Page 23 of The Wedding Forecast

‘I didn’t know the dinner was super fancy!’ I protest.

‘It’s not, I’m wearing jeans,’ Luke says, but no one is listening to him.

‘What did you bring?’ Mum asks.

‘Black, high-waisted pants. They’re new. And a top,’ I say. ‘A nice top. Kind of sheer.’

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll look beautiful,’ Mum says.

‘You always do,’ Bobbi adds. The implication being, I’ll look nice despite my clothes. I want to explain the pants are sold out online after going viral, that they are coveted by women in their twenties, women younger and cooler than me, but I am acutely aware that Mac is listening, and Joel and Bianca could emerge from their room at any minute and I need to end the whole conversation before Mum circles back to the bra or Bobbi brings up the psychic again. So I swallow down my urge to defend the pants and simply say, ‘Thank you.’

Later, after the mums leave, Hayley finds me in the bunk room. I’m lying on the bottom bed looking at pictures of a model wearing the pants online, trying to reassure myself they are nice.

‘Anna, this is a sign. Not just the psychic stuff, which is obviously a sign. But also a second sign is that the Joel and Bianca news happened, and then having Patrick appear right after you find out about that, right on deadline. Like the universe is saying, here’s your happiness.’

‘I don’t trust the universe.’

‘You can trust it, this time.’

You’re not supposed to argue with a bride on her wedding weekend, so I nod and try to look like I believe her.

7

I’M FEELING BETTER as I get ready for the rehearsal dinner. Joel and Bianca can do whatever they like, I’m immune to all emotions. Completely numb. Invincible. Let them have a damn baby. Who cares? Not me.

I wear the black lacy bra my mother gave me, not because I think Patrick is going to see it, but maybe he’ll sense it’s there, maybe I’ll give off the vibe of a woman wearing sexy lingerie.

The pants look great, I think, turning side on in front of the mirror. Well, they look great until I turn side on. They just need a belt. Maybe a higher pair of heels. A different top tucked in. One that shows more boob. Not that I have much boob to show. More jewellery. Do the pants look great? I’m not sure. I’m thirty, I’m a published author, I have successfully kept several houseplants alive, I shouldn’t be losing my mind over a pair of pants.

They look bad. But I have to wear them now. My immunity to emotion is slipping.

The minute I walk into the restaurant I see everyone milling around: Luke’s family, Hayley’s father, Gary, who she hardly sees, Joel standing next to Bianca and rubbing gentle circles on her back, my parents sneaking looks at Joel rubbing circles on Bianca’s back. The invincible feeling is well and truly gone. My stomach drops.

Deep breaths. I can do this. I have an important role tonight, as the keeper of the intricate web of who can and cannot talk to whom (Bobbi isn’t allowed to talk to Gary for more than five minutes of pleasantries; my mother has been banned from saying anything beyond hello to Joel; my dad shouldn’t talk to Luke’s father because of their opposing political views; Jean needs encouragement to smile in photos; Luke’s mother needs to be reminded of the names of at least fifty per cent of the people here) as well as having to shine and charm as a bridesmaid.

I can have exactly two glasses of wine, I decide. And one of them needs to be now.

I walk over to the bar, and as I’m ordering, Mac appears beside me. I can tell he’s there before I even turn to him. He has an energy. He’s shaved, and put on a slightly rumpled shirt, and he looks good. The rumpled shirt works, especially with the sleeves rolled up. He smells fresh, clean and slightly woody.

‘Excited to meet your soulmate?’ he says, leaning his elbows on the bar.

‘Very,’ I say. I look around. I don’t see any alluring redheads with a camera yet.

‘I’m looking forward to watching your love story unfold,’ he says.

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic in a nice way or a mean way, or maybe he is genuinely looking forward to watching me meet the love of my life.

‘I’m sure it will be a tale for the ages,’ I say, rolling my eyes. I want him to think I don’t actually believe in the psychic’s vision, even though I kind of do.

The bartender hands me my drink.

‘I’ll have the same,’ Mac says to the bartender.

‘You don’t know what this is,’ I say.

‘I trust your taste,’ he says, with a lazy half-smile that is so appealing I feel like it must be fake. Do they teach how to smile like that in acting school? Or do people become actors because someone sees them smile like that and they say, ‘You’ve got it kid’?

I turn to the room, resting my back against the bar and taking a sip of my wine.