of our wedding. Patrick married me on 30 December – the day after the first anniversary of my dad’s death – and nearly a year to the day he slept with Ginny. I studied her, a bit chubbier than usual, but she’d given birth just three months earlier. I tried to read her face when she’d been snapped watching me marry her son’s father. Did she want Patrick for herself or as a father for Victor? Did she envy my stable life, a solid home to bring up any children we might have?
On the day I remembered that she’d been a bit distracted, but I’d assumed that was because she was nervous about leaving Victor in Cardiff with her mum. She seemed happy enough for us. Or maybe I was so caught up in the circus of my big day, I didn’t pay attention.
I studied the picture of Patrick and me, Ginny and Cory flanking us. I’d had a rush of love for them all, even pointing out in my speech that they knew more about me than anyone else in the world. Those words made me feel so idiotic now, so duped.
I raked through the memories, straining to recall the precise reactions of that one phone call, when I knew I was definitely getting married. I’d written to Ginny in May to tell her Patrick had proposed. I told myself it was the most sensible thing to do, rather than the rigmarole of trying to pin her down to a phone call in between what sounded like an exhausting merry-go-round of film premieres, grand lunches and product launches (though I did love it when she sent me samples of gorgeous make-up I’d never be able to afford myself). In fact, I was opting for the easy way out. I was wary of a curt response taking the shine off my joy like a watermark on a mahogany table. I couldn’t shake off the sense that she didn’t think Patrick and I were a great match for each other. Though when Patrick asked me to give a concrete example, I couldn’t.
‘Why don’t you ask her outright? “Am I making a mistake?”’
I’d reached up to kiss him. ‘What if she says, “yes”?’
‘You’ll just have to tell yourself that her judgement is totally questionable. Shall I remind you of that bloke, the one who always banged a saucepan every morning to wake her up, who she thought was her Prince Charming for about three months?’
I’d laughed at the memory of Billy the pan banger and we’d slid into bed, my worries soothed but not eliminated.
So when she rang at the crack of dawn one Saturday morning, I was on the back foot, nervous of what she was going to say. Thankfully she made all the right noises and I even dared bring up the question of her being my bridesmaid. ‘I picked Christmas to get married because I thought you might be able to get a bit of time off.’
Ginny had hesitated. ‘I’m not sure you’re going to want me as a bridesmaid…’
Everything in me had sagged. It would be a real statement if she refused. I was her closest friend. Well, I used to be anyway. ‘Why ever not?’ I steeled myself for a rejection, working out how I was going to make it sound like it didn’t matter.
‘The thing is – it’s a bit of a biggy really – I’m pregnant.’
‘Pregnant?’ My stomach had lurched. That was a game changer. Something that meant she might stay in Canada and never come back to the UK, that our friendship would forever be confined to snatched phone calls and holidays.
‘Yes!’ There was a snappy edge to her tone. I remember wishing we could wipe this conversation clean and start it again face-to-face over cocktails and crisps.
I didn’t know which question to ask first, so I managed to make it all about me. ‘You didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone.’
‘I wasn’t keeping it a secret. It’s quite new, the last three or four months. I didn’t say anything before because I didn’t think you’d approve.’
‘Why wouldn’t I approve?’
‘Well, he’s sort of married.’
‘How sort of?’
‘Very.’
We’d both stayed silent for a second while I absorbed the news.
I gave it my best shot at not appearing critical, but I was too closely aligned with my mother in that department to pull it off with any aplomb. ‘So what are you planning? Does he know?’