Page 28 of The Love Hack

All at once, I felt lonely. I’d never wanted a wedding of my own – not since I’d graduated from playing with Barbies and moved on to Nintendo when I was about nine, anyway. I didn’t want a boyfriend, still less a husband. But I couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to have someone choose you, above all the other people in the world, to be with forever. I imagined the glimmer of desire I’d felt for Ross, magnified by thousands so it was like a steady, burning flame. And then I remembered what hurt and heartbreak felt like, and imagined that magnified by thousands too, should it all go wrong.

I went in search of my sister. She didn’t seem to be mingling with the crowd or being congratulated by our uncle and aunt or in the gaggle of her laughing friends. I asked the photographer if he’d seen her, and he said no, but if I found her she was to come out straight away, because they wanted to get the formal shots done before it started to rain. I wondered if she’d gone to the loo, but I’d been under strict instructions to accompany her if she did, to make sure she didn’t wee on her dress.

But I tried the toilets anyway, and I found her there. Actually, they weren’t so much toilets – although of course they fulfilled that mundane function too – but more a kind of posh powder room, with little brocade armchairs, bowls of potpourri and flattering foxed glass on the mirrors. Amelie was perched in one of the armchairs, her phone in her hand.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. It’s just, no one seemed to want to talk to me.’

‘What? What do you mean?’

She giggled. ‘It’s like, I’m the bride and they don’t want to monopolise me. They think I must have more important people to talk to than them. So I was standing on my own for ages and it was really cringe, and I didn’t want to drink any more because I’m already a bit shitfaced. And Mum’s confiscated my vape. So I came in here to sit down for a bit.’

I sat next to her. ‘Do you need a wee?’

She shook her head. ‘I went already. You could check my dress isn’t all pissy, though.’

She stood up and twirled, and I inspected her skirt. ‘You’re all good.’

She moved over to the mirror and did something to her lipstick, then adjusted one of the tendrils of hair, which was sticking to her neck.

‘Do you think Zack’s happy?’ she asked.

‘He looks over the moon to me. Like he’s won the lottery. Absolutely made up.’

She nodded. ‘That’s good.’

‘We should go and find him. He’ll think you’ve done a runner.’

‘I nearly did. Before we walked in, I was so scared I legit almost called it all off. But Dad was gripping on to my arm like I was under arrest, so I couldn’t.’

‘Just as well. Mum would’ve died of shame and Zack would have been heartbroken.’

‘I know. But, you know, I could be in an Uber right now, on my way to Heathrow to go and live on a desert island somewhere.’

I realised she really was a bit drunk. ‘You’d hate living on a desert island. Come on, we should go back. And you should have a glass of water.’

‘I’ll only need to wee again.’

‘I’ll help you next time. We’ll have a code word.’

‘The purple crane flies at daybreak?’ she suggested.

I laughed. ‘Got it.’

Then she reached over and gripped my hand. Her fingers were ice cold and clammy. ‘Lucy, I need to tell you something.’

‘Of course. So long as it’s not that you want me to come and live with you on your desert island, because?—‘

‘No, it’s not that. It’s?—‘

But then the door opened and a gaggle of women – partners of friends of Zack’s, I guessed – entered, and Amelie was showered with kisses and compliments and congratulations, and as soon as she could extricate herself we went back out and found Zack and the photographer, just as the first drops of rain began to fall.

It was late in the evening before I found myself alone with my sister again. The photographs had been taken, the wedding breakfast consumed, the speeches made (‘Zack got GenBot 2.0 to write his, you know,’ Nush whispered to me as the guests laughed politely at his tired jokes), the cake cut, the first dance danced and the bouquet and garter thrown (there was a bit of a scrum for the bouquet, but Bryony won).

Now, it was almost ten thirty. Some of the Zack’s friends were settling in for a good old session, buying bottles of champagne and spirits and testing the bartender’s cocktail-making skills. Amelie’s mates were on the dance floor, their shoes kicked off, throwing shapes and laughing. Mum was deep in conversation with Zack’s parents. Dad, who for some reason I’ve never understood hates weddings, was sipping coffee, his chin dropping lower and lower towards his bow tie. Amelie and Zack were standing together by the open door to the rose garden, holding hands.

The rain had stopped but a fresh breeze was blowing into the room, dispelling the smell of food, flowers and perfume. People were beginning to leave, saying their goodbyes to our parents, Zack’s parents or the bride and groom, whoever was closest. I was wondering whether I could slip away too, or whether I should make a token effort to join the group of dancers for a few minutes first.

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