One of her older sisters, who was bouncing a baby on her knee, jumped in. ‘Like a 6-year-old’s birthday party?’
I fought the urge to take off both my heels and sling them in their direction. Maeve was already on it, chipping in whilst sat in the chair getting her lipstick applied.
‘Why shouldn’t this be like a grown-up 6-year-old’s birthday party?’ She smacked her lips together. ‘Life was better when there were party bags.’
Isla’s mum cleared her throat. ‘I suppose.’
‘My mum made a cracking party bag.’ Maeve continued to bulldoze through any awkwardness. ‘Ridiculous flavours of Chapstick, neon headbands … those were the days.’
There was no longer any room for negativity. Isla’s family were staring at my best friend with mild fascination. I mouthed a ‘thank you’ in her direction.
‘You’ve been so lucky with the weather.’ The make-up artist, a friend of Isla and Joe’s from high school, pointed out into the garden, where the sun was shining. ‘When my sister got married, she spent a ton of money securing a July date and then it rained so hard the gazebo broke right through the middle.’
I winced at the thought. She was right, it was a gorgeous day for a wedding. Somewhere else in the hotel, Joe, Rory and my dad were getting ready with the other groomsmen. I’d been trying not to think about that part, wrapping myself up in my duties and ignoring everything that wasn’t wedding related. Like Rory, and our ongoing silence. Mum was out in the barn, putting the finishing touches to the cake and making sure that everything else we’d divided up between us over the last few months had gone successfully to plan. It was T-minus one hour until we were due downstairs to walk down the aisle, and I was already feeling nervous. I thought I was due a bit of good karma, but it was well within the realms of possibility that I might trip on a rogue handbag and fly headfirst into a pew. Either that, or Rory might push me himself.
‘And we’re done here.’ The make-up artist framed Maeve’s face in a ‘ta-da!’ motion, and we all cooed over the finished look even though it was identical to every single one of the bridesmaid reveals so far. Our eyes were the focal point; beautiful soft pastel glitters that matched our individual dresses had been applied meticulously. The rest of the make-up was subtle, with a mauve lipstick to finish it off. Every inch of this wedding was bursting with Isla’s creativity, from the make-up to the bouquets, which she’d lovingly assembled herself yesterday afternoon. The hairdresser had curled our hair into soft waves that fell down our backs, using Isla’s gift to us – a dainty hair slide with tiny gems running all the way down it – to pin a piece back. It was a miracle that she’d had time to focus on the minor details of this wedding – it felt like two minutes ago that they’d dropped the bombshell at the kitchen table.
‘Has someone checked the microphones?’ I voice-noted Mum, checking things off on my clipboard. We’d been communicating via voice note for the past hour as she’d wandered through the building; it was the modern walkie-talkie. She sent a note back, confirming that the soundcheck had gone well, and adding on a message that said the officiant wasn’t too hard on the eyes.
‘Only you would be micromanaging from up here.’ Maeve shook her head, sipping a mimosa. ‘Relax, woman.’
I pulled a face at her. ‘I’m maid of honour. It’s my job to stress. I won’t relax until they’ve both said “I do”.’
‘And that’ – Isla saluted me from the other side of the room, where her sisters had finally made themselves useful and were helping her into her dress – ‘is why I chose you.’
I consulted my checklist, happy to report that we were running on time. Once Isla was in her dress, the photographer was on hand to get some final photos before the ceremony. Isla’s final moments before becoming a Webber. And then it was all about the pre-aisle pep talk, which was Maeve’s domain. She’d insisted that if there was any part of this day she could nail, it was the motivational speech before we headed downstairs for the ceremony. The only other glaring item on my list, which I was trying my hardest to put to the back of my mind, was my speech. I’d never missed a deadline in my life, but in a Penny Webber first, I was going to have to wing it.
Maeve was looking at my clipboard. ‘I wouldn’t mention to Isla that you haven’t written anything yet.’
‘Oh, trust me’ – I crossed it out with my sharpie, striking through the letters three more times to make sure it was completely unreadable – ‘I won’t.’
‘I think Rory has memorised his down to a tee –’ She winced. ‘Oops. Sorry.’
I bit my lip, quickly releasing it so I didn’t smudge the carefully applied lipstick. ‘No, don’t. We have to speak about him. It has to be normal.’
When Maeve had arrived home on Wednesday night, she’d heard me crying and I’d spilled my guts to her almost immediately. I knew it was putting her in an awkward position, so I’d tried ever since to remain painfully optimistic to her face.
‘I promise. I’m fine.’
She blinked back at me. ‘And I’m not stupid. You’re hurting, he’s hurting. Sometimes being friends with you two feels like a full-time job. Have your parents spoken yet?’ Maeve changed the subject, glancing out the window where we could see Mum talking with one of the guests. I was pretty sure it was weird Uncle Rob. I planned on avoiding him the entire day; no one was a fan of his cheek kisses.
‘Not as far as I know.’ I watched Mum, so effortlessly graceful as she darted between family members. It was weird to see her all dressed up, no apron in sight, but she looked beautiful in a pale blue pantsuit. ‘But I have a feeling that she’ll be fine.’
Joe had broken the news to her about Linda’s invite to the wedding, sandwiching it between a pretend crisis about some choux buns. She’d been so focused on the pastry disaster that she’d taken it on board like a champ.
‘Ta-da!’ From the other side of the room, Isla’s sisters presented her in her dress. She looked beautiful, and she had tears in her own eyes. My almost-sister had been waiting a long time for this day.
‘I hate that you’re going to be the prettiest Webber.’ I sighed, squeezing her hand. ‘It was a good run.’
Isla shoved me. ‘You’re ridiculous.’
Maeve was fanning her eyes, trying to dry the tears that were threatening to spill over. ‘This is definitely the mimosa’s fault, don’t mind me.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Right, everyone,’ I said, clapping. ‘It’s go time.’
***
Once we were downstairs, everything moved really quickly. All the guests were already sitting at their chairs, which had been scattered with gorgeous pink flowerheads supplied by Isla’s boss. I could almost breathe a sigh of relief; we’d made it. There was next to nothing that could derail this mission now, and it had felt like a mission. How To Plan a Wedding in Two Months: The Webber Edition. The photographer ushered Isla away from the rest of the bridal party to get one last shot, and the four of us lined up to wait for the groomsmen. The venue in Hackney was absolutely gorgeous; a blank slate that Isla – along with Mum and Angela’s help – had truly made her own. Fairy lights added a soft ambience to the room where everyone was waiting, and I could see a few people turning in their seats, ready to catch a glimpse of the bride. Maeve was at the front of the bridal queue, chatting to Isla’s sister. She shot me a subtle thumbs-up. I fiddled with the sleeve of my dress, suddenly nervous; I’d been so wrapped up with my clipboard and getting Isla here in one piece, that I hadn’t really thought about what came next.
‘Hey.’ I felt the lightest touch on my arm and then Rory was right there beside me, the rest of the guys filing in beside their allocated bridesmaid. I had no time to plan something witty, or to think of something interesting enough that it might eclipse the elephant in the room. Maeve immediately burst into laughter at something Joe’s colleague, Matt, said to her. Both of us shuffled, self-conscious.
‘Hi.’ I whispered it back. My voice wavered.
Rory manoeuvred my arm so that I was forced to look at him. ‘You look beautiful, Pen.’
I’d been worried about this dress: the softness of the pink, and the elegance of the floor-length number that cinched in at the waist. Just a tad out of my comfort zone. This was no power suit, or red leather trousers.
‘I mean it. You do.’
My heart rate didn’t know what to do, soothed by his presence and simultaneously terrified that we might mess up this interaction. ‘Thanks. You look great too.’
His hair was slightly less wild than usual, and he’d trimmed his beard for the occasion. He must have had a better week of sleep than me, because my eye bags were darker even with several layers of concealer. His suit was well fitted, and he’d linked my arm through his, accentuating the hard muscle there.
‘I think you can probably put your clipboard down now,’ he whispered in my ear as he reached over to carefully take it from underneath my arm. My heart ached at this Rory, the one I knew so well.
‘Oh, right. You know I like to plan.’
Rory nodded. ‘That I do.’
