Why me why me why me?
It isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t fair.
I’m a good person and I don’t deserve any of what happened, but happened it did and it’s NOT FAIR.
Punch punch punch.
‘Whoa, April, it’s OK,’ Charlotte takes the bag. Stopping it swinging. Stopping me. She hugs me. ‘I know,’ she says, this woman I’ve only met twice. ‘I know, I know.’
‘It’s not fair,’ I whisper into the moisture of her sweaty shoulder.
‘It isn’t. It really isn’t. It’s OK,’ she says rubbing my back, my hair. ‘It’s going to be OK.’
Joshua: Hello girlfriend of mine. How was boxing? x
Gretel: Yeah, it was great! Such a laugh x
From: [email protected]
Subject: This weekend
OH MY GOD APRIL I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S TOMORROW. What is HAPPENING to my life? Anyway, thanks for sending the money. Can’t wait to see you babe. Xxx
*
Megan: I can’t believe you’re leaving me here in my bed of pain to go on a hen do of all things.
Megan: Who am I going to judge Dawson with?
Megan: HE IS SO EASY TO JUDGE.
Megan: Do you think Malcolm has a new girlfriend?
Megan: WHY AREN’T YOU HERE TAKING MY PHONE AWAY SO I STOP STALKING HIM?
April: Sorry, train was in a tunnel. Don’t. Stalk. Him. You are NOT that person.
Megan: Well I just stalked him so I totally am that person.
Megan: No signs of a new gf tho so it’s all good.
Megan: Though he did go to Sushi Samba without me when I thought that was OUR place.
Megan: I meant nothing to him at all, did I?
April: Oh hon xxx
Brighton’s a teeming cesspit of holiday makers, day trippers, sunseekers, and hen-and-stag-do goers. In fact, I feel like I’m stepping onto a bachelor party conveyor belt when I emerge in the stinking heat onto the platform. Clumps of women clutching almost-finished bottles of prosecco spill out of the crammed train carriages, the different groups only identifiable by their choice of sash. Some pink, some black, some decorated with cartoon penises. The brides-to-be hold court in their cheap veils, clopping along in inappropriate shoes, feeling the most special, marked out to ensure surrounding voyeurs know they are the most special too. Look at this cheap veil I’m wearing off Hendoswag.com. It means someone deemed me acceptable enough to marry. Someone in this world approves of me that much. Take it in, bitches. Take it all in. It’s all been leading up to this.
I dodge past them and their ‘Team Bride’ temporary-tattoo-adorned bodies, feeling vaguely nostalgic for four years ago, and the many, many, nights I had the same tattoo emblazoned across my cheek. Those summers of back-to-back weddings are long behind me now, and funnily enough, I didn’t actually find them that hard back then. There was still so much time to assume ‘it would happen for me’. Which is exactly what was whispered at me during those hen dos, by swaying brides grabbing me by the shoulders, telling me how amazing and kind and beautiful and smart I was: ‘It definitely will, I have no doubt.’
I use my phone to navigate my way to the restaurant where Chrissy’s sophisticated hen do is located, bumping my way past the sunburnt and flip-flopped people clogging the pavements. I’ve deliberately arrived late to make tonight as short and painless as possible. Chrissy’s an ‘anomaly’ friend, in that we’ve always been close but have literally no other friends in common. We met temping one summer as students and we just clicked and have stayed close since then. We convened several times a year throughout the rest of our uni years, the confuzzled mess of our early twenties, the quarter life crises of our mid-twenties, and the panic-stricken years of our late twenties. Chrissy’s always been super smart and is now a tip-top lawyer specialising in copyright. Yet she’s also always been a perpetual singleton – that is, until, she met Mark two years ago at a wedding. Anyway, suffice to say, I know nobody as I climb the steps to the top floor of the Greek restaurant and step into a room full of thirty-something hens.
‘April! Hello! You’re here!’ Chrissy clatters over in shoes she most definitely can’t walk in and envelops me in a tight hug. ‘Everyone, this is my friend, April,’ she announces, holding me out on her arm.
I wave at everyone, and get passed around the room; names are exchanged that we won’t remember, but will be too embarrassed to ask for again. The tables have been arranged into a giant circle for maximum group-coherency with funny photos of Chrissy littered here and there to act as conversational prompts. But there’s no penis confetti, or novelty sashes. Chrissy’s bedecked in a tasteful veil, but Team Bride transfers are nowhere to be found. There’s a projector screen set up at the far end, and a sound system plays a carefully curated playlist of Chrissy’s favourite songs – mostly Jack Johnson.
‘Hi, I’m April,’ I repeat over and over. I shake hands, ask people how they know Chrissy. There’s the other-lawyers-from-work-clump, the uni-circle clump, the home-friends clump, and the awkward-friends-and-family-of-her-and-Mark clump.
‘Oh, so you’re Mark’s little sister? Mark’s great, isn’t he? Just great.’
‘You’re a lawyer too? Oh right, OK. In London? Of course. Yes, the train down wasn’t too bad actually, was it? Whereabouts in London do you live?’
‘So you grew up with Chrissy? Oh that’s funny, that you all call her Tina. No, she’s always been Chrissy to me. So what do you do? Oh, two kids you say? Yes, I’d love to see a picture. Oh, they are so cute. Congratulations.’
‘Oh me? No. Not married. No, no kids. Just me.’
‘Is that bottle of prosecco finished? No? Great. Yes, if you could pass it down.’
‘Shall we order another bottle?’
I’ve never really liked prosecco, it’s always tasted like piss put through a soda stream, but it’s included in the deposit we put down for the meal so down the hatch it goes. I knock back a glass, then another. My teeth start to hurt from the sugar and I go for a wee I don’t need, just to collect myself.
Megan: Is it bad?
April: Sitting on the loo, weeing a wee I don’t need
Megan: So it is bad
April: Everyone is friendly. They’re just all … so grown up
Megan: Fuck them
Megan: Fuck them all
Megan: Burn the fucking place down
April: Are you OK?
Megan: Quite clearly no
Megan: But I’m also fine. Go have fun now Xx
April: Doubtful
Just as I’m wiping, I get a message from Josh.
Joshua: Has the butler in the buff turned up yet? Hope you’re having a nice time x
Gretel: A great time, thanks! No nudity yet, but it’s only seven thirty. Have a good night with Neil x
The useful thing about sitting around mothers is that you only have to ask them a few choice questions and then you don’t have to talk or think any more for a good hour or so. I’m settled by the home-friends lot, all of whom have at least two kids that I’m shown on their phones.