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I hate pale pink roses at the best of times. They represent everything my parents are turning me into. Pretty enough to make people smile, bland enough that nobody remembers them.
They are the very antithesis of my soul.
My six bridesmaids will wear dusty blue. Mum’s latest concoction.
Not a vivid blue, oh no. Not cobalt, turquoise or any shade bold enough to have its own personality. Of course not. Nothing that says me.
Mum has shown me photographs of these chosen bridesmaids. Lovely. Daughters of people whose surnames appear in Dad’s close contacts list. All with impressive country estates and investment interests. They all look beautiful, immaculate and delighted to be involved, what an honour! Splendid.
The guest list is approaching five hundred now. I recognised perhaps fifty names when I scanned the list, but I agreed to them all without question. I don’t care who’s sitting in the audience at an event I don’t want to be at, I’ve lost the will to fight a losing battle.
Every time Mum presents another brochure, fabric sample or menu suggestion, I choose the answer that will shut her up the quickest.
“Yes, lovely.”
“Perfect.”
“Whatever you think, Mum. You know best.”
That last one makes her especially happy. My sarcasm is buried so deep, she misses the point every time.
Today, I’m sitting at the dressing table while she directs a woman called Serena through the final adjustments to my hair.
Not bridal hair. Not this time.
Auction hair.
Tonight is the Hammersmith auction.
The sore thumb of Alice amidst the chaos of wedding planning.
The very idea of attending gives me motion sickness, almost too much to bear.
“Not too loose,” Mum says to the hairdresser. “It needs to remain polished throughout the evening.”
I get another pin pushed into the back of my head.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry, Miss Parker.”
“It’s fine.”
Everything is fine.
It’s been fine for almost two weeks now.
Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine fucking fine.
Christopher is delighted with our progress. Mum has enough enthusiasm for the entire five hundred guests combined. And Dad has stopped looking at me like I’m a disgrace of a misbehaving daughter across the dining table. One thing I’m grateful for.
One thing that still cracks my heart into pieces is that Bryce and Jack are gone. Cut out of my life completely.
Hammersmith will only further splinter those wounds.
My phone vanished the morning after the proposal and returned two days later with carefully curated contacts. My social accounts were suspended because, according to Christopher, the attention around the engagement had become intrusive. Not healthy, sweetheart.
I could have created new profiles. Borrowed Helen’s phone. Climbed out of the bedroom window in the middle of the night and made my way over to Chelsea, but I didn’t.
