‘YOU SHOULD HAVE YOUR WEDDING JUST LIKE THIS, LAUREN,’ Joely shouts down past me at her cousin, who gives her a withering, disapproving look.
‘That would be completely inappropriate,’ Lauren says haughtily, before adding, ‘Stuff like that is called cultural appropriation, Joely. You need to get woke.’
‘WHAT THE FUCK DID SHE JUST CALL ME?’ Joely shouts in my ear, laughing, before leaning further over. ‘YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME?’
Lauren rolls her eyes and Joely smirks.
‘Jesus, are we saying woke now?’ I murmur, but no one’s listening to me. I wish for a second that Will was here with me, but he had to work.
When Joely turns back to me to talk again, I draw a line across my lips – the international sign for seriously shut the hell up or I will kill you where you sit.
As if there was any chance that would work.
‘I went out with a south Asian guy last week,’ she muses, but her voice is slightly lower, thank God. ‘He was super sexy and we had a really good time, getting drunk and feeling each other up in a ’Spoons. But I think I ruined it when I got back to his house. I gave him a handjob in the living room and then wiped hisstuffall over the sofa. He got annoyed, but – like I told him – it came out of him, it’s his property, why should I have to hold it?’
I try not to giggle, but it bursts out of me. That image is too gross for words.
A middle-aged white woman the other side of Joely leans over. She has been listening intently for a while now and can apparently hold her opinions in no longer.
‘If you keep giving away the milk, no one’s going to buy the cow, dear,’ she says primly.
Joely snorts and replies good-naturedly, ‘Who are you calling a cow, lady? And whatever, everyone is more than welcome to my milk. It’s free range, organic and pasteurised. Plus, I have plenty to share and it’s not about to run out any time soon. Why shouldn’t I give it away while I can?’
The lady looks shocked, but that only encourages Joely. There’s nothing she likes more than being shocking.
‘I’m a socialist, see?’ she continues in her ‘helpful’ voice. ‘I like to share what I have. I don’t have much, but I do have milk.’ She laughs raucously and the woman tuts, furious. She turns away pointedly, her nose in the air, and there is a moment of wonderful silence, before she turns back, this time looking directly at me.
‘Your friend is very rude,’ she says and I swallow hard. She is pretty rude, there’s no denying that. Joely snorts again but doesn’t comment.
The woman continues to peer at me over her glasses. ‘Do you give your body away to all and sundry too, or are you married?’
I shake my head, fighting an urge to disassociate myself from Joely. It’s bad enough that I feel this desperate need to please my friends, but wanting to impress mean strangers who slut-shame random women at weddings is taking it too far. I need to get a serious grip on myself.
‘I... I am not married,’ I say, stuttering and trailing off. I don’t know how to answer the other part because sex with all and sundry – whatever that means? – actually sounds really fun and is a big part of why I’m so jealous of Joely.
The woman tuts again. ‘But you’re – what? – about thirty-five years old? Pray tell why you’re not married yet?’
Ouch!
‘I’m twenty-eight!’ I say, trying not to sound too upset, even though I am really, really upset. Thirty-five? I don’t look thirty-five, do I? Maybe it’s all the stress lately.
She sniffs. ‘You need to start using moisturiser, dear. I started at twenty and I’ve hardly aged a day,’ she says as I politely avoid eye contact with her wrinkles. She keeps going. ‘And either way, thirty-five or twenty-eight – it’s all still too old to be this frivolous. I was married at twenty-one, back when young women were still ladies, and we did things properly. You better get a move-on because a wedding after thirty is terribly gauche.’
I cock my head. Gauche? What is that? Doesn’t gauche mean left in French? Why is getting married after thirty left? What does she mean, like, left wing? Is this something to do with Joely’s socialist comment?
‘I have a boyfriend,’ I squeak, hating myself for justifying my life choices. Sitting between us, Joely tuts at me and crosses her arms. I know I’m betraying her by continuing to engage but I can’t help it. I need to persuade this woman that I’m not a lost cause. Please don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.
The woman ignores Joely, nodding at me as she goes on. ‘Ah, I see. But he won’t get serious and pop the question? Unco-operative, is he? You need to lay down a few ground rules immediately. Men have to be led around by the nose, told what to do. They never get around to doing anything without being pushed into it. Tell this man friend of yours that you won’t live with him until he proposes. And then stop givingitup so easily – I know what you girls are like. Give him a deadline of Christmas to get the proposal done, and then you can put out again once you’re engaged, if you so wish.’
Christmas?!
‘I already live with him,’ I whisper, feeling silly and angry and defensive. And then more words come out of my mouth in a rush, and I immediately can’t believe I’ve said it. ‘And actually, he already asked me to marry him and I said no.’
Joely sits up straighter, as does Lauren on the other side of me.
‘What?’ they say at the same time.
Oh.
