by Lucy Vine
‘Hold on,’ I say suddenly, feeling all emotional. ‘I want to make a proper toast.’
Lauren puts down her drink and we stare at each other, grinning for a long second, silently communicating like we always do. I briefly consider climbing up on the chair but catch the barmaid’s eye and decide against it.
‘Lauren,’ I start, my voice wobbling a bit. ‘You’ve been my very best friend since I was twelve. I remember the first day back at school after the Easter holidays, seeing you that first time. You were standing over in the corner with the cool kids on the basketball court, looking so grown-up. I was impressed by your super awesome Nike cap, and the crimped orange-y yellow hair sticking out from under it. I never thought I’d be cool enough to hang out with you. And then you came over and asked me about the pink streak in my hair and I realised you were nice, too. I told you all about my obsession with the singer P!nk and then you listened for a good ten minutes while I tried to justify the exclamation mark in her name, even though there is no justification. Then we screamed the words to ‘You Make Me Sick’ at each other and you laughed so hard you spilled Apple Tango all over yourself.’
Lauren sniffs, her eyes wet, and Joely snorts. Simone looks confused. I understand these must be strange, foreign words to her. Does Apple Tango even still exist?
I clear my throat and continue, ‘You could’ve used your popularity powers for evil at school, but you didn’t. You were so kind and generous. You lent me all your Sweet Valley High books, one by one, and we read them together and called ourselves The Unicorn Club. I was the loser new kid no one liked, and you took me under your wing. You’re still that person, always looking out for me and making me feel like somebody special and important. Protecting me whenever you can. We’ve seen each other through the best and the worst of life. You helped me recover from my first big heartbreak, when Ben Gage dumped me in front of everyone at the freshers’ ball in week two of uni. You were there when my parents split up.’ I pause to swallow. ‘And you encouraged me to apply for my dream job and made my CV look all shiny. You’re always rooting for me, and you make me a better person, Lauren.’
Joely grins at us, while Simone still looks confused.
I keep going. ‘Lauren, back at school, I thought you were the most beautiful, cool and funny girl I’d ever met, and 16 years later, I still think that. I feel very lucky to call you my friend and even luckier to be your maid of honour.’ I pause, thoughtfully. ‘I’m so happy for you and Charlie. He is an excellent choice and we all adore him. Much, much better than 2011’s bed-wetter, Gary. But let it be noted that he is very lucky indeed to have you and he better be worthy of you. I can’t wait to help you plan this wedding, Lauren, and I will really try not to let you down.’ I break off and Joely bursts into applause.
Lauren leaps up to give me a hug, shouting, ‘That was so beautiful, Lilah, I love you so much and I hate you for making me cry. You have to make a toast at the wedding! But don’t mention that Nike cap. I wore it for three months straight and Charlie would call the whole thing off if he found out.’
We start giggling again, and next to us Simone suddenly starts loudly sobbing. ‘I don’t have any friends as nice as you lot,’ she wails, and Lauren, Joely and I all look at each other a bit awkwardly. Simone continues, speaking in her cut-glass accent through tears. ‘I moved to London last year and all my school friends stayed at home to have babies. I’ll never find a boyfriend and I’ll never have children. It’s so unfair. I’ve got no money and I so wanted to prove to Dad and Charlie that I could make it on my own and stand on my own two feet, so I put my whole trust fund into this “Toblerone scheme” a boy on Tinder told me about. I thought I was going to make a huge pile of money – he said I was.’ She looks around at us, tearfully. ‘How was I supposed to know it was a pyramid scheme and they’d just re-branded the shape? I thought I was going to get rich and eat mounds of free chocolate.’ She trails off into muffled incoherency, as the rest of us look at each other bewildered.
I pat her kindly. Poor little thing. Being young is hard.
Simone suddenly points accusingly at Joely’s generous bosom. ‘And you are so pretty and have huge boobs, which totally isn’t fair. No boy will ever like me because I don’t have any boobs. I’m basically just nipples.’ She cries harder, waving at her childish figure.
I search for consolation and find none.
‘Of course you have boobs!’ Lauren says warmly, putting her arm around her new sister. ‘Those are definitely boobs. All you need are nipples, anyway. Nipples are the basic ingredients of boobs.’
Simone looks flummoxed. ‘I have the . . . basic ingredients for boobs?’ she says slowly, and I nod encouragingly as Lauren gives me a helpless look.
Joely chimes in loudly. ‘You’re lucky,’ she says, patting her own chest, which jiggles happily in response. ‘Without a bra, these are already somewhere around my vulva. I have to push them aside when I’m having sex. And it’s only going to get more and more inconvenient as I get older. At some point I’ll need to have them up in stirrups for intercourse.’
Simone looks a little cheered and I pick up my glass. ‘Let’s get back to the celebration,’ I say, clinking her drink and smiling nicely.
‘Yes,’ shouts Joely, adding, ‘it’s a Monday night, so let’s drink ourselves to death!’
Simone’s face falls again and she stutters, ‘Actually, my cousin drank himself to death . . .’
Joely cuts her off. ‘OK, that’s enough about you for now.’ Simone flinches as Joely continues, ‘We’re here for my cousin, Lauren; we don’t want to gossip about your weird family right now.’
Joely doesn’t care what Simone or anyone thinks, and that’s probably what I like most about her. We all grew up in the same area, outside Manchester, and we knew each other as teenagers, but Joely went to a different school. It wasn’t until after uni when we all moved into Manchester city and shared a flat that the three of us got to be best friends. Living together has a way of cementing a friendship – or cracking it wide open – and honestly, we could’ve gone either way. It was great for the most part – bonding over drunken takeaways, bonding over drunken film nights, bonding over drunken My Single Friend dates (yes, there was a lot of drinking and a lot of bonding) – but Lauren did almost murder Joely on a weekly basis over the bins. And also the washing up. And the hair in the drain. Oh, and also the hoovering. Basically, we wouldn’t be where we are today if we hadn’t eventually agreed to pitch in for a cleaner.
Joely is a plus-size model and actually kind of famous now. It is the weirdest thing when someone you know – someone who has peeled you unconscious out of a plate of garlic dough balls – becomes a Famous Person. She started blogging about clothes and beauty stuff five years ago, and last year she realised she was doing so well, she could quit her job as a fashion PR to be a full-time ‘social media influencer’. I was so worried about her doing that, because I couldn’t believe that was a real job that would pay her very real rent. But she has 2.3 fucking million followers on Instagram and one of those blue ‘verified’ ticks! She makes way more money than any of us now, and, whenever we’re out, young girls are constantly coming over to fawn and ask for a Snapchat-filtered selfie with her. Actually, I’m surprised Simone hasn’t said anything yet, because she looks just like every one of Joely’s other fans – young, posh, fashionable and scared. You wouldn’t believe the stuff she gets sent for free, too. Designer bags, posh make-up, clothes that never fit (why send a plus-size Instagrammer size-eight clothes?!). She gets offered free luxury holidays just about every day, and all they ask for in return is some Instagram comment saying it’s great. I told her she can’t take the holidays because it wouldn’t be ethical – and also mostly because they won’t let her take us – but we’ve all agreed designer bags are absolutely fine.
The whole fame thing is confusing. But looking back now, it seems like it was always pretty much inevitable for Joel
y. She’s had that star quality people talk about, right from day one. But probably much, much more important and relevant is just how extremely, ridiculously good-looking she is. She looks like that model, Ashley Graham, but hotter, taller and larger. Everything about her is big and luminous. As long as we’ve been friends, people have always turned and stared at her longingly when we enter a room. And unlike me – worrying that it’s because everyone is judging me – Joely firmly believes and knows it’s because she looks gooooood. She’s always been my most terrifyingly confident friend, and it totally works for her.
She dominates every conversation, drawing in all the attention, and taking control in situations where I cower. All of which, I know, makes me sound like I’m a jealous bitch, and oh God I so am.
I’m really jealous of her effect on men, too. In case you haven’t guessed, they are obsessed with her. They fall at her surprisingly in-proportion size-nine feet. It’s weird because, if you scroll through some of the thousands of social media comments she gets on every post, you’d assume men hated her. The amount of male ‘fans’ telling her she’s too fat to live and that she deserves to be raped to death is just . . . well, I guess, actually not that surprising with social media these days, but it’s still awful. And yet, put her in front of a group of blokes in a bar and it’s like they’re hypnotised. On any one night out, at least three or four guys will come over to ask her out, or send over drinks. Joely loves the attention – which is handy given what she does for a living – and can give as good as she gets. If there’s a man she fancies across the room, she’ll just go over and ask him out, without any fear. Obviously, she’s really offensive, like, all the time, and I wouldn’t want to piss people off like she does, but I do wish I had the bravery to stand up for myself more and be honest like her.
Basically, I am somewhere between wanting to be Joely, and wanting to have sex with her.
Lauren squeezes Simone reassuringly, as Joely continues excitedly, ‘Come on, then, Lozza, what are you thinking about for this wedding? Summer? Winter? What’s the plan?’
Lauren looks sheepish, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, we don’t have to get into all that tonight,’ she says hurriedly. ‘Let’s just drink and chat. I don’t want to be a boring bride who takes a notepad around with her everywhere she goes. Let’s talk about you guys. Lilah, how’s work? How’s Will? How many cups of tea did you have to fetch for Rex today?’
I shake my head. ‘Don’t be silly, we want to talk about this!’ I cock my head at her. ‘Lauren, you’re engaged! This is your big day!’
She takes a deep breath and makes eye contact with each of us around the table. ‘OK, I don’t want to freak anyone out, but Charlie and I have talked about it. And we’ve officially decided on Saturday ninth of December for the wedding.’ She pauses and Joely looks at me, confused.
‘This year?’ I say, alarmed.
Lauren grimaces. ‘Yes. And I know that’s only six months away, but we don’t want to waste the next two years obsessively planning this. I’ve seen enough mates go off the deep end planning their wedding. And Charlie really wants to do it sooner rather than later. He’s worried about his grandparents not being alive much longer, and it’s not going to be an over the top wedding abroad or anything . . .’
Joely shushes her furiously, leaning over the table towards her cousin. ‘December?’ she says, looking horrified. ‘It can’t be done, Lauren! What the hell are you thinking? People don’t plan weddings like this in six months! You’re going to have an atrocious fuckbag of a to-do list, Loz. It’s impossible! The dress alone usually takes at least three or four months to be ordered and fitted.’
Lauren’s eyes widen and she swallows hard.
I try a little more tact. ‘It does sound like it might be a bit of a rush,’ I say carefully. ‘Are you sure you can’t wait a little bit longer? Don’t you want to enjoy being engaged for a while? And I thought you always wanted a summer wedding with a strapless dress? Are you sure a December wedding is what you want?’
Lauren takes a deep breath. ‘I know all that. I know it’s a big ask, but it’s do-able,’ she says, giving herself a determined shake. ‘We’re going to have the ceremony and reception at Charlie’s dad’s place, right, Simone? So the venue is already sorted. We just need to sort out the smaller stuff – a marquee, flowers, decorations, table plans, guest list, invitations . . . Oh, and I’ve already ordered some cheap – non-strapless – dresses from abroad, which are possible wedding dresses, so they might be OK. And I know you’ll help me, won’t you?’ She looks at me beseechingly before continuing. ‘I think we can get most of what we need at, like, a couple of wedding fairs, right? So I just need to make speedy decisions and be prepared for a few compromises. But we can totally make this happen in six months . . . can’t we?’ She pauses, swallowing hard, and I can see the cogs in her brain whirring.
‘You’re insane,’ Joely pronounces, throwing her hands in the air. ‘You don’t realise all that’s involved with wedding planning. Tell Charlie you don’t care about his dying grandparents – soz, Simone – and that you want to do it next summer, earliest.’
Simone looks a bit hurt again but doesn’t say anything. Lauren bites her thumbnail and I can see she’s processing the magnitude of what’s ahead. I feel myself breathing heavily, because she’s not the only one. This is going to be a mammoth job.
Lauren looks at me, seeing my fear, and her lip trembles. She reaches for me, searching my face for reassurance. And I do the only thing I can and offer it.
‘Don’t worry, Lauren, we’ve got this,’ I say firmly. And then I take her sweaty, quivering hand and I squeeze the hell out of it.
Wedding Number Two: Charlotte and Eamonn, Town Hall, Greater Manchester
Theme: Cheapness. It’s on a Wednesday, which should tell you everything you need to know. Also, everyone keeps talking, misty-eyed, about ‘finding love second time around’, as if it’s some kind of miracle, just because the bride and groom are in their fifties.
Menu: Smoked salmon starter, followed by chicken and a meringue dessert. Veggie option: stuffed red pepper with goat’s cheese.
Gift: Joint membership to the National Trust with benefits @ £135.
Gossip: Despite being in her later life, the bride went pole dancing for her hen do, where she predictably slipped and broke her nose. She has two black eyes and spent her wedding day following the photographer around, telling him to please please Photoshop the pictures.
My bank balance: £305
3
Tom’s lip trembles as he opens the door and sees me standing there. Bless my little brother, he does find things difficult. He pulls himself together as he notices the two figures standing with me and says with enthusiasm, ‘Oh, hiya, reinforcements!’ There is relief in his voice.
I’ve got Lauren here with me – she insisted on coming. She said I shouldn’t have to ‘deal with those arseholes’ on my own. I pointed out that Will would be coming along to support me, and she just waved her hand dismissively. ‘Your boyfriend is a sweetheart, Lilah,’ she told me, graciously, ‘but he’s too nice in these situations, too diplomatic. I’ve known these idiots for half my life; I know how to handle them. I’ve got your back, I’ll look after you.’
I fucking love Lauren.
On that subject, Tom very much loves Lauren too, but in a less platonic way, and he hugs her for a second too long after ushering me and my bodyguards inside. ‘Thank God you’ve arrived,’ Tom says to me when he eventually lets go of Lauren, pulling me in and whispering ominously in my ear, ‘They’re both here.’
I pull away and place my hand on his shoulder, making square eye contact like I’m an army captain, reassuring my troops as we head over the trenches and into a hopeless battle. Which isn’t even really an analogy – it’s basically exactly what is happening.
‘Don’t worry, we can handle this,’ I say determinedly. ‘Are they
on opposite sides of the room pretending not to see each other, like usual?’
Tom nods, wide-eyed. ‘They are,’ he confirms. ‘But they also each keep beckoning me over to their corner to slag the other one off. I’ve tried pretending I can’t see them, but it’s not working. You have to save me. Dad says he’s going to slash Mum’s tyres when she next goes to the loo.’
Let’s get this out of the way right now: my parents are the worst. I love them because they’re my mum and dad, but yeah, they’re fucking awful. They divorced a few years ago and since then, it’s like they can’t see anything else. Their hatred of each other is all they care about and it’s all that gets them through the day. And yet they still insist on being in a room together for events like this one – my brother’s 25th birthday – in their quest to prove who is the bigger person. When I called each of them this week to discuss Tom’s birthday, the conversation with both went something like this:
Me: Yes, I know it’s his twenty-fifth, but he really, really doesn’t want a fuss. He says he’d happily just go for lunch with all of us separately.
Mum/Dad: Why doesn’t he want a fuss? Is this your father/mother’s doing? Because if he/she thinks I can’t cope with an evening in the same room as him/her celebrating my only son’s birthday, then he/she can go fuck him/herself. This is grossly unfair. I am an extremely, extremely mature adult – far more mature than him/her – and I am more than capable of being civil for the evening. He/she may not be over our divorce, but I certainly am. I’ve moved on. I’m fine. I don’t give a tiny shit about him/her.
Me: No, really, Mum/Dad, it’s not that, he/she hasn’t said a word, I promise. It’s just that Tom doesn’t want to do a big thing this year, and y’know, it’s probably better for you both if you two aren’t forced into a room together . . .