The Wedding Date. Jennifer Joyce
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I give my blonde hair a nonchalant flick. ‘I fought them off.’
‘Them?’ Katey-Louise’s eyes narrow until they’re totally obliterated by the ridiculously long false eyelashes. ‘I thought there was only one mugger?’
‘Him. I fought him off.’
‘It doesn’t matter how many there were,’ Denise says. ‘You have to report it to the police. What if he strikes again?’
‘He won’t.’ I can be pretty confident in my statement, what with the mugger being a figment of my imagination.
‘He might!’ Denise’s eyes widen. ‘What if he attacks my Katey-Lou?’ Denise picks up the phone off her desk. ‘What’s the number for the local station? Or should I phone nine-nine-nine?’
‘You should do neither.’ Leaping out of my chair – which causes my knee to double its throbbing tempo – I grab the receiver and replace it before Denise’s fingers can reach the buttons. ‘I’ll pop into the station on my way home.’
‘Good idea.’ Thankfully Denise lets it go. My little fib was about to spiral out of control so I’m glad I’ve managed to rein it back. It’s almost like a forewarning of what is to come but I don’t take heed.
Limping back to my desk, I return to my in-tray, which somehow looks just as overflowing as when I arrived at the office earlier this morning. My next task is one of my least favourite; inputting the absences from the previous week into the payroll report and making sure we have a sickness or holiday form on file to cover it. It usually involves chasing up managers and supervisors on the shop floor so I’m glad of the interruption of my mobile phone, even if it does earn me a glare from Denise. I flash her my plaster and her face softens slightly.
My oldest friend’s name flashes up on the screen and it’s as I press to answer the call and place the phone against my ear that I remember my plans with Francesca.
‘Delilah, darling!’ Francesca cries before I can utter a word. ‘I am so sorry. My meeting ran over and I’m only just leaving the office. But I will be there, I promise.’
I’m supposed to be having lunch with Francesca. Right now. I forgot all about it but I can’t cancel as pinning Francesca down is like trying to catch a fly with chopsticks. It may be a breeze for Mr Miyagi but it’s near impossible for the rest of us.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not there yet myself. I’m stuck in traffic.’ I pray that the rest of the office will remain silent and not give the game away. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
My second lie of the day. My third will be a biggie.
Francesca is already seated by the window of the café we’ve arranged to meet in, a huge mug of frothy coffee and an untouched sandwich sitting in front of her as she flicks through a magazine. She doesn’t spot me until I’m standing right in front of her.
‘Delilah, darling!’ Flicking the interior design magazine closed, Francesca springs out of her seat and envelops me in a sweet-smelling hug, a delicious mix of fruity shampoo and designer perfume. ‘It’s so good to see you. You look great!’
‘Thank you.’ Francesca always looks so well presented, leaving me feeling like a tramp in comparison, so I’m glad we’ve arranged to meet during the week as my work clothes are at least more presentable than the old, worn jeans and Converse that I favour at the weekends. Of course I don’t look as sophisticated as Francesca, but that’s never going to happen, no matter what I wear. Francesca is an interior designer – and pretty successful too. She always knows what look suits every single occasion and she’s like a walking advertisement for the sophisticated, glamorous business she’s created. She started off designing for friends of her parents and her business grew from there. I know for a fact that I’d never be able to afford her services.
‘You look amazing,’ I say and then feel like a fool. Francesca always looks amazing. ‘I’ll just grab some lunch and join you.’
I join the queue at the counter, which is snaking towards the exit. Being lunchtime, the café is pretty hammered and I’m worried that I’m holding Francesca up. We hardly ever meet up these days and when we do, it’s only for a fleeting coffee or glass of wine before Francesca has to dash off to see a client or associate. I’m amazed she’s still sitting with her magazine by the time I return to the table. I’ve bought myself a sandwich and coffee and treated us to a cherry and oat slice each.
‘Not for me, thanks.’ Francesca flashes me an apologetic look as I slide one of the cakes towards her. ‘Not this close to the wedding.’
‘How are the plans coming along?’ I sit down opposite Francesca and eye my cake. Should I leave mine too, in an act of sisterly solidarity?
‘We’re getting there.’ Francesca bites her lip nervously but I know her wedding will be perfect. With her father’s money behind it and Francesca’s flair for design, it’s going to be amazing. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the wedding, actually.’
‘Oh?’ Is she going to ask me to be a bridesmaid? It’s pretty unexpected as although Francesca and I have been friends since we were six, we’re no longer particularly close. We were the best of friends throughout our early childhood but when we went to separate secondary schools – Francesca to the posh, all girls’ school while I enrolled in the bog-standard local high school – we started to drift and forged new friendships. We’ve kept in contact all these years and we went through a stage of double-dating when I was with Ben, but it will never be the same. But maybe one of her bridesmaids has had to pull out for some reason and, as her former best friend, I’m the next best thing?
‘It’s about Ben.’
My heart starts to gallop at the sound of my ex’s name. I can’t help it. I’m truly pathetic. ‘Ben?’
Francesca’s eyes drop to her mug and when they finally meet mine again, they’re full of apprehension. ‘Jeremy’s asked him to be best man.’
Oh, sod it. I grab my cherry oat slice and shove it into my gob, not even giving my sandwich a cursory glance.
‘Are you ok, darling?’ Francesca leans forward in her seat, resting a hand on my arm as I chomp away like a demented cow. I’m sure they’ve used superglue instead of syrup in these bloody oat slices. I nod, still chomping furiously. I manage to reduce the clump enough to swallow, albeit painfully. My coffee is still too hot to drink but I gulp down half the cup anyway.
‘It’s to be expected, really,’ I say, though I wasn’t expecting it at all. Although Ben was Jeremy’s best friend, I’d assumed Jeremy would ask his brother to be his best man. Since Jeremy had been his brother’s best man last year, it seemed fitting – and polite – to return the favour. Of course I knew Ben was going to be at the wedding, but I assumed he’d be a regular guest and therefore easy to avoid if I needed to. Part of me hoped Francesca and Jeremy’s wedding would be where we got back together. It would be quite poetic, really; we got together through Francesca and Jeremy – why not rekindle our love through them too?
Actually, this could be a good thing. A very good thing.
Francesca gives my arm a squeeze before she relaxes back into her seat. ‘I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I’ve been meaning to but I kept putting it off. I didn’t want to hurt you or make you feel like I was taking sides, because I’m not. Ben is a good friend of mine and I adore him, but that doesn’t mean our friendship has to suffer. Or at least I hope it doesn’t.’
Francesca looks at me with wide, moist eyes and part of me feels sympathy towards her, being stuck in the middle and everything. But part of me wants to tell to her bog right off. Ben dumped me – cruelly and completely out of the blue – and yet she adores him. What kind of friend does that make her? Lauren thinks Ben is a prick – and pretty vocally too. That’s friendship.
‘Ben is Jeremy’s best friend,’ Francesca continues when I fail to open my mouth to respond. ‘I can’t ignore him.’
‘But