Mia orders a pasta dish, and Penny gets a steak. Obviously, not a vegetarian anymore again. It will be tough sitting across from them while they feast. The aroma wafting from the kitchen is torture enough.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” I start. “Bels wanted me to keep track of how things are going. She wants me to send her monthly updates.”
I scan my diary for my list of things to talk to them about, reminded that they’re busy and even less committed to Isabella’s dream wedding than I am. She sends the emails to all of us as a group but not everyone replies as often and as much as me. I guess they figure it’s my job to chase them up for the important stuff. Or they have a life.
“Okay, I’ll start,” I say to fill the silence. “I’ve tentatively booked the church—St. Stephen’s Cathedral in the city, but not the venue. Stamford Plaza and Customs House are both fully booked out. Even the Treasury Hotel is not available.”
“I don’t think it should be at the Treasury,” Penny puts in. “Bad juju.”
The others nod. We all remember the spectacular way our ten-year high school reunion was interrupted last year when the McAllister brothers fought over our friend.
“Bels wants a fancy hotel though. And I’m running out of options. We’re pencilled in at those three venues in case of a cancellation, but it’s close to Christmas, so we’re competing with other weddings, fancy work parties and Year 12 formals.” The others nod but offer no suggestions. “There’s also a bridal expo next weekend. Can anyone come with me? We still need to find a photographer and videographer for the day. And probably a million things we haven’t even thought of yet.”
“Has Bels decided on a colour yet?” Mia asks. “I’ve already started making her accessories but I can’t do the bridesmaids’ stuff until I know the theme.”
“Not yet, but she wants a colour we can all feel comfortable in as long as it’s not pink, patterned, multi-coloured or black.”
This is followed by a long discussion about dress styles and colours as eclectic as our group. Mia mostly doesn’t care. Penny has her eye on some expensive sack but it’s thankfully black and can’t even be under consideration. And Fiona comes up with, “I can’t wear white. It’ll be stained before I’m out the door.”
“True. And white makes my arse look even more gigantic,” Mia adds as a cute waiter arrives laden with their lunch.
“White’s nice and simple,” Penny, the minimalist, contributes. Eyes following the retreating form of our server, she distractedly cuts up her steak.
“I’m with Fiona and Mia. I can’t wear white, either,” I say. Three against one. I make a note in my diary to tell Isabella that white has at least been taken off the list of possible bridesmaids’ dress colours. “Anyway, Isabella wants to wear off-white. It’ll probably be too close to what she’s wearing if we wear white, too.” I turn to Mia and Fiona and fill them in on the bride’s wishes regarding their kids’ roles in the wedding party.
“Are children allowed at the reception?” Fiona shifts her son to her other breast, and she accidentally flashes me a saggy tit again.
Oh, God. Breastfeeding is so mean to your boobs.
“I’ll ask,” I say, distracted by the size of her nipples. I make a note in my diary planner: Are nipples kids allowed at reception? “So, any takers to come with me to the bridal expo?”
I can’t think of anything worse than going by myself, surrounded by girly girls and their mothers, sisters and friends when it’s not even me getting married. I already mentioned the idea to Jillie who dramatically shivered and told me she was allergic to monogamy and weddings.
“I’ve got four kids’ parties on next weekend,” Fiona says, feeding herself with one hand while the other holds her son’s head in place so he can continue to suckle.
I’m so glad I’m not eating. I am so not cut out for motherhood.
“Market stall. My assistant, Juliana’s backpacking in Europe from tomorrow. She won’t be back till the end of this month.” So that’s Mia out.
A look of panic flits across Penny’s features as she seems to draw a blank on excuses.
“My parents are coming back from Singapore that weekend. They’ll expect me to be around.” She looks relieved to come up with that excuse, then busies herself, cutting up steak. “Who are Byron’s groomsmen? Anyone we know?” she asks me after chewing a mouth-watering piece.
“Well, Keats is the best man.” They all perk up at the mention of his name. “Then there’s their family friend’s son, Blake; and two of Byron’s uni friends. That’s a groomsman for each of us.”
I’m definitely the only one paying attention to Isabella’s wedding-related email updates.
“I hope I get a cute one,” Penny says around her steak.
Fiona’s eyes gloss over like she’s imagining a strapping groomsman walking at her side. Mia checks her watch like she has better things to do than discuss Isabella’s grand wedding.
When Fiona’s breastfeeding blanket slips off her shoulder again, my eyes get stuck to the sight of her baby sliding off her nipple as he starts to doze. He reattaches himself as the movement wakes him up, then goes for another couple of sucks before he begins to fall asleep again.
“One day, you’ll have your own kids and this will feel totally natural,” she tells me, probably seeing the frozen cringe on my face.
“I’m not having kids. No way.” I would just mess them up with my issues.
“Your husband might want some,” Fiona says with an encouraging smile.
“Well, I’m not getting married either, so…” I would just mess him up, too.
They all look at me intrigued. But it’s too embarrassing to share my reasons with them. They don’t need to know that whenever Dad got drunk, he would reminisce about the early years with my mother when they were in love. This story always ended with the collapse of their relationship after they got
