‘I think I’m going to throw up.’
Mack’s hand gripped mine, and held on. ‘You’re fine. I’ve got you.’
I concentrated on those smooth, warm fingers, let them steady me, like an anchor in the storm of memories, feelings and regrets. And for the next hour, allowing everything to pass in a blur meant I was, just about, fine. Throughout Zara riding in on a donkey, which I assume was some twisted reference to the nativity story, being given away by Ian Dougal (her boss – really?); the carols, the ten bridesmaids, the doves, the first kiss under a bunch of mistletoe. The pretend tears, the genuinely atrocious bride and groom duet of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ and the fake snowstorm as they walked back down the aisle. I held onto that hand, like a lifeline to reality, and I listened to Zara pledge herself to the man I’d thought I loved, and I tried hard to wish them well.
We trooped out into the muggy heat for a fir-tree-planting ceremony in the enormous blanket of fake snow, no one asking what the point of planting a tree here, rather than in their own garden, was. Everyone pretending to ignore Zara’s choice of language when her husband flicked a clod of dirt onto her dress.
Trooped back inside for photographs in the great hall while those who didn’t make the cut drank mulled wine and nibbled endless tiny canapés.
I hid at the back, trying to remember not to look as if I was being strangled by my own awkwardness. Most people ignored me, after their automatic full-body scan classified me as either: INSIGNIFICANT or AVOID! Two women, having given me the once-over, sidled in towards Mack. ‘Are you with the bride or groom?’ they purred.
‘No,’ Mack replied, causing blinks of surprise as he looked away, uninterested.
‘So why are you here, then?’ one of them persisted, squeezing in next to me.
‘I’m with Jenny,’ Mack said, no less fierce for lack of facial hair.
‘Really?’ She screwed up her tight face as best she could in sympathy and disbelief. ‘And is that a fixed arrangement, for the whole night?’ She took a long slurp on her straw. ‘Or are you open to a better offer?’
Before Mack could reply, the other woman’s hand shot out and clutched her friend. ‘Shut. Up!’ She gasped. ‘Jenny, as in Zara’s psychotic sister?’ Her eyes jerked between Mack and me. ‘Does Zara know you’re here? DoesRichard?Isn’t there a restraining order? Are you, like, out on parole, for your sister’s wedding? Oh! I get it!’ She pointed at me in delight. ‘He’s, like, her, oh, what’s it called? Her guard. Her escort! To stop her doing a runner.’
‘She doesn’t look like a nutter,’ the first one said, eyes narrowing. When I heard her sneer that word, only Mack’s hand on my arm stopped me throwing my drink in her face.
‘Oh, don’t let her pretty face fool you,’ Mack said. ‘I’d have warned you not to insult her, but, oops – too late. Make sure you lock your door tonight. And maybe wedge a piece of furniture in front of the window? I mean, I do my best, but these government-issue handcuffs can only do so much. And a man’s got to sleep some time. Oh, hang on one second.’ He pulled out his phone. ‘Could you hold this?’ He handed his drink to the first woman before she had time to react. ‘I need to take this call. Keep an eye on her for me, would you? I won’t be more than five minutes, fifteen, tops.’
And with that, he vanished through the crowd. As did the women a split second later. Although they weren’t quite so slick, toppling into a table on the way and causing the heads to fall off a rapidly melting ice-sculpture of the happy couple.
Mack reappeared a minute later. ‘Do you want to get out of here? Go for a walk or something?’
Did I?
Old Jenny – absolutely. Why would anyone in my circumstances want to be here, unless it was to cause trouble?
New Jenny? The woman I was trying to be had made a promise to stop running away. From scary woods, falling-down houses, family problems, unnerving nun-mums or her past mistakes.
Yes, I had lost. The man, my job, my home, my pride.
But, honestly? Zara had kind of deserved that punch. And everyone in this room who knew what had happened knew that too. Most of them were probably jealous that I’d got to tear out a chunk of her perfect, pretend hair. And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t apologised, about forty-seven million times.
No more running. No more hiding. No more excuses. I was here because I’d been invited and I was jolly well staying.
‘No.’ I shook my head.
And then the photographer ruined it by requesting all family members to gather for the next picture.
Mack’s eyes met mine. ‘Best get up there, then.’
Hardly. I couldn’t breathe, or speak, let alone make my way across a slippery parquet floor in six-inch heels.
The bride’s mother appeared and stepped inside a giant snow-globe, the backdrop for all the photographs. Zara mimed for her to remove the black veil but Sister Claire merely smiled.
‘Come on, family members,’ the photographer called again. I shrivelled up against the wall, and tried to appear like just another statue. My complexion surely more stone-like than human at that point.
A gaggle of people who must have been Richard’s family – judging by the swagger and the oversized heads – squeezed into the snow-globe and arranged themselves around him.
‘Wait!’ Sister Claire said, popping her head out of the side of the globe. ‘Jenny’s not here. You can’t take it yet. JENNY?’
Zara tried to yank Mum back, eyes resembling a couple of those glass balls in museums with blue electricity zapping about inside like lightning. ‘What are you talking about?’
