Page 29 of The Wedding Forecast

‘I’m finished now, if you want to switch seats,’ Mac says to Joel. ‘Go through it all page by page. Line by line.’ There’s an edge to Mac’s voice that Joel notices, frowning slightly at him.

‘No need, we’re done talking about this,’ I say.

Joel hates someone else having the final say.

‘Are we done?’ he says. ‘Because if you get a whole book to work through our stuff, surely I can have a conversation.’

Now I’m really mad. But I won’t have this fight at the table. I won’t make a scene at Hayley’s rehearsal dinner.

‘Fine, let’s have a conversation.’ I stand up. ‘Excuse us Mac, we’ll be back in a moment.’

Mac looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

I am walking out of the room with Joel on my heels, when Patrick stops us.

‘Can I get a picture of the best man and the maid of honour?’ he says cheerfully.

I have never liked the term maid of honour, so Patrick loses a point for even saying it, and he loses another one for not picking up on the flames of rage currently roaring between Joel and me.

‘Sure,’ Joel says tightly.

We stand with about half a metre of space between us, Joel with his hands in his pockets, and me folding my arms across my chest.

Patrick looks at us like we are joking. ‘A little bit closer?’ he suggests.

We shuffle until we’re shoulder to shoulder. We stand like two people facing a firing line.

‘A little bit more, um, relaxed?’ Patrick says. ‘Maybe we could even try for happy?’

I lower my shoulders and give my best attempt at a smile. I can feel both my hands still curled into fists.

Patrick takes a bunch of pictures, looks at them, looks at us, and nods. ‘Those are. Well. That’s great. I’ll let you go,’ he says, and I know the pictures are terrible and will never see the light of day. Good.

In the hallway leading to the bathrooms, I turn to Joel.

‘Go for it,’ I say. ‘Get it all off your chest, everything you have to say about my book.’

‘There was some stuff about us in there,’ he says. ‘And you know it.’

‘I wrote it when we were still together.’

‘That makes it a lot worse.’

‘I can’t believe you’re saying this to me, considering.’

‘Considering what?’

‘Considering the fact that you told me you didn’t want kids, and now—’ I break off mid-sentence. ‘You owe me,’ I finish.

‘Owe you what?’ he says, quietly now.

I feel wobbly, unhinged. I have drunk one glass of wine, so it can’t be that. He owes me so much. An apology. Compensation for wasted time. He owes me his firstborn child! I bite down on my tongue. These thoughts can’t be verbalised.

‘An explanation,’ I say, finally.

‘What do you want me to say?’ he says, looking at me a little bit helplessly.

‘Why did you tell me you didn’t want kids?’ I ask.