Page 17 of Always the Bridesmaid

‘Wedding. To Be Weds. Marriage. Engagement. The Engagement,’ Jess reels off.

‘Are these even movie titles?’ I ask, shaking my head and once again receiving Jess’s tipsy giggle.

I point once more to Jake, then Jess, more aggressive in my gestures now.

‘Ooh, Friends with Benefits!’ Sarah shouts.

Wow, she’s good.

‘Is anyone else on the team, here?’ I ask jokingly.

Next, I mime picking up two handfuls of shopping bags and have only just commenced a strut like a woman wearing heels – or as near as I can do – when Sarah lazily wafts a hand through the air and says breezily, ‘Pretty Woman. Next.’

By the end of our minute, we have achieved seven romcoms and by the end of two rounds, we have thwarted the other teams.

I hold up my hands and Sarah gives me a double high five.

‘And to the rest of you,’ I say, looking at our other team members. ‘Thanks for turning up.’

Jess, Millie, Amy and Drew raise their most recent cocktails to that. Everyone is in good spirits.

‘Another round. We’re warming up now,’ Jake announces.

Sarah rises from the sofa unsteadily and places her near-untouched cocktail on a side table. ‘I’m just stepping out for some air,’ she says.

But whilst the others continue their banter, I watch Sarah make her way to the staircase rather than the garden.

I set down my own cocktail and follow her. By the time I reach our bedroom, Sarah is already throwing up her foam and basil gel drops into our ensuite loo. For a woman who oozes femininity and, I will admit, pheromones, she throws up like an animal. I’ve only heard Gelada monkeys make more noise than this.

‘Go away,’ she groans on seeing me. ‘Don’t even look at me.’

‘We’ve all been here. I lived with Jake for a while, remember.’

She groans again. ‘Please don’t compare me to Jake. He’s a man-child.’

I notice a hairband on top of Sarah’s beauty bag on the side of our fancy his ‘n’ hers sinks. I reach for it and as Sarah fumbles around, head down, arm extended above her, searching for the flush, I gently draw her hair back and tie it up.

‘Why isn’t it ever woman-child? We never say that, do we? If a man acts out, he’s a man-child. When a woman acts out—’

‘People call her difficult, or worse,’ Sarah croaks, slightly more comprehensible now.

I bring myself down to sit on the floor, trying not to inhale through my nose as I let my legs flop out in front of me, my back against the mosaic tiled wall.

‘Oh God, don’t sit next to me. Leave me to die here alone.’

‘Imagine the headlines,’ I say, drawing an imaginary scrawl in the air with my hand. ‘Matron of Honor dies in pool of espresso-martini vomit. One guest said he would never be able to drink coffee again.’

Sarah looks up, mascara smudged around her eyes, a speck of brown vomit on her cheek. For the briefest of moments, she meets my gaze and laughs. Then her mouth closes and turns down like an exaggerated animation making a sad face. Her chin wobbles, then she is crying into the loo.

Ah Christ. Crying women are not my forte.

Then she throws up again, heaving into the ceramic pot, and all I can think is – I took a dump in there just hours ago.

Wincing, I rub her back. ‘Get it all up; you’ll feel better for it tomorrow.’

She weeps harder.

‘Don’t cry over spilled ceviche,’ I say. Anything I can think of to try to bring that smile back.

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