Page 3 of The Day After Christmas
‘She wasn’t even paying attention.’
‘Well, she’s had a lot on her mind.’
As they bickered, Felicity felt a sudden need to go for a walk.
Where the hell are you, Sophie?
CHAPTER 2
The woman herself eventually breezed in at 11am, all fragrant and well-rested. Not a single bag under those perfect green eyes. So would you be, to be fair, if you had the kind of set-up Sophie had. Nanny for the children, cleaner for the house, gardener for the… well, the garden. She even had a personal trainer who came right to her front door and got her out of bed every morning at 6am. Felicity had never even set foot inside a gym.
Felicity loved Sophie, of course. Sophie was the friend who hadn’t cheated on her with her ex-boyfriend for starters and also, Sophie was kind and dependable and you could call her when you were in trouble, and even though she probablywouldcare which exact flowers went in the floral displays for the church, she’d do it in a kind of wafty nice way that didn’t make you want to tear all your hair out by the roots.
This was what was running through Felicity’s head as she sat down to lunch a couple of hours later at the fancy Swallowtail Hotel with Bex’s unbearable mother and auntie and cousins while they went over the right sort of tablecloths for the venue. Sophie was sitting next to Felicity, animatedly suggesting all sorts of intricate crafty additions to the centrepieces, whileFelicity was plotting her escape. This was not how her usual Saturdays off were spent.
‘Let’s see what the maid of honour thinks, shall we?’
At these ominous words, Felicity shook herself from her musing and tried to focus.
Bex’s mother, Petunia, was peering at her from across the table over horn-rimmed oversized glasses that she thought made her look younger, but which really just made her look, well, ridiculous, frankly. Petunia was everything one might imagine a person named Petunia to be – twin set, pearls, short-bobbed and peroxided hair that really no longer suited her and a pinched expression of permanent disapproval.
Felicity smiled weakly. ‘Oh. Sorry, yes, what were you saying?’ She hadn’t touched a single mouthful of the retro melon and mozzarella starter in front of her, couldn’t face it. Sophie gave her a little nudge of solidarity with her arm, then discreetly swapped Felicity’s plate with her own empty one. Felicity gave her a grateful smile.
‘I was just saying about the place settings. Do we go with classic white tablecloths and then bring a splash of colour with the napkins? Or perhaps change it up a little and do it the other way round?’
‘Do you mean, use coloured tablecloths and white napkins?’
‘That’s precisely what I mean.’
A little titter went around the table as if Petunia had said something a little bit naughty. Sophie guffawed loudest of all and Felicity threw her a sideways glance. She was so elegant and willowy and all those things… and yet she had the dirtiest laugh going.
‘Sorry, I’m not sure I quite understand?’
‘No, no, you’re quite right, Felicity, that would be rather reckless. I think we go traditional.’
Bex nodded her agreement and Felicity tried not to roll her eyes. Next up she had to try to care about whether the colour of the napkins matched the plates or the bridesmaids (now in rose, not teal, for the moment at least) but her thoughts were all over the place. One minute she was thinking about her mother, the next she was thinking about bloody Adam again. How was Bex marrying Felicity’s ex-boyfriend, exactly? How had this come about? And why, dear God in heaven, why had she agreed to be a part of it?
I’m too nice. That’s what it is.
Once upon a time, Adam the Ratbag had been Felicity’s teenage love. He was the one whose name she scribbled all over her exercise books. He was the one she sighed over when everyone else was too busy swooning over celebrities. And he was the one who helped her when she had no one else in the world to rely on.
Shame, then, that he was also the one who grew into a big fat cheater. He’d broken Felicity’s heart more times than she cared to remember.
In a weird twist of fate, she almost broke his in real life when she finally told him to get lost and he proceeded to have a genuine albeit mild heart attack right there in front of her. Reminding her not for the first time that it simply wasn’t worth being honest about your feelings to anyone, ever. To cap it all off, somewhere in the midst of finally declaring his undying love to Felicity about three hundred times, he had accidentally or maybe on purpose proposed to her best friend Bex in a moment of – what, desperation? Or cruelty? It was unclear. Either way, it turned out they had been sleeping together on and off for years right under Felicity’s nose.
My life could legit be a sitcom, thought Felicity, as the waiter brought the main course. It was the smallest vegetable lasagneshe had ever seen, presented, for some inexplicable reason, on a shiny metal garden trowel.
‘Oh yes, that’s a nice touch,’ drawled Petunia. ‘Very earthy. Perhaps the caterers would do something like this for us, Bex, darling. What do you think?’
‘I love it. It’s perfect,’ said Bex, but she wasn’t really looking. Her hair was tied in a plait which hung down over her shoulder, making her look like a real-life Barbie doll. She had already gone back to tapping away at her phone, which was ever more permanently glued to her hand since she morphed intoBexzilla, bride from hell.
What do you even need me for?thought Felicity.When she looked down at the trowel again there was only a single solitary mouthful of lasagne left.That went down fast.Perhaps she was hungrier than she thought or maybe it was just rage-eating.What kind of psychopath serves food on a trowel? And why haven’t I just told these people to get the hell out of my life?
Later, Sophie took Felicity home. The April sun was low in the sky and despite the warmth of the afternoon, the air was starting to chill. Sophie turned up the heaters and it blasted full in their faces as they drove.
‘I cannot believe the trowel thing, can you?’ said Sophie, her eyes flashing with humour.
‘Petunia is unbearable.’ Felicity fiddled with the sleeve of her jacket.
