Beauty and the Bridesmaid

Chapter Ten

Just like mojitos (or any cocktail really), drinking wine turns me into a table-top-dancing emotional wreck. I think the drunken me has seriously scared off any potential there might have been in Damien as a wedding date. Last night, after large quantities of not only the wine that Damien had brought, but just about anything I could find in Diane’s kitchen, I had experienced the alcohol yo-yo. After three glasses, I was acting like I was enjoying myself, screaming, ‘I love this song!’ whenever a pop song I vaguely recognised started to play. By four glasses, I was blubbering to Damien about how terrible everything is and how no one wants to marry me. When the fifth glass had passed my lips, I was back in extreme party mode. I’m pretty sure most of the guests saw my knickers at some point, even with my sensible outfit on.

Blinking at the time display on my phone’s screen, I groan at the realisation that I have work in less than an hour. I also have two unread text messages from Damien, which is weird as I don’t even remember swapping numbers with him.

The first one is from last night and asks if I got home okay. Come to think of it, I don’t actually know how I got home. The second is a message from this morning asking if we can meet later. Well, I can’t have embarrassed myself too much then, can I?

I spend my time at work trying to piece together what exactly did happen after that fifth glass of wine. In between tidying up strewn pencils, sweeping up sand, and reading stories about teddy bears, I come to the conclusion that I must have had more than six drinks, also known as the memory-erasing stage of any alcohol-related event.

Of course, I’m too embarrassed to just ask Damien about what I did last night. Hearing about things my drunken persona decided to do makes me cringe. So, when I’m on my way to meet him at a local pub after work, I try my hardest to convince myself that I can remember everything and that nothing I did was really that note-worthy. If I don’t draw attention to it, maybe he won’t either.

It’s raining when I leave work. Only light droplets slap against the pavement as I hurry to the end of the street, but the hood I make by covering my head with my handbag still leaves me looking soggy.

Damien is waiting for me, looking dry and sexy compared to my water-logged state. Somehow, it’s very difficult to appear cool and nonchalant when your hair is clinging to your face and your shoes are literally squelching.

 “How are you feeling?” he asks without comment about my rain-soaked appearance.

I notice that there are two glasses of orange juice on the table in front of him and politely sip mine before I try to tell him that I’m feeling just fine.

His brow draws downwards slightly in concern. “Have you spoken to anyone since last night?”

“Why? Should I have?”

“I think you should talk to Ash.”

I stare at him blankly for a second. “What did I do? Did I say something to him? Or was it Lela?”

“Oh,” Damien says, a flirty sort of glint in his eyes, “you don’t remember.”

“I do remember…some of it.”

He smiles widely as though he finds this situation amusing. “Don’t worry, you didn’t say anything to anyone other than me. At least not before you left.” He drags a hand through his soft, dark curls. “Have you checked your phone?”

I scramble for it in my handbag before realising that it’s in my jacket pocket. It wasn’t unusual for the drunk me to send texts or prank call ex-boyfriends without thinking it through.

Damien leans across the table to see as I scroll through my recent calls and texts, but there’s nothing embarrassing there, aside from the high frequency of calls to local takeaways (well I don’t always feel like cooking if Anna’s out and I’m making something just for me).