Always the Bridesmaid. Lindsey Kelk

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СКАЧАТЬ genuine laughter. Cue me flushing from head to toe as Best Man Will picked up the Libbey Embassy champagne coupe that I’d had to order in especially because the bride wanted coupes and not flutes and raised it high in the air.

      He was staring right at me.

      Not at the little redheaded bridesmaid who was trying to squeeze her arms together to make her demure lilac gown show a bit more cleavage, or at the hot blonde guest who had been crossing and uncrossing her legs throughout the entire speech.

      He kept looking at me.

      Flushed in the face from running in and out of the kitchen, hair yanked back in a utilitarian ponytail, mascara all over my face after a champagne-opening incident that left me and three other people smelling like a piss-up in a very fancy brewery.

      And I had checked − my shirt wasn’t unbuttoned or anything.

      ‘So if you would all join me and raise your glasses. To the bride and groom.’

      As everyone shuffled out of their seats, the women struggling to stand in their too-high heels that would soon be kicked off and replaced with flip-flops, I blinked, breaking the connection. When I looked back, he was smiling at the bride and groom, the moment gone.

      Breathing more heavily than is healthy, I slipped back into the kitchen looking for a drink of my own.

      ‘Sorry to bother you, but have you got a light?’

      Hours later, when the buffet had been reduced to nothing more than a few stray cherry tomatoes and the odd splodge of tartar sauce, I was hiding at the back of the venue, holding a Marlboro Light, tearing up at the picture of Lauren’s engagement ring on Facebook and trying to work out how to ask Sarah if she was OK again without saying ‘Are you OK?’, because clearly she wasn’t. When I looked up, a man in a suit (strangely enough) was holding out a cigarette of his own. I blinked a couple of times, my eyes adjusting from the bright white light of the iPhone screen to the semi-darkness of my hidey-hole.

      ‘Oh, um, I haven’t actually got one,’ I said, squinting. It was one of the ushers. The one whose trousers were an inch too short. You tend to notice strange things when you work two weddings a week for three-quarters of the year. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘No worries,’ he said, putting the cigarette back in the pack of ten in his inside pocket. He was awfully tall; I supposed that explained the trousers. ‘I’m supposed to have quit anyway.’

      ‘Probably best then.’ I shuffled from foot to sensibly shod foot, flicking my unlit cigarette between my fingers and tucking my phone back into the waistband of my skirt.

      He nodded, pressed his lips together and stuck his hands in his pockets.

      ‘Did you lose your lighter?’ he asked.

      Oh good, awkward conversation. I loved those. Why couldn’t he leave me alone so I could bunk off and text my friend in peace?

      ‘Oh no,’ I replied, preparing myself. ‘I don’t smoke.’

      The very tall usher looked at me strangely.

      ‘You don’t smoke?’ he asked.

      ‘No.’

      ‘But you’re standing outside holding a cigarette?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He took in a short breath that sounded like he was going to say something, then shook his head and stopped himself. Then did it again and didn’t stop himself. More’s the pity.

      ‘I’m sure I’m going to regret it, but can I ask why you’re standing outside holding a cigarette without a lighter if you don’t smoke?’

      It was a fair question; I just didn’t want to answer it. I wanted to read some showbiz gossip on my phone, text Sarah, call Lauren and pretend I hadn’t just pissed away an entire Saturday at someone else’s special day. It didn’t matter if you were wearing Jimmy Choos or a pair of Clarks − if you were on your feet for nigh on twelve hours, you were in pain.

      ‘My boss smokes,’ I said, shaking a full box of Marlboros at him. ‘And she takes cigarette breaks all the time, so she can’t stop me from taking them. So, you know, as far as she’s concerned, I’ve got a very healthy two packs a day habit. Or unhealthy, as the case may be.’

      He looked at me. ‘You’re not serious?’

      I looked back at him.

      ‘Oh my God, you are.’

      ‘She thinks smoking is better than eating,’ I replied. ‘Fewer carbs.’

      ‘But smoking will kill you,’ he said, looking at his own pack with a regularly repeated lecture playing over in his head. ‘She does know that, doesn’t she?’

      ‘We get private health insurance,’ I said. ‘So it all works out.’

      ‘Fair enough.’ The usher put his cigarettes away and scrunched up his face for a moment, staring at me. ‘I hate weddings,’ he said.

      ‘Really?’ Who went around saying they hated weddings while they were at a wedding. ‘Why?’

      ‘There’s so much standing around,’ he said wearily, pushing wavy brown hair off his forehead. Earlier it had been all slicked back and crunchy-looking, but by this point in the proceedings his locks had let loose. He needed a good shot of Elnett; he had to be single. ‘And there’s never anywhere to go. I just want to sod off somewhere and have a sit-down.’

      ‘Once I did a wedding that had a mini cinema,’ I said, nodding in agreement, ‘but the bride got angry because everyone sat in there all night instead of dancing to the band she’d paid a bloody fortune for. In the end she made us turn the film off and shouted at everybody.’

      ‘What film was it?’ he asked.

      ‘Ghostbusters. The groom picked all the films from when they’d been dating but he did too good a job.’

      ‘I’d give my right arm to sit in the dark and watch Ghostbusters right now,’ he said, sighing. His skin was quite pale and his eyes were quite dark and he really was awfully tall. At least a foot and a half taller than me. Teetering around too tall territory. Just the right height if you wanted something down from the loft, but a nightmare to sit next to if you were flying economy.

      ‘They had ice cream and beer as well,’ I added, trying not to look at his visible ankles.

      ‘I might never have left.’ He paused for a moment and then smiled.

      He was nice looking when he smiled, a bit less gawky and angular, a realization that only made me feel all the more uncomfortable. I felt myself breathe in slightly and brushed a few stray strands of hair behind my ear.

      ‘Maybe my fiancée will let me have one at my wedding.’

      Stray strands of hair be damned and belly be bloated.

      ‘And these bloody penguin suits,’ he said, ignoring me and pulling at his stiff collar. ‘If I took my tie off, I’d look like one of you.’

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