The Perfect Girlfriend(85)
He looks like he has stepped out of an advert in his grey tailored suit, with a pink rose in his buttonhole. Nate helps his mother adjust her large, cream hat whilst ‘Tara’ looks on adoringly.
Bella arrives, ten minutes late, in a horse-drawn carriage and, from my viewpoint, looks fairy-tale stunning – a true princess. The bouquet she holds consists of pink and white roses. Her long, lacy white dress shimmers. Flashes of gold catch my eye as she takes her father’s arm and walks towards the church entrance. She is experiencing everything I ever wanted, but never properly attained.
I dry my eyes with a tissue; I’ve got a job to do.
I study the seating plan before we start, and request to work on the far side of the room, away from the main wedding party. I am wearing a dark-brown wig and my blue contact lenses, plus glasses to feel extra secure. I’ve been instructed to wear my hair up, so it’s in a ponytail, but I allow strands to fall down by the side of my face. I do feel fairly safe, because no one will be looking out for me – not when there is beautiful Bella as the belle of the ball.
I am among the invisible waiting staff.
No one will be able to truly remember me if they have to. I’ve heard it said that eye-witness accounts are often unreliable.
People politely remember their thank yous as I serve them tiny bowls of breadcrumb-coated macaroni cheese and shot glasses of tomato bisque, followed by filet mignon and new potatoes. I top up wine and water glasses, then circle the table with a bread basket, offering extra rolls.
It’s just like being at work, but on firmer ground.
Before dessert, we hand out glasses of champagne for the speeches.
I stand at the back, clutching a bottle of champagne, as Miles goes through the endless thank yous and the sickening dedication he has written for Bella. He is a ‘lucky’ man, she is ‘one in a million’.
I discreetly head to a side room and pour myself a glass of champagne. It’s too hard to listen to all that rubbish and falseness. Across the corridor, I see that the kitchen is quiet. Everyone is using this time to either take a break or finish clearing up. I look around the room I’m in. As well as gifts and an overspill of coats, I spot the cake – surprisingly, a very traditional-looking white one, with a simple bride and groom on top. It’s huge, though, five tiers, and is resting upon a stand on wheels, so it looks as though it’s going to be wheeled in theatrically, making an entrance of its own.
I don’t think twice about knocking it over. It thuds on to the carpet. I resist the urge to stick a knife into it or ruin it further by grinding it with my shoe. The bride and groom are buried beneath the sinking mess of icing and vanilla sponge.
Returning to the room, the best man’s speech is in full flow, full of the usual anecdotes about mad university pranks. I should have tried to track him down beforehand – I could have added extra spice to his tales. I spy the wedding planner being led away by a grim-faced catering supervisor.
Minutes later, Bella is taken to one side by them both and I watch her hand fly to her mouth, her expression full of obvious disappointment. She’s lucky – if it had been easier to get closer to her, it would have been her dress or her face.
By the time I serve the next course, described on the menu as a ‘three-choice dessert’ – lemon cheesecake, Baileys in choc-chip ice cream, and a mini chocolate sponge – followed by coffee, I’ve had enough. The acidic champagne is reacting to my empty stomach and everything is starting to feel surreal and confusing. I ignore a colleague’s request to join in a staff gathering, a mini investigation into the dropping of the cake.
‘It was probably just kids mucking around,’ I say, pretending to be busy with a special request from a guest.
The moment I’m about to quit my temporary job by feigning illness, a DJ begins to set up at the side of the dance floor. I’ll wait until the first dance, then I’ll make an exit.
I slip away and sneak down another glass of champagne. I need something to get me through the final part of today, and I’m hardly likely to turn into my mother after two glasses. I can feel the alcohol flowing into my bloodstream and it helps numb my pain and sense of isolation.
Maybe Amelia wasn’t quite so dumb.
Back inside, the lights have dimmed as Bella and Miles take to the dance floor for their first dance – David Bowie’s ‘The Wedding Song’. My throat aches as the song ends and Nate, his arm on Tara’s back gently guiding her, joins the crowd filling up the space around Miles and Bella. Mr and Mrs Yorke. It doesn’t suit Bella as well as Goldsmith; she doesn’t look like a Bella Yorke.
I am finding it hard to breathe, so I pull out a seat from a vacant table and place it by the curtains at the side. Miles’ jacket is hanging off the back of a nearby seat. I discreetly put my hands inside and feel around. His wallet. His phone. I remove the wallet and place it inside my own bag. I continue watching.
I remember the night of the school party when I fell in love with Nate. I take deep breaths; I don’t want to think about that now. It’s not the right moment. But seeing Bella and Nate so happy – coupled with the whole happy family scene – is choking me.
The day Will died, I just wanted a few moments’ peace. Yet, since then, I’ve had anything but.
The splash didn’t fully register.
It was the gardener who tried to help me save Will. He never told anyone that, because he tried to protect me. He let me pretend to my mother that I’d seen Will fall in and had reacted immediately. That I’d called out for help but that it had just all been too cruelly quick. Any lie becomes the truth after a while. He never said that I was lazy or negligent, or that I probably dozed off.