Page 40 of The Worst Guy Ever
‘You’.
“To the love of today, and the love of tomorrow,” the voices around me roar, raising their glasses to the sky. I fumble the words, sip my drink and take a deep breath. Knowing how nervous I am, Megan squeezes my hand and I stand, desperately wondering how on earth I’m going to follow whatever he just said.
It’s stifling up here on stage. With the lights pointed towards me, I can’t see anyone in the crowd, and I’d rather be anywhere else right now.
“Hi everyone, I’m Hattie, and I’m an even worse candidate to give a speech at a wedding because I’ve never been in love and personally can’t think of anything worse.” An awkward laugh rumbles out of me, but I’m met with silence.
“Um, but that doesn’t matter, because today isn’t about me.”Come on, Hattie, fake it ’til you make it, babe. Big smile.“It’s about these two amazing people, who have so much love for each other that it spills over and passes on to everyone they meet.”
Nice save.
“I’m not great with words. Um, Kara…” I shield my eyes with my hand so I can see her, sitting in Luke’s lap, her head resting on his shoulder. “I’d be doing a much better job if you wanted a wedding creative brief or a PowerPoint presentation.”
Finally, a little laughter spreads across the room. “So, instead of trying to write something, I found some words that say everything I want to, but a million times better. And I want to read them for you today.”
There’s no reason for me to feel this nervous. I’ve stood up in front of rooms full of strangers more times than I can count. Presented client pitches with millions of pounds on the line. Here, surrounded by people who I know and love, this should be the safest room in the world, but I’m terrified. I cough to clear my throat, take a deep breath, and force myself to stand a little straighter.
I pick a spot near the back of the room and train my eyes on it. It’s a terrible way to address a crowd. I’m supposed to look guests in the eye, take my time to glance around the audience, keep my body language open, and use hand gestures for impact. Instead, I freeze and look at nobody, as if somehow it will mean nobody looks at me.
“So, er, this is a poem called Married Love by Guan Daosheng, who was a Chinese painter born in 1262. At the time she was alive, it was not uncommon for men to take more than one wife, the bloody bastards,” I wince. “Anyway, as the story goes, once her husband read this poem, he decided not to take a second wife and remained faithful to her. I’ve adapted it slightly, but since she wrote it 800 years ago, I hope Guan wouldn’t mind.”
Deep breath, Hattie.
“OK, here goes.
You and I
Have so much love,
That it
Burns like a fire,
In which we bake a lump of clay
Molded into a figure of you
And a figure of me.
Then we take both of them,
And break them into pieces,
And mix the pieces with water,
And mold again a figure of you,
And a figure of me.
You are in my clay.
I am in your clay.”
If possible, the room is even quieter than before. I can hear my blood whooshing in my ears, my heartbeat threatening to explode from the cavity of my chest. Keeping my eyes on that spot in the crowd, I will myself to disappear. I need to get off this stage and out of this room.
“Um, to Kara and Luke,” I manage to squeak out, raising my glass in the air.
“To Kara and Luke!” the guests repeat back, and it hits me like a wave. Thunderous applause, cheers and whistles, the sound of chairs scraping the floor as everyone gets to their feet. I feel unsteady on my feet as adrenaline rushes through me.
