Fashion Diaries: The Most Awkward Wedding Ever

9am

I wake up to the text; a jumble of words with a time and a place and a yellow bride emoji (turns out things are a lot less legible when last night’s fake eyelashes have stuck your eyes together and your brain can only register an all-encapsulating thirst).

Tom wants me to come to the ceremony, said someone’s dropped out last minute; he’ll save a space on the pew for me. He went down there last night, saw all the old gang from their Durham uni days – I was only supposed to join for the party, a crumb of a +1, now I need a whole new outfit and have to leave in two hours.

10am

“Maybe you just shouldn’t go,” my flatmate says, wafting smoke in my face. She’s sage-ing her bedroom again, says it clears out the negative energy. I tell her I’ve already RVSPd, by way of second choice but there’s still no way I can bail. She shrugs. Maybe I should sage myself. I need a f**king sage tree at this point.

I mean, the day? The unforgiving light of day. It won’t be dark until nine, and my skin’s gone off the rails like a wayward teen. Then there’s the ceremony, the speeches, the bloody walk up the aisle. I wonder if Tom will cry. Did he ever think it would be them getting married? I’ve never met the woman so I can’t tell if she’s invited him as an act of revenge or friendship, or pity…

11am

If it was just the reception I could have worn what I’d planned, my new Self-Portrait one-shoulder mini. She’s so not the type for anything short. Or cut-out. I’ve seen the photos.

And not just in the dark depths of Facebook either, Tom’s parents still have one in a frame: their arms wrapped around each other in matching Jack Wills hoodies, in pride of lace on the sitting room coffee table. They’ve never really warmed to me though; I’m not into cream teas, Cornwall and wet walks.

12pm

I’m doing demure, which, turns out, is quite hard when nothing in your wardrobe falls below the knee. The only option is a pink printed maxi from Ganni – sounds slightly mumsy on paper but the neckline is pretty plunging and, for a wrap dress, it doesn’t ‘wrap’ very far.

There’s just enough time to shove the bare essentials, and whatever else fits, into my Attico satin pouch and I’m out the door.

1pm

I’m on the train to Gloucestershire, three M&S cocktails-in-cans deep. Can’t get too drunk, have two more trains to navigate. Besides, I might do something weird. Spill a drink, burn the church down, have too much fun on the dance floor… People react very strangely at weddings.

Definitely feeling lightheaded, those G&Ts are deceivingly lethal. I slip on my Saint Laurent Lou Lou sunglasses. They’re heart-shaped (apt), massive (spot-disguising) and mirrored (no one can tell I’m tipsy).

4pm

It’s about to begin. The organs flare up and Tom grips my hand. Is he… excited? He’s smiling but it looks like a grimace. I’m oddly desperate to see what she’s wearing. She could be doing a Meghan; all Grace Kelly off-the-shoulder silk. Or maybe she’ll go boho, or a flower crown. They did go to Glastonbury – once.

A strongly perfumed woman in a floral Ghost dress and rip-off Philip Treacy hat leans over towards me, “Apparently the flowers cost five figures.” I relay it to Tom, but he doesn’t seem phased.

He stares at me and smiles, crouches slightly, leans in as if he’s about to kiss me. “I bet she’s going to look amazing,” he whispers.
 

*All names have been changed.