Just like mojitos (or any cocktail really), drinking wine turns me into a table-top-dancing emotional wreck. I think the drunken me has seriously scared off any potential there might have been in Damien as a wedding date. Last night, after large quantities of not only the wine that Damien had brought, but just about anything I could find in Diane’s kitchen, I had experienced the alcohol yo-yo. After three glasses, I was acting like I was enjoying myself, screaming, ‘I love this song!’ whenever a pop song I vaguely recognised started to play. By four glasses, I was blubbering to Damien about how terrible everything is and how no one wants to marry me. When the fifth glass had passed my lips, I was back in extreme party mode. I’m pretty sure most of the guests saw my knickers at some point, even with my sensible outfit on.
Blinking at the time display on my phone’s screen, I groan at the realisation that I have work in less than an hour. I also have two unread text messages from Damien, which is weird as I don’t even remember swapping numbers with him.
The first one is from last night and asks if I got home okay. Come to think of it, I don’t actually know how I got home. The second is a message from this morning asking if we can meet later. Well, I can’t have embarrassed myself too much then, can I?
I spend my time at work trying to piece together what exactly did happen after that fifth glass of wine. In between tidying up strewn pencils, sweeping up sand, and reading stories about teddy bears, I come to the conclusion that I must have had more than six drinks, also known as the memory-erasing stage of any alcohol-related event.
Of course, I’m too embarrassed to just ask Damien about what I did last night. Hearing about things my drunken persona decided to do makes me cringe. So, when I’m on my way to meet him at a local pub after work, I try my hardest to convince myself that I can remember everything and that nothing I did was really that note-worthy. If I don’t draw attention to it, maybe he won’t either.
It’s raining when I leave work. Only light droplets slap against the pavement as I hurry to the end of the street, but the hood I make by covering my head with my handbag still leaves me looking soggy.
Damien is waiting for me, looking dry and sexy compared to my water-logged state. Somehow, it’s very difficult to appear cool and nonchalant when your hair is clinging to your face and your shoes are literally squelching.
“How are you feeling?” he asks without comment about my rain-soaked appearance.
I notice that there are two glasses of orange juice on the table in front of him and politely sip mine before I try to tell him that I’m feeling just fine.
His brow draws downwards slightly in concern. “Have you spoken to anyone since last night?”
“Why? Should I have?”
“I think you should talk to Ash.”
I stare at him blankly for a second. “What did I do? Did I say something to him? Or was it Lela?”
“Oh,” Damien says, a flirty sort of glint in his eyes, “you don’t remember.”
“I do remember…some of it.”
He smiles widely as though he finds this situation amusing. “Don’t worry, you didn’t say anything to anyone other than me. At least not before you left.” He drags a hand through his soft, dark curls. “Have you checked your phone?”
I scramble for it in my handbag before realising that it’s in my jacket pocket. It wasn’t unusual for the drunk me to send texts or prank call ex-boyfriends without thinking it through.
Damien leans across the table to see as I scroll through my recent calls and texts, but there’s nothing embarrassing there, aside from the high frequency of calls to local takeaways (well I don’t always feel like cooking if Anna’s out and I’m making something just for me).
I drop my phone against the table. “So what did I say to you?”
“Everything that you wish you could say to Ash, I guess.” He shrugs loosely before dropping his shoulders. “It really does suck for you.”
“You mean about Lela?” I’m still unsure what tragic picture of my life I’ve painted for him.
“Her and Ash,” he clarifies. “It can’t be easy seeing them together.”
I shake my head. “Ash and I were over a long time before they got together. I just wish one of them had told me.”
“Last night you seemed really down about it. I thought that maybe…you know…I thought maybe you were still in love with him and you were trying to hide it or something.”
“Not you too.” I sigh in frustration. “I thought I’d already explained this to you.”
“Okay, so if you don’t have feelings for him, you should still talk to him. There’s obviously some unresolved conflict between you two.”
He’s right. I sigh again and drink the rest of my orange juice. “So what should I do? Just go and see him, even if Lela’s there?”
Damien nods. “Just tell her that the two of you have something to sort out. If she’s any sort of friend, she’ll understand.”
This is how I end up outside Ash and Lela’s place again, only with a clear objective this time. If Lela answers the door, I’m going to explain to her that I need to speak to Ash.
But nobody answers. They’re probably out celebrating their amazing happy life together at some posh restaurant of Lela’s choosing. I imagine her in her Jimmy Choos and a dress that costs more than what I earn in a month, showing off her sparkling diamond to the waitress. Oh wait, posh restaurants don’t have waitresses, do they? They have hosts and maître ds.
“Looking for Lela, are you?” an acid-tongued voice says from somewhere behind me. It’s Kerry. And no doubt Steph too. Do they camp out in Lela’s garden or something?
I spin to face both of them. “Yeah, but she’s out.”
“Sure it’s not Ash you’re looking for?” asks Kerry.
“Just got some wedding stuff to ask Lela.” I’ve found that mentioning the wedding is the best way to try and avoid an awkward subject.
“Why don’t you ask us?” Steph suggests.
I force a smile. “No, it doesn’t matter.”
They’re both following me as I try to head back home. My wedding-related answer obviously didn’t satisfy them.
“You need to stay away from Ash,” Kerry hisses, tugging at my arm.
I shake out of her grip. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on.” Steph rolls her eyes. “Do you think we’re stupid?”
I don’t think these women are stupid. I think they’re actually quite devious, like Lela.
“You think it isn’t obvious?” Kerry cackles.
My arms are stiffly by my sides, my hands clenched tightly. I know what they’re talking about. They think I’m trying to steal Ash away from Lela. “You’re wrong,” I spit. “And anyway, it’s really nothing to do with you.”
“Yes, it is!” Steph cries. “Lela’s going to have the perfect wedding. You’re not going to be there.”
“You think I’m going to tell Lela I’m backing out of her wedding?”
Kerry grabs at my arm again, forcibly pulling me towards her. “If you don’t, we’ll tell her the truth. And then she won’t want you there.”
“Let her go, Kerry,” a stern male voice says.
It’s started to rain again and I can’t quite see him from under the damp hair that’s plastered to my face, but I know that it’s Ash.
Lela’s minions drop me like last season’s shiny leggings trend.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I scrape the hair from my face and nod.
He looks at the other two women, who are still watching me and slips a hand around my waist, guiding me towards the house. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, but it’s a gesture that’s enough to leave Kerry and Steph staring at us open-mouthed.
Pulling away from him when we reach the house, I say, “Where’s Lela?”
“Meeting her mother to discuss chair covers or something,” he replies.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I explain as he unlocks the front door.
He works his fingers through his short brown hair. “I thought we already talked.”
“I know but we didn’t talk about everything.”
His blue eyes flick over Kerry and Steph who are still closely watching us. “Look, Lela’s not going to be long,” he says, holding the door open for me.
“It won’t take long,” I assure him as the door closes behind us.
I should really have thought about what I was going to say before I got to this position, standing in the living room dotted with aspects of Ash’s life with Lela. Photographs of the two of them, cards congratulating their engagement, cushions they probably picked out together in the home section of Matalan. Actually, Lela probably picked them out herself. And she probably got them from somewhere a bit more upmarket like Next.
“Say what you’ve got to say,” he sharply demands.
“I don’t know what Lela’s said to you–”
“Here to talk me out of marrying her?”
“No. I…I wanted to hear it from you, I guess. About why our relationship didn’t work out. This is nothing to do with Lela.”
He stares at me for a moment, eyes slightly narrowed and posture rigid. “What’s the point of going over it, Jade? I’m with Lela now.”
My head tilts upwards and I sigh heavily. “Forget about Lela for a minute!” I snap, realising almost immediately after that I’ve probably made it sound even more like I’m angry and jealous. “I’m sorry. Just answer me this. If you’d never gone to Reading five years ago, do you think we’d still be together?”
Ash turns away from me silently, telling me everything that I need to know.
“It wouldn’t have worked in the long run,” I state. “I hope it does with Lela.”
He leans against the shelving unit behind him, a sad sort of smile forming. “Is that enough closure for you?”
I smile back, nodding. It’s over now. I can be Lela’s head bridesmaid. I can deal with her minions. I’ll even wear the ugly dress and makeup.
“You’re not going to quit the wedding, are you?” he asks.
“Of course I’m not! Lela was my best friend before I even met you.”
“Good.” He grins. “I bet you’ll look very…fetching in that bridesmaid dress.”
I hit him playfully on the arm like we’re old friends.
We’re laughing so much about the aubergine monstrosity; I almost don’t hear the front door open behind me.
If it was just Lela, I’d be able to explain this pretty easily. But Diane’s standing next to her, glowering at me like I’ve dared to refer to her foyer as a hallway.
Why am I always in the middle of these unavoidable scenarios?