Always the Bridesmaid. Lindsey Kelk

I love all of it. And then there’s the actual wedding: you get a new frock, you get a free feed, you get to drink from the crack of dawn right through to the next day and not even your parents can complain about it. Weddings are the best.

      But after hearing Sarah and Lauren’s news on Thursday, for the first time ever I was beginning to feel the onset of matrimonial fatigue. All of a sudden, everything that had once made me clap with delight had me rolling my eyes instead. Oh, you’re pretending to run away from a dinosaur in your pictures? How original. Choreographed first dance to the song from Dirty Dancing? You guys! It was horrible. Even the thought of stealing macarons from the dessert table didn’t help. I was over macarons. And when a woman declares herself over macarons, you know something is wrong. By the time the speeches had begun, it would be all I could do not to launch myself at the bride and groom and start screaming, ‘This is a sham! True love is an illusion! We’re all going to die alone!’

      And for an assistant wedding planner, that was less than ideal.

      And so the undeniable hotness of the best man made for a very welcome distraction on an incredibly shitty day.

      ‘I’ve known Em and Ian for donkeys,’ Will went on. Addressing the room, making eye contact, not using notes. All very impressive. ‘And between you and me, I couldn’t have been happier when he told me they were getting married. In fact, when he told me he was going to ask her, I cried. And then, when he sent me a text to say she said yes, I cried again.’

      All the mums began to sniff and coo in unison, while all the single women pulled out lipsticks and powder compacts as they readied themselves to go to war.

      Will was doing a good job.

      ‘You see, it’s hard to meet someone these days.’ He gave a little shrug and looked over at the happy couple. ‘These two met at a wedding, if you can believe it − my little sister’s wedding, actually − and I know it’s a cliché, but I knew they were going the distance as soon as they started going out. Actually, let me clarify that first bit again. It’s not hard to meet someone. It’s hard to meet someone special.’ He cleared his throat and let his voice crack a little, and I may or may not have let out a little squeak.

      ‘When Ian started seeing Emma, he changed, and I don’t mean that in a bad way. Whenever we saw each other, he couldn’t stop saying her name. He brought her to the football and let her wear the scarf that his dad bought him when he was six, and then, when he changed his Facebook status and his profile photo, I knew it was only a matter of time.

      ‘I think, when you meet someone who you love so much that you’re happy to tell Mark Zuckerberg and the world that they’re yours, you ought to lock it down. There was never any doubt for him. As soon as they met, no one else even existed to Ian. That’s why I’m not going to stand here and make jokes about his suit and his haircut. Although I clearly could.’

      Cue genuine laughter. Cue me flushing from head to toe as Best Man Will picked up the Libbey Embassy champagne coupe that I’d had to order in especially because the bride wanted coupes and not flutes and raised it high in the air.

      He was staring right at me.

      Not at the little redheaded bridesmaid who was trying to squeeze her arms together to make her demure lilac gown show a bit more cleavage, or at the hot blonde guest who had been crossing and uncrossing her legs throughout the entire speech.

      He kept looking at me.

      Flushed in the face from running in and out of the kitchen, hair yanked back in a utilitarian ponytail, mascara all over my face after a champagne-opening incident that left me and three other people smelling like a piss-up in a very fancy brewery.

      And I had checked − my shirt wasn’t unbuttoned or anything.

      ‘So if you would all join me and raise your glasses. To the bride and groom.’

      As everyone shuffled out of their seats, the women struggling to stand in their too-high heels that would soon be kicked off and replaced with flip-flops, I blinked, breaking the connection. When I looked back, he was smiling at the bride and groom, the moment gone.

      Breathing more heavily than is healthy, I slipped back into the kitchen looking for a drink of my own.

      ‘Sorry to bother you, but have you got a light?’

      Hours later, when the buffet had been reduced to nothing more than a few stray cherry tomatoes and the odd splodge of tartar sauce, I was hiding at the back of the venue, holding a Marlboro Light, tearing up at the picture of Lauren’s engagement ring on Facebook and trying to work out how to ask Sarah if she was OK again without saying ‘Are you OK?’, because clearly she wasn’t. When I looked up, a man in a suit (strangely enough) was holding out a cigarette of his own. I blinked a couple of times, my eyes adjusting from the bright white light of the iPhone screen to the semi-darkness of my hidey-hole.

      ‘Oh, um, I haven’t actually got one,’ I said, squinting. It was one of the ushers. The one whose trousers were an inch too short. You tend to notice strange things when you work two weddings a week for three-quarters of the year. ‘Sorry.’

      ‘No worries,’ he said, putting the cigarette back in the pack of ten in his inside pocket. He was awfully tall; I supposed that explained the trousers. ‘I’m supposed to have quit anyway.’

      ‘Probably best then.’ I shuffled from foot to sensibly shod foot, flicking my unlit cigarette between my fingers and tucking my phone back into the waistband of my skirt.

      He nodded, pressed his lips together and stuck his hands in his pockets.

      ‘Did you lose your lighter?’ he asked.

      Oh good, awkward conversation. I loved those. Why couldn’t he leave me alone so I could bunk off and text my friend in peace?

      ‘Oh no,’ I replied, preparing myself. ‘I don’t smoke.’

      The very tall usher looked at me strangely.

      ‘You don’t smoke?’ he asked.

      ‘No.’

      ‘But you’re standing outside holding a cigarette?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He took in a short breath that sounded like he was going to say something, then shook his head and stopped himself. Then did it again and didn’t stop himself. More’s the pity.

      ‘I’m sure I’m going to regret it, but can I ask why you’re standing outside holding a cigarette without a lighter if you don’t smoke?’

      It was a fair question; I just didn’t want to answer it. I wanted to read some showbiz gossip on my phone, text Sarah, call Lauren and pretend I hadn’t just pissed away an entire Saturday at someone else’s special day. It didn’t matter if you were wearing Jimmy Choos or a pair of Clarks − if you were on your feet for nigh on twelve hours, you were in pain.

      ‘My boss smokes,’ I said, shaking a full box of Marlboros at him. ‘And she takes cigarette breaks all the time, so she can’t stop me from taking them. So, you know, as far as she’s concerned, I’ve got a very healthy two packs a day habit. Or unhealthy, as the case may be.’

      He looked at me. ‘You’re not serious?’

      I looked back at him.

      ‘Oh my God, you are.’

      ‘She thinks smoking is better than eating,’ I replied. ‘Fewer carbs.’

      ‘But smoking will kill you,’ he said, looking at his own pack with a regularly repeated lecture playing over in his head. ‘She does know that, doesn’t she?’

      ‘We get private health insurance,’ I said. ‘So it all works out.’

      ‘Fair enough.’ The usher put his cigarettes away and scrunched up his face for a moment, staring at me. ‘I hate weddings,’ he said.

      ‘Really?’ Who went around saying they hated weddings