Page 27 of The Love Hack

‘It’s my pleasure,’ I managed to say.

‘Put in a word for me, won’t you? Next time you see him?’

‘I’ll try.’ Given I could barely offer the man a coffee without having a near-death experience, it wasn’t looking good.

‘Thank you.’ She went all serious again. ‘Bloody weddings. They just make you realise how shit it is being single, don’t they?’

Before I could respond, she stood up and swished out, clutching her half-drunk bottle of champagne.

ELEVEN

‘It’s T minus seven,’ Amelie said. ‘We need to leave in, like, ninety seconds.’

She was standing in the centre of the bridal suite. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, a few artful tendrils arranged around her face and shoulders. Her slender arms were encased in lace so perfectly fitting it looked like it had been painted on by a henna artist working in white. Her skin was glowing with make-up and, I suppose, happiness. The full satin skirt of her dress fell in sculpted folds from her small waist all the way to the tips of her pearl-embroidered shoes.

She looked like an angel and sounded like a sergeant-major. I was overwhelmed with love for her.

‘Hold on,’ Nush said. ‘Let me blot your lipstick one more time.’

‘Lucy, are you sure you remember which way to give your sister the bouquet?’ Mum fretted. ‘We don’t want the back of it showing.’

‘Do you need another squirt of deodorant?’ asked Miranda. ‘You were sweating like a horse earlier. Sorry, but you were.’

‘I feel more like a dog being gussied up for Crufts,’ grumbled Amelie. ‘Come on, people. We need to make a move. Now.’

‘Let me check your bag one more time,’ urged Bryony. ‘Tissues. Lipstick. Perfume miniature. Tampons.’

‘Vape?’ asked Amelie.

‘You can’t vape on your wedding day!’ Mum protested.

‘She can do whatever she likes,’ I said. ‘Including being late. Remember? That’s what you’ve been saying for the past week. It’s a bride’s privilege to be late on her wedding day.’

‘At the rate you lot are going, Zack will have got fed up, gone back on the apps and found someone else to marry before I get to the damn altar.’ Amelie did a final pirouette in front of the cheval mirror, her veil drifting behind her. ‘If you lot don’t get cracking, I’m going to go down on my own.’

She strode to the door and flung it open, and we all followed: Nush, Miranda, Bryony and I in our rose-gold satin shifts (Mum was right, they did look a bit beige), and Mum behind us in olive satin with a massive hat that only just fitted into the lift. The air was heavy with the smell of air freshener, our clashing perfumes, and the roses in our bouquets. My shoes were pinching my feet and I felt sick with nerves.

Dad was waiting for us outside the function room. When he saw us he took the hankie out of his breast pocket, blew his nose, then tucked it back again, making sure the folds were in the same place.

‘Good girls,’ he said. ‘You look very nice.’

Mum reached out and brushed Amelie’s cheek with her finger, like she was a priceless china doll about to be displayed on Antiques Roadshow. ‘Good luck, sweetie. You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.’

Amelie hugged her, leaving a lipstick smear on Mum’s cheek that would be joined by dozens of others and show later in all the photos. ‘Love you, Mum. See you on the other side.’

She took Dad’s arm, we all lined up behind her, the Arctic Monkeys’ I Wanna Be Yours began to play and we entered the function room, moving sedately through the banks of flowers towards Zack, waiting patiently next to his best man at the end.

I can’t remember much about the wedding ceremony. I suppose they’re all much the same, aren’t they, while also being unique. Each time, two people say words that have been chosen for them, whether by the church or the state or a Google search. Each time, someone they love nervously does the reading they’ve chosen. Each time, the couple make promises to each other that they profoundly believe in the moment, and some of them will keep and some of them won’t.

It was a beautiful wedding, everyone said afterwards. But all weddings are beautiful, aren’t they?

After I’d got my reading over, I found my concentration drifting. My eyes wandered to the rose garden outside the window, the lilac feathers on Zack’s mother’s hat, the beads of perspiration on the back of Nush’s neck. I breathed in the smells of flowers, the foundation the make-up artist had caked on my face, and the promise of the wedding breakfast drifting from somewhere else in the hotel. I listened to the celebrant’s cheerful but serious voice, the strains of Bach played by the string quartet while Zack and Amelie signed the register, the faint hum of traffic when the door to the street outside was opened, which vanished as soon as it was closed again.

And then it was over. My sister and Zack were married. They turned to face us, alight with smiles, and walked back the way they’d come, almost running this time, Zack holding Amelie’s hand and her bouquet aloft. Everyone crowded out into the rose garden. Petals and rice were thrown. The string quartet set up and started playing again, waiters circulated with trays of champagne flutes and canapés and the photographer and videographer moved through the crowd, occasionally issuing instructions but mostly aiming for the informal reportage shots my sister had ordered.

Everyone chatted and laughed and ate and drank. Zack strode around glad-handing the guests, looking like he’d been made king of the world. Amelie’s friends and their boyfriends stood in a huddle, making sure they were closest to the door the booze and food were coming out of. Someone snuck behind an oak tree and lit a fag – I could smell the acrid smoke drifting above the scent of rose petals.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. My duties were over, for the time being. At some point that evening, I’d need to slip a lace garter onto my sister’s thigh for her to remove and throw to the assembled single men, but that was hours away. I checked my bag – the garter was safely there. I checked my phone – I had no new messages.

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