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: Chapter 7

When I return to the dining table I replace May has switched seats, placing me next to the out-of-my-league blond with the chin dimple.

‘Your first course . . .’ she says, motioning somewhere between the salad plate and his lap.

I push through my embarrassment to greet him. ‘Apparently we’re playing musical chairs!’

He looks bemused then distracted as I lower into my chair, bringing my cleavage into his full view. I knew this neckline was too provocative – the silk drape has a way of falling off to the side, giving the impression that the whole dress might peel away of its own accord. Of course, I know there’s no danger of that, but he looks optimistic.

‘I’m Tristan,’ he says. He reminds me of an aftershave model, not just because of the polish of his jawline but because he’s been a little heavy-handed with the cologne. It’s a clean, almost metallic scent – very banker by day, Bond by night.

‘Amy,’ I smile politely. ‘You work with Marcus?’

‘I do now, but I’ve known him for years – we did Ten Tors together as teenagers.’

I nod as if I know what this means – I think it’s something rigorous and outdoorsy designed to help budding alpha males expend energy.

‘I’m Charlotte’s friend from school.’ I go to make a joke about how ‘We did Maroon 5 together as teenagers!’ but I don’t think he’d replace it funny.

‘More Sancerre, sir?’

I feel a little self-conscious as my waiter steps between us to top up Tristan’s glass.

‘And this one.’ Tristan moves an empty glass into the line of pour. ‘You seem to have lost yours in the move.’

‘Oh no, not for me!’ I protest.

‘Not drinking?’

‘I’m just not a big fan of wine.’

‘That’s because you’re drinking the wrong wine.’

‘Is it?’ I say, mildly offended.

Tristan leans back in his chair, addressing the waiter. ‘Do you have a Château Canon 2016? Obviously I’ll pay separately.’

‘I can check.’

‘I hope you’re not doing this on my account.’

‘My grandparents have a vineyard in Saint-Émilion,’ he responds. ‘I can please anyone’s palate.’

I replace myself squirming slightly and turn back to May to see if she’ll let me off the hook with this one but she’s head down in a whisper with Jay. I never thought I’d say this but it’s a blessing when the best man’s speech begins.

I fix an amused expression on my face to cover all eventualities and then let my gaze wander. I see that Peony is taking the opportunity to lean into Gareth on the pretext of trying to hear better. He looks as oblivious as ever. She’d better be as nice as she looks. I sneak another peek at Tristan. He’s a lot more attractive when he’s not speaking. I wonder what it would be like to have a boyfriend that model-handsome. I’d probably want to start an Instagram account just with pictures of him, like people do with their dogs.

‘Your wine, sir.’

Before Tristan can redirect the bulbous glass of liquid garnet to me, the waiter leans in low and adds, ‘And your ginger ale, miss.’

I smile delightedly. He’s trying to stop me making a bad decision, I know it.

‘Thank you!’ I beam back at him.

‘What are you doing?’ May hisses at me.

‘What?’

‘There’d better be booze in that ginger ale.’

‘You’re the worst kind of pimp,’ I groan.

‘Ooh – dimple chin is trying to get your attention,’ she nudges me.

I turn and replace Tristan holding the glass out to me like a villain offering a poisoned chalice.

‘Not just yet,’ I tell him, pretending to be rapt with the speech.

I don’t want him to think he can snap his fingers and make a decision for me. I hate to feel steamrollered. Coincidentally, that’s exactly how Charlotte felt when she first met Marcus . . . I listen as the best man relays how Marcus whisked her first class on Eurostar to Bruges on their first date. He’d read about the beautiful swans on the Lake of Love and the folkloric promise that if you kissed your beloved while crossing Lover’s Bridge, your romance would be eternal.

I remember her telling us how uncomfortable she felt by him making such an over-the-top gesture when she wasn’t even sure if she was attracted to him. She actually refused to kiss him on the bridge. ‘I mean, I’m not overly superstitious but doesn’t that strike you as a little presumptuous?’

She became further frustrated throughout the day as he insisted on the best-of-the-best of everything – she felt she couldn’t really get a handle on his personal tastes.

‘Do you actually like caviar?’ she asked.

‘It’s Royal Belgian Caviar.’

‘But do you like the taste?’

It was only when he had a mild panic attack at the top of the Belfry of Bruges tower (having ascended 366 steps at her challenge) that she saw the human being so keen to impress her. And then she kissed him to distract him from his palpitations. It worked.

Look at them now! Mr & Mrs Besotted of Pimlico.

I look back at Tristan. I suppose he doesn’t have any dastardly motive with the wine. Perhaps I should be flattered by the gesture? Tentatively I slide the glass towards me. He’s too busy heckling the best man to notice me taking a sip.

Oh.

Well, that’s annoying.

I had prepared a scrunched nose response along the lines of, ‘I’m sure it’s a very fine wine but it’s just not for me’, but it is actually delicious – silky smooth and reminiscent of violets and blackberries, with none of that acidic aftertaste. When it comes to raising our glasses, only the dregs remain.

‘Ha! I knew you’d like it!’ He gives a satisfied smile.

‘I hate to admit it but I do.’

‘It’s fun trying new things, isn’t it?’

He holds my gaze long enough to give it a sexual undertone. For a second I think he’s going to lean in and kiss me but he’s just reaching for the salt for his chicken dish. Disappointing. Perhaps it’s the tequila shots, rum and red wine but I suddenly replace myself warming to the guy.

The rest of the speeches prompt a mix of forced laughter and teary-eyed affection – married couples wish they were single, singles wish they were married, and (nearly) everyone wishes the couple the very best, because though it may all be cake and confetti today, we all know how much work wedded bliss can be.

I give Tristan an assessing look. I bet he’d opt for some week-long bacchanal at his grandparents’ vineyard. I have to admit, the chateau sounds idyllic. He’s been there every summer since he was a child and shares assorted anecdotes over frangelico coffee and petit fours, breaking in and out of French as he does so. I want to be all chic and knowing but instead replace myself asking, ‘Have you ever trampled grapes with your bare feet?’ and ‘What’s the French for hangover?’

Apparently it’s ‘gueule de bois’, which translates as wooden mouth. I like this so much that when he heads off to congratulate Marcus, I track down my waiter pal at his new position at the mobile bar near the DJ box.

‘You say it “gool de bwa”,’ I tell him.

‘Are you working on yours right now?’

‘My hangover?’ I say, swaying slightly. ‘Yes, I sense it’s coming along marvellously.’

He sets a San Pellegrino before me. ‘You’ll thank me tomorrow.’

‘Oh, will I?’ I ask with what I hope is a cheeky glint, conveying my fantasy of waking up beside him. But then I turn away so he can’t see me blush.

‘So, who would you say is the most drunk person here?’ I ask, making a sweeping gesture across the room.

‘Besides you?’

‘Hey!’ I complain.

He smiles. ‘I’d say that girl who’s having trouble standing upright.’

We watch for a moment as one of the bankers’ wives tries in vain to straighten her spine – she has to keep reaching for the table, which you’d think was on a tilting fairground ride, the way she’s staggering to and fro.

‘She’s also most likely to throw up.’

I grimace. The scene is all too horribly familiar. ‘What about the man most likely to get a drink thrown in his face?’

‘Good one!’ he muses. ‘There was one chap I saw earlier with a super creepy vibe but I don’t see him now.’

‘Ah, shame.’ I’d like to have seen his choice. ‘What about most likely to fall over?’

‘Easy – the guy doing the Russian Cossack dance.’

He lasts three more squatting kicks then falls back and knocks into a table, pulling the cloth and assorted cutlery onto his head.

‘Oh, you’re good.’

‘I look upon all this as character research for my work.’

‘You work at a rehab facility?’ I frown.

He chuckles as he shakes his head. ‘I’m actually working on a screenplay.’

‘Really?’ My eyes widen.

He nods. ‘And it’s impossible to say you’re writing a screenplay without sounding like a dick but I can tell you because you’ll have forgotten by the morning.’

‘I will not!’

‘Yes you will.’

I look back at him. I like that he has his own kind of premonitions and predictions, though his are based on body language and psychology. If his boss wasn’t lurking, I’d kiss him now, just out of curiosity.

‘I bet you get a lot of women throwing themselves at you at weddings.’ I test the water.

‘Not with a crowd like this.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’re more interested in bagging a banker than a waiter.’

‘You’re not a waiter, you’re a writer.’

He smiles. ‘I’m both.’

‘Three beers, mate.’ One of Marcus’s uncles steps up to the bar.

I was planning on continuing our conversation but the DJ has announced the school disco playlist and there’s a sudden rush to the dance floor to ‘Pump It’ with the Black Eyed Peas.

‘See you later!’ I wave at him before I pogo onwards.

‘Pump it!’ The DJ throbs the sound system.

‘Louder!’ we all holler back.

Next up is the laid-back beat of Gnarls Barkley’s ‘Crazy’, bringing with it a chorus of, ‘Oh, I love this song!’ and ‘Do you remember when we . . .?’ Suddenly it feels more like a reunion than a wedding. But then I spy Tristan heading my way claiming Justin Timberlake’s ‘SexyBack’ as his theme song. He’s quite the mover and we seem strangely in sync with the pulsing, synthy beat. He places his hands on my hips, drawing me closer as the lyrics get naughtier. The music is loud, the room is hot and I feel myself surrendering to a drunken haze. I haven’t felt this happily hedonistic in a while.

He leans close to my ear. ‘Are you staying here tonight?’

I feel a shudder rush through my body then nod a little nervously.

‘Maybe I can visit you later?’ His voice lowers.

I hate to spoil any vision he might have of chasing me around a four-poster bed but I feel obliged to share the reality: ‘I’m in some kind of children’s nursery type room – with two tiny single beds.’

‘Well, we only need one of them . . .’

I wag my finger at him. ‘May is in the other bed and we wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway cos the ceiling is so low you’d crack your head.’ I pause. ‘Or I would. Either way!’ Suddenly I feel very flustered and tell him I need to get some water. ‘You want some?’

‘Sure,’ he shrugs.

My waiter’s bar is too crowded so I hit up the one on the other side of the room. This barman has no qualms about my boozing so I down a double Kraken to make up for the earlier Pellegrino. And then I order a glass of red, seeing as I’m now a sophisticated wine connoisseur. Oh. This one isn’t nearly as good as Tristan’s fancy one. What was its name? They’d probably know at the proper bar . . .

‘Amy! Come and get in the picture!’

A bunch of schoolfriends are positioning themselves on the main staircase like a family dynasty portrait.

‘Cheers!’ We all raise our glasses.

‘Now, everyone do their sexy pose!’

We couldn’t look any more ridiculous. There’s a blur of laughter and hugging and spilled drinks. I’m starting to feel dizzy and overwhelmed. I need my friend-friends! Where’s May? Where’s Gareth? And then someone starts a conga that leads us back to the seething mass of the dance floor. I try to make my way back to Tristan but replace myself in the arms of Marcus’s grandfather Ernie. He dances in a ballroom hold which feels nice and secure and gives my head a chance to spin freely. So I stay awhile.

‘Amy?’

‘Hmm?’ Did I fall asleep while dancing?

Ernie passes me on to Jay, who has changed into a ‘casual’ purple sequin jumpsuit, allowing him to dance without people stepping on his train. At some point he starts a big salsa circle and we switch from partner to partner. My body tells me I’m back in Tristan’s arms before I even see his face. He says something to me which I don’t catch, holds me extra tight and then leads me away from the dance floor. I hope we’re going outside, the rain would feel so good right now. I’ve had too many people’s hands on me, too much sweat. I just want to wash it all off and clear my head.

‘Charlotte!’ I reach out for her as we pass and then the next thing I know I’ve lost Tristan and us two girls are in the nook under the stairs.

‘I’m having the time of my life!’ Charlotte confides. ‘I’ve finally bonded with my mother-in-law – she loves cleaning mirrors just as much as me!’

‘I don’t know what to say to that but I’m very happy for you!’

‘Have you kissed Tristan yet?’ She leans in. ‘May said it was on the cards.’

I go to answer but nothing comes out. Have I? You’d think I’d know but my brain seems so jumbled.

‘Well, your lipstick is all off,’ Charlotte notes, applying a smudge of her lip gloss.

‘Mmm, tastes like mango. Hey! I meant to ask,’ I say, grabbing her in a heavy-handed way. ‘Why did you sit me next to that awful banker at dinner? Not that he ended up at our table but . . .’

She grimaces. ‘He was the one who liked the look of you.’

‘What?’

‘The one who was over the night Marcus and I were doing the seating plans . . .’

For a millisecond I feel bad but, of course, it wouldn’t have panned out – love me, love my friends and all that. Speaking of which. ‘I need to replace Gareth!’ I try to get to my feet in a hurry.

‘To get him away from Peony? She’s all over him like a rash!’

I blink back at her. ‘Yes. Because he’s still with Freya.’

‘Of course he’s still with Freya.’ Charlotte looks confused.

‘Oh my god!’ I exclaim. ‘They’re playing our song! We have to dance!’ Charlotte looks slightly bemused to hear Flo Rida’s Club Can’t Handle Me referred to as our song, but goes along with it anyway.