A better April stares back at me now. Not as good as Gretel, but much improved. One that’s able to get through the rest of the evening. My phone buzzes.
Joshua: I’m going to be thinking about you all night xxxx
I do feel better.
Though, I worry part of me will be thinking about him all night too.
We end up in a club after all.
We shed the breast-feeders and the ones who could only get babysitters until midnight, and head to some awful place on the beach where all the other hen dos have congregated in some kind of rally. They’re all much younger than us. Some of them clearly on their first, exciting, one – decorated with glitter and penises and wilting sashes and the bits of fancy dress that have made it to the end of the night. We’re too drunk to mind though – dancing in a little circle, around the pile of our handbags, leaning in to shout ‘I don’t know any of these songs!’
Now I’m on the beach, smoking a Marlborough menthol even though I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life. Chrissy’s sitting next to me, also smoking. Our heels are off, toes buried into the cold pebbles.
‘I can’t believe I’m getting married,’ she tells the quiet slosh of the sea, before nuzzling her head into my shoulder.
‘I can’t believe you’re getting married either.’ I pat the top of her head with my non-fag hand.
‘I literally thought that was it. After Sven. When I left him, I left him knowing he was probably my only chance.’
‘And now look at you.’
She throws her arms into the air and her cigarette lights a path through the darkness. ‘FUCK YOU SVEN, I’M NOT A SPINSTER AFTER ALL!’ she yells into the black sea. Whoops and cheers from other inebriated people echo back at us and we both fall into one another, laughing.
‘Sven was such a dick,’ I say.
‘Such a dick.’
‘Remember when he forgot your birthday?’
‘And somehow blamed it on me for “stressing him out”?’
We shake our heads and I take an inexperienced drag on my cigarette, sucking on its minty filter, trying to remember how it even came to being in my hand. I cough.
Chrissy cracks up then starts coughing too. ‘God, we’re a sorry state of affairs,’ she says, grinding hers out.
‘But we look so cool!’
She takes mine and stubs it out too, and there’s a moment’s calm, where the delicate crash of waves against shingle mixes with the thud of the bass spilling from the club.
‘I can’t believe I’m having a wedding,’ she murmurs. ‘I have a dress and everything. It’s so surreal.’
‘Are you excited?’
‘Yes, I think so. I mean, it’s also really stressful. Like just a giant project to manage, and you know about Mum and her MS and all the worry about how she’ll cope with the day, but it will be lovely I hope.’
‘It will be lovely! What are you looking forward to the most?’
I used to ask myself this same question about my own hypothetical wedding. During those moments when I used to plan it in my head, like I’ve been groomed to do since being born a girl. Of course, the most obvious answer is that thing from 27 Dresses – the look on his face at the end of the aisle when he first sees you. That’s the low bar heterosexual women set themselves as a romantic accomplishment: find a man who looks pleased to be marrying you on your actual fucking wedding day. Dream big, April …
‘His speech actually,’ Chrissy says after consideration, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I’m really looking forward to his speech.’ She picks up a pebble and squeezes it in her palm. ‘The thing is, I know Mark loves me. I mean, he must do, right? We’re getting married! But he’s never been very verbally affectionate. I told you we’ve argued about it a lot. How he never really gushes over me. Never really says “I love you” or “you look gorgeous”. Stuff like that. He says words don’t mean anything and I get that so it’s fine. It’s totally fine. I mean, I’d rather he did say nice things, but that’s not him, and he treats me like he loves me and that’s what’s important but, well, the speech is going to be special. Cos he’ll get a chance to say it all. And it will be nice to hear it, just once, you know? I feel like he’s saving it all up for then, and it makes me feel all warm and gushy. Does that sound stupid?’
I stroke her hair. ‘It doesn’t sound stupid at all.’
‘I’m really looking forward to it.’
I turn to her and cup her face, like I’m the romantic lead in a film. ‘You’re beautiful, Chrissy,’ I say, in a macho voice. ‘And you’re so smart, and kind, and I’m so so lucky to have you in my life.’
She giggles, and I do too. ‘The funny thing is that, even though you’re a girl, and you’re joking, it does still feel really nice to hear it,’ she laughs, before launching herself at me for a hug, her hair getting up my nose. ‘I really want it to happen to you,’ she says, mid-hug, pulling me tighter. ‘It will honey, I promise. You’re too amazing to end up alone.’
The hug feels suffocating. I have a deep urge to push her away, push her into the sea. I clamp my eyes shut and feel the bottom of my stomach drop out. I don’t like being the charity case. I can’t stand that I’ve become this one.
‘I’ve met someone actually.’
Chrissy pulls away. ‘What?’ Her eyes light up from the moon.
‘It’s still really new. He’s called Joshua.’
‘Oh my God, why haven’t you told me?’
‘It’s your hen do. It’s not about me, it’s all about you.’
‘But I want to know. Wow! Joshua! What a great name.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘So, tell me everything!’ She’s grasping both of my hands. She’s so happy for me, that I’ve got there. Well, that I’ve got a chance to get there.
‘There’s not much to tell yet. As I said, it’s really new. He works as a coder. Umm, he has his own flat …’
‘Great, great. Pictures?’
I retrieve my phone, pulling up a selfie he sent me the other day of him on a ‘training walk’ up Hampstead Heath. ‘He’s a bit sweaty in this one.’
She snatches the phone off me. ‘Oooo, cute! I like the look of his face. He looks kind. Do you have any more?’ She starts swiping through my pictures, finding additional shots, zooming in, telling me all the things that she can tell are good about him from the photos. I look over her shoulder, seeing him again through her new eyes and I feel … pride bubble in me, a smile sneaking up my cheeks, warmth in my stomach. Oh God, this is not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. And yet it feels wonderful.
My phone’s returned with another hug. ‘I’m so happy for you,’ she says. ‘You so deserve this.’
What a strange thing to say, I think, but the thought is then lost in a Sambuca fog. Lost in the feeling of this moment. How nice it is to be the girl who has found the boy and it looks like it’s really going somewhere. The relief from others, from yourself. I find myself floating out of my body for a moment, and watching us, two friends, drunk, on the beach, hugging one another and sharing gossip about ‘our guys’. The belongingness of it.