I’m not convinced, but I don’t need to tell him that. The prospect of spending more time with Keats, in his inner circle, is dangling in front of me like tempting forbidden fruit. All I need to do is take one bite. Actually, I don’t even really need to take a bite, just pretend to—the double, double cross. Can I pull it off?
“Look,” Keats says when I don’t say anything. “I’m going to do this with or without you, but my chance of being with Isabella again is probably higher with your help. And if everything goes to plan, there’s a bit of romance at the end of it for you, too. So are you in?”
Chapter 5
The friends of my frenemy are my frenemies.
I hung out with Isabella’s friends in high school, but I was never close to any of them. And now they seem to resent my title as maid of honour like I chose it. They should’ve been there to volunteer when Isabella had made her big announcement and asked.
My brooding is interrupted when a waitress sets my Diet Coke in front of me. I’m at a café in South Bank, overlooking the artificial beach and swimming areas right in the heart of Brisbane. It’s Saturday, so the place is teeming, especially since it’s a warm day for April. Autumn seems to be arriving late this year. The blue-green water sparkles in the sun, inviting me. Even the brackish Brisbane River beyond is tempting in this heat. But I’ll just have to settle for a cool bath when I get home.
The last time I swam in public was in primary school for Physical Education and swimming sports days. My height and size gave me an unfair advantage in the pool—even at twelve, I was already close to six feet tall. But by high school, I was too shy to put my hand up to swim for my sporting house, and don togs in front of my peers. I haven’t thought about swimming in years. On hindsight, maybe I could’ve taken the sport further if my dad had been a better-functioning alcoholic.
Mia—the “Bitch of Bridgewater High”—arrives first. With her curly red hair down and those striking hazel eyes, she looks like a doll from the neck up. From the neck down, she has on a loose kaftan and sandals, accessorised by colourful beaded necklaces and bangles that she no doubt crafted herself. They look like the stuff she makes and sells at the South Bank markets. Getting knocked up at nineteen and raising her daughter by herself has really forced her to grow up faster than all of us.
“Sorry I’m late. It got busy at my stall. Anyway, it’s finally calmed down enough for me to leave my assistant by herself.”
I shrug, knowing exactly how full-on it is to be a small business owner. But unlike Mia, who seems like such a together, single mother to an eight-year-old, I still feel like I’m just playing shop. “You’re the second one here.”
“I got a text from Penny. She’s running ten minutes behind,” Mia tells me.
Luckily, Isabella’s fourth, and last, bridesmaid rocks up, before I need to make small talk with Mia. I’ve never been good at schmoozing. Fiona—the Mouse of the group—arrives pushing her youngest offspring in a stroller.
“How are you, Jess? I like your top,” she says, always the quiet crowd pleaser. She has some God-awful “mum clothes” on—some chiffon patterned loose material for a top over black crop pants and canvas shoes misshapen by her swollen feet. She’s dressed like she’s a couple of years away from forty, instead of twenty-eight—like the rest of us.
“Can’t complain.” I suddenly feel a little better about my singlehood. If that’s the price of a husband and kids, then I’ve got even more reasons not to get married.
With Fiona there, the two of them start talking babies, and I’m left in peace to stare at the inviting bodies of water again. Fiona’s baby is cute as far as little humans go, but I have no idea what to say to him. It gets especially awkward for me when it’s milk time, and I see more of Fiona than I want to before she could put the modesty blanket over her breastfeeding infant.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Penny says as she joins us twenty minutes later. She’s wearing jeans and a shapeless top, accessorised by a long, light green beaded necklace that I bet is real jade. She greets us warmly, and within seconds strikes up an animated conversation with the others.
They are so comfortable hanging out together like they’ve become friends over the years. And they have. But not me.
I never saw any of them without Isabella around, and I definitely never invited them to my house. Only Isabella knows what it was like in my dysfunctional home. The house was always a mess, our clothes not properly washed (hence my well-deserved smelly kid reputation), my younger brother and I not properly fed. Most of the time, I stayed at Isabella’s instead of the other way around.
So I watch them now, still the outsider. I have no idea how to join in.
“Have you guys ordered?” Penny asks after a few minutes.
“I’ve already eaten.” I had my diet food ration before I left the house. “You go ahead though.”
Fiona picks up her menu and peruses it like it’s a tennis match—she looks left at the food description, then right at the price, all the way down the list. Eventually she settles for one of the cheapest things on the menu. I’m exactly the same, and I don’t even have a million children like she
