Crappily Ever After (30 page)

‘Kasia, are you OK?’ I ask with concern. Mary appears behind me.

‘He is dick! Mary, how you put up with it so long? I hate him and I leave tonight,’ she nods her confirmation.

‘Oh Kasia,’ Mary gives her an awkward hug. ‘What has he done?’

‘Kasia sighs, ‘I pay all rent, I loan him money for his sick mother.’ Mary and I exchange a look; Joan has never been better. ‘If it wasn’t for these children, I would have gone, long ago!’

‘Kasia, come in and have a drink,’ Mary ushers her upstairs and into the flat. Craig looks up in awe, halting on L of the burp alphabet and smiles at the beautiful Kasia. She laughs delightedly, wiping her eyes.

‘Continue, please! My Papa, he can do most of alphabet, but not all.’ 

                                              Chapter Twenty-five              

I arrive in Ireland for Becky’s wedding. Mike has yet to decide whether he will attend or not. He has told Becky to keep his invite open until he can see if he can get a flight. Load of crap, of course, and she knows that, but can’t really do anything else about it. So I arrive on my own. Becky picks me up from the airport, despite my insistence that I could take a taxi; she has enough to deal with. Becky looks gorgeous! She has lost around a stone since I saw her last – not that she needed to – and has had her dark blonde hair highlighted and cut into a face framing style. That alone makes a huge difference, and softens her pretty features even more. Part of me kind of hopes Mike won’t turn up. It may just remind him of what he’s missing.      

Bob has gone to stay at his parent’s house for the night so that Becky and I can have a girly evening, but also to avoid him seeing the bride before the ceremony. We kick off by ordering out for pizza, and then watching a movie aptly titled
My Best Friend’s Wedding
with diet cokes and face packs on. This is followed by the arrival of a beautician friend of Becky’s to give us both a French manicure. Both of us have our hair set in bendy rollers and are informed that hair always sits better the day after it’s washed. Urg! I need to wash my hair every day. It feels like an oil slick if I don’t. But Becky will follow the advice to the word. We eventually head to bed, unable to get comfortable due to a combination of rollers and excitement. We share the same Kingsize double bed, as we occasionally did when we lived together. It reminds us both of growing up, sharing a room with our sisters and giggling late into the night.   
  
          

Morning comes. I don’t actually remember falling asleep, simply finishing my hot chocolate, switching off the TV and listening to the gentle sound of Becky’s snoring. I awaken around eight o’clock to the sound of an over-enthusiastic bird outside the window. Early Spring, such a nice time of the year, with all the new baby things. Chicks, I hear at the moment. Mum always tells me it reminds her of me. I was a Spring baby too, and woke her every morning with an internal kick. Her very own dawn chorus. Becky     stirs and rolls over, slumping an arm across my chest. Nose inches from mine. I try not to laugh at her close proximity, but my shaking shoulders rouse her. She opens her eyes and, seeing me out of context, is momentarily disorientated. Then, gathering her senses, she smiles widely at me and announces:

‘I’m getting married today!’   

‘You sure are honey, but best you do something about your breath first.’     

The next few hours fly by in a flurry of appointments: first, the beautician to finish off the manicure polish and apply the make-up, then the hairdresser to style our hair and fix our hairpieces. I am separated from Becky for well over an hour while the stylist helps her to dress. I am just having the orchid placed in my new curls when Becky walks in.    

She is stunning!    

‘Bob is the luckiest guy in the world,’ I give her a proud smile. She hugs me and then holds me out at arm’s length to view my
ensemble
.   

‘Gorgeous,’ she exhales, and we crack open some champagne to celebrate. Becky’s little nieces arrive in full flower girl regalia – how cute. Not at all what I would have said only a year ago when I was off kids. Becky anticipates motherhood greatly. She can’t wait to have one and is already off the pill to try for a honeymoon baby. The little girls are in violet, a couple of shades deeper than my dress and, at Niamh’s request, wearing floral head-dresses and fairy wings. Becky, ever indulgent, gave in. I love this look on me. Empire line really disguises the fact that my hips are a bit bigger than my chest. I make a mental note to make sure I buy similar styles in the future.           

The cars arrive. Becky, her Mum, the little nieces, Emer and Niamh, and I, all pile in. As ladylike as we can, which isn’t ladylike at all, really. Arms, legs and lopsided head-dresses everywhere. The little ones chat excitedly, but Becky looks nervous. 

‘You OK?’ I ask her. She exhales loudly.

 ‘I am so excited Lucy,’ she shakes her head, looking dangerously tearful.   

 ‘Don’t smudge! shouts Emer. ‘Mummy warned me not to let you,’ and she pulls a fairy embroidered tissue from her little bag and shakes it towards Becky. This small gesture diffuses the situation and Becky laughs. Back to her usual self. We arrive and walk to the door of the church. Becky’s Mum is giving her away. I organise the small ones behind me and instruct them to keep a few paces back to prevent treading on the fishtail of my dress. We hear whispered chatter from inside the church. People are twisting round in their seats to get the first glimpse. The organ begins to play the opening bars of
Ave Maria
and we begin to walk down the aisle. I hear giggles as we pass by, and turn to see Emer cross-eyed and poking her tongue out as she passes everyone.   

‘No!
Emer,’
I hiss, trying hard not to laugh and turn back before I fall headfirst into Becky and cause a pile up. On the seventh aisle from the front I see Mike. He turns around to look at us and Becky reaches out to give his hand a squeeze on the way past, smiling broadly and mouthing ‘thanks’ to him. Mike catches my eye. He looks me up and down, raising his eyebrows in approval. I smile and give him a sidelong look. He’s looking quite buff. Still a hint of a tan and has obviously been at the gym. Bob’s face is one of rapt joy – he cannot believe his eyes. Two rows back I see a red-faced, slightly swaying, bald man. He leans out and smacks Becky on the bottom as she passes. She turns and glowers at him. He winks and clicks his tongue twice. His wife elbows him roughly. I accidentally kick his ankle on the way past. Oops, clumsy old me! He yelps and clutches his ankle. Emer and Niamh giggle.             

The ceremony is lovely. I don’t attend church regularly but do enjoy a good Christmas Mass or wedding. Oh, and nativity plays of course. Jess was the cutest sheep ever at hers. I saw the video. Shame she wee’d on the stage, but I guess sheep do that sometimes. The time comes to take the vows and the priest asks if we know of any reason why this couple should not be joined in matrimony. A couple of years ago I could have written a speech on the subject, but not now. I hear a throat clearing behind me.   

‘Actually, yes, I do.’

 No way! Mike? We all swing round in shock. Not Mike. Drunken bloke struggles to his feet.   

‘Yes?’ The priest removes his glasses and looks stunned. I’m betting this has never happened to him before in his entire career, but he’ll have to take it seriously.    

‘See, Father, she secretly fancies me, got the wrong brother didn’t ye, love.’

Hushed whispers and quite a few shouts echo around the church.  

‘Oi, shurrup!’

‘Drunken erse!’  

‘Sit down, ya fecking eedjit! Sorry Father.’   

Bob laughs, Becky joins in and the brother is dragged by his collar out of the church by his rather large wife. Panic over, we continue and everything else, thankfully, goes without a hitch.     

Outside, the sun is shining brightly. Becks has the best day for her wedding. We do the obligatory line-up for the photographs. Drunken George has been allowed back, on the condition that he shuts the feck up and has no more to drink ‘til the dancing begins. The photographer, who appears to have a lifetime ambition to become the next Gok Wan, takes an age to position us perfectly. Amazing how a foot at the wrong angle will ruin the picture. If I ever marry, I would much prefer paparazzi-style shots. They’re much more natural and spontaneous. Also means you don’t spend hours blistering in the sun with Emer and Niamh, who are the world’s biggest fidgets. We almost had a perfect shot till Gok-alike realised Niamh was scratching her bum in it. Her excuse, a leftover chicken pock from two weeks ago. Elderly relatives recoil to a safe distance from the threat of shingles.   

‘Gok-alike’ has lined us up again for a final reel of film.

‘Make me look thinner,’ Becky shouts.

‘It’s a fecking camera, Becky, not a magic wand.’ George could contain himself no more. When it is developed the photo shows four severely pissed-off faces and Emer picking her nose.                 

It isn’t until after the speeches and meal that I finally get a chance to speak to Mike. He looks relieved to see me, as he has been seated next to Becky’s elderly aunt. He has had to take her to the toilet three times already and, due to her incontinence problem, he twice had to rummage through her bag to find clean drawers and a fresh pad. I drag him off to an empty table so we can have a catch up. 

‘You look good Lucy. Scrub up not too bad at all.’

‘Thanks,’ I brush off his compliment, ‘so what made you decide to come to the wedding?’ I have to know.  

‘Just decided that it was silly not to, really. I’m over Becky and wish her well. Besides, I have my eye on someone else now.’

‘Oh, from Aberdeen?’   

‘No, not from Aberdeen,’ he laughs and gives me a knowing look. Shit! Mary. I must have put the suggestion in his head. She’s happily hooked up with Drew now.   

‘Oh Mike,’ I cover his hand with mine. ‘The object of your affections loves another. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh!’ Mike looks shocked. ‘That was quick, she was single last I checked.’  

 ‘I know, it happened really unexpectedly, my Mum’s boyfriend’s son of all people.’

‘I see,’ Mike shrugs dismissively, but I can tell it’s bothered him. ‘Oh well, never mind. Fancy a dance?’   

‘Sure,’ I smile, apologetically. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he needs to know. It couldn’t work anyway, unless he was to move to Arbroath, and I really can’t have him do that. I can’t run the restaurant on my own. I know it crossed my mind before, but with hindsight, I doubt I could. From four of us to one in a year – I shudder at the thought.          

The evening passes too quickly. George is being an arse and groping anything in a skirt – his poor wife, I really feel for her. Becky has a ball, but I barely get to speak to her. Everyone seems to have had a good day. And Becky is married. I can hardly believe that this sparkling, happy girl is the same one I knew a year ago. Mike and I head back to our hotel, preparing to turn in for the night. I can’t stay at Becky’s as it is all locked up for honeymoon. She did offer, but it was going to be complicated with keys and stuff. Also, the flight is for nine in the morning and her house is a fair bit away from the airport. On arriving back at the hotel, we notice the bar is still open. Great rules in Ireland and Scotland for opening times; if people still want to drink, the bars will stay open.     

We order a couple of vodka and cokes, rather generously-sized ones, and flop onto a squashy sofa in front of the log fire, me still in my dress and Mike in his kilt. The change of drinks, from champagne to wine and then vodka makes me feel fuzzy-headed and there appears to be two Mikes. I put my hand out in front of Mike’s face and grab thin air. Nope, not that one, I laugh. I reach for the other one, and catch his stubbly cheek. He smiles and covers my hand with his. Holding it against his face. I take a wobbly sip of my     drink, peering curiously at him over the rim of my glass and snort an unattractive laugh.  

‘Michael Johnston, if I didn’t know better I’d think you’d be flirting with me,’ I say in a Dublin accent. It’s hard to shake off after being surrounded by them for days. 

‘Maybe I am, to be sure,’ he replies, with a lopsided smirk. 

‘Woah! I’m drunker than I thunk.’ I lean away from him, slopping vodka down my pretty bodice. ‘I mean, I’m sorry about Mary an’ all, but I am not the consolation prize.’

Mike looks confused. 

‘It’s got bugger all to do with Mary? But I’m not going there with
you
, dating a man who’s practically your brother,’ Mike laughs. ‘Only you would dare do something so… out there. One of the many amazing things about you.’