Bridesmaids

She tilts her head back, looking worried.

‘Honest?’

‘Really. Sorry, it was just a shock, I thought you guys had split for good. That’s what I meant by kidding, ha-ha. Wow, that’s amazing! Fab! Ace! I’m so pleased for you.’ A glance at Freddie confirms that I might be overcompensating here, his eyebrows are raised so high they’ve gone past his fringe and merged into his hairline.

I mentally reel myself in and zip my mouth.

But my head can’t stop thinking this is wrong. A mistake. Someone tell me I’m dreaming.

Michael? How can she be marrying Michael? Bastard two-timing Michael who I caught doing the dirty with luscious Lexie (I only know her name because he happened to be chanting it at the time) and made him swear he’d never do it again or I’d tell Rach everything, just before I tore him limb from limb.

We had never had any secrets and I’d hated not telling her, but I hated more the thought that if I told her the truth it could wreck our friendship. I mean, who would she believe, the smooth-talker she loved and planned to spend the rest of her life with – or her friend? I didn’t want to put her in that position.

And he did say it was just one stupid impulsive action that he’d regret forever and had promised it would never happen again. But he’d also called it ‘a minor transgression’ – yes, he really does talk like that.

And I’d umm-ed and ahh-ed but, I have to be totally honest, it all happened just before my hen party and I was so caught up in all my wedding stuff, that I kind of didn’t give it the thought I should have.

Daft thing is, drunk on vodka and love on my hen night, I’d decided to come clean with Rachel and was on the verge of spilling. She was my best friend and I’d felt secure in the knowledge (ha-ha) that I’d found true love, and I wanted to make sure she’d be as happy as me. I wanted everybody to be in the same state of bliss as I was!

Can you believe it? Talk about rubbish timing.

I never got to tell her. The Andy bombshell hit and it went right out of my head, it just didn’t seem as important as my own broken heart. Nothing was as important as my car-crash of a life. Which obviously makes me a pretty shitty friend.

How could I not have told her?

We spent so many hours together, on the phone, FaceTime-ing, texting, while she was doing the good-friend bit and looking after me. And I just felt sorry for myself and let her do the propping up.

And now I’d left it far too late. Telling her just after it happened would have been one thing, but telling her so long after? How could I find the right time to explain? And I didn’t want to lose her. I’d been totally selfish. How pathetic am I? I was scared sick of losing her, the very thought brought me out in a cold sweat.

Without her and Freddie looking after me in the aftermath, who knows what I would have done? I mean, I’ve never thought of myself as the suicidal type, but without somebody to kick me out of my wallowing in the mornings I would have lost my job, and without somebody to tell me when I was very close to the line between enough and too much drink life would have been seriously blurred.

Instead, it had just been normal pissed blurred and hazy.

And so, I’d decided to believe Michael when he said that he’d ever never hurt her, rather than doing what a good friend should. What she’d do for me.

And then Rach and Michael had split over some girl he’d snogged at an office party. So, it had all been fine. Over. Finished. I could breathe again, no need to sweat about whether I should tell her.

I mean, I did still hate myself for not having the guts to tell her, but I convinced myself that what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her now.

Michael was history.

Or not, it would seem.

I stop talking, hug her hard, and bury my head in her shoulder, which gives me chance to compose myself and plaster a bright smile on my face, rather than burst into noisy tears. Which is what my face wants to do.

Michael is back. Forever.

I hate Michael. There, I’ve said it. I’m not the jealous type, but I am the protective type. And lovely, generous, and it must be said slightly too trusting Rachel, needs somebody to watch her back. I used to do it at school, and I can’t seem to break the habit.

I need to stop her marrying a douchebag.

He’s just not good enough for her, and there’s just something about him that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. And made me punch the air and inwardly whoop when she’d told me they’d split. Though I did of course make all the right sympathetic noises and say things like ‘for the best’ and ‘there’s somebody better out there for you.’.

‘Oh, Jane, I’m so pleased you’re happy for me.’ Rachel hugs me stronger. ‘I know it’s been hard for you since Andy …’ She lets his name hang in the air between us. We both know that he left a rather sour taste in my mouth, and a slight (mega) distrust of the whole ‘love you ’til the day I die’ thing.

‘This isn’t about me and Andy, it’s about you!’ The pressure is definitely on to make sure that she doesn’t think any of this is sour grapes on my side. That my bad experience hasn’t poisoned me against the whole marriage idea.

And it hasn’t. I’m happy for her if she really has found ‘the One’ and wants to tie the knot. Just not happy about it being Michael.

Though who knows what affect her hen night is going to have on me – but I’ll tackle that one when I get to it. I’m sure there are enough legal highs, combined with gin, to get me through one evening without tears.

‘But what about Jed?’ I’ve disentangled myself, and am now thinking that Jed might have been a good option after all. ‘He seemed really nice.’

‘Oh.’ She giggles again. ‘He was just to show Michael what he was missing and make him jealous, and it worked! Jed knew it wasn’t serious, we never actually slept together, you know.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘Oh, God, no. Well, we slept, but we had all our clothes on.’ Seems like I’m not the only one who tells little white lies. ‘He totally knew all about Michael, and how I was still mad about him. Me and Jed were just mates!’

Is it wrong that I am feeling deflated? I’d inwardly cheered when I’d thought she’d engaged on a moving-on night of frantic passion.

‘Oh, God, Jane, Michael was so sweet. He said it was a complete wake-up call and he’d realised he never wanted to risk losing me again, and, well …’ She glances at me, her eyes bright and shiny with emotion. She’s genuinely about-to-cry happy.

The rush of emotion catches me unawares, and I find myself blinking back the tears then hugging her again.

A manly cough interrupts our love-in. ‘Well, there’s no bubbly, but I can do a mean mini glass of beer if you want to celebrate?’

I look at Freddie. ‘Mini?’

‘We’re going to have to share a bottle. Last one, I was saving it for …’

‘A special occasion?’

‘The footie.’

‘I appreciate the sacrifice.’

‘So do I.’ Rachel is nodding furiously.

He grins and we toast the bride to be with a tot of lager in shot glasses.

‘I suppose I better get back to the hotel and,’ she does little quote signs with her fingers, ‘get networking.’

‘I suppose I better get back to my unpacking and packing.’

We hug on the doorstep, Freddie yells a goodbye from his position where he’s hunkered down on the sofa.

‘Have a great time in Brighton.’ She winks. ‘You never know!’