Anecdote

II: I'M WILD AGAIN, BEGUILED AGAIN

I'M WILD AGAIN, BEGUILED AGAIN (A SIMPERING, WHIMPERING CHILD AGAIN)

THE WHOLE PROBLEM arises through her own doing.

Bea isn't a huge fan of playing at weddings and never has been, really, something that can easily be chalked up to how damn boring she finds the things, but is probably more to do with the fact that her heart is cold and dead and chock-full of cynicism. But they tend to pay reasonably well, there's always a surplus of good food offered to her, and, quite honestly, anything is better than children's birthday parties, which really means there's more reason for her to do a wedding job than not.

So here she is, doing it, the job, glancing down at the names of the couple she'll be continually mentioning throughout the night and probably trying to look at without feeling the urge to gouge her own eyes out or throw up or both, when something strange happens, which is a flicker of recognition making itself known in her mind at the sight of the bride's name.

Bea purses her lips at the neatly printed names, eyes sitting on the one she apparently knows, which is Jenna Malone. Again, the prick of recognition returns with a vengeance, but she can't for the life of her think why it's there at all.

"Please God don't tell me I've slept with her," she mutters to herself, fiddling with the turntables in front of her. They're pretty much entirely for show, because a wedding isn't exactly somewhere people are interested in hearing her drop any sick Beats. She just slaps on the old classics that she knows they like hearing, intersperses it with an Ed Sheeran song or two, and there it is, an entire night's worth of work done with minimal effort on her part. Bea pushes thoughts of Jenna Malone and having potentially at some point slept with her (she really, really hopes that isn't the case) and lets her eyes glance over to the clock, which informs her that she has only a few minutes more until the party arrives. Moodily telling herself that she might as well enjoy the emptiness of a room that won't be in this state for at least another few hours, Bea lines up one of her own mixes and hits play.

It is very likely that if Jenna Malone had been someone that Bea had slept with, the entire "problem" wouldn't be that much of a problem; sure, Jenna would probably have choked on her own spit once her and Bea first made eye contact, Bea herself would have to cough a few times to cover any snickers that felt the urge to arise any time she had to congratulate the happy couple, and some parts of the night really would've been rather cripplingly awkward, but in general, something that Bea would be able to grow past as a human being.

Luckily -- or rather, unluckily -- Bea has never slept with Jenna Malone. She has, however, slept with Jenna Malone's best friend. Multiple times. Because they used to date.

"Well, fuck," Bea murmurs to herself after glancing at the switchtable to make sure her microphone is turned off. Brett Dallen is still tall, still graceful, and, from the sounds of it, still has a Scottish accent so thick it somehow toes the line between being attractive and a little hilarious. Bea isn't sure if there's a saying somewhere about the maid of honour being more beautiful than the bride, but if there wasn't before, she thinks there probably is now.

And that is where the problem arises.

✶

The difficulty in watching someone, Bea quickly discovers, is avoiding being seen yourself. Right now, she's reasonably sure Brett hasn't yet realised that it's her at the back of the hall throwing on the music, but there's a timer ticking down somewhere; it's only a few minutes before she's going to be obliged to say something vaguely congratulational in the direction of Jenna and her new husband, and it's been a while, but not long enough that Brett would completely forget the sound of her voice.