reflection. I wipe off the ruined bits of my face, sort out my smudged make-up, and tip my hair upside down under the hand dryer to reinvigorate it.
A better April stares back at me now. Not as good as Gretel, but much improved. One that’s able to get through the rest of the evening. My phone buzzes.
Joshua: I’m going to be thinking about you all night xxxx
I do feel better.
Though, I worry part of me will be thinking about him all night too.
We end up in a club after all.
We shed the breast-feeders and the ones who could only get babysitters until midnight, and head to some awful place on the beach where all the other hen dos have congregated in some kind of rally. They’re all much younger than us. Some of them clearly on their first, exciting, one – decorated with glitter and penises and wilting sashes and the bits of fancy dress that have made it to the end of the night. We’re too drunk to mind though – dancing in a little circle, around the pile of our handbags, leaning in to shout ‘I don’t know any of these songs!’
Now I’m on the beach, smoking a Marlborough menthol even though I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life. Chrissy’s sitting next to me, also smoking. Our heels are off, toes buried into the cold pebbles.
‘I can’t believe I’m getting married,’ she tells the quiet slosh of the sea, before nuzzling her head into my shoulder.
‘I can’t believe you’re getting married either.’ I pat the top of her head with my non-fag hand.
‘I literally thought that was it. After Sven. When I left him, I left him knowing he was probably my only chance.’
‘And now look at you.’
She throws her arms into the air and her cigarette lights a path through the darkness. ‘FUCK YOU SVEN, I’M NOT A SPINSTER AFTER ALL!’ she yells into the black sea. Whoops and cheers from other inebriated people echo back at us and we both fall into one another, laughing.
‘Sven was such a dick,’ I say.
‘Such a dick.’
‘Remember when he forgot your birthday?’
‘And somehow blamed it on me for “stressing him out”?’
We shake our heads and I take an inexperienced drag on my cigarette, sucking on its minty filter, trying to remember how it even came to being in my hand. I cough.
Chrissy cracks up then starts coughing too. ‘God, we’re a sorry state of affairs,’ she says, grinding hers out.
‘But we look so cool!’
She takes mine and stubs it out too, and there’s a moment’s calm, where the delicate crash of waves against shingle mixes with the thud of the bass spilling from the club.
‘I can’t believe I’m having a wedding,’ she murmurs. ‘I have a dress and everything. It’s so surreal.’
‘Are you excited?’
‘Yes, I think so. I mean, it’s also really stressful. Like just a giant project to manage, and you know about Mum and her MS and all the worry about how she’ll cope with the day, but it will be lovely I hope.’
‘It will be lovely! What are you looking forward to the most?’
I used to ask myself this same question about my own hypothetical wedding. During those moments when I used to plan it in my head, like I’ve been groomed to do since being born a girl. Of course, the most obvious answer is that thing from 27 Dresses – the look on his face at the end of the aisle when he first sees you. That’s the low bar heterosexual women set themselves as a romantic accomplishment: find a man who looks pleased to be marrying you on your actual fucking wedding day. Dream big, April …
‘His speech actually,’ Chrissy says after consideration, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I’m really looking forward to his speech.’ She picks up a pebble and squeezes it in her palm. ‘The thing is, I know Mark loves me. I mean, he must do, right? We’re getting married! But he’s never been very verbally affectionate. I told you we’ve argued about it a lot. How he never really gushes over me. Never really says “I love you” or “you look gorgeous”. Stuff like that. He says words don’t mean anything and I get that so it’s fine. It’s totally fine. I mean, I’d rather he did say nice things, but that’s not him, and he treats me like he loves me and that’s what’s important but, well, the speech is going to be special. Cos he’ll get a chance to