The Time of Our Lives. Portia MacIntosh

       Chapter 4

      Now

      ‘Fifi,’ I call over, spotting my friend hovering outside the hotel’s reception room, where the wedding ceremony is about to take place.

      ‘Luca, oh my gosh,’ she replies, smiling widely as she pulls me in for a hug. ‘Wow, no one has called me Fifi in years. Zach, when was the last time someone called me Fifi?’

      ‘Uni,’ he laughs. ‘She dropped the nickname when she was applying for jobs.’

      ‘I don’t mind one Fi though,’ she assures me.

      ‘How’s it going?’ Zach asks, hugging me.

      ‘All great,’ I tell him. ‘How are you two? It’ll be your wedding soon, right? I got my save the date.’

      ‘Next year,’ she replies.

      Fiona’s grin spreads from one ear to the next. She was always such a bright, positive person, but she seems so happy with Zach, and I’m so happy for them. For a while, we thought the two of the might never get together and look at them now, happily engaged.

      ‘You still have funky hair,’ she points out.

      I place a hand on my long, blonde and rose gold ombre curls.

      ‘It was never like Luca to look ordinary,’ Zach points out.

      When I was at uni, I enjoyed a sort of alternative fashion. I had the ridiculous style of a six-year-old, combined with the provocative look of a punk. It was never a lifestyle choice, purely a fashion one. These days, I dress more my age. More my figure too. I’m a curvy size twelve – more like a fourteen if I’m in a shop that favours the thin, or if I’ve just eaten my own weight in carbs. I did once manage to fit into a size-ten dress after having the stomach flu, but that didn’t seem like an ideal long-term solution. Probably just easier to try and make peace with my body as it is.

      Today I’m wearing a Bardot skater dress – in rose gold, to match my hair – with a pair of white Louboutin heels covered in cute little spikes, which I thought would serve as a nice nod to my rebellious side that still lingers deep within me.

      PR is all about spin. You can make things seem better, you can make them seem worse – if you’re good, you can make them seem like something entirely different.

      From head-to-toe, I absolutely could not afford this outfit, but in many ways this is going to be a lot like a school reunion, seeing people I haven’t seen since I was young, and obviously I want to seem like I’m doing much better than I am. I suppose, if I’m careful with these shoes, I might even be able to get away with returning them, which I know is awful, but it might be a good idea if I want to eat next month. Either way, so long as I present myself as something more impressive than my reality, I’ll be happy with my work for the wedding.

      I’m not usually the type to rely on designer clothes to make myself pass as presentable, but when I started shopping for a wedding outfit, I felt at a loss. As I moved from changing room to changing room, I’d notice a new hang-up in each mirror. In River Island I felt like I looked every inch my 31 years. In Oasis I noticed the circles under my eyes were growing darker with each night I stayed up late over thinking things. In Zara I was reminded that my bum was big – but not Kardashian big, camper van big.

      I have always dwarfed my tiny friend Fiona, who fails to measures up to my 5'7" with her petit 5'2" frame, but today she’s obviously teamed her long, flowing blue dress with flat shoes (I suppose no one can tell what’s hiding under long dresses, you could disguise anything), which just makes me look all the more like a giant in my heels. Zach is wearing a blue suit in almost exactly the same shade as Fiona’s dress, which I doubt was an accident.

      ‘Where are the others?’ I ask.

      ‘Matt is in there, looking like a lamb headed for the slaughter,’ Zach laughs. ‘Ed has just nipped to the toilet. No sign of Clarky and his bird yet.’

      ‘Have you met her?’ I ask him.

      They both shake their heads.

      ‘I’ve seen her on Facebook,’ Zach says. ‘Looks like a bit of a bimbo.’

      ‘Just Clarky’s type then,’ I reply.

      ‘Luca,’ I hear Ed call from behind me.

      I spin around on my heels, grabbing him for a hug.

      ‘Ed,’ I squeak as he kisses me on both cheeks. ‘How are you? Where’s Stella? Where’re the kids?’

      ‘No kids allowed,’ he says, finally releasing me. ‘Stella stayed home to look after them.’

      ‘That’s a shame,’ I reply.

      ‘Is it? I live with five women, this is my first day off in years!’

      Ed seems really excited at the thought of having a night off from all his women. It’ll probably do him good, having a day off from his responsibilities. As if being a paediatrician isn’t a stressful enough job, having four small children of his own can’t help.

      ‘Five women,’ Zach repeats back to him.

      ‘Well, we had Louisa, then Erin. I wanted a boy so we said we’d have one last go at it, but then we got Bethany and Sally, our twins.’

      ‘Don’t you have a TV in your house?’ Zach laughs. ‘Stop having kids.’

      ‘It just keeps happening!’

      ‘Ed, you’re a doctor,’ I point out. ‘I know you know how babies are made.’

      Ed laughs.

      Ed has always seemed grown up – and he’s always looked much older than us – but now, more than ever, he you’d struggle to believe we all went to uni together. He’s wearing a cream suit with a blue shirt and a black tie, along with the thick black-rimmed glasses he didn’t need when we lived together. He’s also getting his middle-aged spread a little prematurely, but he’s not a bad-looking guy. Being a family guy just seems to suit him in a way that I can’t imagine happening with any of the rest of us. I think we’re all quite immature and selfish still.

      ‘What about Clarky?’ Ed says, changing the subject.

      ‘What about him?’ I ask.

      ‘You guys not been checking your phones? He just dropped a message in the group chat, he’s coming alone. He and Bella broke up.’

      ‘When?’ Fiona says nosily, leaning in a little to get the gossip.

      ‘He didn’t say,’ Ed laughs. ‘We can ask him when we see him. Think he’s running a bit late.’

      If I hadn’t arrived last night, it would’ve been me running late today, for sure. Were it anyone but Clarky, I might have sympathy for them.

      ‘If you’d all like to make your way inside,’ a hotel employee calls out. ‘Bride’s side on the left, groom’s on the right.’

      We make our way into the reception room,