the steps to the top floor of the Greek restaurant and step into a room full of thirty-something hens.
‘April! Hello! You’re here!’ Chrissy clatters over in shoes she most definitely can’t walk in and envelops me in a tight hug. ‘Everyone, this is my friend, April,’ she announces, holding me out on her arm.
I wave at everyone, and get passed around the room; names are exchanged that we won’t remember, but will be too embarrassed to ask for again. The tables have been arranged into a giant circle for maximum group-coherency with funny photos of Chrissy littered here and there to act as conversational prompts. But there’s no penis confetti, or novelty sashes. Chrissy’s bedecked in a tasteful veil, but Team Bride transfers are nowhere to be found. There’s a projector screen set up at the far end, and a sound system plays a carefully curated playlist of Chrissy’s favourite songs – mostly Jack Johnson.
‘Hi, I’m April,’ I repeat over and over. I shake hands, ask people how they know Chrissy. There’s the other-lawyers-from-work-clump, the uni-circle clump, the home-friends clump, and the awkward-friends-and-family-of-her-and-Mark clump.
‘Oh, so you’re Mark’s little sister? Mark’s great, isn’t he? Just great.’
‘You’re a lawyer too? Oh right, OK. In London? Of course. Yes, the train down wasn’t too bad actually, was it? Whereabouts in London do you live?’
‘So you grew up with Chrissy? Oh that’s funny, that you all call her Tina. No, she’s always been Chrissy to me. So what do you do? Oh, two kids you say? Yes, I’d love to see a picture. Oh, they are so cute. Congratulations.’
‘Oh me? No. Not married. No, no kids. Just me.’
‘Is that bottle of prosecco finished? No? Great. Yes, if you could pass it down.’
‘Shall we order another bottle?’
I’ve never really liked prosecco, it’s always tasted like piss put through a soda stream, but it’s included in the deposit we put down for the meal so down the hatch it goes. I knock back a glass, then another. My teeth start to hurt from the sugar and I go for a wee I don’t need, just to collect myself.
Megan: Is it bad?
April: Sitting on the loo, weeing a wee I don’t need
Megan: So it is bad
April: Everyone is friendly. They’re just all … so grown up
Megan: Fuck them
Megan: Fuck them all
Megan: Burn the fucking place down
April: Are you OK?
Megan: Quite clearly no
Megan: But I’m also fine. Go have fun now Xx
April: Doubtful
Just as I’m wiping, I get a message from Josh.
Joshua: Has the butler in the buff turned up yet? Hope you’re having a nice time x
Gretel: A great time, thanks! No nudity yet, but it’s only seven thirty. Have a good night with Neil x
The useful thing about sitting around mothers is that you only have to ask them a few choice questions and then you don’t have to talk or think any more for a good hour or so. I’m settled by the home-friends lot, all of whom have at least two kids that I’m shown on their phones.
‘So, do they sleep through the night?’ I ask, and low and behold, we have conversation filler right up until the starter arrives, and even a little after that too. We are all handed out three stuffed vine leaves arranged on a limp plate of lettuce scattered with shaved red onion. We pick up our knives and forks and pretend this is an adequate starter for the forty-quid-a-head price, while I hear all about the power of white-noise machines.
‘Wow, I’ve never heard of them before. Amazing. I’ll keep that in mind.’ I bite into the sour, soggy mush of my vine leaf, and listen to Chrissy’s friends talk about nursery places and how hard it’s been to have small children in this heat.
‘How’s it going over here?’ Chrissy’s doing the rounds between starter and main. Eyes frantic, talking in caps lock, checking to make sure we’re all having fun so determinedly that she doesn’t seem to be having much fun herself. She slots in beside me and I pour her a glass of prosecco.
‘Don’t! I’m already way too drunk.’
‘Yes. It’s your hen do.’ I top up my own glass. I must be on my fourth by now. I feel warm and like all my weird problems aren’t so bad and weird after all.
‘How are you?’ she asks, arm around my shoulder, fizzy wine on her breath. ‘April, it’s been forever.’
‘I know. I’m OK. Oh my God, Chrissy, you’re getting married.’
She covers her face with her veil. ‘I