Page 90 of The Fall-Out

Zara hadn’t needed telling. She was already there, pushing to the front of the polite little circle of young women who were gathered round, no one wanting to seem too eager, too desperate.

Abbie reached behind her, the bunch of white roses and trailing ivy gripped in her fist. As she brought her arm forward again, I saw that her eyes were squeezed tight shut.

She hadn’t lied – she couldn’t throw for toffee, bless her. But it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d pitched the flowers like an international cricketer, because Zara was right there. It was impossible to tell whether the bouquet had even left Abbie’s hand before she snatched it in mid-air and held it triumphantly aloft.

There was a little ripple of surprised applause and laughter. Someone towards the back of the group said, ‘Hey, that wasn’t fair,’ and someone else said, ‘Ssssh.’

‘I got it!’ Zara’s voice carried clear as a bell over the background voices. ‘He’s mine!’

‘What’s she on about?’ grumbled the woman who’d complained about fairness.

‘Not that it makes any fucking difference,’ Zara said. ‘No one will ever marry me. Ever.’

She gripped the bouquet in her two hands, lifted it high over her head and pulled. At first nothing happened – the florists had done their job well. But Zara was strong – I could see the definition of the muscles in her arms and back as she pulled, and quickly whatever was holding the stems together gave way in a cascade of petals.

Her initial fury apparently spent, Zara’s arms fell to her sides, the two halves of the ruined bouquet dropping to the floor.

‘Fuck you,’ she said. It wasn’t clear first who she meant, then a second later she added, ‘Fuck you all. Especially you.’

She turned to me with a look so full of venom that I physically recoiled, my hands flying up to protect my face.

And then I put them down again, clenched into fists by my side. I took a tentative step towards her and then another.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked, keeping my voice as calm as I could. ‘Why are you trying to ruin Abbie and Matt’s day? I don’t understand.’

‘Ruin their day?’ Her voice rose, clear in the suddenly silent room. ‘Who cares about their bloody day when my whole life is ruined, thanks to you?’

‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ I said softly, my eyes stinging with tears. I tried again to approach her, but I couldn’t – it was as if the force field of her rage was blocking me. ‘Please, Zara. Don’t do this. We can make it all right again. We can be friends.’

Zara stared at me for a second, then gave a shriek of high, hysterical laughter that turned almost immediately to tears. Her hands over her face, she pushed through the watching guests, now all standing immobile with shock.

‘Oh no,’ Abbie whispered, ‘make it stop.’

Someone helped her down off the chair. Someone else – perhaps the girl who’d complained about not catching the flowers in the first place – picked them up off the floor.

‘I’d better go to Zara,’ Kate whispered to me.

She hurried away, but seconds later I heard Zara’s voice, high-pitched with distress, saying, ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me.’

Trembling, I turned to Abbie. ‘I’m so sorry. Your special day. It’s all my fault.’

I saw her stand a little straighter, squaring her shoulders and determinedly smiling – a physical manifestation of the phrase ‘pull yourself together’. It was as if, in that moment, she faced a choice – to have her day ruined, or not. And she’d chosen the second.

‘Don’t be daft, Nome. It wouldn’t be a wedding without a bit of drama, would it? Come on, Matt, let’s cut that cake.’

I tried to recover my own composure – I really did. But I could feel myself shaking, shock and embarrassment threatening to overwhelm me. Biting my lip, I forced myself to stand and watch while Abbie and Matt, their hands clasped together, sank a knife into the perfect white surface of their wedding cake. Then someone came and took it away to the kitchen to cut it up properly and serve it.

There was something about that moment – the last of the key points that marked the day, the cake someone had laboured over for so long being whisked away and transformed from a centrepiece back into just food, Abbie and Matt standing there together, united in their refusal to allow their happiness to be spoiled – that broke me.

A choking lump in my throat, tears beginning to course down my cheeks, I turned away and fled to the toilet. I couldn’t see Patch anywhere, but that didn’t seem important – I just wanted to be alone with my shame and my sadness.

Because all of this was my fault. If I hadn’t done what I’d done – fallen in love with a man who was taken, pursued the relationship in spite of a friendship that mattered to me, broken the sanctity of the unwritten but inviolable Girl Code – none of this would have happened. Zara would have been here today as Patch’s date. Abbie would have had four bridesmaids instead of three. I would have been the single girl who’d hustled to catch the bouquet, and maybe there’d have been someone else out there for me, someone who I could have a relationship with without breaking another woman’s heart.

I pushed open the door of the ladies’ loos, ignoring the trio of women already in there, gossiping while they freshened up their lipstick, locked myself in a cubicle and sobbed.

I don’t know how long I spent there before I heard a tap on the door and Rowan’s voice saying, ‘Naomi? Babe? Let me in.’

A wad of soggy tissue clutched in my hand, I unlatched the door. Her face full of concern, Rowan put her arm round my shoulder and led me out.

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