I flipped him the finger.
‘Before you decide to flip me off again, guess which groomsman you’ll be paired with?’
Joe had been one of those annoying people that had never been short of friends, at any stage of his life. But no one had ever clicked quite like him and Rory, who was one year older than me, placing him square in the middle of two siblings. I squealed.
‘Whatever you do, don’t let him give a speech. You know what free champagne does to that man.’
Joe grinned. ‘I do, and that’s why he’ll be firmly instructed to not start drinking until after his best man speech.’
I clapped my hands together. ‘Oh shit, really?’
This was going to be so much fun. Rory and I lived for a project to co-organise, and we’d been itching for something new now that Level was out in the world.
‘Obviously. Everyone knows the best man and the maid of honour walk together.’
Isla’s smile was wide, her food forgotten. ‘We couldn’t think of two better people to do it.’
I held back from texting Rory in the middle of dinner. ‘Have you asked him yet?’
‘Not yet.’ She poured herself some water. ‘And obviously, you’ll be allowed a plus-one. I didn’t want to be too hasty and put Isaac down on the list.’
This was the problem with hanging out with die-hard romantics. I’d been on one date with the man. Well, two, if you counted tomorrow morning. We were having a Saturday morning walk along the Southbank, with a stop off in Borough Market for doughnuts and coffee (he didn’t know that yet, but I was not the kind of girl who left date planning to a man). It was highly unlikely he’d be my plus-one at the wedding.
‘Give the invite to someone else. I won’t need it.’
Isla gave me a warning look. ‘What have we said about being pessimistic? I’m going to grass you up to Maeve.’
‘No.’ I’d reached my limit when it came to lectures about love, intimacy, and ‘opening ourselves up’.
Joe shrugged. ‘Well, you and Rory both have the choice to bring someone. He might actually need it. What’s the name of that girl he started seeing?’
He looked at me for confirmation, but my face couldn’t have been anything but blank. The girl he’d started seeing?
‘It begins with an M … Maisy, it’s Maisy.’
This was complete news to me. I racked my brain for any memory of Rory mentioning a first date. There definitely hadn’t been a late-night debrief over chocolate chip cookies.
‘He hasn’t mentioned her.’ Weird. ‘In fact, he distinctly said he wasn’t “in the mood” to date.’
They exchanged a look.
‘Oh. Weird. Anyway, I’m making the call.’ Isla moved swiftly on, and was scratching something down on the page. ‘Saffron is too risky, Joe, you’re right. I’m going with the ravioli.’
Joe was still tackling the rest of the lasagne in the middle of the dinner table, tearing off another piece of bread. ‘See? Told you. How about garlic bread?’
Mum stared him down. ‘I didn’t raise a man as intelligent as you to not think through the risks of serving garlic bread to an entire wedding congregation.’
I laughed along with them, trying to hide the hurt I felt at not being in on a clearly well-circulated secret.
11
There were many things I’d decided I would not do during my lifetime. At the top of the list was skydiving (voluntarily plummeting to your death) and eating oysters (why eat something that looks like phlegm when you could eat pizza instead). Somewhere on that – admittedly, long – list, was yoga in a park. I had the flexibility of a number two pencil. And yet …
‘We’re going to start off today’s session with some gentle flow and internal clarification of our intentions.’ The instructor, a perky young woman who I would have put somewhere between 20 and 25, raised her arms slowly above her head. ‘Fingertips to the sky, everyone, and gently push up onto your toes. Inhale slowly, and exhale as we bring our feet solidly back down to earth.’
Someone, somewhere, was laughing at me. And it could very well have been the teenage boys standing thirty feet away, camera phones at the ready.
‘You don’t look very relaxed.’ Maeve spoke through the side of her mouth, her eyes barely open and her face slack with blissful, relaxed energy.
‘That’s because I’m not,’ I hissed back. ‘I’m pretty sure that we’re about to become a meme. The laughingstock of every year eight classroom.’
My best friend didn’t even bat an eyelid, bringing her feet ‘back down to earth’. ‘Life begins when you don’t care what people think, Pen.’
Yeah. Right. I closed my eyes and focused on the instructor, who was now telling us to stretch (sorry, sweep) our arms diagonally over our heads. It was incredible really, having lived with Maeve almost consistently since I was 18, that I’d managed to last this long without being roped in to yoga of any kind. But despite gradual progress on the heartbreak front, I’d heard sniffing coming from Maeve’s bedroom this morning when I’d gone to the kitchen to grab a cup of tea. Heartbreak was not linear. And Adrian had returned some of her belongings to her, courtesy of Royal Mail. No one wanted to receive a selection of thongs, an electric toothbrush, and the latest Richard Osman in a surprise package. Which was how we’d ended up here.
‘You know’ – Maeve opened one eye as she stretched – ‘I think this might be the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.’
‘Even nicer than the time I caught the pigeon?’
She snorted, and then poked me in the ribs when we received an irritated glance from the woman in front of us.
‘I’ve never been told off during yoga in my life.’ Maeve narrowed her eyes. ‘This is your influence. But yes, even nicer than the pigeon.’
Our first houseshare in Edinburgh had been a complete dump, but it had windows that opened so wide that they were almost at risk of coming loose from their hinges. And after a year in university halls, where they practically barricaded the windows, we’d made full use of them in the summer months. Until a pigeon flew into Maeve’s bedroom. An excited pigeon, who did a lot of flapping. We’d been on a night out the previous evening, and I and my (extremely rare) one-night stand had shot up in bed at the sound of Maeve screaming. Instead of a knight in shining armour, it turned out that I’d accidentally shagged the biggest wuss to ever exist, and I’d ended up catching the bird in a tea towel whilst he cowered behind Maeve. She’d done my washing up for a month as a thank you, and the guy went home very shortly after the morning’s escapades.
‘The pigeon-catching was a spur of the moment reflex. You really had to think about booking yoga in the park.’
A thought I was beginning to regret, as I watched the instructor slowly bend herself into a pretzel shape on her mat. I tried to imitate it, before giving up and going for foetal position so I wouldn’t be seen shirking on the back row. This Saturday morning session in Finsbury Park had a good turnout, so I was hopeful that I could get away with the bare minimum. My attitude towards almost nothing, except cooking and yoga.
