Read Online Never Google Heartbreak by Emma Garcia - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma Garcia
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slump miserably on the bar. Max puts his arm around my shoulders, speaking into my ear like he’s pep-talking a boxer.
‘Well, if you do – though God only knows why – he’s right over there. That girl’s no match for you. You’re cool and sexy; she’s . . . well, she’s plastic and corporate. She might be pretty, but you . . . you’re the real thing.’
I remain slumped. He nudges my elbow. ‘C’mon, Viv, she can’t hold a candle to you.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Now, let’s get one more round in and then we’ll go and show them!’
By the time we leave the pub we’ve introduced ourselves to all the punters and made them aware of our cause. They’ve agreed that I’m very, very attractive and one man – Norman, I think his name was – said he couldn’t imagine anyone nicer than me. So, buoyed by those honeyed words, we hit the reception.
6
Wedding Etiquette
1. No fighting.
2. No stealing cutlery.
3. No giving impromptu speeches.
4. No sex in the toilets.
5. No heckling.
6. No histrionics.
7. No pole-, line- or break-dancing.
8. No getting dangerously smashed.
9. No unauthorised singing.
10. No talking, texting or Tweeting during the speeches.
11. No posting ugly pictures of the bride on Facebook.
12. No pets.
13. No children (unless a bouncy castle is provided).
14. No adults on the bouncy castle.
‘Ready?’ asks Max, holding the doorknobs to the reception venue in both hands.
‘Never been readier!’ I shriek, and he goes to throw them open. Unfortunately we’re at the wrong entrance and are directed round the corner by a helpful waitress. We slip into the throng unnoticed.
Max grabs two half-glasses of champagne from a passing tray, necks one and replaces the empty flute with a full one. I do the same. I’m feeling so much better! I look around at the chattering guests but can’t see Rob. The hotel is old-fashioned grand, all panelled walls and brocade curtains. The champagne reception is in the grand entrance hall, where the walls are hung with portraits; eighteenth-century VIPs with no eyebrows and staring eyes. From the centre of the room a
Gone with the Wind
-style staircase rises.
Suddenly a kilted man appears at the top of them, holding bagpipes, and begins to play ‘Wild Mountain Thyme’ as he steps slowly down. Behind him come Jane and Hugo and, oh my God, Hugo is wearing a kilt! The bottle-green tartan rests above his fat knees, below which are thick white socks, tied round the tops with string and feathers. His calves bulge like piano legs. Jane has removed her veil and wears a twinkling tiara. They smile and make their way down to enthusiastic whistling and applause.
Max is shouting, ‘Is he Scottish? I didn’t know he was a Scot!’
They cut through the cheering guests like celebrities, complete with snapping photographer, and disappear through the huge double doors to the side of the hall. I step back and lean on a decorative radiator cover, feeling a little dizzy; these heels are too high. They are what Lucy would call ‘sit-down shoes’. The lone piper appears again at the doorway, finishes the tune with a discordant squeal and lowers his bagpipes to make an announcement.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you please make your way to the dining room for the wedding breakfast?’
Max links my arm with his and strides forward. ‘Jesus, yes! I’m starving.’ He pulls me across the rose-patterned carpet and the room seems to tilt. One of Hugo’s jovial brothers has been squeezed into a suit and stands by the table plan; we give him our names and he guides us to our table. Max shakes his hand vigorously, saying, ‘You must be very proud.’
The round guests’ tables are arranged in a semicircle to get the best view of the top table. Ours is out on the edge and I feel momentarily hurt by this – I thought Jane and I had become close, but I suppose we met through Hugo and Rob playing rugby together, so I guess Rob’s the ‘one’. The entire
‘Well, if you do – though God only knows why – he’s right over there. That girl’s no match for you. You’re cool and sexy; she’s . . . well, she’s plastic and corporate. She might be pretty, but you . . . you’re the real thing.’
I remain slumped. He nudges my elbow. ‘C’mon, Viv, she can’t hold a candle to you.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Now, let’s get one more round in and then we’ll go and show them!’
By the time we leave the pub we’ve introduced ourselves to all the punters and made them aware of our cause. They’ve agreed that I’m very, very attractive and one man – Norman, I think his name was – said he couldn’t imagine anyone nicer than me. So, buoyed by those honeyed words, we hit the reception.
6
Wedding Etiquette
1. No fighting.
2. No stealing cutlery.
3. No giving impromptu speeches.
4. No sex in the toilets.
5. No heckling.
6. No histrionics.
7. No pole-, line- or break-dancing.
8. No getting dangerously smashed.
9. No unauthorised singing.
10. No talking, texting or Tweeting during the speeches.
11. No posting ugly pictures of the bride on Facebook.
12. No pets.
13. No children (unless a bouncy castle is provided).
14. No adults on the bouncy castle.
‘Ready?’ asks Max, holding the doorknobs to the reception venue in both hands.
‘Never been readier!’ I shriek, and he goes to throw them open. Unfortunately we’re at the wrong entrance and are directed round the corner by a helpful waitress. We slip into the throng unnoticed.
Max grabs two half-glasses of champagne from a passing tray, necks one and replaces the empty flute with a full one. I do the same. I’m feeling so much better! I look around at the chattering guests but can’t see Rob. The hotel is old-fashioned grand, all panelled walls and brocade curtains. The champagne reception is in the grand entrance hall, where the walls are hung with portraits; eighteenth-century VIPs with no eyebrows and staring eyes. From the centre of the room a
Gone with the Wind
-style staircase rises.
Suddenly a kilted man appears at the top of them, holding bagpipes, and begins to play ‘Wild Mountain Thyme’ as he steps slowly down. Behind him come Jane and Hugo and, oh my God, Hugo is wearing a kilt! The bottle-green tartan rests above his fat knees, below which are thick white socks, tied round the tops with string and feathers. His calves bulge like piano legs. Jane has removed her veil and wears a twinkling tiara. They smile and make their way down to enthusiastic whistling and applause.
Max is shouting, ‘Is he Scottish? I didn’t know he was a Scot!’
They cut through the cheering guests like celebrities, complete with snapping photographer, and disappear through the huge double doors to the side of the hall. I step back and lean on a decorative radiator cover, feeling a little dizzy; these heels are too high. They are what Lucy would call ‘sit-down shoes’. The lone piper appears again at the doorway, finishes the tune with a discordant squeal and lowers his bagpipes to make an announcement.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you please make your way to the dining room for the wedding breakfast?’
Max links my arm with his and strides forward. ‘Jesus, yes! I’m starving.’ He pulls me across the rose-patterned carpet and the room seems to tilt. One of Hugo’s jovial brothers has been squeezed into a suit and stands by the table plan; we give him our names and he guides us to our table. Max shakes his hand vigorously, saying, ‘You must be very proud.’
The round guests’ tables are arranged in a semicircle to get the best view of the top table. Ours is out on the edge and I feel momentarily hurt by this – I thought Jane and I had become close, but I suppose we met through Hugo and Rob playing rugby together, so I guess Rob’s the ‘one’. The entire
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