I close my eyes. That’s it. Game totally over. ‘Chrissy!’ I protest, though she doesn’t know the true meaning of my anguished yelp.
‘What? You are. Meeting you was totally worth that terrible summer scanning-in ASDA reward vouchers for £5.50 an hour. So, Joshua, what do you do?’
Joshua certainly noticed the second one. His cheeks are red with confusion, his focus darting between Chrissy and me. The true horror of what I’ve done hits me in the stomach. I want to cry, scream, yell, run away – all the things it’s totally impossible to do at one of your best friend’s weddings. So I gulp the rest of my drink, tipping my neck back to ensure I get every last drop, and watch in awe as Josh acts as normal too.
‘I’m a coder. Which is much more exciting than it sounds.’ His social skills are impeccable considering the bombshell exploding in his face. His eyes flit between the two of us, like we’re a maths problem he needs to solve. ‘This is a lovely venue. Did you grow up around here?’
Chrissy doesn’t notice his shock. Why would she? ‘Yes, I spent my teen years living here. Did you see the train station? It’s such a skank-hole. But my mum has MS so we didn’t want a wedding far away, did we Mark?’
Mark jolts to attention. Looks at his new wife, and kisses her cheek. ‘No. It’s a nice find. Though I can’t take credit for any of it. Chrissy planned the whole day.’
‘Well, it’s gorgeous,’ I say. My voice is very shrill indeed. ‘You don’t notice the rain at all. Just perfect.’
‘Thanks love. Right, I better go and speak to everyone before dinner. Joshua, it was great to meet you. Take care of April here, won’t you?’
Three times. Three times she has said my goddamned name. I close my eyes. Breathe. Open them.
‘Congratulations again,’ Joshua calls after her, as the newly-weds turn to a group of lawyers, congratulations raining down on them as hard as the rain outside.
Joshua finally turns to me, his face unreadable.
I turn to Joshua, bracing myself for impact.
We look at one another honestly for the first time since we met. When he talks, his voice is polite, quiet. ‘Umm, Gretel?’ he asks, reaching up to scratch his neck. ‘Why did she keep calling you April?’
There is no mic drop. There is no forgotten artichoke. There is no power. There is no winning. There is no time left pretending to be what I’m not. There is no explanation that can make sense to a reasonable person.
There is no going back now.
Josh looks me in the eye as he waits for my reply. Hopeful. Waiting to feel relieved by a simple explanation that I can’t give him. A strange calm descends on me like a lazy fog drifting across the sea. I return his gaze. ‘You’re basically the only person who calls me Gretel.’
Josh’s entire face drains. ‘What?’
‘My name’s not Gretel,’ I say. ‘It’s April. As you’ve probably guessed.’
Josh’s eyebrows furrow at the same time his mouth falls open. ‘What the hell? How come? What? I mean, why? What? I don’t understand.’
I take a breath, preparing myself for the talk I’ve been planning in my head. My stomach sucks in under the netting of my dress. I’ve been rehearsing this all week since I decided to tell him, but now the words sit like sludge on my tongue, pleading with me to tell a lie instead, one that will make things easier. I blink slowly and Josh’s concerned face flickers in my vision. ‘Well,’ I start, ‘it’s sort of strange because—’
But I do not get to say my prepared speech because there’s the dinging of a spoon on glass and the conservatory grinds to a silence.
The usher is standing on a chair. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he claps, calling us to further attention, ‘please come through to the wedding breakfast.’ He points the way out of the conservatory down a short hallway filled with oil paintings.
‘Err,’ I say, as everyone starts moving towards the door. ‘Well you see …’ But there’s no time to explain as Joshua and I are pushed gently forward by the crowd, past the oil paintings, and through to the dining hall. I shrug as I don’t know what else to do, and try to take Josh’s hand to reassure him. He pulls it away though and my stomach plummets further.
Our drama cannot stop the tidal wave of wedding convention, however, and we walk stiffly to the handmade sign explaining where we’re sitting. All the tables are named after trips Chrissy and Mark have taken together. We’ve been allocated ‘Aussie’ – decorated with photos of the couple’s trip there last year. As we approach in tense silence, I see Chrissy’s put us with her lawyer lot and I overestimated how drunk they all were at the hen because—
‘April! How are you?’ Janet asks, standing up to say hello like we’re the best of friends.
April April April April. I watch as the word hits Joshua like a bullet. I want to reach out and shield him, but he takes the hit, sitting down like nothing has happened, though he’s gone paler than fresh snow, and pouring himself a giant glass of wine.
‘This is my husband, Jonathan.’
‘Hi, this is my, er, boyfriend, Joshua.’
We all shake hands over the table decorated with the standard two bottles of white and two bottles of red. Joshua and I lie trapped in the strict social conditioning of appropriate wedding behaviour. I reach for a bottle of wine and he doesn’t help pass it to me, just pours his own glass down his gullet with shaking hands. I pour myself a generous glug.
‘Hi, nice to meet you. How do you know the couple? Where have you come from?’
I tell everyone my name is April as we all reintroduce ourselves, and I watch as each time makes Josh flinch. I wonder how long he’ll make it through the meal. It’s insane he’s even sitting down and eaten his bread roll. Every time I introduce Joshua as my boyfriend, my heart stings, knowing this will be the last time I get to say that – which seems all the more painful considering this is really the first time I’ve ever been able to introduce him as my boyfriend. Joshua has already drained his glass and, not looking at me, he picks up the bottle of red and pours himself more.
I try to catch his eye again but he’s determined to devour a second bread roll and we get lost in pointless small talk until the starters arrive, comparing who lives where in London.
‘Oh, Greenwich? Lovely.’
‘Herne Hill. Oh that’s just lovely.’
‘Hampstead? How lovely.’
A line of teenage waiters appear, presenting each of us with a tiny plate of food that is more artfully-splattered ‘jus’ than food. The table quietens as the hungry lawyers and their partners tuck into their starters, giving us the chance to implode.
‘I still really don’t get the Gretel thing,’ Joshua whispers over his plate of mozzarella and tomato salad. ‘Look, I have to admit, I’m freaking out a bit.’
‘The thing is,’ I tell him, spearing a baby tomato onto my fork and speaking pretty rationally considering everything. ‘As I said, my name has never been Gretel.’
‘I don’t understand. I thought maybe April might just be a nickname or something …?’
I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s not that. I straight-up lied about my name.’