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Rick is very much a lad’s lad. To him, women are women, and they’re emotional and crazy and obsessed with weddings. Okay, sure, women can be those things, but we’re complex creatures, with layers and layers of different traits and desires. I hate when men lump us all together as a bunch of girly crazies. In my experience, men can be much worse.
Ted, my parents’ Labrador, greets me by the door. What I would give to be with someone who was essentially Ted in man form – he’s so sweet, so loyal, always so pleased to see me.
I even put a metal playlist on, while I was getting ready, but only for about five minutes before I gave up and stuck on some Taylor Swift instead.
‘That’s your takeaway from this?’ Tom asks her. ‘Not the orgy?’ ‘Well, I’ve heard of orgies,’ Zoe points out. ‘Not that I’ve ever been to one.’
‘So… last night… you didn’t?’ Tom checks curiously. ‘No, Tom, unsurprisingly I didn’t,’ I answer with a sarcastic level of casualness. ‘That’s not really why I was there, and I don’t think rocking up to the wedding with three dates, looking like horny pall-bearers, is going to hit the spot, do you?’
‘At least you get a holiday,’ Zoe adds optimistically. ‘You’re going to Hawaii tomorrow. The only place I’m going tomorrow, other than work, is the dentist. At least you’re not me, being told to lie back and open wide.’ ‘She almost was last night,’ Tom jokes, shaking his head. ‘An orgy. Bloody hell.’
‘You hate fish?’ Sunshine squeaks – she obviously finds this one even more unbelievable than flying. ‘Yeah, tuna especially, though,’ my dad answers for me. ‘She says it’s a bit off-key.’ Sunshine looks at me. ‘What?’ she asks. I look to Dad, because I have no idea what that means either. ‘She finds it off-key,’ he says again, slower this time. ‘Because you can’t tuna fish.’ Lord. Have. Mercy.
‘Money can’t buy taste, can it?’ Donnie jokes quietly. ‘Bloody hell, they must have mined Fort Knox to deck this place out. I’ve never seen so much gold outside of a Bond villain’s lair.’
I swear, back home, it feels like we had the longest, coldest winter this year. I was relieved when spring finally turned up, but the weather here makes spring in London seem more like the Antarctic. Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating, but I feel like I’m drunk on the sunshine right now.
Panic sets in; obviously I’m terrified of heights, which Jeff doesn’t know, and he’s absolutely wrong in saying that I seem like the kind of woman who likes to have fun – it turns out I don’t. I’m the kind of woman who prefers a nice beige cardigan and a cup of tea, and having both feet planted firmly on solid ground. I am absolutely not the kind of woman who gets excited at the prospect of wilfully dangling from elevated podiums attached to glorified string.
Sunshine once claimed her ‘no-make-up’ make-up routine took a whopping forty-five minutes. When I do the works, it doesn’t take me that long, but I suppose Sunshine always looks stunning, whereas sometimes the best I can pull off is a potato rolled in glitter.
