Hannah, April
It is clearthat in my next life I am not coming back as a wedding planner. This ishard.But Miranda’s all over it, loving every second. No bridezilla for her. A couple of months ago she found her wedding dress on a discount site, ordered it, tried it on, and invited me over to see. I was looking forward to an outing to a posh bridal store, a woman with a double-barreled last name who thought herself far superior to us, handing us a glass of champagne while we awaited a series of big dress reveals. What I got was actually better. Miranda didn’t even wait for me to arrive. She opened her front door to me wearing the dress and demanded, “What do you think?”
I cried. She looked perfect. She even let me try it on. It drowned me, obviously, because I’m not five foot eleven thousand, like Miranda. But even I had to admit that wedding dresses get a good rep for a reason. And then afterward Miranda got her spreadsheet and ticked things off, highlighting columns, clicking and dragging.
In Paul and Miranda’s flat, with only weeks to go before the big day, we have what Miranda thought was going to be an awkward conversation. I could see it in her face: that look of near-dread as she asked me if Ineededa plus one.
Of course I didn’t. Who would I take? And if it meant she could loosen up that hallowed place at the wedding breakfast forsomeone else, then I was more than happy to enable that. Besides, I’ll have Joan and Geoff for company and, in my newfound state of making new friends everywhere I go, I’ll enjoy doing just that. I’ll dance with strangers and come home happily single.
“As long as you don’t put me at the singles table,” I say pointedly. “I need Joan and Geoff at the very least.”
“We’re not having a singles table,” Miranda says and then she screws up her face. “Who even does that?”
We nod our agreement at the worst of all wedding horrors.
“Unless you’ve got fit men coming, of course,” I say, but I’m unsure if I actually mean this or not. “I still don’t want to date anyone, but I can always be swayed by a pilot in full outfit, obviously.”
“No fit men.” She casts her eyes over at Paul, who’s staring unblinkingly at his PlayStation as he continues guiding little men playing football across the screen. “All Paul’s single friends are unattractive,” Miranda whispers.
I nod sagely and Paul glances over at us, smiles, looks back at his screen. “She’s right, they are. Miranda bagged the best one of my group of mates.”
Miranda looks at me. “Fact.” And then she agrees to sit me with Joan and Geoff, filling it in on her sheet. “Done.”
I am envious. I know it’s terrible to admit it, but I am. I haven’t even been yet, but I know it’s going to be the wedding of the year. Weddings overseas are either the most exciting thing ever or a financial burden for guests. I’ve been invited to so many foreign weddings that, in the end, the combined cost of attending hen weekends, then airline tickets and hotels for the actual events themselves, was starting to bankrupt me. I had five in one summer once, dotted all across Europe. That’s the summer my parents had to have a frank conversation with me about money. How to earn it. Hownotto spend it all in one go.
But this. This is different.
This wedding is in Italy.
Chapter 39
May
I’m desperate tosee a Tuscan poppy field. It’s the end of spring and the poppies are in full bloom. From my room at the top of one of the most beautiful sand-colored old hotel buildings I’ve got a great view over the rest of the hilltop town, which slopes gently downward toward the valleys and the vineyards beyond. I’m in the attic space and I have to duck to move around the low beams but, with the windows open, the sun streams in and lights up my room.
As I look out the window I can see a flash of scarlet from here and I know they’re there, waiting for me. If I don’t stand in a poppy field even for just a minute and let the sea of delicate red flowers surround me, I’m going to burst. I have no idea when I’m going to do that, though, because Miranda’s schedule is frenzied.
Cobbled stone streets and cream brick walls give the town an air of calm. Before the big day itself, there’s me, Miranda, Paul, and their respective close families. We’re spending the days before the big event sightseeing and then the evenings eating at little trattorias all over town.
I’ve caved in and purchased a copy of E. M. Forster’sA Room with a View.I’m so scared it’s not going to be as good as the film, but I have at least purchased a copy of the novel. As yet I’ve not opened it. Just being here makes me feel like the heroine, LucyHoneychurch. I glance at it guiltily as Miranda knocks on my door, collecting me as we go sightseeing.
Over the course of the next few days we visit the Duomo—the cathedral—go wine tasting, and visit at least three churches. I’m reminded of being with George and the endless temples he wanted to explore. When Miranda’s mum suggests our fourth church, I have to call time. I could do with a little bit of sitting in the sunshine, reading my book, drinking a large glass of local wine, and letting the world pass me by. As they decide to head off to a church at the bottom of the hill, I go to my room, retrieve my book, and wander into the main square, the Piazza Grande. The buildings on all four sides are low-level, a mix of reds and sand-colored fourteenth-century architecture, and in one corner of the square there’s a trattoria with only a couple of empty tables outside. I have next to no Italian to hand, but I sit, convey myself well enough to the waiter, and, feeling hungry, decide to order something to eat. I don’t remember the last time I ate alone in a proper restaurant. The Pret near Liverpool Street Station doesn’t count.
I usually order lasagna, but today I get brave, look for something I’d never normally order (other than the wine, which of course I ordinarily order), and sit back, taking in the locals carrying their bags of fruit and vegetables home, their fresh bread. I watch the tourists, phones in hand, navigating the streets, reading about the buildings in front of them. When did guidebooks get replaced by phones?
I’m in heaven as I tuck into my little plate of appetizers: courgettes fried in a light batter and stuffed with mackerel, olives, cherry tomatoes, and capers. Next to it is a pile of fresh pink shrimp with burrata and then a heap of anchovies, fried in Parmesan, tomato, and pesto. I’ve opened my book, but am only one page in before I’ve eaten everything on my plate.
The waiter emerges to top up my water glass, spies my empty plate, and jokes, “You did not like it?”
I laugh. “It was heaven. Your menu is amazing.”
“Yes, it is,” he says proudly. “Would you like something else to eat? An entrée, if an appetizer was not enough?”
“It’s probably enough for now,” I say. I’m still not back to my usual weight, even all these months after George and I broke up. And I still can’t eat as much as I would like to, which is a good thing, I’m sure. But now as I look over this divine menu, I think I’ll come back to Italy. I’ll try to come here again and take it at a slower pace. Maybe I’ll start taking life at a slower pace more generally, make some time to eat out at restaurants on my own some nights. That said, I’m not going to slow down much more before tomorrow. Tomorrow is the wedding, and I have a bridesmaid’s dress to fit into.
Chapter 40
Davey
