A Lovely Pair

“Well, you can go with Martin then.” Aunt Viv stares at me, and with the subtle lifting of her chin, the snare snaps shut.

I fumble for an answer, glancing around the table, hoping for an ally, but everyone here is well versed in the art of dodging Aunt Viv’s ire.

I’m on my own.

“Pray tell,” she says, her gaze blasting through her mean little spectacles, “Is there a reason you can’t possibly accompany Martin to the wedding?”

The clink of cutlery ceases, the gauntlet has been thrown, and in the silence, it roars. It’s a miracle her chin hairs aren’t singed and curling from the intensity of her gaze. I sneak a look, but all I see is her puckered mouth and an unhealthy amount of inevitability.

Martin. Her godson. Egotistical, narcissistic twit. That should be reason enough. Though there's another reason too, and that's one I’m even more reluctant to share. I slump back in my chair.

She nods.

“Good, that’s sorted then,” she says, and her decree hangs between us. “You’ll make a lovely pair.”

I nod in return.

Well, this is going to be awkward.

#

“Is that your idea of dressing classy?” Martin says, heaving his bulk out of the car. “Bloody Viv. Demented old bat.” He sighs.

My cheeks burn with the fire of a thousand suns, and I steady myself against the cold metal of the car door, closing my eyes and sucking in a deep breath.

Upon careful reflection, I’ve come armed with an action plan for survival. Get in. Get out. Don’t be the one to make a scene.

This is Nina and Nick’s wedding, their big day, and it won’t be me who spoils it for them. So I smile at Martin instead and settle for a minor jab.

“Your fly’s undone,” I say.

Leaving him in my wake, I stride across the carpark, towards the idyllic garden, where a seething mass of hypocrisy congregates. He catches up with me as I reach the people mingling on the lawn.

Women clutching tiny handbags and men clutching tiny wives, swapping backhanded compliments, and chatting politely about the weather, current events and who has possibly had a boob job. There’s at least two hundred people here amongst the rows of white folding chairs, scattered rose petals and fluttering ribbons. My chest lightens when I realize I’m invisible amongst the self-importance radiating off the crowd.

People move to take their seats, and I look for one near the back, but I have the distinct misfortune of catching Aunt Viv’s gaze and she waves us over. Joy. She’s saved us two seats, right up the front, wedged between her and Jenny Chapman.

Of course she has. 

“She’s seen us,” Martin says, his voice flat.

“I know.”

Behind me, someone calls my name. I spin, my heart already pounding. And there he is.

Nick.

Nick with wide eyes and thick, dark hair. Nick. The reason I was unwilling to share. Nick. Big, bold, handsome in his three-piece tuxedo, but with all the social conscience of a maggot. Just ask the girl with the lovely breasts. 

“I didn’t think you were invited,” he says.

I pick at a bit of fluff on my dress and swallow, my throat impossibly dry. “I’m here as Martin’s plus one.” My voice is squeaky and I cough.

He glances at Martin standing beside me and flicks him the barest of acknowledgements. Martin bristles at the slight.

“Annie…” Nick says, his tone brimming with warning. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing,” I say.

He holds my gaze.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “The deal's still on.”

“Annie.”

“I’ll behave.”

“Annie.”

His tone is harsh, and I turn, heading towards Aunt Viv with Martin in tow, leaving Nick standing in the aisle.

We both know behaving’s not my strong suit.

We take our seats as the music starts and Aunt Viv sniffles into a lace hanky. Jenny Chapman raises her hands to her chest and brims with wholesome delight, so fake that comparatively even her boobs look real. Oh, for the love of god, bring me a bowl because I’m going to vomit.

The music swells and Nina glides up the aisle, clutching the arm of her father and the lead of a ridiculously tiny dog that can only be described as half a Chiwawa. It wouldn’t even serve as a snack for any self-respecting cat.

I glance at Nick. He’s watching her, his hands clasped in front of him and his expression possibly the only authentic thing amongst us. His gaze flicks to me and he frowns and glances back to Nina. But she sees the lapse in his attention and follows his gaze.

To me.

Her stride falters. Her father nudges her forward. The dog is oblivious because no form of cognition exists in creatures that undersized. Then she plasters on her smile, wider and more plastic than before, and continues gliding on up the aisle. The moment over.

But my back prickles. The raptor has seen her prey.

She’s coming for me.

#

The priest is so old it’s possible he was part of the original clergy that nutted out the first marriage sacrament. He drones on and on. But Nick only has eyes for Nina, standing under the arch, clasping her hands in his, and staring lovingly at her while ribbons flutter and rose petals dance. And the priest continues his droning.

Beside me Martin shuffles, leaning his head towards mine and saying in what he probably intends to be a whisper but really isn’t, “I’m surprised they made it this far.”

I blink in surprise. So am I, to be fair.

“Why?” I ask, barely whispering, but Aunt Viv shoots me a glare so vicious she’s at risk of smoldering her chin hairs.

“Miracle, he’s kept it in his pants for this long.” Martin scoffs. “Or at least she hasn’t found out.”

Aunt Viv shushes me again even though it was her precious godson talking and I catch myself before I can react. Stick to the plan. Get in. Get out. Don’t be the one to make a scene.

I drop my gaze to my lap, focusing on my purse, tracing my fingers over the zip, and feeling the comforting weight of my new phone inside.

Martin is surprisingly astute, as I have recently acquired several pictures of Nick, three of which can only politely be described as compromising.

And yet, here I am at his wedding.

The priest is droning on about the sanctity of marriage and the gift of faithfulness. I catch Nick’s gaze. His cheeks tinge pink.

I smile.

I’ll haunt his wedding forever, tainting his memories of this day. I can’t lie.

It’s kinda delicious.

#

The marriage ceremony ends, and a line forms, with Nick and Nina, accepting the congratulations of their guests, with unparalleled pretense. I wonder how long Nina lasts before she has to check her makeup.

Jenny Chapman is talking to me, but it’s too hot. Even though we’re outside, I need some air.

The insincerity is stifling.

“Sorry,” I say, and she frowns. “I need some air.”

She calls after me, but I duck out of the air-kisses and salutations queue, heading inside the building, and look for the bathrooms. The air is cool in here, quiet, and the clack of my heels on the concrete brings me back to the present.

I wash my hands in the bathroom, splashing water on my face. He’s such an arsehole. Standing there, next to Nina, with their snack sized dog, accepting everyone’s congratulations.

Get in. Get out. Don’t be the one to make a scene. I pull out my phone and flick through the pictures. Stick to the plan. Such an arsehole.

The door creaks and I fumble with my phone, trying to close the pictures, while shoving it into my purse, but my fingers slip, and it cascades to the floor, landing face up.

Jenny Chapman walks in.

Of course she does.

“Annie, are you okay?” she asks, stepping towards me and resting a hand on my shoulder.

I nod. Then sneak a look at my phone on the floor. The picture is still on the screen. A picture of Nick and a girl with lovely breasts. Her head is tilted back, exposing her throat and obscuring her face, and she’s wearing green boots with a row of gold stars on the side, which catch the light, a fire in a sea of green.

She’s wearing only the boots.

Jenny follows my gaze, and she bends, arm outstretched, to pick up my phone.

I push past her. “I’ve got it,” I say.

But I’m too late. She grabs it, her eyes focusing on the screen and a moment later widening, her mouth making a perfect circle of surprise, and a little hiss escapes.

“What is this?” Her gaze is riveted on the picture, but she slides one hand to her throat and gasps in shock so real even her fake boobs are moved to emotion.

“Oh my god,” she says.

It’s not overly articulate, but it does summarize the situation.

“Is that Nick?” she asks.

I’m not sure what to say, so I wait.

“Who’s he with?” she asks. “That’s not Nina.”

I stand there, letting Jenny’s brain process current events, seeing where she lands. I grab for the phone, but she swats me off, scrutinizing the photo. She’s coming to her senses.

“This is recent.” She looks at me. “He's got a beard.”

She stares. I wait.

“That means...” Jenny trails off, clutching her chest again. “Oh, my god.”

I wait some more. Waiting for the question.

“How do you have that photo?” she asks. “Who is the girl?”

Bingo.

“I shouldn’t say.” I break eye contact with Jenny and pick at a bit of fluff on my dress.

Jenny leans in closer, clutching the phone. “Tell me,” she says, her voice breathy with anticipation. 

I struggle not to smile. Too easy.

“I caught Nick showing it to some of his rugby mates a few weeks ago. Bragging about his latest conquest.” I shake my head.

“No,” Jenny says. Again, not articulate but solid summary.

“I confronted him, of course. He said it was all but over with Nina. That he’d made a terrible mistake.” I scoff. “I bloody believed him, too.”

I leave out the part where he paid me a thousand dollars to keep my mouth shut. Some parts of the story are best not to see the light of day.

Jenny tuts. “Who’s the girl?”

I shake my head again. “Couldn’t say. Some chick with lovely breasts.” I stop myself before I add, ‘and cute boots.’

She stares at the phone, scrutinizing the photo. “I wonder who it is. She has—”

The door swings open and Jenny stares, phone in hand, frozen in horror as Nina walks in.

“Wonder who ‘who’ is?” Nina asks, catching the whiff of gossip and rustling forward, hand greedily reaching for the phone.

Jenny shoves it behind her back, but Nina dances around her, laughing and reaching, snatching it out of Jenny’s hand.

She looks at the phone, her smile wide. And then her smile fades, her lips pucker and her forehead makes that funny sort of frown unique to people who’ve used too much Botox.

“What is this?” she asks Jenny, her voice confused.

Jenny stares at Nina. I can practically see her mind struggling to comprehend the size of the shitshow coming her way.

“It’s Nick.” Nina’s voice is soft in disbelief. She turns, her gaze fixed on Jenny. The raptor has changed its target. It’s coming for her with big square teeth and pink fake nails. “How do you have this?”

“I just…”

But Nina isn’t waiting for an answer. She unleashes on Jenny and I edge myself against the wall.

“What kind of fucked up tramp has pictures of my husband on her phone? And with who? It this you? What the actual fuck, Jenny?”

I should step in. Rescue Jenny Chapman.

But I don’t.

I stick to the plan. Get in. get out. Don’t be the one to make a scene.

I'm letting Jenny Chapman have that honour.

The diatribe continues, and I watch, inching along the bathroom wall. I’m nearly at the door now. Nina’s really going at it with Jenny. Her face is red, and her mascara is running down her cheeks like a deranged, sagging clown. Half a fake eyelash falls off and sticks to her cheek.

The real Nina coming to the fore.

Jenny stands frozen, her mouth opening and closing, not quite understanding the explosion she’s triggered. She and the dog would be in good company.

I edge the door open.

My work here is done.

I’ve stuck to the plan.

Get in.

Get out.

Don’t be the one to make a scene.

And so, I slip out, unnoticed and leaving my new phone behind. A thousand dollars. Of Nick's money. But money well spent.

#

“Well, that was quite a thing,” Martin says, holding the car door open for me. Something in the last few hours has unlocked his chivalry. Perhaps it was the chickens coming home to roost for Nick. Or perhaps I was wrong about Martin. I’ve been wrong about things before.

“Indeed,” I say, pausing to meet his gaze.

“He had it coming,” Martin says.

“Oh?”

“We hardly hang out anymore, and even I’d seen those pictures. He wasn’t exactly discrete.” Martin shrugs and I swing my legs into the car. He shakes his head. “What was Jenny Chapman thinking, showing them to Nina at her wedding?”

I shrug. “Maybe she felt she didn’t have a choice.”

Or maybe she was played and actually didn’t have a choice.

He nods and drops his gaze, staring into the footwell. Then he stiffens, just a fraction of a beat, but I see it.

“Bloody hell, Annie,” he says, shaking his head softly, a small smile playing on his lips.

“What?” I ask.

He stares at my feet again. “Nice boots,” he says.

I click my seatbelt and cross my legs, the gold stars on my boots catching the light, a fire in a sea of green. 

Yes.

They’re a lovely pair indeed.