Chapter Forty-Nine

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Present Day

A large artist’s pad with circles drawn on it sits on the coffee table in front of me, peppered with narrow sticky notes. I’ve been staring at it for at least ten minutes, my brain feeling like porridge. I thought planning a smaller wedding reception would be easier, but it turns out it is just as much work. More so, maybe.

We’ve decided to wait for a cancellation at the Royal Marina Hotel, but using their smaller function room that holds only forty people instead of a hundred and twenty. Although we haven’t got the date set yet, we’ve decided we need to work out who’s going to get an invitation, so we can get in early and manage expectations. And part of deciding who to invite is working out who won’t cause drama.

The seating plan for our first wedding was bad enough, but with fewer seats, it’s a lot harder to keep the warring factions of Simon’s sprawling family apart from each other. Every time I move someone away from someone they’re not talking to, they just end up on a table with someone who’s not talking to them. It’s an endless merry-go-round of petty family squabbles, half of which I don’t even know the details of. I just know not to sit so-and-so with what’s-her-face, that sort of thing.

I peel one sticky note off the chart and hold it between my thumb and forefinger. If I could just do away with this one name, it would make everything so much simpler.

We have a large open-plan living space and dining area, with a kitchen next door. I call out to Simon who is making cheese on toast for our lunch. ‘Does your cousin Vera really have to come? She seems to have fallen out with just about everyone!’

Simon appears at the doorway. ‘I believe my mother’s words were, and I’m quoting her exactly, “If you don’t invite Vera, we’ll inevitably end up with Mears family World War Three”.’

I stick the note with “Vera (S cousin)” written on it back down on an empty part of the page. ‘Right.’

‘And we can’t sit her with Rachel?’

Simon shakes his head. ‘They haven’t got on since Rufus’s christening, when Vera told my brother-in-law that the baby looked like his best friend.’

I pull a face. ‘Ooh … Ouch.’

‘Yeah. And it might work if they ice each other out, but you know how Rachel gets when she has a few drinks inside her. They’ll just end up in a shouting match.’

I stare at the circle representing table number four. ‘How about we move Rachel and Leo to table four? Then they can sit with Maddy and her partner? They get on, don’t they?’

Simon nods, but then his expression turns thoughtful. ‘But if all my other siblings are on tables one and two and Rachel’s at table four, she’ll feel like she’s been demoted, and then I’ll get it in the neck.’

Simon comes to sit beside me, and we eat our lunch. He puts the TV on and watches somebody cooking something for celebrity guests. I don’t know who, because I’m too busy looking at the stupid seating chart. My cheese on toast disappears without me actually remembering eating it. A low pulse of pain begins in my temples, a sign that I’m getting too worked up and that if I don’t take a rest, I’ll have a pounding headache and will be good for nothing unless I lie down in bed with my eyes closed.

A little worm of resentment burrows deep inside my chest. Why does Simon’s bloody family have to be so difficult? My parents are divorced and they still manage to be civil to each other when they’re in the same room. A flair for performance and drama must be in the Mears DNA, which makes me slightly worried when I think about the likelihood of passing it down to the next generation.

I growl with frustration and peel all the name labels off but those for the top table. Back to square one, it seems.

Simon stands up, collects the plates, and heads towards the kitchen. ‘Right. I’ll be off then.’

My head snaps up. ‘Off?’

He nods. ‘Yeah, I told you I was going to meet up with Marcus and Fred for a kick-about in the park, remember?’

I blink. And then I go into the kitchen and inspect the fridge. There’s a mini whiteboard on it for Simon to write dates and details I need to know about. However, the whiteboard is blank. ‘There’s nothing up here.’

‘Didn’t I …’ He smiles at me sheepishly and lets out a nervous laugh. ‘Sorry. Must have forgotten to write it down. But you can’t get mad at me for that, can you?’

I glare at the empty board. No, I can’t get mad at him for forgetting stuff. It would be highly hypocritical. But I think I might like to, all the same. ‘I was hoping to get this seating chart done this afternoon.’

Simon smiles at me. ‘I’m sure you’ll get there in the end.’ And then he gets ready to go out.

The worm of resentment burrows deeper. I can’t believe he’s going to leave me here to do this on my own.

But this is what you wanted, remember? You begged him to let you start wedding planning.

Yes, I know that! I tell myself. But it doesn’t stop it being annoying that he’s about to abandon me to go out and kick a ball around with his friends. I need him here to help me with this!

Then why don’t you tell him that?

It’s an excellent question. One I don’t have an answer for. But somehow I can’t seem to make the words leave my lips. Maybe because I don’t want to admit he was right, that it’s too soon to dive in to replanning our wedding, that actually, I’m finding it all a bit much. Maybe because I don’t want to admit I’m struggling, that I’m not still on the trajectory of the perfect recovery I’d set for myself, that I haven’t been doing well for a couple of weeks now.

As Simon bustles around the flat looking for his keys and phone, finding the right pair of trainers to wear, I sit with my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands, radiating ‘I’m overwhelmed’ vibes. When he doesn’t seem to notice, I massage my temples, huffing occasionally.

If Simon ever had a radar for this kind of thing, it’s definitely faulty.

I eventually give up looking at the stupid seating chart and let my head flop back on the sofa and close my eyes. I can feel that nerve in my temple twanging now, threatening to send the pain round to the back of my eye socket.

‘Bye, then,’ he says from the other side of the living room.

I slowly open my eyes and look at him. Say it, I will him. Say you can see I’m struggling. Offer to stay and help.

He walks over to me and kneels down on the sofa beside me, picks my limp torso up and pulls me into a warm and gentle hug. I exhale with relief. Thank God …

And then he kisses me on the forehead. ‘I know this is tough,’ he says seriously. ‘But I believe in you. You’ve got this, babe.’

He gives me a quick peck on the lips and before I know it, I’m sitting alone in my living room with a TV chef telling me brightly that confit duck isn’t so hard to make if you follow these few simple tips …