My Sister's Wedding: For better or worse, two families are about to become one . . .

by Vicky Pattison

  A wooden floor with a lovely Indian rug. Oooh. This man is well travelled and has good interior design taste. Another pat on the back for Drunken Me from last night.

  To the side of me, there’s a small bedside table with a whole pint of water, undrunk, sitting on top of it. Awww. This mystery potential bonk has taken the time to make sure I’m well hydrated. How sweet!

  This is good. This has potential. Drunken Me has seriously upped her game – the last time I woke up like this the geezer had a room full of hand puppets. Extreme creepy vibes. Not ideal on a hangover. Not ideal ever, really.

  And then I spot a white satin dressing gown with pink marabou fluff around the edges.

  Oh no . . . That’s a wife’s dressing gown. Did I . . . did I do it with a married guy?

  Lizzie! Ugh. You harlot! You home-wrecker! How could you? I mentally punch myself in the face and jump out of the bed, only to realise that I’m fully clothed. Hmm. The plot thickens. Maybe I didn’t shag a married guy, after all.

  I’m just downing the pint of now-stale water when the door bursts open and a woman of about forty-five marches in.

  Is this the wife? Bollocks! I’ve been caught.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ I splutter before she can say a word. ‘I have a rule to not ever get with married guys. I must have been so drunk. Like work-Christmas-party-when-you-end-up-kissing-Barry-from-HR drunk!’

  The woman laughs out loud, her kind eyes crinkling at the edges. She doesn’t seem to be bothered about this at all.

  ‘You were certainly drunk, Lizzie.’

  How does she know my name? Holy shit – did I engage in some kind of suburban threesome last night? Am I a lesbian now? Why can’t I remember? This is a new low, even for me.

  My thoughts must be pretty clear because the woman says, ‘I’m Darlene. The landlady of the Horse and Machine, remember? This is my pub.’

  ‘We’re in a pub?’

  ‘You fell asleep at the bar last night. You told your friend to leave you there. I tried waking you up and you told me that I smelled like strawberry Pop Tarts and summer holidays, if I remember correctly, and that we were going to be best friends for ever, and then you fell back asleep.’

  Well, this is awkward. Darlene seems perfectly nice but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be best friends with her. I already have a best friend and he smells like chocolate croissants and afternoons at the beach which tops whatever Darlene smells like by far. I feel something buzzing in my jeans pocket and pull out my phone. It’s a text from said best friend. One of many texts. And then I notice the time on the phone. Half past four in the afternoon? I jump up from the bed, fly past Darlene and open up the blackout curtain. It’s total daylight. I was supposed to be at work, like seven hours and twenty-five minutes ago. Oh, shit. I can’t lose another job! Becky will go nuts. Dad will be so disappointed! Huge bag of titty ass!

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ I ask Darlene in exasperation. Her kind eyes flash a little.

  ‘Well, in between putting you to bed late last night, and working all day in my pub, I haven’t really been thinking too deeply about whether you’d be late for YOUR job. I assumed you were a student, to be honest.’

  ‘A student? Aw, Darlene, that’s so sweet of you but I’m actually twenty-three, although everyone says I look younger. It might be this anti-ageing face cream that I use – I think it’s Nivea, or maybe it’s Olay . . . ’

  LIZZIE!! What are you doing wittering about face cream with this random, albeit very nice, virtual stranger? You’re late for work AGAIN. Shut up and get out of there, you knob!

  Darlene raises an eyebrow slightly. ‘Right. Well, um, oh dear.’

  I don’t like the look she’s giving me. It’s judgey. Way too judgey for this time in the morning. Well, afternoon.

  Shit.

  ‘Thanks for looking after me. I need to go see if there’s any way I can save my job. Can I give you some money or something?’

  Darlene shakes her head and then looks at her watch. ‘Well, how late are you?’

  I pull a face. ‘Seven and a half hours.’

  Darlene stares at me in horror for a moment before bursting into laughter. ‘You better hurry up, then.’

  With a grimace I grab my handbag from where it’s twisted around the leg of an armchair and take off.

  As I hop down the stairs I can still hear Darlene laughing at me.

  So that’s another pub I can’t come back to. Shame – this one had real potential.

  After an uncomfortable, headachy five-minute run through the centre of Camden, I reach Paulo’s Diner where I work as a waitress. I’ve only been there for three months. Before that I was an usher at the cinema but got fired for drinking all the raspberry Ice Blasts and never paying for them. #yolo

  I burst in through the doors of the diner. A couple of elderly gentlemen look up from where they’re sipping espressos in tiny cups.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ I shout to Paulo who is behind the counter, arms folded. He doesn’t look happy. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I forgot to set my alarm and I woke up in a pub, well, upstairs in a pub, you know, in the living quarters, and I thought I’d had a threesome, but don’t worry I hadn’t, but I still I didn’t know where I was and this job is very important to me and I will make this up to you, I promise.’ I grab Paulo’s hands, pleading, aware that I’ve probably just given him a little bit too much information.

  ‘Ah – five minute late, I understand. Ten minute. Maybe even twenty or thirty minute because Paulo is understanding guy. But a whole day late? I’m sorry, bella. I cannot accept this.’

  ‘Noooo!’ I run my hands through my curls. ‘I’m already crashing on the sofa at my best mate Jay’s house, and I owe Bex so much money already – I reeeeeally need this job!’

  ‘I don’t know Jay. I don’t know Bex. Why you shouting at me the names of people I do not know?’

  I try a different tack – he’s right, of course, he has no idea who those people are. ‘Other than today, I’m a really great waitress. Well, I’m a good waitress.’ I see Paulo’s face twisting in disagreement. ‘OK, OK . . . I’m a slightly above average waitress? But I really try!’

  ‘Lizzie, you are a bad waitress. You are an OK waitress on a very good day . . . You spill things, you do not remember people’s orders—’

  ‘All right, Paulo. Way to kick a girl when she’s down. Come on, please give me another chance.’ Oh God, oh God, oh God. I can’t lose another job.

  ‘No, Lizzie, your chances have ended. I cannot set this example for my other staff. I’m sorry, bella. You snooze you lose.’

  A couple of the customers tut and sigh in my direction. I exhale, defeated. I literally did snooze and lose. Even I can’t argue about that. Balls. Why can’t life just be simple and fun and easy? Jeeeeez.

  ‘OK. I guess that’s it. Bye then, Paulo,’ I say sadly, slinking towards the doors. Away from a perfectly good job. I quite liked it there too. They played old school American rock ’n’ roll and the tips were good. Where else will I find a job that plays American rock ’n’ roll and gives me a free cheeseburger for my lunch? I could try Frankie & Benny’s, I suppose, but I’m too distraught to even think about applying for another job right now.

  ‘Bye, Lizzie,’ Paulo replies cheerfully, as if he hasn’t just fired my spaghetti-spilling, excuse-making, perma-late arse. You cold-hearted tosser, Paulo.

  Outside the diner, I take a fifteen-minute walk to the high street (stopping via Boots for some paracetamol, Berocca and water – now that I can add jobless to my list of problems, this hangover headache just became a whole lot more aggressive) where Jay works at Edge Men’s Boutique, a pretentious clothes shop for pretentious men who call each other ‘bro’, or have beards and tell everyone they’re vegan or businessesy types who spend more on a belt than most people would a couple months’ rent. It’s almost 5 p.m. so he should be finishing soon. He’ll cheer me up. He always does.

  As I enter the store I notice Jay is help
ing a suave businessman pick out some jeans. I plonk myself down on one of the plush leather armchairs by the fitting rooms, watching Jay’s interaction with amusement. The customer is married – I can tell by the big wedding ring on his finger – but Jay is still flirting up a storm. Jay has a thing for straight men. And he’s successful with them more often than you’d think. He’s tall and tanned and more groomed than any woman I’ve ever met. His green eyes sparkle with mischief and he is always in a good mood. But more than that, he’s fun. People like hanging out with Jay because he’s good old-fashioned fun. I recognised this in college, before he got his teeth done, before he got the tan and the confidence and the style, back when he was obsessed with Eminem and had terrible bleached hair. I bagged him as my bestie nice and early, before his uber glow-up. He is mine and I am his. And I can safely say ours is the most successful and healthy relationship I’ve had with a man ever.

  Five minutes later the married man has left with a new pair of jeans, Jay’s phone number and a slightly redder face. Jay shimmies over to me, shaking his shoulders in a way that makes me laugh, despite the fact that I’m having a pretty shitty day.

  ‘Bitch needs to answer her texts,’ he mock tells me off. One of his pet peeves is to be left textually hanging. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at work anyway?’ he says in his lilting Geordie accent, leaning down to give me a kiss on my cheek.

  ‘Got fired. I was late. Seven hours late. Why did you let me fall asleep at the pub?’ I give him my grumpy face.

  Jay sits down on the chair beside me. ‘I tried to wake you up, Lizzie! You told me to fuck off. You told me that bar stool was like sleeping on a cloud. And then that landlady said she’d put you to bed and you seemed really happy about that.’

  I bury my head in my hands. ‘Eugh . . . The shame.’

  Jay looks at his watch. ‘Babe, I’m finished in ten minutes. Shall we go out?’

  I laugh. ‘I woke up less than an hour ago. I’m hungover to fuck and I just lost my job.’

  Jay grins and chubs my cheeks. ‘Exactly! We shall drown our sorrows, yes? Well, your sorrows – I’ve had a great day.’

  ‘You twat!’ I mock scold him – I could never really be mad at Jay. Hmmm. Well, it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to be tomorrow and I’ve still got space on my credit card for a few drinks . . .

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Cocktails at Boo and then a gig at The Camden. Some sick up-and-coming indie band. The New Design?’

  I nod casually, trying to act cool and what I assume to be nonchalant (I’m not entirely sure what it is but I feel like this situation calls for it). But the truth is, I’m well aware of The New Design. I saw them at a gig in Soho last month and the lead singer is the fittest man I’ve ever seen in real life. Like I’ve seen better-looking men on the telly and stuff but this was the closest I’d ever come to a man of that level of hotness. He is, of course, way out of my league, on the cusp of being hugely famous and successful and the final punch in the dick, always surrounded by a gaggle of gorgeous groupies. Despite all this, he is very nice to look at with his dark curls and strong unshaved jawline. Looking at him will definitely cheer me up, and I need cheering up.

  I look out of the shop window and see a red bus slowing to a stop. The bright spring sunlight hits the window, reflecting on the pavement with a silver glow. It looks beautiful. I pull out my phone to take a snap, angling the camera so that it picks up the stunning silver light coming off the road.

  ‘Let’s see,’ Jay says, grabbing my phone. ‘Ooh. That’s gorgeous. You really do have an eye for this stuff.’

  I shrug modestly, upload the picture to Instagram and give Jay a grin.

  ‘Right then, J-man – since I am officially a jobless bum . . . again . . . first round’s on you.’ God, I have no willpower.

  Chapter Three

  Becky

  ‘We’re being burgled!’ I hiss, sitting up in the bed in our Notting Hill flat, swiping off my silk sleep mask and turning on the bedside lamp. ‘Daniel! Wake up!’

  Daniel groans sleepily. We’re well and truly sexed out. Nothing quite heats things up between the sheets like getting engaged. ‘Whaaaa?’ he mumbles, eyes still closed.

  ‘Burglars,’ I hiss again. ‘I can hear them moving around!’

  The words sink in and Daniel’s eyes shoot open. He pats me on the arm. ‘You stay here,’ he says, dragging on his bathrobe and heading to the door.

  ‘No way, I’m coming with you!’ I hiss, getting out of bed. ‘Wait! You need a weapon!’

  ‘A weapon? This isn’t Cluedo, Bex!’

  ‘Daniel! Be serious. We have intruders in our home!’ I stage-whisper back, aware I’m being dramatic and verging on hysterical but at the same time being completely powerless to stop my rising anguish.

  Daniel nods and concedes, obviously sensing my growing hysteria, his eyes darting around the room. He grabs a candle from the dresser.

  ‘A scented candle!?’

  ‘It’s a church pillar candle, it’s really heavy. Look how huge it is!’

  He creeps towards the bedroom door. I follow closely behind, grabbing my huge golf umbrella from the wardrobe in case Daniel’s scented candle doesn’t quite manage to ward off the thieves.

  We step out into the hallway and head towards the lounge, as quiet as mice, ready to apprehend the lowlife criminal. We push open the door slowly, turn the light on; I hold up my umbrella like a warrior, Daniel his scented candle like a scented-candle salesperson and—

  ‘Yo, guys. What you holding a candle for, Dan? Weirdo.’

  Lizzie. Feet up on the sofa, eating a bowl of Coco Pops. I hear Daniel breathe a sigh of relief that matches my own. Phew. It would be terrible luck to get burgled on the night you got engaged.

  I hurry over to my little sister. ‘Lizzie Wizzie.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Daniel says with a relieved chuckle, finally popping his candle of mass destruction down on the coffee table as he leaves.

  ‘It’s four in the morning!’ I scold, sitting on the sofa next to Lizzie.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, her voice slurring a bit. ‘Had nowhere to go. Still had my keys from last time you let me stay.’

  ‘I thought you were crashing at Jay’s house?’

  ‘I was, but he pulled and it’s only a studio flat. I didn’t want to, like, watch him going at it. Shouting support from the sidelines. We’re close but not that close.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say, grabbing the soft woollen blanket from the back of the sofa and draping it over Lizzie’s lap. ‘So where’ve you been?’ I ask.

  Despite her slightly tipsy demeanour my sister looks as gorgeous and vivacious as ever. Her blonde curls are big and backcombed and her curves have been poured into a cute black playsuit. Her rosy cheeks are even more flushed with alcohol and I notice she’s wearing long, wispy fake eyelashes which make her eyes prettier than ever. With my lanky limbs, pale skin and dark hair, we’re physical opposites. People are often surprised to find out we’re sisters. Not only because we look so different but because we have practically nothing at all in common.

  ‘We went to a gig,’ Lizzie says, shovelling in another spoonful of cereal. ‘I took some pictures. Do you want to have a look?’

  I take Lizzie’s phone from her. She’s opened her Instagram where there are a bunch of lively, edgy shots of a band singing. There’s one of a man with dark curly hair and a tight black T-shirt. His eyes are half-closed as he cradles a guitar. It’s an amazing photo.

  ‘Did you take this?’ I ask, impressed with how creative she is. I think, not for the first time, about how much potential she has. If only she would focus on anything beyond having a good time.

  Lizzie grins. ‘He’s fit, isn’t he?’

  Before I can answer that yes, he is very definitely attractive, Daniel walks in carrying a tray with a pot of tea, some mugs and a little bowl of sugar because, while he and I don’t take it, he knows that Lizzie likes three spoonfuls.


  ‘Dan the man!’ she says, happy to see him. He places the tray on our coffee table and leans in to give her a hug. I love how well they get on. I often get exasperated with Lizzie’s flighty nature, but Dan’s always reminding me that she’ll find her own way eventually. He gets so much pressure to follow in his dad’s footsteps, the esteemed Rupert Balfour, that I think he quite likes seeing someone who’s marching to the beat of her own drum. I think it inspires him. He lives vicariously through Lizzie. And if I’m honest, so do I a little.

  I pour out some tea, add three big spoons of sugar and hand the mug to Lizzie. As I do, she looks down at my left hand, her eyes widening, her mouth opening into an O shape. She gasps.

  ‘What’s that?’ she points, a grin spreading across her pretty face. ‘What is that fuck-off diamond doing on your finger?’

  Daniel laughs. ‘We were going to tell you tomorrow, but, well . . .’

  ‘Daniel asked me to marry him.’ I say to Lizzie. ‘And I said yes!’

  ‘About bloody time!’ Lizzie yells, her eyes shining. She puts down her tea, and reaches over to give me a big warm squeeze. Then she jumps off the sofa and does the same to Daniel, smothering his face in kisses. ‘You’re my brother-in-law!’

  She’s practically bouncing with joy. This is why it’s hard to be annoyed with her for too long when she does stuff like banging into our flat in the early hours with no warning. Because when she loves it’s loud and it’s infectious and when she’s happy it’s written all over her face. Our Lizzie hides behind nothing. She was only eleven when our mum up and left without a word of explanation, old enough to understand what had happened but luckily young enough for me and Dad to be able to distract her and shield her from most of the heartache. She didn’t have to take on the responsibilities that I did so she grew up wearing her heart on her sleeve and as happy-go-lucky as she could be. She didn’t develop the caginess or build up the walls that I did because Dad and I made sure she didn’t have to. Her heart is an open book and it’s one of the reasons she’s so loveable. My heart, on the other hand, is not so much ‘open book’, it’s more ‘expired library card’.