TheThe Best Man

“…and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

Applause and confetti fill the church. I snap a photo of the action shot on my phone, Katie mid-kiss with her now-to-be-husband Aieleen, and admire it on the screen. I look at them for a short period. For the rest of the time it’s Evans, situated in the corner with a cheesy grin on his face.

The best –

“Man and Maid of Honour now please,” says the photographer when we’re outside the church. “We need a picture of you both.”

“God, are you gonna put that phone down?” says Rachel, one of the bridesmaids. This is when I realise I’ve been staring at the goddamn thing for the past five minutes, so hypnotised by Evans’ smiling face on my phone that I didn’t even recall walking down the aisle out of the church.

So much that I don’t see him standing just several metres away.

I pocket the device back into my clutch and shove the thing under my armpit, making my way to the balcony. It’s a wide thing that overlooks an impressive garden – not your typical, semi-detached view from the council estate Katie and I grew up in. All that was needed to have fun back in the day was a patch of overgrown grass and a rusted swing set. Who could swing the highest? Who could race inside first when Katie’s mum announced through the single-glazed window that tea was ready? Waffle and beans and two stems of broccoli sated us just fine back then.

Today, thanks to Aieleen’s inherited wealth, we’re out on the balcony sipping champagne produced in Northern France by the company that one of his aunties (or uncles, I can’t remember which) own, and I think, honestly, I’d prefer some dilute blackcurrant squash. It rings home more.

“You look nice today,” says Evans as he brings his arm around my waist. My waist. My heart skips a beat. It doesn’t mean shit, I have to remind myself as we stand in close proximity like a couple, waiting for the photographer to be done with us. The aftershave smells perfect. It’s a kind of cocoa powder flavour balanced with earthy notes and a touch of honey to sweeten things up. It’s a scent that should have Evans as the sponsor, because if that cheesy grin of his had a scent, it’d be this cologne.

“Thanks,” is just about all I can manage. Energy between us has felt different these last few months.

More tense.

I first met Evan three years ago when Katie invited me to Aieleen’s house party. “Wear something modest, and don’t bring Smirnoff Ice,” were her only two instructions to me. Rocking up, I knew why. People of inherited wealth only got their hands on wine and Prosecco, and it wasn’t even the top shelf supermarket ones. It was bottles imported from ambiguous towns across Europe I’d never heard of before.

Stepping foot into the manor rendered me frozen. I didn’t know my bearings. Didn’t even know how to walk. Evans was the first person to save me before I went into overdrive, and offered me a glass of red.

“It’s from La Rioja.” He said it like it was supposed to convince me.

It didn’t.

“Do you have any vodka?”

Cue the cheesy smile. He was tall, maybe six-foot-three at a guess, and looked at me with these eyes that suggested I was trouble. “Follow me.”

We spent most of the night in the wine cellar mixing vodka with overpriced lemon juice. Sat on the floor leant against the brick walls, we laughed about nonsense, aristocratic things. Something about him pretending to enjoy olives to fit in. About him buying a t-shirt with a bad hem, and his mum having a strop. ‘Mother,’ was apparently what Evans was supposed to call her. The other was too informal.

“Chantelle’s having a house party next Friday. She’s in the same geography A Level class as me. You should come. We buy the cheapest beer and play beer pong. It tastes nasty, but it ramps up the competition.”

He never came. Either it was the disgusting beer or the invitation itself. Something told me the latter. He had a girlfriend. A stupid, posh, wine-drinking girlfriend that didn’t like to smile because she didn’t want premature wrinkles.

Three months ago they split up. She was in France on an exchange program and slept with Patrice, the son of the host family putting her up.

I enter the function room and scout out my name on the board. Tallulah. Table four. Singles table, it looks like. Sounds about right. Twenty-one years old and I’ve never had a boyfriend, meanwhile Katie’s getting swept off her feet.

Evans doesn’t look too pleased to be at the singles table. I slow down my walk to take more of him in. He swigs a glass of red around in his stem glass before taking a sip. Not just an ordinary sip. It’s a big sip. He licks his lips to wipe away the residue but the wine stains them red. His side-profile is unlike anything I’ve seen before. The straight nose. The angular jawline. Double chins don’t exist for him. Never have. He blinks slow, soft brown eyes looking a little sullen because he thinks nobody’s watching. I know exactly what he’s thinking. This could’ve been him and Rosie if the bitch knew how to keep her legs closed around the French.