“I should get back to it, actually,” says Mum. “There will be people out there wanting readings, and it isn’t fair if I sit in here, letting it pass them by.”
I don’t want to, but I hug Mum goodbye outside the van, her body rigid—sharp bones and cold necklace chains—and as we part, I think I know. This is the last time I put myself through these meetings I expect nothing from. Over the years, I have hoped for more, of course, the way someone hopes to fall in love, to see the northern lights one day, but I don’t expect it. It’s why I came tonight. It’s why I asked her to dinner. Because I have always hoped that one day she will say yes. That we’ll sit at a little round table, eating together, a bottle of wine between us, and she will tell me about when she was happy, and about the words I’d pronounced wrong when I was a toddler, with chubby hands and dimples for knuckles. And maybe, I always hope to myself, she will tell me how I would make her clay lumps in the first year of kindergarten, painted red and speckled with glitter, or how after bedtime stories she would smell the soapy crown of my hair as I’d fallen asleep beside her.
I walk to the bus stop, my eyes on the horizon, the darkening sky the shade of blossom, the sea like blue ink. I think of my hot but safe room at Fishers Way. I think of the hotel, and Rosie and Fox. And I think of Lucas. Of my balloon, and how far it traveled to him, across those inky waves. I think of the wide world out there and all its possibilities.
Maybe one day I’ll see the northern lights.
And someday I’ll fall in love.
You might think being a best man simply means organizing the stag, carrying the rings, and making one hell of a speech to remember, but you can elevate yourself to Best Man God by helping in other ways, too, my dude! Have you thought about arranging accommodations for the groomsmen, or asking the happy couple if they need help with the guest list? And, of course, there is the important subject of the outfit. It’s down to you, Best Man Boss, and official right-hand man, to help your groom look his dapper best on the day he ties the knot, so get comfortable in those changing rooms. It’s time for Chapter Seven: Let’s talk about suits…
* * *
“I look a twat.”
I stare at Lucas, who stands under the harsh spotlights of a changing room cubicle, the heavy curtain pulled to one side, in a brilliant-white tuxedo. He looks like someone made of fondant icing.
“Oh god, I do look a twat, don’t I?”
“No, no, not at all.”
“Emmie, your face says it all.”
“No, I was just… well, I wasn’t expecting—it’s very white, isn’t it?”
Lucas looks down at the suit as if he’s only just realized he’s wearing one, and looks back up at me and laughs. “I look like… I dunno, a—” He stops, catching a look at me, with my hand at my mouth, my lips pressed together, and goes wide-eyed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, come on,” he laughs. “What do I look like?”
I pause, a smile breaking out across my face. “You just for a minute reminded me of when little curly-haired Screech from Saved by the Bell went to prom.”
Lucas gawps at that, gray eyes widening. “Wounded,” he laughs. “But that’s settled it then, hasn’t it? I cannot in any way, shape, or form, wear a fucking white suit.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Screech, Emmie. You said little curly-haired Screech. That’s all any prospective groom needs to hear.” Lucas throws his head back, sighs, then with one swift movement draws the curtain to closed. A moment later I hear laughter from behind the drape.
We have been here in the changing rooms of a high street menswear chain in Berck-sur-Mer for the last half an hour, mostly laughing, as Lucas tries on suits and blazers in an array of different styles and colors; some that make him look like a Hugo Boss model, and others, part–Willy Wonka, part–varicose vein. He’ll be using a bespoke tailor whom Jean has used for many years for his actual wedding suit, apparently, but he wanted to come here to get a “feel” for the sort of style he likes. So far, he likes only the dark shades of blue best. The only color Marie told him she didn’t want.
“Marie wants me to try powder blue and white,” he’d said on the phone, the day after I saw Mum at the Maypole Festival. “White, Em. Like a member of bloody *NSYNC or something. I need your eyes. I know you won’t let me look like a loser. When’s good for you? Can you come for a weekend?”
I was nervous, I admit, coming here to do this. I think that’s why I immediately, despite having no shifts, told him I was busy last weekend. I’d give myself a week, I thought, before I’d come back here. A week to strengthen my resolve. Allow my heart, and my head, a breather, some time to heal. I did some more crying in bed, some rewatching of my favorite Hallmark straight-to-television films full of meant-to-be’s and men in plaid shirts, and had many pull-my-shit-together chats with Rosie over packed lunches at work. I’m far from enthused, far from excited, but it’s like Rosie said: chance, meant-to-be’s—they cannot be rushed or planned. And if it’s meant to be, I have to trust it will be.
The next morning, I’d sat at the kitchen table beside my quiet landlady, Louise, with her mint tea and golden pen, poised on another crossword puzzle, and I started a Pinterest board called “Lucas’s Wedding” and ordered a book. “Threw myself into this best-woman business,” as Fox had put it. Eased in, is probably more accurate, the way you do into a too-hot bath.
“A book?” Lucas had picked it up last night off the coffee table and settled back down on the sofa. “You the (Best) Man! Wow. Clever.”
“It had the strongest reviews. Shockingly.”
Lucas had looked at me then and smiled lazily, head against the back of the sofa. “I love you for buying a book.”
“Well, I’m a rookie at this,” I told him. “I’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t I?”
It was like old times last night: his parents in the main house, reading, cooking, listening to classical music; Marie miles away with her dad, for business; and just Lucas and me, with a takeaway pizza and a bottle of rosé, in the living room of the guest cottage. It felt normal, like it’s always been, and my stomach had settled, the way it does after the first slice of toast and cup of tea post–tummy bug.
“And you’ve marked all these pages.” Lucas smiled, opening the book and tugging at a pink sticky tag. “Where Emmie Blue goes, so do the Post-its, eh?”
“Naturally.”
Then he’d stretched his strong arm around me and pulled me toward him, my head on his shoulder. “And you’re… cool with this,” he’d said softly, over the mumble of the TV. It wasn’t a question, but I nodded.
“And… you are?” I asked.
He’d sighed then, and when I looked up at him, he nodded too, robotically, mimicking the way I had, and chuckled.
“And remember, Marie said the dress is up to you.”
“I know,” I said.
“And you don’t have to worry about the stag stuff either. Tom said he’ll sort the party and only involve you on the little details, so don’t feel like you have to do everything and—”