Some Kind of Wonderful

by Giovanna Fletcher

  ‘Morning,’ I say, kissing Ted on the cheek and sliding in next to Mum on the bench opposite while looping my arm around her waist and placing my head on her shoulder. She kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘Is she up yet?’ Mum asks.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll know when she is,’ I say, prompting the others to laugh.

  ‘I heard that,’ Michelle says, wobbling into the room with a massive grin on her face. ‘I’m getting married!’ she shouts, her hands fist pumping the air multiple times.

  We all cheer in unison as Dad bashes the spatula against the frying pan to make a clanging sound as if making a toast. Seconds later we’re gathered around the table munching on sausage and bacon sandwiches, slathered with ketchup, on glorious white bread.

  White bread was severely frowned upon when I lived with Ian. Most processed food was, actually. I understood when it came to McDonalds, but was silently miffed when it came to my bread and pasta choices. At first I refused to believe it was that terrible for me when the rest of the population seemed to be happy enough eating it. But my reluctance to budge meant Ian started to refuse eating food I’d cooked. He wasn’t being mean. He just wanted to stick to a set diet while training – although training for what I could never quite understand. It’s not as if he was Greg Rutherford and about to one-and-a-half hitch-kick his way into becoming a long-jumping Olympian. Not even close. He simply liked being fit – which was fine, but I couldn’t cope with there being no heaven-sent carbs in my life, so decided to compromise. As soon as I tried the bread alternatives of wholemeal, sometimes rye (the fresh loaves, not the odd little packets that fall apart when you look at them and never ever seem to go mouldy – what is actually in it?) and wholemeal or brown rice pasta, I realized I was going to be OK. We were going to pull through. That being said, even in Dubai I found myself longingly looking at the spread of delicious white bloomers, rolls, ciabatta and focaccia, and begrudgingly thinking of Ian’s disapproving judgement if I were to take any back to the table with me. God forbid I would be that gluttonous … which I obviously was. My top drawer at work is stuffed with naughty treats. Whenever I’m there on my own, I slowly open it, my body instantly reacting in a shameless manner. I don’t slowly nibble and savour, I actually scoff. Without chewing. The phrase ‘it didn’t even touch the sides’ was made for me in those moments of pure greed. The sad thing is that I didn’t enjoy any of it. Instead I’d feel rotten and guilty as my tummy automatically bloated and gurgled at me in pain, wondering if Ian would notice I’d caved in to my longing.

  Well, not any more. As I sink my teeth through the spongy white bread and crunchy, salty meat, I feel positively orgasmic.

  ‘This is flipping great,’ I say to Dad as he slides in next to Michelle, which isn’t an easy feat, given her current girth and his long legs.

  ‘Thanks, Larry,’ Ted says, licking ketchup off his fingers. He’s a dopey thing is Ted. Or maybe I should say docile. My dad wouldn’t be sat here with us if Ted was less of a man than he is. He’s not threatened by Mum’s past, and that’s why he’s slotted in so nicely. It feels natural to have him here with us now.

  ‘This is the perfect start to my magical day,’ Michelle grins, looking around the table at us all with tears in her eyes.

  I do the same and love what I see. Life might sometimes be shitty and startling, but nothing will ever surprise me more than this sight – my dysfunctional family being more functional than some of the supposedly functional families I know. Whatever happens in life, I know I’ll be lucky to have this crazy bunch there with me every step of the way.

  ‘You’d better not screw up my hair, Elizabeth,’ Michelle suddenly warns me, interrupting my pleasant thoughts while wiping her mouth and throwing a warning look my way.

  ‘Oh, crap. That’s exactly what I’d planned to do,’ I say, my voice thick with sarcasm.

  ‘Well, jealousy does funny things to people,’ she tells me.

  Whether she means it or not, there’s an air of smugness to her voice that riles me.

  ‘Like the time you put a cigarette burn in my prom dress half an hour before I was due to leave?’ I ask, wanting to smack the look off her face.

  ‘Exactly,’ she nods over the sound of Mum gasping – she was there when I cried off my make-up in a major meltdown. I told her it was Michelle who did it but little Chelle acted all innocent, telling Mum she’d never do something as foolish as smoke, even though I knew she always had a pack of menthol Silk Cut hidden in her school gym bag.

  ‘Or the time you hid my car keys so I missed Jason Solomon’s party?’

  ‘I think you’ll find the police turned up that night and Jason got arrested for possession of Ecstasy,’ she shrugs.

  ‘No!’ grumbles Dad, the bubble of our innocent childhood bursting.

  ‘I did you a favour that night. It’s a shame the same can’t be said for Connie who got caught high as a kite.’

  ‘You said she was drunk,’ says my poor mum, who I had persuaded to go with me and get my best mate in the middle of the night so that her own mother didn’t find out and go mental.

  ‘OK, what about when you tried to snog our maths teacher!’ I stammer.

  ‘What of it?’ she asks, giving me a defiant stare while not denying it. Clearly not willing to address the inappropriateness of being found with her hand on Mr Howell’s shoulder while her eyelids fluttered in his direction. She laughed it off as soon as she saw me and thankfully, although he looked ridiculously uncomfortable and fearful (probably for his job), nothing went any further. I still feel sorry for Mr Howell as I am adamant the whole thing was entirely orchestrated by my little sister.

  ‘Michelle!’ Mum squeals.

  ‘You knew I had a passion for maths,’ she says candidly. ‘It’s not my fault Elizabeth didn’t possess the same talents.’

  ‘You were being a slut!’ I blast.

  ‘Girls,’ says Ted, who’s never really had to live with us or tell us off before. ‘I think you should stop now.’

  ‘I didn’t start it. The dumped one did,’ snarls my wonderful sister.

  ‘Michelle! Go to your room now!’ Mum reprimands, her voice booming louder than I’ve heard it do in quite some time.

  ‘My room? My room? I would, but Dumbo here has his running machine in there and all my stuff has been shoved into the loft.’

  ‘Wh –’ starts Ted, looking speechless.

  ‘I don’t know what we’re all playing at here but –’

  ‘OK, OK, OK. Stop it,’ I shout over Michelle, who’s still carrying on with her spree of insults. ‘Shut up!’

  Thankfully she does so. The tamed beast tenses her jaw as she looks down at her empty plate.

  ‘Right. You’re stressed because it’s your wedding day and emotionally unstable thanks to the rather large loaf you’re currently baking. Let’s stop though. This is going to be a magical day for all of us. Got it?’ I say forcefully, surprised at myself as I take control of the situation. I might’ve helped start it, but there’s no way I can continue.

  ‘Oh fuck, I’m so sorry,’ weeps Michelle, her demeanour changing in an instant as her bump bounces up and down with each sob.

  Pregnancy hormones are lethal. After seeing Chelle’s rollercoaster of emotions in action last week and now, I vow never to leave the house, for the security of the nation, whenever I do indeed get pregnant – which seems like another dream that has sailed up the river to Not-going-to-happen-any-time-soon-ville thanks to me being a newly spun spinster. A further heartbreak.

  ‘Don’t be soft, darling,’ Dad says, giving Michelle a little nudge.

  More sobs.

  ‘Hey,’ he soothes, putting an arm around her shoulder and kissing the top of her head.

  ‘I’ve already ruined the day,’ she sniffs, covering her face with both hands.

  ‘Far from it,’ Ted tries, pursing his lips.

  ‘We’re all a little bat-shit crazy here – that’s why we love each other,’ offers Dad, his face deadpan.
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  ‘Couldn’t have said it better myself,’ Mum nods, the sides of her mouth curling even though she hates any of us swearing.

  ‘Go have a shower and I’ll come up and get everything ready for you,’ I tell her, gathering up the empty plates as I get to my feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says sheepishly, nibbling on her lip as she leaves the room.

  We don’t breathe a sigh of relief as she leaves the room. We don’t all look at each other wide-eyed and joke about what just happened. We don’t mock her outburst. Today is her day and we’re behind her every step of the way.

  We are united.

  I cry when I first see Michelle in her wedding dress in my childhood room, the organza lace flowing wonderfully over her womanly shape.

  I cry when I see the look of pride our parents and Ted give her when she’s walking down the stairs.

  I cry in the back of Ted’s Ford Mondeo when I hear the bells ringing at the church ahead of our arrival.

  I cry when Dad takes hold of Michelle’s hand and kisses it while preparing to lead her up the aisle.

  I cry when I walk into the church, which smells heavily of incense, and see their families and all of their friends staring back at me with expectant faces, eager to see the bride. One hundred and twenty-three faces looking at me and through me all at once.

  I cry when I see Stuart, who is usually devoid of any emotion, welling up at the sight of his bride behind me.

  I cry when Mum gives a delightful reading of Corinthian’s Love poem – the opening line always being one to make me assess how I’m letting my own love rule my emotions.

  I cry when Michelle stumbles over her vows and gets the giggles, causing her bump to shake beneath her dress.

  I cry when the elderly choir start singing a questionable version of ‘If I Ain’t Got You’ by Alicia Keys, and my elderly nan starts joining in even though she has no idea of the melody.

  I cry when Stuart fist pumps the air once they’ve been pronounced man and wife, a relieved look falling on both their faces.

  I cry as they hold on to each other and laugh their way out of the church towards their future as a married couple.

  I cry, and every single one of my tears is for my sister on her incredible special day.

  Pride, happiness and joy.

  All for her.

  Just as it should be.

  15

  ‘I thought she’d bump me up, not move you down,’ Connie grumbles in my ear as we look at the seating plan in front of us.

  I know there was a standard top-table set-up until I became a solo entity. Since joking (not joking) about my inconsiderate heartbreak ruining her plans, Michelle decided to rip the whole thing up and start again. Rather than me being sat with my family, I’ve now been shoved on what appears to be the singleton table.

  Yaaaay …

  I’m so thankful Connie is with me right now, even if she has come in her black Dr Marten boots and canary-yellow lace midi dress and looks utterly cool while I’m standing in an unforgiving floor-length lavender bridesmaid’s gown that longs to hug in all the wrong places. I seem to have grown a sympathetic pregnancy bump in the last couple of weeks or, more accurately, a gigantic food baby. I did say I wasn’t the sort to starve myself or go off food in the name of love, so it’s not too surprising I can see the results of my indulgence.

  ‘Wait! Before we go over there,’ I say, holding on to her arm to stop her, grabbing two glasses of bubbly from a young waitress’s tray and thrusting one in her direction. I haven’t had a proper chance to talk to her and know the day will only get more manic as it progresses.

  ‘Huh?’ she sounds, accepting the drink.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I beam, touching our glasses together. ‘You did it and I’m so proud.’

  ‘You are the sweetest,’ she says, grabbing my face and planting a big kiss on my cheek. ‘I’d be nothing without you, Elizabeth Richardson.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh!’

  ‘I mean it,’ she says, her eyes wide as they look lovingly at mine. ‘I’m so glad we fought over that doll when we were younger and our mums split us up and forced us to be friends.’

  ‘That’s not what happened!’ I laugh, screwing up my face.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she giggles. ‘Come on. Let’s go see what riffraff we’ve been lumbered with.’

  We get to our table to find a couple of guys (lads might be a more accurate description) hovering by their chairs while goofing around. One girl is in her seat already, although currently glued to her phone, her petite frame hunched over and her brow creased as she frantically taps away on the screen that she holds just inches from her eyes.

  ‘Oh, you win Mrs Sociable,’ Connie whispers in my ear, pointing at the name cards that confirm I am indeed sitting next to her.

  I sneak a glance at the card next to mine in the hope I’m next to someone else I know and see I’ve been left with Paul Short, Michelle’s ex of three years. Wow. She really is trying to punish me for the inconvenience of my life. Paul wasn’t a particularly friendly person, so I’m surprised he’s agreed to come to this. That being said, I’m sure they both have their reasons for the inviting and accepting. Michelle probably liked the thought of smugly rubbing her marriage to a really nice guy in his face, and I bet Paul’s intrigued to see the man who’s agreed to put up with Michelle for the rest of his life.

  Regardless of the reason for his presence, it means I’ll be eating between a guy I could never stand and a woman who could be lost in the deep dark comment section of the Mail Online for all I know.

  I hope the grub is going to make this worth it.

  Kicking out the bottom piece of fabric on my dress that keeps gathering at my ankles, I pull out my chair and shuffle into a sitting position. My tummy bulges against the fabric, so I squeeze my chair in as far as I can, unfurl my napkin and place it in such a way that it covers it up. My concern dissipates instantly.

  ‘You’re Michelle’s sister, right?’ the girl next to me asks in the sweetest of voices, no longer having an intimate moment with her phone. She’s gorgeous. Her long brown hair frames her olive face beautifully and those big brown eyes are divine.

  ‘Yep,’ I smile, proud to be sister of the bride regardless of the unflattering attire she’s put me in and the table she’s placed me on. ‘I’m Lizzy.’

  ‘Natalia,’ she says, putting her hand on her chest. ‘You guys look nothing alike.’

  ‘Sometimes we do,’ I shrug. Funny how people do that – hear you’re of the same gene pool and set about dissecting your features, habits and quirks, as though you’re a puzzle to be conquered. ‘That’s my bestie Connie over there,’ I point, just as Connie elegantly downs the rest of her Prosecco.

  ‘Oh, do you want to swap?’ Natalia asks, starting to get out of her seat as she takes my words in the wrong way.

  ‘God no!’ I say, pulling her back down. ‘Michelle would kill me if I started playing around with her plan.’

  ‘She really would!’ Connie heavily nods from across the table, her lips pouting outwards.

  ‘OK … Well, it’s lovely to meet you,’ Natalia says, smiling in Connie’s direction.

  ‘Hello!’ Connie grins back. ‘What about you? How’d you all know the happy couple?’

  ‘To be honest we haven’t got to know your sister too much yet,’ Natalia replies, looking back at me regretfully. ‘We went to secondary school with Stuart. Me and that bunch,’ she says, glancing over at the group of guys who are just starting to take their seats.

  ‘Oh, nice.’

  ‘You must have loads of gossip on old Stuie then,’ Connie whispers conspiratorially while placing her elbows on the table and sitting forward, eager to hear what Natalia has to offer.

  ‘Loads,’ she laughs in reply. ‘But if I spill what I know so might he and I’d rather keep those skeletons in the closet where they belong.’

  ‘I hear you!’ Connie cackles. There’s a reason why everyone loves Con as soon as they meet her
. There’s no awkwardness with strangers, just this warmth that’s instantly genuine.

  ‘This is such a treat. We rarely see each other,’ she says, smiling wistfully at the guys in front of her who are pouring themselves wine and tucking into the bread and butter.

  ‘Funny how life changes,’ I say.

  ‘Exactly. You know what it’s like. Life moves on but it doesn’t mean you don’t love the people who used to be in your life every single day. People you meet at school help sculpt who you become,’ she says, hesitantly looking at her phone before placing it face down on the table. A split second later, changing her mind in a decisive manner, she picks it back up and puts it in her clutch bag before dropping it on the floor between her feet.

  ‘We’ve been friends since we were tiny,’ I share, my finger wagging between Connie and me. ‘Even though I went up north to uni we remained as tight as ever.’

  ‘That’s rare! With me my uni mates took over really.’

  ‘Well, I got into a relationship straight away,’ I say, kicking myself for talking about Ian, but deciding not to dwell on him much longer. ‘Connie was the only mate who didn’t require loads from me or get shitty over how much time I was spending with my ex. Our friendship is effortless. Always has been.’

  ‘I can’t get rid of her!’ Connie laughs, pointing her thumb at me. ‘I’ve tried.’

  ‘She’s even moved to London to try and shrug me off,’ I join in with a smile, knowing she doesn’t mean a single word of it. ‘But then I just turn up unannounced and ruin dates.’

  ‘She really does,’ she smiles, reassuringly winking at me.

  ‘So whereabouts in London are you now?’ Natalia asks, picking up her glass of white wine that one of the guys opposite, the cute one with the brown shaggy hair, has silently poured for her.

  ‘Bethnal Green?’

  ‘No way! I used to live just round the corner but have edged slightly closer to Shoreditch.’

  ‘Fancy.’

  Natalia doesn’t bat away the compliment. Instead she nods her head at it. ‘All of my mates live around that way so I couldn’t go too far, but I set up my own business a couple of years ago and the time just felt right to make another bold move.’