Ashton - Who?

Plus-one. What does that even mean, anyway? At what point did we start replacing meaningful words like companion, friend, or something more heartfelt and of greater significance with a phrase so arbitrary as plus-one. An additional one. What’s to determine who is the additional one and who is meant to be at a given event?

I suppose an invitation would decide that… 

In an instant, I have been reduced to something similar to a leech that simply attaches itself onto another body and tags along for the food, the company, the experience, willingly or unwillingly - my partner was invited, I was not. Yet, here I am, leeching off her to be at this event I truly couldn't care less about, the sentiment of apathy competing only with my lack of feeling for the other guests whom I either do not know or wish I don’t.

“Thank you,” saved by the glass - of champagne, of course. I try my best impression of a man who wants to be here, offering an appreciative smile to the server who does her best impression of a woman who believes my attempt. We don’t make eye contact for very long and I watch her expertly and wordlessly meander around the guests, wading through a sea of strangers. She is here to get paid, after all, not mingle and get chummy. The thought of earning a pretty penny for being a plus-one, for just standing around and waiting for this torture to be over, brings a smirk - the only hint of amusement so far into the night - to my face. Wouldn’t that make me an escort? How’s that for a plus-one?

“A man with a sense of humour, Jess, I like this one!” Abigail, Jessica’s boisterous brunette-of-a-sister, blurts out with a loud voice and a louder smile when she sees the sign of amusement on my face. If she smiles any wider, her teeth may jut out far enough to take somebody’s head off, which would make this wedding infinitely more interesting.

I struggle to hold my smile in place as it becomes clear to me that while I was lost in my daydreams of resuming the role of an escort of sorts, a joke must have been said, as is customary at such occasions. People share their comical stories, god forbid the mood is allowed to drop a single degree on such a magical day. What a load of-

“Hogwash!” Ah, there’s the woman of my dreams, in the flesh and with her graciously silver tongue, as perfectly animated as always. Our eyes meet with a little twinkle exchanged between them, a silent understanding that everything possible must be done to prevent this evening from being ruined. Perhaps looking to voice her efforts and seek out validation from her listeners, she makes the game plan known to all those close enough to hear it. “He knows the rules for tonight. No swearing, no speaking ill of me, his beloved, and play nice with you and the boys!”

“Well, if I want to avoid disappointing you tonight, I’d better get myself a second drink then.” My champagne glass still contained some of the fizzy drink, but that was nothing a few quick gulps couldn’t fix. Within seconds, its contents were gone and the glass was immediately beginning to look very sad and decidedly very empty. No glass-half-full nonsense happening here. 

Briefly scanning the crowd to spot the server walking circles around smaller groups of guests, I kiss Jessica’s cheek and promise to be right back.

The wedding is of a woman named Shirley, Shannon, or something of the sort, and Jessica’s cousin, Wesley. Unfortunately for me, Jessica has one of those huge families that are impossible to keep up with. Family gatherings always feature some kind of unavoidable catastrophe caused by a conflict, accident, or emergency to provide some brilliantly overtold story that carries itself with a life of its own years down the line - and that includes the unexpected labour of Tania, another one of her many cousins, who was having twins. Twins!

They should be four years old now.

It is after my third or fourth ‘excuse me’ upon being struck by a storyteller, or simply requesting an individual who idly obstructs my path to scooch a little to the left or right, that I start to really appreciate the skill and talent it takes to weave in and out of gathered clusters of bodies that stand about engaged in conversation, some more energised than others, arms flailing in the middle of some wild anecdote. 

Perhaps chasing after the champagne-carrier was a fool’s errand to begin with, and I soon concede. My next point of reference is the bar, where I should have gone in the first place. It was a safe haven, an oasis, with wine and any other drinks that you could imagine in your wildest dreams free-flowing. This is not some cheap get-together by people around the block by any means, this is some fancy high-end stuff. The reception hall is massive, quite possibly larger than the entire floorplan of my apartment, and it’s all incredibly elaborate in design. I have no doubt that the decor must have been expensive to have set up, gilded banners, tassels, baroque-style furniture, most of which is pushed aside for a spacious opening in the centre… Did I mention that Jessica’s family is very wealthy? She was raised in a different world entirely to the one that I grew up in, and, as it happens, the one that Jessica wishes to migrate into.She has made this very clear by being with me, that choice alone should speak for itself, but there have also been little hints of her drifting away from their large numbers over time as well. One of the very few advantages of having innumerable siblings, cousins, second cousins, aunts, uncles, and the like, is that it is remarkably easy to simply slip under the radar for a short while and most wouldn’t bat an eye. This is not to say that she isn’t cared for; it is impossible not to care for the beautifully charming Jess, but it seems to be a silent but mutual understanding among the comrades that keeping up with everyone at all times is virtually impossible. At some point, and I suspect several times, somebody undoubtedly slips through the cracks… the hope is that they eventually crawl back through. I wonder who is not present here today at the wedding. Who’s going into labour today?

“An Old Fashioned, please.”

With an understanding nod, the bartender immediately begins to mix my drink. I was never a champagne kind of guy. I’m not that big on liquor in general, if I were being honest, but I can enjoy a good ol’classic. Call me old fashioned… yes, good sense of humour, do you reckon Abigail might have been on to something after all?

“You’re Jess’s lad, aren’t you?” 

The question posed to me piques my interest as I scan the bartender’s face, his every feature, as I desperately try to piece together if I could possibly know this man. He hasn’t addressed me by name, so I quickly dismiss the thought and assume we may have only bumped into each other on occasion without exchanging any pleasantries. Perhaps he has simply seen me wrap myself around Jess tonight in a fleeting moment of weakness, craving her affection that will see me through this ordeal.

“Depends who’s asking. I am the designated plus-one of a particular Jess.” 

Jessica’s words echo in my head - play nice with the boys. Is this one of the boys? It’s impossible to tell, though not likely. I’d better behave, or I won’t be invited to the next wedding of the next cousin who pledges an unspecified number of months to their partner until another devastating divorce crashes into our world and becomes the new hot topic of the dozens of phone calls. For the record, the phone service is in my name, which means the phone bill is paid by yours truly. I may have been lazy with sorting out the bills and documents, but Jess and I have been living together under one roof - formerly my roof - for years now, despite the lack of a wedding ring on either of our fingers. Imagine that.

A laugh! Music to my ears, sweet release from the tension of making a good impression in the name of the invitee who, much to my well-concealed dismay, decided to extend the invitation to me.

“Playing cautious then, are we? You must either be a lawyer or a criminal, which is it?” 

Soon to be a criminal if you don’t get a move on with that drink, is what I want to respond with, but in reality, I have to appreciate the wit of his reply, and it is tempting to play along. Instead, I smile warmly and rest an elbow on the counter.

“Neither. Just a lucky plus-one, I guess.” Short and sweet response, my words say enough, my gaze drifting to my drink that is finally placed on a paper napkin on the bar to muffle the thud of the filled glass hitting the polished surface beneath the thin silk square. I lift the glass and politely take the napkin, folding it in my hand. Raising my drink in the bartender’s direction to cue that our conversation is over, a “Cheers” fills the space between us.

I don’t waste another moment and turn my back to the bar in search of better company. That means Jess, of course, although she comes with the far less pleasant addition of all the people who just have to stop by for a chat with her. How that woman manages to make herself so popular is not a mystery to me; she is delightful to lay eyes upon and even more of a treasure to have the luxury to get to know. She is a magnet that attracts both men and women alike, most with genuine intentions and simply wishing to engage in conversation, others less innocent. Fortunately, we’ve been going strong long enough for me to know that our relationship is steady and secure, however, which obliterates any concerns of said others. She’s my rock - a gorgeous one - and I am, somehow, hers. One with all sorts of jagged edges here and there with little to no pattern to make sense of, but this fine lady makes each and every crease and crack feel special, almost smoothed in an impossible way. I could bask in her presence all day like a turtle in the sun, and I tell her so (in less dramatic terms) as I wrap my arm around her from behind and whisper it into her neck. 

We sway for a moment until the moment passes and my attention goes back to my drink, hers returning to the conversation with the people standing a couple of feet away from her, or all around her, I should say. 

She attracts them like starving flies and is too graceful to swat any of them away.

The clinking sound of cutlery, expensive and shiny just by the sound of it, on glass is quick to capture the audience as we all - myself included - gander at the bride and groom in a kind of awe. These two are getting married today… They are married. For an eternity. To some people, the prospect may be terrifying, but it only seems to bring Jess and me closer together as we hold hands and gravitate toward one another, instinctively closing the small gap between us in the distinct diamond patterns of the tiles beneath our feet in this grandiose auditorium-like hall merge from two separate shapes into a single one and we are now we are sharing the same space.

“I would like to make a toast tonight to the bride and groom,” of course, it isn’t the bride nor the groom who speaks, but Abigail, big teeth and all, her dark lipstick somehow making them appear twice as large from a distance. Still, I can’t help smiling as heads turn to face the speaker. 

It will be us up there one day…

“I will keep this brief… to Shirley and to Ashton!” There is an uproar from the guests as dozens of glasses, only a few of them empty, are raised in honour of the newly weds. Jessica leans against me as she follows the same pattern in her usual elegant, fairy-like manner, hand raised toward the roof, while I remain still. I hold my smile but it is now fused with equal parts confusion and amusement. 

“Who the fuck is Ashton?”