A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe

Mr Pumpwell is my last visit of the day, and I am driving across an especially lovely stretch of road alongside Eggardon Hill. Eggardon is an old Iron Age fort, strikingly weird and beautiful, with views over all the tumbling fields and out to sea. It’s also one of those places that Lynnie used to treat as some kind of spiritual mecca when we were kids, telling us stories about its folklore and history. She’s not the only one to feel that way– for as long as I can remember there’ve been legends attached to it, everything from ghosts to UFOs.

Some people don’t like it, and say it has a bad energy, and share tales of how their cars stalled unexpectedly or they saw dead birds fall from the sky. Maybe I’m more in tune with a bit of bad energy, but I’ve always loved it – it looks different every single day, depending on the way the sun hits it, or the cloud cover, or the colour of the sky.

Today, like everything else around here, it’s bathed in dazzling yellow sunlight, the distant sparkle of blue waves beckoning as I drive towards the coast. The view gives me a bit of a natural high, as does knowing that my next stop – quite legitimately – is at Briarwood.

An alarmingly high number of the brainiacs seem to have asthma, or eczema, or allergies. Maybe there’s a scientific study to be had there – maybe they’ve spent more time indoors because of those things, and ended up as whizzkids. Or maybe spending all their time indoors being whizzkids didn’t help. Who knows? Anyway, I have several white paper bags to drop off, and as it’s my last visit of the day, it’ll give me an excuse to see my handsome Viking Star Lord.

It’s been over two weeks since I bared all on the Cliffside. And by that I mean emotionally – it was too cold to get naked physically.

On the night, Finn didn’t react with big speeches, or pep talks, or further queries. He could obviously tell that unstoppering that particular bottle of homebrew had unsettled me, and was wise enough to not push me any further.

What he did do, and what he has continued to do, is be even more … Finn. By that I mean he’s been kind and strong and funny, and done what he has this amazing skill at doing: allowing me to be myself without making me feel crappy about it.

Don’t get me wrong, he calls me out on any self-indulgence, or any time I get ridiculous. But he also knows the difference between me being a bit on the wacky and confused end of the spectrum, and me genuinely being worried or anxious. It’s like he’s some kind of mind-reader.

I still can’t figure out quite why he’d be interested in reading my mind – I’m more of a cult classic than a best-seller – but I’m not complaining.

On the whole, I’ve felt better since I talked to him about things. Like a weight has been lifted, or a boil’s been popped.

I’ve also spoken to Willow and Van, and while I wouldn’t say it gets easier to remember,it definitely gets easier to describe – I’ve got the condensed version down to tweet-size now. Plus, I seem to be able to talk about it more dispassionately, without the snot and the tears.

So far, nobody has condemned me, or called me names, or chased me out of the village with a pitchfork. I don’t know why I thought they would – nobody gets through life without making at least one big mistake, do they? Admittedly, in my case it seemed to be a decade or so of making mistakes, but ultimately I hurt nobody but myself.

Talking it through with Finn has at least made me consciously reduce the amount I blame myself for hurting Seb. All these years, I’ve felt bad that I hadn’t been able to help him – that in fact I’d made it worse. Then I ran away, and that can’t have helped either. It all made me feel cowardly and weak and without any value at all.

But, as Finn calmly said when I raised this, Seb was already well on his path when we first met. He could have married Mother Theresa and not have changed course. Most importantly, he’s made me realise that everything that happened with Seb is in the past – and I can’t let it affect my future, or my present.

And my present, I think, as I pull up and park on the gravel driveway in front of Briarwood, is damned good. I’m healthy, I’ve cut down to one ciggie a day, Lynnie’s symptoms are manageable, I have my work, my friends, and my man. I’m satisfied in a way that I don’t think I’ve ever been before, and am fighting the urge to expect some kind of diary irony. I don’t want to carry on spoiling what I’ve got by worrying about what I might lose.

I grab my container full of prescription packages and go into the building. I’ve seen several other cars parked outside, so I’m expecting company.

What I’m not expecting is to be confronted by the combined menfolk of Budbury prancing up and down the hallway like they’re performing some kind of impromptu fashion show.

They’re all here: Finn, Becca’s partner Sam, Cal, Tom, my brother Van, and Matt, Laura’s soon to be husband.

They’re all also wearing outrageously pink suits. I stop dead in my tracks and stare at Sam as he strikes a pose, hands on hips. I burst out laughing, because why wouldn’t I? These men are all amazing in their own way. Sam looks like a surfer and works as a coastal ranger; Cal is a rugged cowboy type of dude; Matt is a vet; Tom is a millionaire inventor, and Finn is … well, perfectly Finn.

They all look different – different hair colours, different builds, different heights – but seeing them all en masse, dressed head to toe in pink, is breathtakingly silly.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, putting my packages down and surveying them all in various stages of embarrassment, ‘did I interrupt a flamingo convention?’

Sam responds by standing on one leg and flapping his arms about while I walk around, examining them all. The suits are all different – Sam’s a bit seventies, Matt’s a classic wedding outfit with tailcoat, Finn’s very well tailored – but they’re all very, very pink. Different shades, but undeniably pink. Even their shoes are pink – ranging from Tom’s Converse to Van’s spray-painted steel-toed boots to Matt’s petal-pale dress shoes.

I knew this was happening, but it’s the first time I’ve seen it in reality – and it is nothing short of spectacular.

I walk over to Matt, take his sheepish-looking face between my hands, and give him a big kiss.

‘Laura,’ I say to him, ‘is a very lucky woman. You all look amazing.’

‘Yes, well,’ he replies, flustered, looking over my shoulder in a bid to avoid eye contact. ‘We couldn’t have done it without your sister and your mum.’

This all started that day in the café, when Becca revealed that Laura’s dream wedding was entirely pink. Due to the advanced state of her baby-growing venture, and because Cherie loves to organise a good party, the wedding planning has been left to her friends. And her friends – me included – decided that if Laura wanted a pink wedding, then she’d darn well get a pink wedding.

Willow and Lynnie, who were always more artsy and craftsy than me, have been busy with dye packs, creating these dream outfits for the men – and the fact that everything’s been home-coloured has resulted in a splendid range of different pinks. Finn’s, I notice, is at the pastel end of the colour chart – and it actually goes well with the golden skin and the blue eyes and the blond hair. The man would look good in a suit made entirely of used kebab wrappers, damn him.