Maria Clark

1.

I hate weddings.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a bride and groom. Or a bride and bride. Or whoever wants to marry whoever. I don’t care.

But the wedding itself…I mean, seriously?

Whoever came up with the idea of a wedding was definitely a psychopath. Think about it. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life, right? Yet it’s also the one day where all the warring factions of your family are brought together under the pretence of peace and love.

If that isn’t asking for the next Hunger Games, I don’t know what is.

If I ever get married, I’ll be providing wooden cutlery. Blunt knives and forks, to ensure minimal injury during the wedding breakfast. Maybe just sporks, actually. The only knife allowed would be to cut the wedding cake – and even then it would be whisked away before Auntie Delilah could reach it.

(Kate’s still angry, you know, that Delilah gave her a bowl cut. So I’ve decided she’s not trusted with sharp things).

So far, I’ve been to six weddings. Three on Mam’s side, two for friends and one when I accidently stumbled into the church during choir practice.

This wedding’s my seventh. And as weddings go, it isn’t half bad. The cake’s a little dry and the lights are too bright for my liking, but that’s alright. I’d still give it a 9/10 on TripAdvisor. Not 10/10 though, because it’s Laila’s wedding. And as my darling older sister is a ten in pretty much everything else, it won’t hurt her this once to get a nine.

(I’m a solid five, if you’re wondering.)

Anyway, it’s been a beautiful day. Laila and Ashram chose a gorgeous Tudor manor house as their venue, and I spent the afternoon gawping at the oak panelling and counting the number of beams across the ceiling. Kate kept elbowing me during the ceremony, whispering under her breath that bridesmaids should be smiling, not staring, but Laila didn’t seem to mind. She only had eyes for Ashram, anyway. Standing there in her beautiful lace gown, her dark hair curled beneath a veil and amber eyes shining with happiness.

(At least, I think it was happiness. But what else could it be? Laila knew she was going to marry Ashram the moment he saved our cat Mavis from the binman).

“It’ll be you next,” Mam said, when we went outside for the pictures. “Just you wait!”

I wanted to tell her that statistically it’s rather unlikely, considering I have no more romantic inclination than an octopus. Besides, Kate’s been with Fatima for ages, and even though she’s the youngest of us three girls, I have no problem with her getting married next.

They’re on the dance floor, now. Fatima in dark red, Kate in green. Dancing closely, but not quite touching. Laila said they were welcome to be as couple-y as they wished, but you can tell they’re not completely comfortable. Too many aunties and uncles sitting nearby, whispering to each other behind their napkins or raising their eyebrows in scandal. Laila and Ashram are dancing just behind them, and although Laila’s got her hands draped around Ashram’s neck, her eyes are sharp and watchful. Big Sister Duty trumps even a wedding, apparently.

“Earth to Norah? You still in there?”

Jem’s tapping my wrist. His hand’s warm, like a pebble sitting out in the sun. I rarely let people touch me, and he's the only one who would dare, anyway. When I shiver, he laughs.

“Come on, bridesmaid. Is it our turn yet?”

His voice is soft, slipping beneath the music, but I hear him all the same. I’ll always hear him. Even when he got laryngitis in Year 8 and couldn’t speak for a week, I still heard his voice in my head, telling me exactly what he needed.

(And don’t tell me the chocolate eclairs weren’t needed, thank you very much).

When I don’t reply, he taps my wrist again. Fingers light, drifting about like butterfly wings.

“Norah.”

I turn to him, sighing.

“Yeah? Our turn for what?”

“To dance, of course. Why, what were you thinking? Paragliding?”

“I wish.” I look at my bridesmaid dress in disgust. “Do you have any spare trousers?”

“Unfortunately not. Besides, I think your sister would kill me.”

Laila’s looking at us suspiciously. Jem blows her a kiss, before turning back to me with flushed cheeks.

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, that just married glow really suits her. Wouldn’t you say?”

He punches my shoulder. It’s not normally exposed (because who in their right mind wants to wear a spaghetti-strap dress?), and the contact makes me flinch.

“Ouch. That was unnecessary.”

“Sor-ry.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. “But I’m resorting to desperate measures.”

“For what?”

“To get you to dance!”

The people around us turn to stare. My cheeks burn, hating the attention.

“Fine,” I say, gritting my teeth and standing up. “Let’s get this over with.”

*

Jem’s my best friend. We became friends when we were six, and he’s been around to annoy me ever since. We’re the definition of inseparable, really.

Inseparable (adj.): James Demirci and Norah Murphy, present for every moment of each other’s lives; able to finish each other’s sentences and cook a cheese omelette in exactly the same way.

When you grow up with someone, you pull strands of their soul into yours. Jem’s bloody annoying and always knows how to wind me up, but in short, I couldn’t live without him.

He was there when I learnt to swim and ride a bike, and when I was diagnosed with autism. I was there when he got appendicitis, and when he got accepted onto his Astrophysics grad scheme. We got our first tattoos together: two little rainclouds with a half-rainbow, followed by each other’s letter initial behind the ear.

So, of course, it’s perfectly natural that the only person I would ever – ever – agree to dance with is him.

“Are you coming, then?”

I head to the dance floor. It’s only small, about the size of Mam’s office, and the scent of bodies and breath is overpowering. By the time Jem reaches me, I’m already regretting it.

“Hey,” he says, recognising the look on my face. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve actually got rhythm, remember?”

“Shut up and dance, Nor.”

He slips his hands around my waist. I flinch at the contact, taking a deep breath, and stare at his Adam’s apple. No point even trying the eyes. The music’s loud – too loud – and my brain splinters into echo chambers, hearing the clack of Laila’s heels and Ashram’s breath and the clatter of knives and forks from the tables at the side. Jem’s throat flickers as he breathes, and as I watch his chest rise and fall, I find my heart rate slowing too.

“See? It’s not so bad.”

I force myself to make eye contact with him, then laugh. He’s pulling his clown face, with large soulful eyes and a droopy mouth. He started doing it years ago, so whenever I looked at him, I would be able to smile. Like now.

He pokes my cheek.

“There it is. You’ve been faking it today.”

“And? You try being a bridesmaid.”

He spins around, pushing me away so our fingertips nearly pull apart. He’s still on the dancefloor, red lights pulsating above him, while I’m teetering on the edge of the shark pit of people. From here, he seems broader, dark hair blending straight into his beard. When he laughs, his blue eyes crinkle.

“And, of course,” he says, shouting over the music. “It’s your -”

I yelp like a wounded dog.

“Don’t say it!”

Jem just laughs and tugs my hand, pulling me back to the dance floor. I’m spinning so fast that my hair slaps my face and my breath snaps away, but then he’s in front of me with one eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lips.

“Don’t say what? That it’s your birthday?”

(Now, before you say anything, yes, I know. Who would want their sister’s wedding on the same day as their birthday? Well, that’s me.)

There’s a hush on the dance floor. Even the DJ must have heard, as he turns down Puppy Love until it sounds like fairground music chirping in the background. Over Jem’s shoulder, I see Laila’s worried eyes.

His lips curve upwards.

“Come on, Norah. Did you seriously think I’d forget?”

I thought there’d be more chance of an alien attack before the wedding photos, but I don’t say that.

“It’s not a big deal,” I say weakly. “Besides, we’re distracting from Laila! To the bride and groom, everyone!”

All the uncles and aunties raise their glasses for the hundredth time, slurring tobridangroo like a football chant. I wince, gesturing for the DJ to turn the music up, and turn back to Jem with a smile pasted on my face. He frowns.

“Seriously, Nor? It’s your twenty-fifth birthday!”

“And? You know I don’t like celebrating.”

He scoffs. The music’s playing again – Queen’s You’re My Best Friend - but his feet have slowed, like he’s walking through quicksand.

“But…we always have a good time, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “The two of us, sure. But not at a massive gathering like this.”

I feel the crowd watching us, and swallow. Laila catches my gaze, searching my face, and when I try to smile, she nods. Relief scatters across her tiara in raindrops as she dances away.

Jem’s stopped moving completely. He’s still holding my hand, and stares at my sweaty fingers like he’s never seen them before. I wait a little longer. My heart’s thrumming louder now, and I know it’ll only take a second for it to switch to full-on meltdown-mode. And I can’t have that. I’m not ruining Laila’s wedding, of all things.

“Jem, I -”

“It’s your twenty-fifth, Norah. Don’t you remember what we promised?”

A cold sensation trickles down my back. His eyes are intense, so much so that I can barely meet them.

“Should I?”

“Yeah.” He drops my hand, stepping back and shaking his head. “Yeah, you really should.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. What’s he on about? He can hardly expect me to remember one throwaway conversation about my birthday, when we’ve spoken for hours every single day?

Except he can. Because I remember everything, and he knows it. And even as I stand there watching the disco lights flicker over our feet, my brain is whirring into action. Scouring all our past conversations for mentions of birthdays, of twenty-five, of square numbers and square cakes and protests about having a party.

(I had one, once. It went swimmingly until Kate set her hair on fire).

“Norah, listen.”

He’s signalling to the DJ and the music’s turning down again, but my brain’s working faster. There’s something at the back of my mind, leaping just out of reach. I see the two of us sitting on the swing in his back garden, right by the chicken coop. He’s saying something, then he leans forward to –

“Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please?”

He’s got a glass in his hand. Where did that come from? The light catches the crystal, sending rainbows everywhere. Auntie Delilah’s got the Pride flag in her hair.

Jem turns to me. For a moment, he snaps back to how he was in my memory – a small, weedy boy with a shock of dark hair and light-brown skin. His mother’s voice in the background, calling us in to taste freshly-cooked sigara borek and homemade bread. I blink, shaking my head, then he’s back with his suit and bow tie and brand-new shoes.

“Norah,” he says again. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Norah. Our lovely bride’s sister.”

There’s a roar of appreciation from some of Ashram’s mates, but they soon fall silent. A sickening feeling starts to stir in my stomach. What’s going on?

Jem takes a step closer. His face is serious, but he takes my hand and squeezes my fingers until I look him properly in the eye.

“It’s Norah’s birthday today. And a special one, too. Her twenty-fifth.”

What was it he said, when we were sitting on the swing? What was it we said?

And I, Norah Celia Murphy, vow to…

“I don’t mean to distract from the wedding,” he continues, before nodding at Laila. “And I do have our bride’s permission to do this, so don’t come at me for that!”

I look at Laila in astonishment. She smiles encouragingly, gesturing for me to pay attention, but when I turn back to Jem there’s an odd twist in my chest. What does he mean, he has her permission? For what?

His eyes are buoyant.

“Because this birthday – though Norah won’t admit it – is rather important. For both of us.”

Panic, racing through my toes. I can’t read his face and I really need to read his face because this is going somewhere I can’t control. And if I can’t control it, I can’t stop it.

“Norah and I have been best friends for years, you see.” He places his glass on the nearest table, clearing his throat. “And when we were ten years old, we made a promise.”

A vow.

He coughs again and looks around the room, grinning.

“We said that if, by the time Norah was twenty-five, we still weren’t married, then we’d have to marry each other.”

There’s a ripple of laughter. Laila raises her eyebrows, murmuring something to Ashram, and even Kate looks amused. Mam, sitting in the corner, is unimpressed.

My chest starts to relax. It’s an odd time to recount childhood anecdotes, granted, but weddings do make people do strange things. I force a smile, then nod at him to follow me off the dance floor. Maybe he needs some fresh air?

He doesn’t move.

“Jem?”

“Norah, please.”

There’s something in his voice that stops me. A strange tone, wobbling like the urgency in his eyes. The rest of the room senses it too, and the hall settles into a silence so thick that my throat starts to constrict. My palms are sweating and I know my mascara’s running, but I can’t move.

“When you were ten, Norah, and I suggested we make the promise, you were so ready.” He rubs the corner of his jacket, smiling. “And maybe you thought it was a joke, or something that wouldn’t ever happen…”

In the corner of my eye, I spot Kate. She’s paying full attention, for once, and her eyes keep flickering to me with an emotion I can’t read. But she keeps trying, even though she knows I won’t be able to guess.

That’s when I realise something’s wrong.

“But for me,” Jem says, stepping forward. “It never was a joke. Because I loved you, Norah Murphy, and I still do. I always will.”

He grabs my hand. His eyes are full of moonlight, gazing at me, and though my brain’s screaming to look away, I can’t. And when he bends down, reaching into his pocket, and pulls out a tiny, tiny box, all I can think about is the look on his face, back when we’d sat on the swing and I’d said those words.

And I, Norah Celia Murphy, vow to be your lawfully wedded wife.

He squeezes my fingers, smiling.

“So, Norah. The question I’ve waited fifteen years to ask.” He takes a deep breath, then flips open the box. “Will you marry me?”

Silence.

And then - the one word I’d never thought I’d say, not to my best friend, not to him – comes out.

“No.”