‘You see our mate, Sam, who’ll be up next to tell you all about the J1 in San Diego, was caught out like this and since then it’s been kind of a cautionary tale.’ Paddy grinned at Sam mischievously. ‘And tonight, he’s actually brought the cautionary Whale here with him.’ He accompanied this with an exaggerated wink, clearly thrilled at his own wit. ‘Welcome, Sam’s not-so-little-bit-on-the-side, Ali! Now you have checked that bump’s not a pillow, right, Sam?’
Oh Jesus. Ali made sure to keep smiling awkwardly, hyper-aware that now most of the room was craning to get a look at her.
At this point, Schmiddy grabbed the mic and in a moment of extremely honourable self-sacrifice barked, ‘It’s me you’re supposed to be slagging, you eejit.’
‘Hahaha, yeah, sorry, mate, couldn’t resist. Back to the man of the hour: Schmiddy-boy.’ Paddy recovered the mic and ploughed on with the kind of terminally unfunny slaggology all best-man speeches seemed to be made of.
Sam remained stony-faced beside her and Ali wanted to maim this Paddy fucker. They had been getting on quite nicely up until this point. The drive from Dublin to Strokestown House, where the festivities were on, was nice. She’d regaled him with tales of the show preparations and generally tried to sound as normal as possible. She couldn’t help but feel like she was trying to re-audition for a gig she’d already once had: Sam’s girlfriend.
Now this idiot – she tuned back in momentarily to catch him saying ‘when the under-nineteens would go on tour, what happened on tour stayed on tour, if you know what I mean? Except for Schmiddy Óg. He brought the herpes back from Carrick-On-Shannon as a souvenir, heh heh heh’ – was reminding Sam publicly of the humiliation she’d inflicted on him.
‘Is Paddy a bit of an arsehole?’ She leaned into Sam.
‘Yep,’ he said through tight lips.
‘Right, we’ll leave it there, Paddy.’ Schmiddy’s father, whom all the lads revered and feared and inexplicably called Macky, snatched the microphone back from the still-guffawing Paddy. ‘Glad you were entertained by that drivel, yeh gobsheen. Right, good man, Sam, your turn.’ Macky passed the mic across the top table and Sam stood to address the room.
‘Cheers, Macky. So, as Paddy already mentioned, I’m Sam. I’ve been friends with Schmiddy and Sinead for years and when they told me they were getting married, I assumed it was ’cos of the rental crisis. That’s an upside no one’s really acknowledging – crippling rates are actually bringing people together and reviving the lost art of getting married young. Now, I love you both equally but sorry, Sinead, Schmiddy has the edge. You see, back on our J1 in San Diego, Schmiddy was the mammy of the house and once a man brings you a full Irish in bed after a night on the sesh, well, you know yourself, he’ll have your heart for ever. Anyway, I don’t know shit about true love, but I know that you two are the best team, the best allies I’ve ever known. And as much as Sinead doesn’t deserve Schmiddy, Schmiddy doesn’t deserve Sinead either. They’re two of my favourite people in the world. When Schmiddy had Delhi belly when they were travelling, Sinead was amazing. She didn’t have anything to do with him, of course. She has way too much self-respect for that, I’m happy to report. But she took pictures of him at his lowest moments and shared them in the group chat, which was one of the greatest acts of giving I have ever witnessed. Like I said, I don’t know dick about marriage but if on your wedding day you’re beside your favourite person in the world, then you’ve got a pretty good chance and after that it’s just about compromising all the time, fighting over dumb stuff, taking the bins out, making the tea, taking pictures when Schmiddy’s in bits for the group chat and never, ever forgetting that you’re each other’s favourite person. To Schmiddy and Sinead.’
Ali tried to keep her head down. It was very exposing here at the top table and she hadn’t expected to be quite so moved by Sam’s speech.
Don’t cry Ali, she warned silently, they already think of you as unhinged. Do not make this wedding all about you and your botched relationship.
‘To Schmiddy and Sinead,’ the room shouted gaily, clinking glasses.
‘And to you for a really fucking nice speech,’ Ali whispered to Sam. He smiled back tightly. She sensed the very nice and conventional wedding was throwing their own dysfunctional situation into unpleasantly sharp relief for him. ‘I always wanted a real family,’ he had told her the day he realised she’d lied to him for months about a fictitious baby. Weddings were shit for people with fractured families, Ali mused. She herself had sat through the father-of-the-bride speech practically holding her breath the entire time, afraid that any exhale would draw out an unstoppable and wildly inappropriate gush of grief.
Ali didn’t think she’d particularly like a big wedding with top tables and party favours and father-of-the-bride speeches but, still, now she’d never get the chance to sit through a corny speech, rolling her eyes at the cringey dad-jokes. If she and Sam got married, their top table would be fairly cobbled together, she sighed. Poor Sam had no one but his sisters – his dad had never been on the scene. She, at least, had Mini. She wasn’t the most maternal, but Ali knew for a fact that Mini would provide her with an alibi should that ever be necessary and, really, if that wasn’t suffocating maternal love, then what was? Sam lost that demented devotion when he was just a little boy, Ali reflected. He was up now having the arm yanked off him by Macky and a stream of other burly, red-faced men all moulded in the likeness of Schmiddy.
‘Good man, Sam. Good man.’
The speeches had, mercifully, concluded and Sam had been the only person to talk about Sinead beyond how beautiful she looked. God, weddings are the pits. People were beginning to mingle now, and Ali started to carefully drift away from the top table. It had been very, very odd sitting there among complete strangers, who only knew that she was a dangerous, pathological liar. Ali wished she could knock back about nine proseccos and skip straight to tomorrow’s hangover.
‘Ali! We did not think you would come!’
Ali spun round to find the WAGs of Sam’s BoysLyfe WhatsApp group descending in a blur of taffeta, tulle and spidery eyelash extensions.
‘Hi, yeah, well, I heard there would be cake.’ She smiled.
‘Oh my God, you are huge.’ Orlaith’s eyes widened and she leaned back as if she couldn’t quite fully take in Ali’s vastness. ‘Huge.’
‘Yeah.’ Ali was feeling dangerously kamikaze after Paddy’s little speech. ‘That’s what happens when there’s a real one in there.’ She shrugged.
This had the desired effect of stopping them in their tracks.
‘Ha ha, yeah,’ said Ellen, the one with the misfortune to be hitched to Paddy. She looked uncomfortable at Ali’s abrupt pronouncement and Ali softened slightly. This is stupid, she realised. You need to get these women onside if you are ever going to get Sam back. Women are the brains of every operation, Ali, even Sam’s WhatsApp group. If she could charm the WAGs, the boyfriends would fall into line.
She smiled at each of them. ‘Sorry, I just figured I’d say it before anyone else did.’ She squirmed a little, letting them see her unease. ‘I know what you all must think of me. God, you should hear what I think of myself these days. It’s a dark place in here sometimes.’ She tapped her head. ‘I know it must sound weird, but I’m really glad that all the shit hit the fan in a way. I hate that I hurt Sam so much but I was out of control, sick in the head, like, and I needed reality to smack me in the face for me to realise how bad I’d been for so long. Obsessing over Instagram, watching my numbers like a crazed bitch.’