A Scandal at the Wedding
Oliver and I walked out of that wedding before it even ended—no goodbyes, no fuss—and I’m still fuming. What was supposed to be a celebration turned into a circus, courtesy of the newlyweds, Emily and James, who clearly missed the memo on basic manners. Honestly, *they* should be the ones apologising to *us* after that spectacle. We dressed up, spent good money on a gift, and carved out time for this nonsense, only to be treated like unwelcome guests. No, thank you. They can keep their excuses—I’m not pretending any of this was fine.
Oliver and I have been friends with James’s parents for years, so when the invitation landed, we were chuffed. I adore weddings—the dancing, the speeches, the fancy frocks—it’s all a bit of fun. We put in the effort: I bought a new dress, Oliver picked out a posh bouquet, and we gifted them an envelope with a tidy sum inside (not exactly spare change, mind you). We imagined a lovely evening of toasts and twirls. But Emily and James? They flipped the script entirely.
At first, things seemed grand. The venue was swanky, the tables groaned under mountains of food, and the host had everyone in stitches. Oliver and I were seated with other mates, laughing over champagne and swapping stories. But after a couple of hours, I noticed Emily acting odd—giggling with her bridesmaids, casting sideways glances our way. I brushed it off, thinking maybe her corset was too tight or the nerves had kicked in. Then came the first grenade.
Emily flounced over to our table, lips pursed, and said—with all the subtlety of a foghorn—”Megan, Oliver, d’you mind keeping it down? Some guests are *complaining* about your laughter.” I nearly choked. *Too loud?* We were bantering, same as everyone else! Oliver, ever the peacemaker, murmured, “Sorry, Em, didn’t mean to ruffle feathers.” She huffed off, leaving my cheeks burning. Since when do brides shush their own guests? Oliver shrugged. “Probably just wedding jitters,” he offered.
Oh, but it got better. An hour later, James sidled up, face like a slapped haddock. “Lads, maybe ease up on the drinks? Mum’s worried you’ll kick off later.” *Kick off?* I nearly spat out my prosecco. We’d had two glasses—hardly a pub crawl! “Are we at a *school fête*, James?” I shot back. He mumbled something daft and scarpered. By then, it was clear: this wasn’t nerves. They had it in for us—but *why*?
I hissed to Oliver, “They’re treating us like rowdy teenagers!” He patted my arm. “Let’s not ruin their day, Meg.” But his smile was strained. Then came the knockout blow: Emily stage-whispered to her bridesmaids, loud enough for half the room to hear, “Some people think a wedding’s their personal *West End show*.” That was *it*. I grabbed Oliver’s arm. “We’re leaving. I won’t sit here being their punchline.” He nodded, though guilt flickered in his eyes. We slipped out without a word.
In the car, I unleashed: “Oliver, what the *hell*? Invite us just to humiliate us?” He sighed. “Maybe someone wound them up. We’ll sort it later.” *Later?* No. This was *their* disaster, *their* rudeness. The next day, my mate Lucy was gobsmacked. “They *sacked* you for *enjoying* yourselves? Emily and James ought to be mortified!” She urged me to text them, but I’m not budging. Let *them* crawl back with apologies. We came with goodwill; they repaid it with snide remarks. Maybe we were too lively for their ‘perfect’ day. Or maybe someone poisoned them against us. Either way—no excuse.
Now I’m torn. Part of me wants to ring James’s parents and spill the tea. But Oliver’s right—that’s petrol on the fire. He says to let it go, but I’m not swallowing this quietly. We did *nothing* wrong. If they wanted mannequins at their wedding, they should’ve hired some. Until they own up, Emily and James can enjoy their *flawless* marriage—without us.