Page 14 of Seven Rules for a Perfect Marriage

Even in profile I can see that Jack looks surprised. ‘I thought you were looking forward to it? Gemma’s dad is loaded, it’ll be an open bar all night.’

He makes a fair point.

‘Yeah,’ I say, not sure how to carry on.

‘But you’re not excited?’

I shake my head, looking at the road ahead of us. Jack takes a slip road, sweeping us off the busy road and on to a lane surrounded by enormous fields. ‘I just feel a bit ... lumpy.’

He tries not to laugh. ‘Lumpy?’

‘Like I keep going to these weddings in a dress I’ve bought from Primark, and then I sit next to all these high-flying genius people earning mega salaries, and when they ask me about my job, I’m like, yes, I make spreadsheets in a Portakabin on an industrial estate, it’s amazing, how about you? And we see all these people I haven’t seen since last year’s weddings and I’ve got no progress to brag about. We haven’t bought a house, we’re not trying for a baby, I haven’t been promoted—’

‘What about the online thing?’ Jack interrupts me. ‘That’s amazing, you can brag about that.’

‘It’s not the same though, is it? Last time I sat next to Jaz and he told me that they’re buying a ski chalet. As in, they have a house, and they’re going to buy another one.’

Jack laughs. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t even like skiing. And I think having two houses is wasteful.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘And you’d always end up having things you needed for one house at the other one.’

He nods, accelerating. ‘And it’s bad for locals, and destroys communities.’

‘And all that flying is bad for the environment,’ I add, enjoying this now. ‘And it’s tacky.’

‘Exactly,’ Jack agrees enthusiastically. ‘So even when we win the EuroMillions, we’re only having one house.’

‘Yes. We should actually start playing the EuroMillions.’

We arrive at the wedding and park by the church, and I enjoy being carried through the day, hugging people we only ever see on the wedding circuit. I’m still very aware of my £16.99 dress next to everyone else wearing real silk, but it’s a nice do. Jack is absolutely right that Gemma’s mega rich dad has thrown the chequebook at it and there’s non-stop champagne for hours and hours. We get gently pissed while other people get yanked in for various different combinations of photos. It goes on so long that I’m kind of expecting him to ask for everyone with a winter birthday to join for a line-up, or everyone who did History GCSE.

Eventually we make it from the drinks reception to the dinner, filing into an enormous room filled with flowers and candles. Jack steers me to our table, where we’ve been placed with Tom and Grace and various other uni friends. We all fuss around pulling out the fake bamboo chairs and trying to find space for our clutch bags around the glasses, flowers, name cards and wedding favours we’ll inevitably forget to take with us and then feel guilty about.

‘Hello!’ Patrick says, sitting next to me. He was on Jack’s corridor in the first year, so I only got to know him after uni. He’s a tall skinny guy with a wide smile and a slightly patchy beard. ‘How’ve you been?’

I ask him about life and he explains that his wife isn’t there because she’s literally about to give birth and watching other people getting pissed while she’s sober is her idea of a nightmare. I sympathise. He says they’ve just moved out of London to a village near Bedford and that they’re doing up a house. He sold his first business so now he’s ‘taking a beat’ to work out what he wants to do next, but it’ll probably be consultancy.

‘How about you?’ he asks. ‘I’ve been going on and on about us. What’s new with you and Jack?’

‘Nothing, really,’ I say, my chest flushing. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed about this. There’s nothing new with us because we really like how things are. We’re living together, married, he loves his job, mine mostly doesn’t make me want to jump off a roof, and the evenings and weekends with each other are blissful. We haven’t changed anything because right now we don’t want to.

‘Oh come on, it’s been a year, you must have done something.’

Jack looks up from the other side of the table. He stops talking to Pippa, who I usually avoid because she insists on calling me Jessie and touching my hair.

‘Tell him about the social media thing,’ he says.

‘Social media thing,’ I laugh. ‘You sound like such an old man.’

‘Tell him!’ Jack repeats, almost stern. He’s not going to let this drop.

‘I started posting about relationships,’ I say, ‘and it’s picked up some traction.’

Everyone’s listening now, and Jack takes full advantage of that. ‘How much traction, Jess?’

I look down at my half-finished plate of pâté. ‘A few hundred thousand followers.’

‘What?!’ Grace almost drops her wine glass. ‘I’m sorry, how do I not know this?’

---