Page 45 of Always the Bridesmaid

True to our gender’s stereotype, and despite the fact we will probably all need to detox at the end of this week, the groomsmen and ushers have managed to have bottles of beer in our hands for the duration of the photographs.

Whilst I am usually exhausted by this level of forced extroversion, today I am in great spirits and genuinely enjoying conversations and banter. Jake and Jess are like family to me, therefore, by association, I like their guests.

I sometimes wonder if Jake and Jess will one day move to the States and how their long-distance relationship with me would work but I know we’d survive. Even if I have to be a really annoying third wheel in their relationship, hounding them on FaceTime and making surprise visits.

I can tell Jess is growing weary of the limelight and being forced to smile in the direction of the photographer’s twinkling finger gestures and it isn’t long before I see her whisper into Jake's ear. About a second after that, time is called on the photographs. Jake and Jess are a team. They work together like Woody and Buzz Lightyear, Hans Solo and Chewy, Thelma and Louise.

I am also thrilled the pictures are done because I’ve seen the waiters with canapés circulating among the mass of guests and I want in on those blinis. I haven’t grown up eating caviar like some people here, therefore the novelty of the salty black balls hasn’t worn off for me in adulthood.

Once I’m given the green light, I make a beeline for the waiter carrying aloft a tray of blinis. Then I make a beeline for a waiter carrying a tray of goat’s cheese and caramelized red onion tartlets. Shoving those into my mouth, I head directly for the waiter offering bruschetta. Now, I am not a lover of the old tomato but the bruschetta is the largest of the canapé offerings and I am bloody ravenous.

I haven’t attended many weddings in my life but I always find that this is the longest and hungriest part of the day, the wait between the ceremony and the lunch, which, for some reason, they call a breakfast, despite it usually taking place in the early afternoon.

I’m doing the food rounds and pondering whether to steal some accessories from other guests in order to disguise my identity and take more than my allotted share of mini bites. As I do so, I notice that Sarah has been absent from the group for longer than it takes to make a trip to the loo, even whilst wearing a fancy dress and heels, which I’m sure adds time to the whole process.

I thought about her a lot yesterday, whilst playing golf with the guys. I haven’t ever lost a spouse or even a girlfriend. I’ve never really been close enough to anyone to describe them as a significant other, let alone to lose them. My birth mother died so long ago that I barely remember her features; I have flashbacks, or early memories, but I can’t say that’s equivalent to losing someone I have chosen to love and spend my life with.

My thoughts from yesterday come back to me now as I wait outside of the loos for what feels like far too long without seeing any sign of Sarah but being looked at like a dodgy lingerer by every other woman coming or going.

I look in the room that has been set inside for the wedding reception with no luck. I find and knock on the door of the bridal suite, receiving no answer. I even check the car park.

The one place I don’t expect to find Sarah is sitting on a picnic bench designated for the hotel’s staff, by the exit from the main kitchen. Though her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, I can tell from her body language that she is flat. Her shoulders are rounded, where they are usually rolled back. Her spine is hunched over, where it is ordinarily straight. And she is staring out into the distance, not even looking at the plate of canapes in front of her, as she absentmindedly selects one and pops it whole into her mouth (my kind of woman).

‘Don’t mind me,’ I say gently, though still managing to startle her. ‘I’m looking for the loos.’

She watches me approach the table. ‘Do you think there are portable toilets? They’re inside.’

Though the last thing I want to do is antagonize her, I smirk. She amuses me.

‘She speaks,’ I say.

She pouts, clearly rattled because she has forgotten to ignore me. Her expression only serves to entertain me more.

‘What do you want, Charlie? I’m just taking five to enjoy the view.’

The view is better from the reception side, I think, deciding to hold my words in my mind.

I move closer and tell her, ‘Budge up,’ as I lift one leg over the bench seat, straddling it as I face her, my side to the view.

Now what? I didn’t think through what I’d do if I found her.

For a minute, maybe two, I admire the view silently and Sarah finishes her canapes. Then something comes to me…

‘Have you ever heard of professional huggers?’ I ask.

‘Come again.’

‘Professional huggers. Unsurprisingly, because it’s weird, they’re more of a thing in the States.’

I sense she is rolling her eyes behind her lenses. ‘Is that right?’

I nod. ‘Anyway, these men and women get paid for giving hugs.’

She looks at me now. ‘What?’

‘Yep. Sort of physical therapy.’ We fall silent, then I clarify. ‘It’s not a sexual thing or anything.’

‘Right.’

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