The Favour

The organ pipes up, the church doors open and with the precision of synchronised swimmers everyone turns in their seats to see the bridal procession. I try to keep my composure, but I can’t fight it any longer, and my eyes begin to water. My god this underwear’s tight!

It’s my own fault, anything that’s been relegated to the box under my bed should’ve sounded alarm bells. I’ll have to ditch them before the hors d'oeuvres, but discreetly. If John finds out I’ve gone commando he might get the wrong idea. I strain my neck past a sea of headwear and bad toupees to see the flower girl gallop down the isle to the music of Robin Hood. I wonder if they actually wanted the Brian Adams version and not the TV theme tune?

I say the flower girl, but she’s not actually the flower girl, she’s in fact one of eleven, no twelve…wait a second…no thirteen. Really? Thirteen?

I’m starting to develop a crick in my neck from all the twisting and straining and I turn to face the front. Something’s happening.

Seeing a commotion I lean forward in my seat as the bridegroom looks like he’s making a break for it, legging it across the room towards a small door closely followed by his best man. Is anyone else seeing this?

Although as the minister joins in I realise they’re just herding a breakaway group of flower girls that have gone rogue. I sit back into my seat a little disappointed if I’m being honest. If the wedding’s called off I’ll have plenty of time to get home and catch the finale of Bake-off. I mean who has a wedding on a Tuesday afternoon?

In my peripheral vision the bridesmaids filter pass the end of my pew in their avocado green dresses, and for some strange reason I find myself reminiscing about the bathroom suite in my childhood home. I check my watch and see we’re nearly ten minutes into the wedding and the bride is yet to make an appearance. On and on the bridesmaids parade past, like that trick in the circus where hundreds of clowns emerge from a rusty old mini. There’re going to run out a space at the front of the church.

I turn to my right to see how John’s doing, then quickly turn back before the man whose shoulder he’s drooling on catches my eye. I really shouldn’t have given him that pill to calm his nerves. They warn you about giving out prescription meds don’t they, but it was past its expiration date so I thought it wouldn’t be as strong…although I definitely should’ve stopped at two tablets. 

A wicked thought enters my head. What if I just leave John here? As soon as the bride clears the isle I could shuffle down the pew and escape. It’s not as if anyone here knows me - I’m just a plus-one and John won’t miss me, he’s not even conscious.

I silently debate whether or not to make a run for it, a white-winged angel on my one shoulder and a red-horned devil on the other. When John asks me about it I could say I had an urgent message and had to leave or that I suddenly felt sick. I go back and forth with my decision but the more I think about it the more I realise I can’t do it, mainly because we drove here in John’s car.

My ears are met with ‘oohhs’ and ‘aahhs’ as the bride makes her appearance. Once again I crane my neck to see past the sea of hats bobbing away on the heads of their owners. As I wait to glimpse her I play a game of ‘what decade is that from?’ There’s a few feathered fascinators from the 2000’s, and a 70’s silk scarf that Margo Leadbetter would approve of, but the majority of the headwear seem to be from the 80’s and 90’s. I don’t own a hat, so I’m not wearing one, although my Spanx are from the 90’s so I feel some connection to the crowd in a nostalgic sense. 

Finally I catch sight of the bride, not that there’s much to see. Her veil looks like one of those frilly things my grandma use to drape over the arms of her chairs. I’m interested to see what she actually looks like, because I’ve only ever seen one photo of her, and to be honest I’m not sure I’ll recognise her with her clothes on.  

I say photo, but it’s really just the background on John’s phone, which is pretty sad considering they’ve been broken up for over ten years. In it Julie is wearing a bikini comprised of three red triangles with what looks like dental floss holding everything together. Actually, come to think about it it’s more creepy than sad. Perhaps as a wedding gift to her I’ll wipe the photo from John’s phone whilst he’s still passed out. It’ll serve him right for getting me here under false pretences.

When he first asked me to come I’d said no, I was adamant, but he wore me down with equal parts of guilt and the promise of an open bar. He’d told me it was the wedding of a distant relative, unfortunately true but misleading, it was local and he needed a last minute plus-one to save face. But the truth came out during the two hour car journey here, along with the requirement for me to delve deep into my G.C.S.E acting skills. ‘Just a couple of notes’ he’d said as he’d passed me a thick stack of prompts.

 He’d hyped up our backstory as a Hollywood whirlwind romance, and had declared once Julie heard about it she’d turn green with jealousy (at least she won’t clash with the bridesmaids), and instantly regret dumping him a decade ago. However, to me it read more like a ‘carry on’ script. It begins with a scene on the plane where I tell him I’m allergic to peanuts, he mishears me and we laugh about it. Then later at the resort we discover my room is directly underneath his, when his speedos blow off the makeshift washing line and onto my balcony. At least I won’t have the embarrassment of having to recite our backstory now, just the embarrassment of being stuck in the church with an unconscious ‘date’.

   The Robin Hood theme music ends with a deafening climax and now that the organ is silent I can hear John’s snoring. I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead. It can’t get any worse, can it?

The minister clears his throat and begins. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God to join together Alice and Dermot…’

Whose Alice? Is that Julie’s first name?

I scan the row in front for a copy of the order of service which had run out before we’d arrived. An elderly lady seated diagonally from me is using one as a fan, and I tilt my head to read the embossed cover as it slices through the air sending wafts of Blue Grass my way.

The name on it reads Alice Victoria Edwards.

Realisation doesn’t creep up on me but rather dumps a bucket of icy water over my head as I recall the name of the man Julie is marrying - Peter. Or ‘Perfect Peter’ as John referred to him in the car. Oh Lordie, we’re at the wrong wedding.

There’s only one thing I can do. I discreetly pick up my bag and mouth to the lady sat next to me ‘I’m just popping to the toilet’, whilst ignoring the shrieks of laughter from the devil still sat on my shoulder