The Long Walk

The dress fitting is Thursday, and I've already had it altered twice — I'm not doing a third round because your mum's list keeps growing. Tell me honestly: is the table number fixed at eight, or do I need to buy a bigger dress?

Don't dodge it with chips — what do you actually want from this wedding, not what gets your mum off the phone at eight? Because I've given you my number and I still don't know if you've got one of your own.

I'm scared of being the only one who's actually thought about any of this. Not the money — the part where I'm the one making the lists and you're the one being surprised by them on the day.

You're right, and it stings — I've been holding the lists because it's faster, which means I've been voting on your behalf. Take the eight o'clock and the guest numbers: your call, your mess, and I'll stay out of it.

Not one word at eight — but if she cries, ring me straight after and I'll be the villain in the retelling. The ninth guest still goes; that's my number, not a rescue — four hundred and six means ninety a head, and ninety a head doesn't stretch to her.