…

As the masses start emptying the pews to follow the newlyweds
outside, I look around and notice that I know no one here.
Angrypants hasn’t invited anyone else from work, not even her
devoted PA. There are about a hundred and fifty guests, almost all
couples with young kids. When did all these people decide to get
married and have babies? And why? Young lassies walk past me decked
out in pearls and floral prints, premature transformations into
their mothers. Am I the only almost-thirty year old who isn’t even
remotely ready for that life yet?

Blue and I mill around the front of the church for a few
minutes. It’s always a little awkward, isn’t it, that bit after the
ceremony where people don’t quite know what to do with themselves?
The bride looks confused, the groom looks confused, they end up on
the top step outside the church waiting for instructions. More
often than not a queue of people form to offer their
congratulations, and this wedding is no exception. Angrypants and
Neville’s families approach first then their closest friends
follow. Blue and I diligently take our place in the queue of
well-wishers.

We watch the big guy in front of us pull Neville into a bear
hug, then try to give Angrypants a kiss on the cheek. She pulls
back ever so slightly,

“Sorry Nico, your face is sweating and you’ll smudge my make
up.”

The big guy laughs jovially, ignoring her sneer,

“Sarah, you are as lovely as a rose!”

His accent reminds me of a Polish one, but softer, as if a
Russian accent married a French accent then had a
Norwegian-accented baby.

“No thanks to being kept up all night by you and Neville
playing X-Box.”

Nico laughs again and slaps her on the back before moving on.
I like this guy!

It’s our turn next. I continue to hiccup quietly as I wish
Neville all the best (I’ve only met him a handful of times but he
seems a nice enough guy) and introduce him to Blue. Then I turn to
Angrypants,

“Congratulations Sarah, I’m so happy for you
and you look
‘hic’
gorgeous.”

“That was you who had the hiccups?”

She says it with a smile so disarming it unbalances me.
Literally. I sway into her and clutch her arm.

“Yeah… I’m sorry about that. Come ‘ere, you old married
gal.”

I try to give her a hug but she jerks back sharply,

“Jonesy, is that whiskey on your breath?”

“Scotch.”

Blue sniggers. Sarah looks up with a look so cold it would
freeze hell over. Blue’s smile vanishes. He suddenly looks like a
frightened kid about to enter kindergarten for the first time.
Sarah stares him down for a few moments, then turns back to
me,

“Why won’t you take off your sunglasses?”

“My… ugh, doorman gave me conjunctivitis.”

“What’s your doorman’s name?”

“It’s Sergeant… Timothy… Suicide. Wait a minute, I don’t know.
I don’t have a doorman… My doorman’s name is Bill.”

Shut up shut up shut up! Or just tell the truth, you know you
don’t lie well.

“Okay fine, I have a black eye. It’s a long story involving
Latin American orphans. Oh and this is my friend Blue, he’s
standing in for Chloe and the Spanish guy who both stood me up
today. But hey, first world problems right?”

Angrypants gives me those strange eyes, like she’s still
deciding whether she hates me or likes me. It’s been five years
already, come on and pick a side!

“His name is Blue?”

“Yep, surname Eyes. When we have a kid I’m going to call him
Magenta. He’ll be the good version of Magneto.”

She realises I’m juiced and talking shit, sighs exasperatedly
and motions for us to keep moving. The queue of friends has grown
large behind us. Blue and I start off, and as soon as Angrypants is
out of earshot he says,

“Holy shit.
That
was your boss? She’s scarier
than a tornado full of razor blades, and that’s no
exaggeration.”

I nod as we walk out the gate of the church, in the direction
of the beach.

“Yep, and that’s her in a good mood. I’m so sorry I dragged
you to this.”

“No it’s great, love a dose of female terrorism. Makes me glad
I don’t ovulate.”

I slap his shoulder and laugh despite myself. I shouldn’t,
because clearly he’s a raging chauvinist, but somehow it feels good
to let go. Plus I’m drunk and everything is really funny at the
moment. As we walk along I pick a daisy and place it behind my ear.
We eventually arrive at the pier and Blue starts kicking stones.
We’re silent for a few seconds.

“So the reception doesn’t start til six. Where do you fancy
killing a few hours?” I ask.

“How about lining that little stomach of yours with some
grub?”

I’m liking his style again.

“Definitely! I saw a nice looking pub restaurant place on the
way, want to check it out?”

I notice with relief that my hiccups have gone. As we turn
back to town Blue motions with his arm towards me. His elbow is
jutting out the tiniest bit, an invitation to link arms. I could
probably use the support, my heels keep snagging in the path-gaps.
I take his arm and we begin the walk back. He’s a full head taller
than me even in my heels. The day is glorious, sunny and bright,
with a beach crowded with sunbathers.

Thoughts of the Stranger are far, far, far away.

Soon we’re at the pub but it turns out we’re not the only
wedding guests with the idea. The place is swarming with people
from the church. It’s mostly those premature married couples with
their screaming toddlers. A little girl is insisting on wearing
what look like 3D glasses, which I think is fair enough, but her
Dad doesn’t want her to wear them while she eats so she’s having a
strop. One kid is getting smacked because he tried to shove is fist
down his baby sister’s mouth. A toddler who looks like he’s styled
his hair on Phil Collins’ (tiny clump on top of a shiny white
melon) is sitting in his high chair and it appears he’s putting
spaghetti up his bum.

“Let’s hide at the bar,” I suggest, moving towards the
counter.

“Indeed. Wouldn’t want you frightening people with that gaping
black eye hole.”

I had lifted my sunnies onto my head as we entered the pub. It
was the first time they’d left my face since Sainsbury’s. I swivel
around, furious,

“And here I was about to get the first round, but you know
what, forget it!”

I plonk down heavily on the bar stool and sulkily place my
sunglasses back over my eyes. Blue takes the seat next to
me,

“Come on I was only joking. What do you want me to say, that
you still look incredible regardless of your eye? That whenever I
look at you a Billie Joel song runs through my head?”

“Well, yeah.”

“That you have the most perfect body I’ve ever seen and
sometimes I run behind you in Hyde Park to give me motivation to
keep going?”

“Now you’re bordering on creepy.”

“That you’re the one thing in my miserable, lonely existence
that I have to look forward to? That you’re a beacon of light in a
grey and merciless world?”

I raise my good eyebrow and tell him to
stop. He’s ruining a perfectly nice moment. I focus on getting the
bar guy’s attention but can’t help noticing Blue has sat himself
really close. I’m not sure if he’s doing it on purpose or because
the bar is so full.
Why does it feel nice
to have him sitting beside me?
The sudden
surge of comfort I get from his body warmth propels me to do
something I would never normally do. I take out my phone as the
drinks arrive. I check and as expected, no word from the Stranger,
just a concerned text from Mags. I start typing to the Prick Who
Stood Me Up,

Hi. I’m ever so grateful for all you’ve done for me in the
past, but I only see us as friends. Now that that’s over, you
should know that I think Disney’s Robin Hood has more charisma in
his sexy little snout than you could ever hope to achieve. Good
bye.

Bitchy, yes. Passive aggressive, definitely. But I feel like I
need to cut all ties and somehow get some Hand back. Plus, it felt
good confessing my weird childhood crush on an anthropomorphic
rodent.

The next four hours with Blue are an improvement on the
emotionally charged scotch-fueled breakfast of the morning. True,
he does keep ribbing into my ego, but good-naturedly. It’s taken me
a while to figure out that he’s doing it out of a sense of fun
rather than maliciousness. Then again, maybe our newfound
friendship is all down to the jugs of Pims we’re
imbibing.

An hour before we’re due at the reception Blue starts
insisting we order some food. I steadfastly refuse. What’s the
point when all that yummy reception nourishment is waiting for us?
Plus, my belly is full of liquid and protesting at the thought of
having more stuff shoved into it. Sometimes I feel sorry for my
stomach, and other organs. I’ve got myself down as an organ donor
and should the unforeseeable happen, I truly feel for the person
who ends up with my liver.

The wedding guests start rolling out of the pub. The little
girl with the 3D glasses has managed to get them back on and
saunters past, proud as a peacock. I give her a smile and she
responds with two thumbs up (I guess she likes that I’m wearing my
sunnies inside too). What a little cutie.

“You like kids?” Blue asks, noticing mine and 3D girls’
dark-lensed connection.

“I choose not to answer on the grounds that it might
incriminate me.”

Do
I like kids? I
liked that little girl, she seemed cool. The Phil Collins
look-a-like with the spaghetti fetish? Not so
much.

We stand unsteadily. We make our way outside and hail a cab.
Destination? Hotel Mercure. When we arrive concierge directs us to
the Ball Room. Wandering round the front of the gorgeous stone
facade we spot the wedding party on the back beach posing for
photos. It’s become rather windy and I see that pretty lace veil of
Sarah’s flying around all over the place. Should make for some
dramatic pics. We wander into the front room where the guests are
milling about, eating canapés and drinking from flutes.

“What do you consider proper etiquette around canapés?” I ask
Blue, waving over a waiter with a tray.

“What do you mean, my little Peanut?”

(He switched from calling me Young Peanut to ‘my little’ a few
hours ago).

I don’t really want to tell him my history of canapé
‘incidents’. I adore food, so when a scrumptious tray laden with
decorative gastronomic treats passes under my nose, it takes a
Herculean effort to restrain myself. Don’t tell me you haven’t been
there. We’ve all been there. You’re dressed up to the nines in your
evening gown and heels, and suddenly the hors d’oeuvres appear. All
that sophistication dissolves into a furious hunger and you turn
into a snarling bear ripping at a picnic basket, but it’s not a
picnic basket, it’s a terrified waiter and you’ve just thrown
yourself at his tray. He leaves with a ripped shirt, tousled hair
and an empty tray with bite marks on it.

Am I the only one this has happened to? Right. Okay. Moving on
then…

“Well, you’re a waiter, aren’t you?” I ask.