The Time of Our Lives. Portia MacIntosh
like an excited child with a puppy, who doesn’t quite realise his own strength. As he hugs me, I realise he’s the almost terrifyingly muscular man I noticed doing press-ups before. This man isn’t just buff in the usual, gym-going way, he’s like … young Arnold Schwarzenegger buff. Huge!
The man quickly realises that I don’t know who he is.
‘It’s me,’ he says, as though that might shed some light on the situation. ‘Tom, my bro, you must recognise me?’
‘I didn’t realise I had a bro.’ Tom laughs, scratching his head. He clearly has no idea who this is either. Still, he shakes his hand. The man must grip him tightly because as soon as he releases him, Tom rubs his own palm with his other hand.
‘Does the name Alan ring any bells?’ he asks.
‘Alan? Her ex-boyfriend Alan?’ Tom says in disbelief.
‘Yeah,’ the macho man says, holding his arms out, a big ta-da smile plastered across his face.
‘What, did you eat him or something? Is he hiding in one of your legs?’ I joke, unable to believe my eyes.
Alan laughs.
‘Alan, I … I can’t believe it’s you,’ I say, looking him up and down, admiring him like I would a statue.
Alan was always a fitness buff, and he was always muscular from the endless hours he would spend in the gym, but now he has to be at least four times the size he was at uni. He barely resembles his former self, it’s so weird. Now that I know it’s him, I can just about make out my ex, hidden away inside this beast of a man.
‘It isn’t Alan anymore, it’s Al Atlantic. Winner of the international Mr Macho competition, 2017 and 2018. Hoping to win this year too, pick up the hat trick.’
Al Atlantic poses in that way bodybuilders often do, standing to one side, lifting a heel and pointing his fist towards the floor to show off his impressive figure. I couldn’t tell you which muscle specifically this pose is intended to showcase, but whichever one it is, it’s huge. They’re all huge. I’d hazard a guess that even his muscles have muscles.
‘Wow, well, congratulations,’ I tell him.
I don’t really know what else to say. He’s another person from my past I wasn’t expecting to see here. I don’t know why this didn’t cross my mind, I was probably too busy worrying about finding a designer dress that didn’t make my bum look too big (or my bank balance look too small) and my embarrassing single status when all my friends are in serious relationships.
‘I was hoping we could have a catch up,’ he says, his eyes wide with optimism.
Ergh, why does everyone want to have a catch up? It’s been ten years, no one has time to cover ten years in a quick catch up, do they? Or maybe I’m just self-conscious of the fact that, in my ten years, not much has happened that is worth catching up on. I haven’t won one Mr Macho competition, let alone two. Plus, Alan and I didn’t exactly end things on the best of terms. When I broke up with him, he took it quite badly, and this is the first time we’ve spoken since.
‘OK, sure,’ I say. ‘But I think we’re about to eat so …’
‘Yeah, OK, I’ll come and find you later,’ he says. ‘Good to see you, Tom.’
Al gives Tom a playful slap on the back, nearly knocking him off his feet. I’d say Al doesn’t know his own strength, but from the way he’s showing off, I know he absolutely does.
‘Yeah, you too,’ Tom replies as he stumbles forward. He waits for Al to leave before opening his mouth again. ‘Well, that was completely emasculating, wasn’t it?’
‘Damn, I can’t believe that’s Alan,’ I blurt, ignoring Tom’s remark. Well, I’m not about to fall over myself to fluff his ego, am I?
‘The gym paid off then,’ Tom muses, sounding almost annoyed at Alan for daring to put in so much hard work, and getting such great results from it. ‘He’s still boring though, isn’t he?’
‘I’d better get to my table,’ I say, quickly changing the subject, trying to end the conversation before it can get going again.
‘Does bridesmaid duty not get you promoted to the top table?’ he asks.
‘It doesn’t even get me a “thank you”,’ I reply.
‘Hmm, I was hoping we’d be sitting together. Well, I asked for a catch up first,’ he calls after me as I head in the direction of the marquee. ‘Don’t go letting Alan jump the queue just because he looks like he could strangle someone without breaking a sweat.’
He does indeed look like he could kill someone with his thumb, but the Alan I knew was always way too boring to be confrontational enough to get into a fight.
I glance at the seating chart to see roughly where my table is, before looking in that direction and seeing that my friends have already taken their seats.
Our table is right at the back of the marquee, where it meets the building, next to the kitchen door. Not only do we have the heat coming from in there, as well as countless serving staff constantly whizzing past us, but we’re being deprived of the same breeze the rest of the guests are enjoying. On a sweltering day like today, a breeze is absolutely needed. I feel like my make-up is melting and slowly slipping down my face – and not even evenly, so I probably look like some bizarre, abstract Picasso portrait at this point.
‘I can’t believe they’ve given us the crappiest table here,’ Clarky whines. ‘We’re his oldest friends.’
‘We’re pretty far down the pecking order today,’ Zach says, knocking back the glass of Prosecco on the table in front of him that I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to save for the speeches.
‘This day is just getting worse and worse,’ Clarky says, knocking back his glass too.
‘I think the drinks are for the speeches,’ I point out.
‘It’s OK, this one was Bella’s,’ Clarky replies.
We all fall awkwardly silent at the first mention of Clarky’s ex-girlfriend. Up until now, we’ve all been quietly ignoring the fact she isn’t here, but as two other guests take a seat at our big, round table, the fact that Bella’s chair remains empty couldn’t be more obvious.
‘Ah, buddy, things aren’t so bad,’ Ed says, patting him on the back.
‘They bloody are,’ Clarky insists. ‘I was going to try and shag a bridesmaid, but they’re all fat.’
‘They’re all pregnant,’ Fiona corrects him angrily.
I loudly clear my throat.
Clarky looks over and me, looking me up and down before saying, ‘Well, you’re not a real bridesmaid, are you? And anyway, I wouldn’t shag you, it’d be like shagging my weird sister.’
‘I don’t know how I’m ever going to heal from this broken heart,’ I say sarcastically, pretending to wipe away a tear from my eye.
‘You know, when I checked in, the receptionist asked where my guest was, and when I told her she wasn’t coming, she got really pissed off with me and told me I should’ve called ahead,’ he says, angrily.
‘You should’ve told her she’d died,’ Zach laughs. ‘Made her feel bad.’
‘I should’ve told her I’d killed her, more like, then she wouldn’t have been rude to me.’
Nothing like the threat of murder to keep a woman in check.
All at once, we’re all very aware of the couple sitting on our table, attentively but timidly observing our conversation.
‘Hello,’ I say politely.
‘Hi,’ the girl says back.
‘Bride or groom?’ I ask.