Perfect-ish

It’s Saturday afternoon, not yet 2 pm, and the humidity is relentless. I feel it against my skin – slick, sticky. It envelops me, holds me hostage.

When I disembark the bus at Bondi Junction, somehow the air smells of sunscreen and tan lines. I can sense the beach, even though I can’t see it. Outside, on the street, the glare reminds me that I didn’t bring my sunglasses, and my hair feels hot to touch. I’m worried that my scalp will burn, my skin will peel and I’ll get another freckle to add to my collection.

People flock towards the beach, desperate for a reprieve from the heat. There’s a traffic jam in every direction, the occasional moment of road rage, cars blocking intersections. Any available street parking was snatched hours ago, but cars continue to circle back. Vultures, all of them, as they prowl around the block.

Everyone around me is half dressed, with overstuffed duffel bags thrown over their shoulders. The sound of flip-flops is distinct – that wet slap as the shoe licks a heel.

I’ve already forgotten where the church is and how to get there. I’ve come out the wrong side of the street, and now I’m checking my phone again to find the location.

Two women pass me and glance down at my outfit. One, I believe, recognises the label. I pause for a moment because I’m sensing a compliment, but then she looks away and resumes conversation with her friend.

When I re-check my phone, I realise how late I’m going to be. What if the wedding has already started? What if the bride has already walked down the aisle?

Delia is going to be so sour with me.

I scurry off.

There’s an alcohol stand behind the church, which is rather thoughtful. It’s unexpected, but welcome, and naturally I grab two glasses of champagne on the way. One for Delia, so she’ll forgive me for being late.

When I slip in through the side door of the church, my high heels scrape the ground and a horrid screech ensues. Suddenly, hundreds of eyes are on me.

Christ.

Someone blows their nose, and the silence is broken. People go back to looking straight ahead.

The church is a cavernous, monstrous space. Pews for days. I count six gruesome statues of Jesus, and then I spot the groom, Thomas, jittering by the altar. His hair is an interesting situation – so much gel, so slicked back he looks like he’s just stepped out of the shower. He’s dyed it, I think. It was light brown before, but now it’s closer to blond, brushed behind his ears and down to the nape of his neck.

He should know he has too much forehead for this hairstyle, which for some reason reminds me of Nicolas Cage and the word ‘lacrosse’ – I can’t quite explain it.

A furtive glance around the room tells me that the wedding has not yet started but that most of the seats are full. I scour the faces, looking for Delia. I’m wondering how Thomas knows this many people when a rigid arm shoots into the air.

Delia.

She’s waving her hand around in circles, bracelets jingling along her wrist. Over here, she mouths. Hurry up.

I shimmy past a few disgruntled guests and reach her in the middle of the pew.

‘You’re late, Prue.’ Delia is indeed sour, her lips pressed and her voice flat.

‘Only a little,’ I say. She raises an eyebrow.

The first thing people ever notice about Delia are her eyebrows – sculpted with the sole intention of catching your attention. Thicker than a finger, darker than black, and carved with such rigidity you’d think Delia had taken a knife to her own forehead. I’ve tried to replicate them myself without much success. If someone asked me what I envied most about Delia, I’d say it’s her eyebrows.

I extend one of my champagne glasses towards her. ‘Want one?’

She declines. ‘Where did you get those?’ She frowns. ‘You’re the only person here with alcohol.’ Her legs are crossed and her head dips. I know she’s frustrated. Maybe even a little exhausted. She’s in that position where her back is curled over and her chin juts out. She looks like poultry.

‘Really?’ I ask, triggering a brief browse around the room.

Delia huffs, straightening. She’s wearing those beige heels she loves because they go with everything, and a dress I haven’t seen in years – slim-fit, floral, strapless, with a zipper up the back. She’s got all her best jewellery on, rings on every finger, bracelets on both wrists and her favourite gold necklace draped across her collarbones – her birthstone, ruby, the focal element. The last time she wore this dress was at her engagement party, where I drained too many glasses of chardonnay and had to peel myself off her sofa the next morning. The dress’s sprightly colours remind me of a primary school juice box.

‘I waited out the front for forty minutes,’ Delia continues. ‘You said you’d be here early.’

I’ve accidentally spilt some of my drink on her, it seems. She’s licking a finger and wiping her forearm.

‘I thought you said this wedding was by the beach,’ I say.

Delia frowns. ‘I never said that.’

‘I thought it was going to be outside. It’s a bit ghastly in this church. I certainly wouldn’t choose to get married here.’

‘Is that why you’re late?’ she asks. ‘Because you got lost wandering around Bondi Beach?’

I take a sip of champagne. And another one. I sneak a look at Delia. ‘No, I left the house late, so . . .’

She rolls her eyes.

‘And I forgot there were roadworks this weekend,’ I add. ‘Sorry.’

‘Right.’

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

She sighs, then nods. She can never stay mad for long. That’s what I love about her. I readjust my dress as the groomsmen take their places, and Delia finally notices my outfit. It’s a bodyhugging, burnt orange number with lace and a low cut across the chest. The internet tells me that orange clothing contrasts well with blonde hair.

Delia’s eyes travel from my feet all the way up the dress, landing on the leather shoulder pads. They slide off my shoulders at any sudden movement.

‘It’s designer,’ I say.

Delia’s face is unreadable.

‘There’s time to take a photo, right?’ I ask. ‘Hold these.’

She rather reluctantly holds my drinks while I fish my phone out of my clutch.

‘Remember what we talked about—’

‘Yes, I remember,’ I say.

She looks at me. ‘I need to hear you say it.’

‘Every time?’

‘Yes, every time.’

Sigh. ‘I promise I will only post a photo where we both look good, not just me.’

She appears satisfied. ‘Thank you.’

It takes a moment to capture a selfie we’re both happy with – Delia doesn’t like it when her neck looks wrinkly, and it takes me a few shots to get my smile right. I try to do a casual grin – no teeth – but then I look like a gummy bear.

‘What do we think the caption should be?’ I ask.

Delia merely shrugs, uninterested.

I think on it for a few seconds. ‘Let’s go with . . . We love love. Can’t wait to see my best friend’s dumb boss Thomas—’

‘Don’t write that.’

‘Can’t wait to see the slick-haired Thomas—’

‘Not that either.’

‘The formidable Thomas,’ I type. ‘Marry the beautiful . . . What’s his fiancée’s name again?’

‘Gillian.’

‘Can I write Gill?’

‘No, it’s only ever Gillian.’

‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘We love love. Can’t wait to see the formidable . . . Actually I’m going to take that out. I’m not entirely sure what the word means. We love love. Can’t wait to see Thomas and Gillian get married today. Bondi, you look beautiful.’

Delia’s nose scrunches. ‘Maybe you should say something about Gillian looking beautiful?’

I glance up. ‘But I haven’t seen her yet. We don’t know if that’s true.’

She doesn’t respond, frowning.

‘What’s their wedding hashtag?’

‘Thomas got Gillianed.’

I bite the inside of my cheek. ‘That’s fairly funny. Do we think Thomas came up with that?’

‘Definitely not.’

Once I’ve posted the selfie, I take a sip of my drink, and Delia scans the glasses of alcohol in my hands. ‘I didn’t think you liked champagne?’

‘I don’t, but they’re free, so . . .’

She holds my gaze; her lower lip bubbles out in a pucker. ‘Seriously though. Where’d you get those?’

‘They’ve got a little stand set up around the side,’ I explain, tilting my chin towards the right side of the church. ‘Swiped a couple on my way in. Fancy champagne for a fancy wedding.’

I sense her disapproval.

‘There’s a fiftieth in the park,’ she responds, rather curt. ‘You stole them fr—’ She stops and takes a steadying breath. ‘Never mind.’ She tucks a piece of stray hair behind her ear; her usually frizzy black hair has been straightened within an inch of its life. Flyaways have been tamed with product, and it all drapes neatly behind her shoulders. She looks clean and collected.

Everything about me is damp from sweat – my armpits, the backs of my knees, and even my calves drip like they’re leaking. I peek down at my cleavage and it looks like my boobs are crying into each other.

‘Can you check I’m not sweaty when the photographer comes around?’ I ask. Delia doesn’t reply.

Another quick glance around the church tells me there are still a few guests filing in. Some clasp clutches or handbags, some carry presents, but none of them are holding any alcohol. It appears I did actually steal these drinks.

I drain the first glass. ‘Can you believe Thomas is getting married? Who would’ve thought he’d find someone.’

Delia smiles and stares ahead at her boss. Tall and lean, he’s flipping through some palm cards, mouthing his vows to himself. He’s the kind of person who constantly licks his lips, like an efficient windscreen wiper. In. Out. In. Out. Blink and you might miss it.

‘He’s not all bad,’ Delia says.

‘Not all bad? Righto.’

Recently promoted to deputy editor, Delia has worked with Thomas at the Food & Wine Collection magazine for five years. While she tells me everything about him – every comical sentence he’s ever uttered, every selfish decision he’s ever made – she doesn’t like to admit she despises him, despite the fact that he’s an inconsiderate arse. He takes credit for work that isn’t his, he’ll cut you off during a conversation just to talk over the top of you, he will brag about his job every chance he gets, and he once blew his nose into his cardigan sleeve right in front of me at a barbecue.

And, sometimes, Thomas likes to refer to himself in the third person.

‘I still can’t believe we’re in Bondi of all places,’ I say. ‘How showy of him. It’s like, we get it, you have money.’

Delia smirks. ‘Says the person who lives one street from the beach in Rose Bay.’

‘That doesn’t mean I have any money. If anything, it explains why I have none of it.’

I fidget with my dress, tugging it so it doesn’t ride up my thighs quite so much. The shoulder pads slip down again; I shove them back up to their rightful place.

Delia glances at my dress again, hiding a grimace.

‘It’s a hire,’ I clarify.

‘Right.’

It’s a lot more orange than it looked online. The hue is particularly crass. And, admittedly, it was a better fit on the girl who rented it to me. But I could hardly change my mind when I picked it up this morning, could I? I’d already paid the deposit. The girl met me kerbside with the dress in one hand and an open palm in the other, awaiting the rest of my money.

Delia continues. ‘Why didn’t you just wear something you already own—’

‘Do I look ridiculous?’ I ask, shifting on the pew.

‘Who cares—’

‘I feel a bit ridiculous.’

‘Stop stressing,’ Delia says. ‘You didn’t have to come, you know.’

I swivel to face her. ‘You think I’d miss this?’

Delia gives me a look.

‘You begged me on the phone last night,’ I add.

‘I did not.’

‘You did.’

Delia’s husband, Nico, was supposed to be her plus one, but he works long hours as a surgical resident and can rarely commit to anything outside of an operating room. One time I invited him to a brunch, but he let out an exhausted sigh and said, ‘Probably not, Prue. Lives to save, you know?’ So now I buy him hideous dressshirts every Christmas.

Delia places a gentle hand over mine. ‘Thank you for coming.’

We’ve been best friends for ten years, Delia and I. We met when I was nineteen and we were both working the cash register together at a discount clothing store.

Someone clears their throat. ‘Excuse me.’

Behind us, a woman towers – pointed nose, headset fixed around her ears. Her hair is slicked back into a bun, and she’s wearing a blazer. Poor thing, I’m thinking, until she reaches out and grasps at my champagne.

‘These are not allowed in here. It’s a church,’ she whispers. And then she darts off.

‘Rude,’ I mumble.

Delia smirks a little. ‘Must be the wedding planner.’ She shifts, pulling at her dress and wiping the backs of her thighs with her hands. ‘I think I’m getting sweat on this seat. They wipe these down afterwards, right?’

‘My eyelids are damp,’ I say. ‘Do you think it’s biologically possible that they could slide off?’

Thomas now paces back and forth at the front of the church. He rolls his shoulders back every so often and smoothens out his tie. Licks his lips. Licks them again.

Like the rest of us, he’s sweating through his clothes. He keeps turning his back on the guests to fan his armpits with his hands.

‘Poor Thomas,’ Delia says, wincing.

‘It’s his own fault. He didn’t have to propose.’

One of Thomas’s groomsmen – glasses, stubble, a tailored navy-blue suit – slaps him on the shoulder and whispers something. Thomas visibly relaxes and leaves his armpits alone.

I can’t help but feel intrigued. ‘Who is that—’

Music starts, and I’m cut off. It’s our cue to rise, swivel and stare at the back of the church in silence.

The venue is overwhelming. When I stumbled into the church, I didn’t have the time to really assess what was going on in here. I didn’t notice the design flaws – the optics. It’s a disco for the eyes. An oversized red bow, the kind reserved for newly purchased cars, is taped to the end of each pew. The centre aisle is carpeted in an unnatural shade of dark green. Ceramic flowerpots hang from the ceiling, and I spend too long trying to work out how someone got them up there.

Bridesmaids now file through the church door, and looking at their dresses feels like peering into a mirror ball. They’re shimmering and silver, almost too bright to be real. Countless beads surround the necklines. Each time the bridesmaids take a step, the light catches their dresses, and I’m forced to blink. Delia leans over to tell me that one of them is called Petra and she’s a social media influencer for bubble tea. Almost instantly I know I will end up lurking through her profile later this weekend.

The bride – Gillian – walks down the aisle, and suddenly everyone is crying. Thomas is looking at her like she’s actual sunshine, and both families let out gasps. My eye is caught by that wedding planner hovering near the back of the church with her headset and her clipboard, and I wonder if she’s the one who chose the colour of the carpet. If she is, I’m judging her. Judge, judge, judge.

Gillian’s dress is sleek and minimal. Elegant. I want to despise it, because I’d need to sell a limb to be able to afford it, but I can’t find a fault with this dress. I hate that I can’t hate it. The V-neck design draws in at the waist, and then the crepe material falls straight to the floor. As Gillian passes us, we get a glimpse of the low-cut back. The material gathers towards the base of her spine. She looks beautiful.

The marriage celebrant is a woman named Hilda who speaks in a measured, low tone. She welcomes the guests, tells us what a glorious day it is in Bondi and how the weather is a sign that this marriage will be a successful one. She makes a joke about the beach, but I miss it because I’m trying to guess what Gillian doesfor work. Thomas’s salary couldn’t possibly cover this venue.

I lean towards Delia. ‘Seriously though. Bondi? They should be giving us money, not the other way around.’

She silences me with a harsh look.

In a soothing, slow voice, Hilda tells us the story of how Gillian and Thomas met. ‘It was love at first sight.’

A lady in the front pew nods and bounce bounce go the curled ends of her hair. Hilda surveys the church for a brief moment. ‘It was four months ago—’

Excuse me?

Delia chooses this exact moment to turn away. To avoid my eye. She’s suddenly fixated by the hemline of her dress, hiding her face.

Four months? Now I think I’m going to cry. Delia just put one hundred dollars into their wishing well and they’ll probably be divorced in a year. I think of the shoes in my closet and realise I’ve owned them all longer than these two have known each other. ‘—and Gillian was eating alone at a restaurant in Darling Harbour,’ Hilda finishes. Someone behind us chuckles as if to say, Oh yes, that Gillian. At a restaurant alone. What a crack-up!

Hilda inhales, as if gearing up for the rest of her speech. Thomas was at the next table, as luck would have it. Many of you know Thomas as the editor of a prestigious and award-winning magazine.’

Somebody to the side of us murmurs, impressed. Delia pretends to scratch her nose to hide a smile. I’ve met Thomas about a dozen times – only ever at Delia’s work events when Nico couldn’t attend – and he likes to use every opportunity to talk about his job, including, apparently, his own wedding.

I angle towards Delia, my voice soft. ‘You didn’t tell me the magazine was prestigious and award-winning.’

She bites her lip. ‘It’s really not.’ She looks back at the altar, nervous, as if Thomas heard her.

I joke, but I’m proud of all that Delia has accomplished. She excelled through a journalism degree and managed to support me while I faffed about trying to pick a career. I stayed at that clothing store for far too long, while Delia landed a job at Food & Wine and rose within the company faster than any of her colleagues.

Hilda continues, her soothing voice projecting through thechurch. ‘Thomas regularly eats out alone so he can review the latest restaurants. But in all his years as a magazine editor, he’d never come across someone like Gillian before.’

Gillian blushes. She looks poised and radiant, and a sharp pain bleeds through my chest. The feeling hits me for a split second, and I have to force myself to shrug it off.

‘Thomas was just starting to eat his lobster when he saw Gillian surveying the menu,’ Hilda says.

I scoff, turning back to Delia. ‘How come we never get lobster?’

Delia usually invites me when she needs to review a restaurant or bar, because she can’t rely on Nico to turn up. She glowers at me. ‘Lower your voice.’ She’s using her wedding invitation to fan her neck. Beads of sweat have formed along her hairline.

Nearby, a young woman is capturing a video on her phone, and I’m wondering if she knows the bridesmaid who influences others through fruity tea.

Hilda goes on. ‘Thomas was immediately taken with Gillian. He worked up the nerve to approach her, and I’m sure many of you know the rest of the story.’ She pauses. ‘Thomas’s first words to Gillian, of course, were, “I couldn’t help but notice we’re both here alone. Would you like some company?”’ Another pause. ‘“I’m the editor of the Food & Wine Collection magazine, in case they didn’t tell you.”’

A laugh slips out and I nudge Delia’s leg. ‘Who’s they?’ I whisper.

‘Behave.’

Hilda is still talking. ‘Gillian and Thomas got along like a house on fire.’

I feel like I’m sitting in a house on fire. I dab my forehead with the back of my hand.

‘There was an instant connection,’ Hilda says. ‘Their attraction for each other was automatic perfection.’

My attention flickers over to the handsome groomsman; he’s pretending to cough to hide a smirk and I think this makes us soulmates. There’s a lingering moment as our eyes meet, and he smiles. Has he been watching me?

Hilda claps her hands together, bringing me back to the ceremony. She’s interlocking her fingers now, finally wrapping up. Her dulcet voice is slowing down and she’s growing a toothy smile. ‘As soon as Gillian met Thomas, she knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. Many of you know Gillian as the hardworking, straight-talking criminal defence lawyer—’

Ah, of course. Lawyer. That’s how they can afford a wedding in Bondi. For a moment I envy Gillian’s success, but then I remember she’s marrying Thomas.

‘—but now you’ll get to see Gillian as a wife.’

Christ. I don’t know Gillian, but I’m embarrassed for her.

‘Stop that,’ Delia hisses, kicking my ankle. Her voice is sharp; her mouth is now just a thin line.

‘Ow,’ I whine, throwing her a glare. ‘Stop what?’

A couple of irritated guests glance our way. Delia’s focus returns to Thomas and Gillian. ‘Stop cringing,’ she mutters. ‘You’re jealous.’

‘I’m not jealous,’ I snap.

Delia locks eyes with me for a few moments, one eyebrow raised. ‘You’re not? Are you sure?’

I take a moment to think about what she’s suggesting. Am I jealous?

No, I’m not. I’m deciding right now that I’m not jealous of Gillian and Thomas and how they met over free lobster. Why would I be jealous? Because this couple met four months ago and are getting married, and I was with Joseph for two years and my wedding got cancelled?

I’m fine.

I’ve moved on.

I’m not jealous. Not at all. I refuse to be jealous.

I’m completely and utterly fine.