school, when she could be bothered to turn up. I’ve no real clue why she’s here; she’s always looked down her slightly too-long nose at me in a way that suggests she thinks she’s a cut above us. She isn’t, for the record. So there’s eight of us altogether, each wearing a sash that declares our place in the bridal party. BRIDE! MOTHER OF THE BRIDE! CHIEF BRIDESMAID! I sneak a glance at Auntie June’s and find she’s a HEN ON A MISSION. What on earth does that mean, I wonder? What would a hen on a mission do? Steal eggs? Spy on a rival coop? I have no clue where that ridiculous train of thought is going but start to laugh under my breath regardless, largely thanks to Dee’s champagne, followed by the wine now being thrown at me as if I’m going to have my liver removed in the morning and will never be able to touch a drop again. As it happens, I’m quite fond of my liver so I’m trying to pace myself, but I’m fighting a rising Sauvignon tide and fear I might go under at some point in tonight’s proceedings.
‘What are you laughing at?’ Elle asks, next to me.
‘These stupid sashes,’ I say, plucking at the one I’m begrudgingly wearing. Being marked out as the bride has already earned me wolf whistles from a car full of boy-men and the offer of a snog from the barman in the pub we went to before dinner. It didn’t help that there was a red foil condom packet dangling between us on my veil. (Yes, I found the condom. Dee helpfully stapled it so it hangs right between my bloody eyes.)
Elle plucks a sachet from the back of the veil. ‘Cinnamon?’
Dee reaches across and taps it. ‘A natural picker-upper, apparently.’ She pauses for dramatic effect, and then faux whispers, really loudly, ‘For men.’ Her rising hand action leaves us in no doubt as to what she means. ‘Just in case of wedding-night jitters.’
‘Cinnamon, are you sure?’ Auntie June’s eyebrows hit her hairline. She’s already on an ill-advised third glass of wine and she rarely drinks. She rarely leaves the house without my Uncle Bob, either – they’re usually to be found doing jigsaws in their dining room or learning some new hobby together. Last time I visited I sat on the chair they’d reupholstered, eating cake they’d made at their afternoon baking class at the local secondary school, drinking elderberry wine Uncle Bob had brewed in his man shed. They’re people who like to get involved in the community, and always as a pair. Bob and June. June and Bob. Right now, Auntie June is making a rare solo appearance and the cinnamon revelations have just turned her face an unbecoming shade of purple. ‘Well, that explains something, at least.’
Elle starts to laugh beside me, quicker on the uptake than I am. ‘Ooh, Auntie June, has Uncle Bob been getting a bit cinnamon-frisky?’
My mum shoots her sister a raised-brows look as Lucy tries not to gag on her prawn toast.
‘We’ve been trying to master cinnamon whirls lately, they’re Bob’s favourite,’ Auntie June says, twisting the silver St Christopher necklace she’s worn for as long as I can remember.
‘Well, you know what they say, June,’ Dee says, deadpan as she spoons special fried rice on to her plate. ‘Cinnamon in the morning makes Bob a sexy boy.’
I start to laugh because Dee has never met my cardigan-wearing, giant-vegetable-growing Uncle Bob. ‘Dee, literally no one in the world has ever said that.’
‘I think you’ll find June just did,’ Dawn says from across the table. ‘I might buy some cinnamon on the weekly shop. My “Bob” –’ she makes air quotes around the name to imply she’s protecting the innocent, quite pointlessly because we all know who she’s talking about – ‘and I are trying to get pregnant again, and it’s got to the point where he’d do literally anything to avoid having to perform ever again. He’s exhausted.’
‘Poor Bob.’ Julia shakes her head, barely eating anything but doing a sterling job on the wine. ‘Well, I for one don’t need the cinnamon aisle.’ I look away to hide my smile as the memory of Julia and Bruce dancing at Dawn’s wedding slides into my head; they’re definitely in tune with each other.
‘Me neither.’ Elle rolls her eyes. ‘My “Bob” is more than peppy enough, usually at six in the morning when I’m trying to stay asleep for the