Petra pauses, scanning the uncomfortable middle-aged occupants of our table before landing on me and narrowing her eyes.
‘Delly?’ she says, unsure. ‘Delly Fox? Delly the Belly? Oh my God, is that you?’
I nod, smiling as genuinely as I can. ‘Hiya, Petra, how are you?’
Her jaw goes slack. ‘Oh-em-gee, Delly! You look so different. You’re so thin. What the hell. You’ve lost so much weight.’ She stops briefly, plasters a fake smile over her shock and adds, sugar sweetly, ‘Ooh, well done you, Delly! You look, like, sooo much better. I can’t believe how different you look from school. You were so fat back then, haha! Sooo fat, do you remember? Do you remember how we all called you Delly the Belly? Haha. And now you’re totally thin! I can’t believe it. You’ve dyed your hair red too, right? It looks sooo cute. I love how...brightit is. So, yeah, how much weight have you lost? Like, two stone? Three stone? Four stone? You’re so much better-looking now! Spill, gurl – what’s your secret?’
I half smile, then shrug uncomfortably. I really, really, really hate being told how much ‘better’ I look now I’ve lost weight. I hear it all the time. Every time I’m with someone who hasn’t seen me in a couple of years, I have to sit there while they tell me that I’m ‘acceptable’ to them now. Actually, that’s mostly why I’m finding seeing people here a bit uncomfortable. This is about the sixth encounter I’ve had just like this, with an acquaintance I haven’t seen for years loudly bringing up my body like it’s public property. I think it’s completely weird the way we act like weight loss is some kind of miracle and praise people without knowing anything about their situation. Because the thing is, none of us know what’s going on underneath the surface. You have no idea what’s happening in someone’s life. It could be an illness, it could be an eating disorder, or it could be that someone’s just had a really shitty breakup and is too sad to eat. That was my situation, by the way. The guy before Will, who dumped me brutally for a girl he met on Tinder. I was heartbroken and too miserable to eat and the weight fell off me. Yoga has mostly kept it off but it wasn’t some big, positive, happy thing. My eating was incredibly disordered and I lost three stone in three months. It wasn’t healthy on any level. My nails all broke, my hair fell out, my skin was terrible – and all I heard was how great I looked because I was emaciated. Personally, I’ve never known anyone to lose weight except through misery. Joely’s the happiest, most content person I know – which is why I don’t think she’ll ever be slim.
I also can’t stand this assumption that I must’ve hated myself back then. Like, I must be sooo relieved not to be that person anymore. Yes, sure, I hated the way peopletreated mewhen I was bigger, but I didn’t hate my body. I don’t understand how people like Petra think fat-shaming my previous self – the person I lived as for about twenty-six years – will make me feel good. It just makes me feel humiliated and sad to hear how much they didn’t like my previous body. How much more they preferthisversion of me. It makes me look at my life before in a different way, like I was wrong and broken. And now that I’ve ‘rectified’ myself, I will be finally be allowed out into mixed society.
And I hate knowing that I’ll carry this knowledge with me if I put the weight back on. Which is, y’know, statistically pretty likely.
I don’t know what to say, so I half nod and glance over at Will beside me. I think I was hoping for support, or at least a distraction, but he’s staring down at his plate. He’s not having a good time and it looks like our escape window before the speeches has closed. He’s been in a tiny bit of a mood with me for a few days now. He says he isn’t, but I can tell he is. He’s doing that thing where he doesn’t properly look at me when we talk, and staring anywhere else. I keep trying to cheer him up today, hoping he’ll snap out of it, but it’s not working.
To be fair to him, I get it. I know he’s been feeling neglected lately. What with everything that’s been going on with Lauren, and all the hen do and wedding stuff, it’s taking up a lot of my time. I know it must seem to him like we can’t even get through an evening without some mini crises cropping up that Lauren needs my help with – and no, it can never wait until tomorrow. And now it’s not even just Lauren bothering me at all hours. Will and I haven’t had a single conversation lately without my phone beeping with yet another message from a confused hen who doesn’t know how to apply for a new passport and thinks I’m supposed to sort that kind of thing out for her since I’m the maid of honour. And what with work, Franny and Fuddy-Duddies United, I guess I’ve not really been home much lately at all. This is the most we’ve been together in weeks and all I’ve done today is talk to other guests. And then yet another wedding invitation arrived yesterday from one of his cousins, who’s marrying his boyfriend after eight years together. It’s so romantic, they’re getting hitched in a castle on New Year’s Eve! But when I went toRSVPyes online, I could tell Will really wanted to say something. I asked if he wasOKand he looked a bit weird.
‘It’s fine,’ he said in a small voice. ‘It’s just... it’s just that I was hoping we could do something special on New Year’s Eve. Something just the two of us. I thought we could go away together maybe...’
And then he’d stopped as he spotted the panicked look on my face, thinking about the money something ‘special’ would entail. He immediately backtracked and said we should definitely go to the wedding, and then he laughed like he was being silly.
I feel really bad, and I know we’ve committed to an unbelievable number of weddings in the space of a year, but it’s not like we have a choice! It’s his family. And it’ll look homophobic if this is the one wedding we can’t make it to! We have to go. I can’t say no without a reason, can I?
Thankfully, across the table, Petra has already lost interest in my new look and is grilling Lauren about her wedding plans. They’re currently talking themes and Petra is boasting competitively about her own wedding, where they had a 1920s vibe with aBugsy Malone-inspired first dance. Lauren is making approving noises but is pulling the face she pulled when we arrived at the hotel earlier today and saw all the pink taffeta. She shows Petra a venue on her phone that she made us all visit last weekend. She and Charlie were supposed to be absolutely decided on her father-in-law’s place for the wedding but this other place had a cancellation and Lauren said she ‘just wants options’. This venue specialises in ‘country’ weddings and has actual peacocks who attend your big day with you. The peacocks will – upon request – walk you down the aisle. It’s really cool. Or fucking ridiculous, I’m not sure which. Lauren’s dad is apparently in a huff about this part and says he can walk her down the aisle wearing ‘stupid feathers sticking out of his arse’ if that’s what she wants.
‘Do you know about the giant wedding fair in London next week?’ Petra suddenly says self-importantly, gripping Lauren by the shoulders. ‘It’s going to be massive and vital for any bride. You simply must go. All brides that reallycareabout making their wedding day special should go. If only to beseenthere, yars? All the top florists and designers and planners will be there. Youmustgo.’
Joely and I exchange a panicked glance. We’ve already been to approximately 9,500 wedding fairs. We’ve surely seen everything weddings have to offer at this point. And if we have to go to this one, does that mean Petra’s coming too? We’ve already got enough cooks in this boiling-hot wedding kitchen and we definitely don’t need another voice on the bustling WhatsApp group.
‘Of course I’ve heard of it,’ Lauren says huffily, but she’s bluffing. ‘I’m on the list, obviously, but, er, I’m not sure I need it, to be honest. I have already spoken to all the, er, top wedding... people in the... country.’ She shoots us a look that says to keep quiet and that we might have to cancel any plans we had next week for a trip to London.
Oh God.
Petra nods approvingly. ‘Well, darling, let me know if you are and I’ll come along. Might be handy for when Richard and I renew our vows, right?’ she tinkers.
‘Would you really renew your vows?’ Lauren says, looking shocked. ‘But all that work and expense... Are people really renewing vows now?’
She looks upset and I search her face for something. Is she still having fun with this? All this competitive wedding fair talk feels very forced and unlike Lauren.
‘Are you finding the planning a bit much?’ I say softly across the table, and she looks at me like I’ve slapped her.
‘Of course not!’ she snaps. ‘It’s wonderful and I’m on top of it all. I told you six months was plenty of time. I’m fine, it’s fine,’ she falters before speedily adding, ‘I’m just imagining my parents’ face if I said I wanted to do all this over again in a year. They’ve given us so much money, and they’re using it as leverage, demanding we invite some distant cousins to my wedding.’ She tuts and adds loudly – just as the bladder-problem uncle returns from the loos – ‘I’ve barely even met these dick pricks.’
He looks perturbed by the language, turning on his heel and walking off again. Maybe he just needed another wee. Those infections get you like that.
Lauren continues, unabashed, ‘I don’t see why they have to be there. Why would they even want to come? Mum says I have to invite them because I went to theirs when I was, like, seven. I hardly remember it, except that the whole day was totally gross. They had a buffet, ugh, and I had to wear a purple flower-girl dress that didn’t even fit me. Everyone kept patting me like I was a dumb dog.’
Joely snorts. ‘I had to wear the same thing. It wasn’t that bad. And I got petted way more than you because I looked much cuter in purple.’
They glare affectionately at each other for a second, and then Petra – realising she is no longer the centre of attention – starts screaming about dancing, jumping out of her seat and knocking over the pink taffeta centrepiece.
‘Come on,’ she says, ignoring the mess and grabbing Lauren’s hand. ‘Let’s get this party started.’
10
I’m panting embarrassingly as I arrive at the Fuddy-Duddies United meeting. Two whole minutes of running and look at me. Sweat is pouring down my face and my knees are threatening to buckle – completely pathetic. Forget the sissy yoga, I need to start doing more of those aerobics classes.
I’m late and I sneak in at the back, knowing I will get told off by at least eight different Category-A grandmas.
