* * * Matt and Lucy * * *
I groan as Toby pushes me back onto the bed, grips my legs and lifts them high, then enters me. "I want to fuck you, darling," he is saying, "fuck you and fuck you and..."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Don is snapping as I wake up bleary-eyed and aroused.
I roll over. He's standing in his shirt and suit jacket, his face thunderous.
"Fucking alarm on my Iphone didn't go off. I don't know why you didn't set yours too. Fuck!" He knocks his shin on the side of the bed as he struggles into his trousers. "Jesus! Don't just lie there, get up!"
I check my phone. Ten twenty. The wedding is at eleven and the church is at least forty five minutes drive away.
"Fuck-a-doodle-doo!"
Ten minutes later we're in the car, grinding through town. The radio is playing Saturday Morning Love Songs. Don is his usual courteous self, swearing at other drivers, making obscene gestures at pedestrians and traffic lights. When we finally get onto the dual carriageway, he turns on me.
"I don't know why the fuck you didn't set your alarm. You knew my Iphone was on the blink."
I try to ignore him; concentrate on the mirror in the sun visor as I apply my eye-liner.
"You just didn't think, did you. But then you never do."
"That's right, it's all my fault Don, isn't it?" I snap back. "The fact that you went out drinking after work and forgot to set your phone had nothing to do with it."
"Jesus, Sophie! You're always blaming me. I swear to God I can't handle much more of this."
Eleven fifteen and we slip into the back of the church. The congregation are sitting in silence. There are a few disdainful looks. "Jesus Christ," Don mutters as we slip into the rear pew. He is still furious, and stands stony-faced as Lucy's sister stumbles through a reading from 1 Corinthians:
"Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends."
It's a workmanlike service, but I find myself in tears. Perhaps it's the stress of the morning, or maybe just the simple sentiment expressed in the readings and hymns: "And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love." Seeing me crying, Don sighs with contempt.
Afterwards there are photographs amongst the gravestones. Lucy looks resplendent in a white mermaid dress, blond hair piled high. Don slips away as soon as he can, to talk to a couple of male friends. They stand with their backs to the rest of the crowd, laughing like schoolboys. I feel awkward and alone.
It's then that I see him: a guy in his mid-twenties chatting to a couple of older men. He's wearing a cheap-looking suit and unshaven, but smiling. He catches my eye. I smile back, then feel a hand on my arm: "Overslept?"
It's Hannah, the wife of Don's friend Nick. She's very slim and perfectly tanned. She's wearing an elegant blue dress and has an enormous silk gardenia flower in her hair. My own dress feels crumpled and uncomfortable, and I left my hat in the car.
"Well yes, and then the traffic, you know," I fumble.
"Well, don't worry," she says. "You look marvellous by the way."
"Thanks."
We stand watching while Don and Nick line up for a photograph with the rest of the men. Matt, the groom, stands at the centre, looking proud and broad-shouldered in his hired morning suit.
Afterwards, we share a car to the reception with Hannah and Nick. Don makes a point of talking to his friends and not to me. The reception is in a big marquee in the gardens of a stately home. As we walk over from the car park, I can smell wood smoke and freshly cut grass. A pretty waitress hands us glasses of champagne as we enter.
"Thank fuck for that, I was getting thirsty," Don brays, to laughter from his friends. He knocks back one glass then gets to work on another. I sigh. He'll soon be drunk again.
At the afternoon meal, I'm seated between Don and Marshall. Don, Nick, Matt and Marshall all work together at Mercer's, an investment bank in the City. Marshall is tall and blond. He's wearing an expensive but ill-fitting suit. His face is red from the afternoon sun and alcohol. Specks of spit fly out of his mouth as he speaks. His wife Karen leans round him to tell me loudly about their recent holiday to Antigua.
The mid-twenties guy is sitting at a table with two young families. One of the children is crying, and the parents appear to be arguing. He catches my eye again, and smiles.
The first course is duck pate. It's delicious. By the time the waiters have removed the plates, Don has drunk four glasses of red wine. I hate to count, but I know what he's like when he's drunk.
"Where's the fucking main course?" he snaps. "Sophie will be getting hungry. Look at her, she's practically fading away!" He turns and grabs the flesh of my arm. His friends erupt in laughter.
"Pig," I half-laugh back, twisting away. "Look, will you all excuse me for a few minutes, I need to get some fresh air."
"Pig," I half-spit again outside. Catching my breath, I walk away from the marquee. It's late afternoon, the sun just dipping slightly, the shadows beginning to lengthen. I walk down a gravel path between a row of trees, emerging by a stone summer house.
"You caught me!"
It's the mid-twenties guy. He's loitering behind the summer house, smoking a joint.
"Oh I was just... I had to get some air."
