What Fresh Hell

by Lucy Vine

  Franny side-eyes me as she licks her fingers and dabs at the crumbs on her plate. ‘Good girl,’ she says agreeably.

  ‘Anyway, yes, Lauren is great, thanks for asking.’ I quickly change the subject back. ‘I’m meeting her and Joely for our weekly wedding meeting on Friday. This one is about making a final decision on the hen do over a glass of fizz. It’s very important.’

  Franny tuts. ‘Hen dos these days.’ She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. ‘It used to be that going for a glass of fizz was the hen do. Never mind pre-hen dos to plan the sodding hen dos. It’s all so excessive. Everyone wants to out-do and one-up everyone else. You’re not going abroad, are you?’

  I look sheepish. We are definitely, a million per cent going abroad. In fact, I’m still trying to subtly talk Lauren down from a week in Vegas. It would be logistically impossible with the amount of people she wants to invite and with only a few months to plan it. I also really, really can’t afford it. Not with all the other weddings and hen dos I’m doing this year. I keep being seized with panic when I think about my outgoings and the increasingly terrible financial situation I’m in. So I don’t think about it. That is the healthy way I deal with my problems.

  ‘Er, nothing’s set in stone just yet,’ I hedge.

  She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Are you going to get an actual holiday for you and Will this year?’

  I laugh. ‘Oh God no. As well as Lauren’s, I have a ton of other hen dos and weddings this year. That means loads of trips away, not to mention the actual nuptials themselves.’

  I mentally start making a checklist for myself to crack on with tonight. I urgently need to book train tickets and a hotel for my friend Emily’s Devon wedding in a couple of weeks. I need to find the log-in for her wedding website – God knows where I put it – so I can find the link to their Debenhams gift registry and pick out a present for the happy couple. There’s also another overnight hen party coming up in London for a work friend, so I need to get a tutu for that and some presents for the eighteen goody bags I’ve been asked to sort out. I’ll worry about the rest of the weddings – and everything on the Lauren to-do list – after I’ve sorted those.

  I feel the weight of everything all of a sudden, and out loud I add, ‘And I need to mass order some wedding outfits from Asos.’

  Franny looks bemused. ‘Can’t you just wear the same frock to them all?’

  ‘Oh Jesus no!’ I am mock-horrified. ‘Think of the Instagram scandal, Franny! Everyone from my school days follows me on there. You can’t be seen in the same clothes more than once or twice when social media is watching.’ I laugh.

  Now Franny looks really aghast. ‘Bloody hell, you lot. We don’t need the government or Big Brother secretly watching us anymore, do we? We’re all volunteering our every move and action on Tweeter, or whatever the hell it is now. And what is this nonsense about your school friends? Most of them were horrible to you anyway. What do you care what they think?’

  I don’t know how to explain why it matters, because it probably doesn’t really, so I fall silent.

  She continues loudly, ‘This is because you used to be fat, my darling.’

  Oh bloody hell, the fat thing again.

  She starts waving at Andrea, who scurries straight over with two slices of lemon drizzle cake. She drops the plates in front of us with a clatter and runs back to the kitchen before Franny can comment on the state of the dessert.

  ‘You were fat,’ Franny goes on, wiping her fork on her dress and ignoring my sigh. ‘And you listened to those stupid little fuckheads in your year about not being worth anything. You believed it, and even now you’re still trying to prove something to them – and maybe to yourself. But you don’t have to. You didn’t then and you don’t need to now, either, my darling girl. You are worth ten times any of them.’

  I look around the room, desperate for some kind of distraction. I don’t want to be talking about this. It’s boring and not even true.

  Franny goes on: ‘I thought when you met that friend of yours – what’s her name? It’s something modern and ridiculous?’

  ‘Joely,’ I confirm.

  ‘Julie, that’s it, darling. The really fat one. I thought when you got close to her, you might take a leaf out of her book. Get a bit of confidence and start liking yourself a bit more. Instead –’ she gestures at my body – ‘you got thin. Which is fine, I suppose. And you’ll always be beautiful, whatever size you are, Delilah, but now you run around trying to prove things to people who don’t warrant a second thought from you.’

  I sigh. She’s got it all wrong. It wasn’t like that.

  Franny smiles nicely, sensing my irritation. ‘My wonderful girl, I just want you to realise that you can say no to people occasionally. You know that, don’t you? You don’t have to go to all these silly things. Send your best wishes and love, then make room for your own life and things you want to do. You have a wonderful life waiting for you here; don’t waste your time living out other people’s dreams. And what about Will? You have to make room for him and stop sidelining him in your life if you want it to work between you. Maybe this proposal of his was about trying to get your attention, stop the pair of you drifting apart. If you want to be with him, you should be listening to what the two of you need.’

  I sit up straighter, determinedly brightening to show her I’m fine. ‘OK, I hear you, Franny,’ I say, ‘but you really don’t need to worry about any of this. This year is going to be really busy, yes, but I don’t have any other option. These are my friends, and their weddings are important. It’s really, totally fine. I’m excited.’

  It sounds a bit hollow but never mind.

  I know Franny means well but she doesn’t get it. I don’t have a choice in this. I have to do everything that’s expected of me. Once the weddings start, it’s like an endless parade. You say yes to one girl you only knew a little bit at university and suddenly you can’t say no to the other university friend you only knew a little bit. And when you’ve helped arrange one friend’s hen do, your other friends expect you to do it for them when it’s their turn too. Once you’ve spent a fortune on someone’s big weekend in Ibiza, why wouldn’t you do the same for everyone else? It’s wedding politics and it’s a very delicate balance; an endless white treadmill covered in fresh flowers. Franny doesn’t have a clue about any of that. She’s lucky she missed this generation’s obsession with showing off. It’s only started happening in the last few years. I blame America. It’s usually their fault when we do things, isn’t it? We copy everything they do.

  And, really, it’s not just about it being a duty, it’s also that I don’t want to miss out on anything. There’s so much happening around me, everyone is moving so fast. Marriage, houses, babies. I would feel miserable and so lonely watching it all play out on Facebook and Instagram without me. I’m ashamed to say I need to feel included. I’m afraid of being forgotten by my friends. It’s that fear of missing out – FOMO – thing the internet talked about constantly in, like, 2014. Being invited to the most important day in someone’s life means I count. I matter to them. It’s a weird friendship yardstick, proving I’m liked. And just because I know that’s silly and pathetic – and that I’m a trivial, shallow person for feeling like that – it doesn’t mean these feelings aren’t real. They still affect me.

  I smile playfully at Franny. ‘Anyway, I don’t have anything else happening in my life. What else am I going to spend my money on, if not weddings?’

  It’s a rhetorical question but Franny looks at me a little sadly as she says quietly, ‘Yourself?’

  I get up, rolling my eyes as I turn away. I love Franny but this isn’t helpful. I have to get back to work.

  Wedding Number Four: Piers and Emily, Tilsbury Park, Devon

  Theme: Traditional as fuck. Morning coats and tails as far as the eye can see. Which is not actually very far because there are millions of fascinators blocki
ng my view.

  Menu: Smoked salmon starter, followed by chicken and a meringue dessert. Veggie option: stuffed red pepper with goat’s cheese.

  Gift: A plush-looking toaster off the Debenhams wedding list @ £105.

  Gossip: Bride found in tears just after ceremony because her ‘wedding hashtag’ wasn’t trending. She’d been asking guests to ‘build traction’ with #SheepyMarriesLamby on their social media for the previous eight months.

  My bank balance: £54

  7

  When I arrive at the bar, Joely is telling a man in a kindly voice to ‘get back to your Lidl swamp’. She screams excitedly when she sees me and leaps out of her chair, almost whacking the hapless Lidl guy in the face as she does so. He slinks away, looking sulky in his fancy suit, back to his laughing friends.

  ‘Lilah!’ she says happily, encasing me in a big, soft hug. Joely gives the best hugs. OK, yes, partly it’s because she’s physically so large and cuddly, but it’s also because she does this folding you in thing. She takes your whole person into her bosom, and never does that back pat everyone else seems to lead with. You know the patting I mean? Like they’re so desperate to let you know they want the touching over as soon as possible. It’s like they’re tapping you out of a wrestling match. Really, I don’t think Joely would ever willingly be the first to exit a cuddle.

  She presses my face into her incredible chest and I let it happen, thinking about nothing and just enjoying the lovely feeling. So comforting and warm. Like sinking into a giant set of bottomless pillows filled with the softest feath— Hold on, I can’t breathe.

  I pull away, gasping for air, and grin at my beautiful friend. We’ve been getting closer lately, bonding over Lauren’s madness, and it’s been fun. She’s nuts, of course, but she’s also very wise. She has a way of seeing through to a problem, slicing through the bullshit. The other day I almost told her about Will’s pseudo proposal. But I feel disloyal telling her and not Lauren. Really, I should tell them both, but it never feels like the right time and Lauren has so much on her plate – she doesn’t want to hear about my dumb stuff right now.

  We sit down, chatting excitedly about our week as she pours wine into my glass. Lauren is running late, like always, and Joely immediately starts complaining about her beloved cousin.

  ‘Do you think we really have to keep coming to these meetings every week?’ she says, exasperated. ‘Haven’t we talked about all this? Surely the endless WhatsApp chat is enough? Why is Lauren being such a demanding nightmare? We have lives too! I have an extra video to edit for my blog this week, and Calum Best has been pestering my agent for a date again, so I need to get that sorted so I can get back on the Daily Mail homepage.’

  I nod. I get it.

  Not the Calum Best part – I don’t get that at all, what is she talking about? Is he even still a thing?

  But I get her frustrations with Lauren. Her dramatic side has really kicked into gear in the last week or so. The texts start early and basically never end. Like, I went to bed at 1 a.m. last night, after an already long day of wedding texts, and woke up to this:

  You have 17 new WhatsApp notifications

  Lauren: Are you still awake? [1.07 a.m.]

  Lauren: Is your phone on silent? [1.11 a.m.]

  Lauren: Damn, I thought that would wake you up. [1.12 a.m.]

  Lauren: Lilaaaaaaaaah, I’m worried. I think I hate my shoes. [1.22 a.m.]

  Lauren: I don’t know what I like anymore. What do I like? Do I like things? What if I hate everything? [1.28 a.m.]

  Lauren: What if I dyed the shoes red?! That would be so edgy and cool, right? And perfect for a Christmas/December wedding! [1.45 a.m.]

  Lauren: No, it’s too Father Christmas, isn’t it? [1.57 a.m.]

  Lauren: Shall I dye them?!!!! I think I’m going to do it! [2.10 a.m.]

  Lauren: I have some material dye in the garage from Charlie’s tie-dye phase last year. [2.21 a.m.]

  Lauren: I think I should do it. [2.22 a.m.]

  Lauren: OMG SHALL I DO IT? [2.25 a.m.]

  Lauren: Sorry, I know I’m being silly. It’s 2.30, I have work in the morning, I can’t start dyeing Jimmy Choo shoes in the middle of the night. What was I thinking????!!!! [2.39 a.m.]

  Lauren: LOL, ridiculous, sorry. Haha, can’t believe I was seriously considering doing that. Night babe. [2.50 a.m.]

  Lauren: OK, I did it. Looks really, really terrible. These shoes cost £400. Charlie’s going to kill me. [3.43 a.m.]

  Lauren: Have also dyed my hands. [4.10 a.m.]

  Lauren: Morning! You awake yet? Have emailed you links to possible new wedding shoes. [6.45 a.m.]

  Joely: Hey, just a heads-up, I’m going to murder Lauren. [7.15 a.m.]

  My phone is on constant high alert. And when Lauren’s not texting me her wedding shit, Joely’s texting to complain about the wedding shit.

  I’m still trying to look on the positive side, though. The constant stream of messages is making me feel dead popular. Everyone at work thinks I’m so in demand! And it is brilliant to see Lauren so passionate about a project. I haven’t seen her like this in ages.

  She works in commercial advertising, coming up with ideas and liaising with clients. She’s really good at it from what I can tell – she’s won awards and that – but she really hates everyone in her office (all men), as well as the work itself, which mostly seems to be centred around adverts for sanitary towels. The rest of her team (to reiterate – all men) don’t want anything to do with that ‘women stuff’ so she gets stuck with all the feminine hygiene products, which apparently makes up seventy per cent of their revenue. She says she’s trying to move away from the patronising shit – like, why is Mother Nature chasing you around in fucking pearls? And how can a sanitary towel be shaped ‘especially for me’, when I’m shaped like a pebbly Brighton beach down there? But that faux-feminist, faux-empowering stuff is all the clients ever want. So this wedding has been a great distraction from blue water and silky packaging. It’s nice to see Lauren focusing and channelling her creative talents into something she genuinely cares about.

  But still, she’s being annoying.

  ‘What happened to that one out of JLS you were meant to be seeing?’ I say, moving the subject towards safer territory. ‘I thought you were going on a few dates with him?’

  Joely shakes her head. ‘He’s started going out with someone from last year’s X Factor final. She has a single coming out, so his agent said she is more “right now” for his solo career.’

  I nod sagely, like I understand. I do that a lot. These insights into the celebrity world are completely fascinating and completely perplexing.

  ‘At this rate I’m going to have to leak some topless pics from my phone just to get some media attention,’ she says, giggling. ‘My agent said I could claim I’ve been hacked. He said hacking is really cool at the moment and my follow rates have dipped a little this month.’ She throws back her head and laughs, and I join in. She wipes her eyes and goes on. ‘Sorry, I know my life is utterly ridiculous these days. Who would’ve thought a couple of years ago that I’d find myself debating nude selfies?’

  I snort. ‘I’m pretty sure you were doing that three years ago. Weren’t you dating that awful teacher back then? The one who prided himself on having catchphrases?’

  ‘I’ve farted so I’ll finish!’ Joely shouts triumphantly and we both fall apart.

  ‘Speaking of dreadful men with great hair,’ she says, still giggling, ‘how’s your boss? How’s work, how’s life? Tell me everything, Lilah. And if you mention weddings, I will smash this bottle across your face.’

  My mouth falls open and for a moment I’m at a loss for a response. It feels like ages since someone properly asked me how I am, without it coming back to someone’s wedding or hen do. It’s been all wedding, all the time lately. How even am I? Usually it would be Lauren checking in on
my life, but she’s been so preoccupied lately, it seems strange to be sharing this moment alone with Joely.

  ‘I’m OK . . .’ I start, hesitating.

  Right, this is the time to tell her about Will’s non-proposal and how awkward it’s been between us since. It’s now or never. Can I trust her not to say anything to Lauren? Is it a betrayal to tell one of them and not the other? Joely is looking at me quizzically, waiting for an answer.

  Thankfully I am saved from myself by a commotion towards the front of the bar. Lauren has arrived and it looks like she’s dropped an enormous pile of bridal magazines all over the floor. A group of women are on their hands and knees helping her pick them up. Lauren is bright red, her long blonde hair messy over her face, telling everyone she’s sorry, sorry, sorry. Joely and I run over to help, collecting up copies of Weddings, You and Your Wedding, Perfect Wedding, Elle Wedding, Brides, Bride Magazine, and a whole host of other gleaming white publications. Lauren is still saying sorry, so we start saying sorry too, and then the women who’ve helped pick the mags up also start apologising. There’s nothing more British than excessive, unnecessary apologising – apart from maybe getting angry at other people having too much fun.

  We eventually sit back down to our drinks and, for a moment, I think we will pick up the conversation about me again. It feels like the right time to talk to them both about Will and I realise suddenly how much I need their advice.

  ‘Guys . . .’ I start and Lauren shoves a magazine in my face.

  ‘It’s wedding meeting time,’ she says curtly. ‘You two can finish your pointless bitching later. We don’t have time for silly stuff.’ She barks out a laugh to show she’s joking, even though she’s not.

  Oh.

  Feeling a bit stung, I dutifully study the pages, and halfheartedly listen as Lauren tells us about researching table stands. She cheerfully details how she and Charlie had a screaming row about marquees this morning and how she’s changed florists. Again.