Short Story | A Minor Setback
Below is the story I submitted for the first round of the 2024 NYC Midnight Short Story Competition.
It was awarded fourth place in my group of 30 writers, sending me through to the quarter-finals.
Based on the brief I was set, this story had to be a comedy, it had to include a character who was an ex-smoker, and it had to be about a “bromance.”
I hope you enjoy reading!
The wedding is on a farm. Not a trendy converted barn. An actual farm.
Getting out the taxi, I’m hit with a foul whiff of horse manure and have to hold my breath. I reach into my suit jacket pocket.
‘Shit,’ I mutter, realising it’s empty.
‘Oh my god, I know,’ says Matilda. ‘It stinks.’
‘Shit!’ All my other pockets are empty too. ‘I’ve run out of nicotine gum. I need to go back.’
‘Absolutely not. We’re already late. Why do you need that gum now anyway? You quit four months ago.’
‘Easy for you to say. You’ve got friends here. I don’t know anyone, remember?’
‘You know me, silly. I’ll keep you company.’
In the field is a white marquee the size of a small primary school. As we approach the entrance, Matilda holds my hand, as if she can hear me thinking how badly I want to leave.
Inside, it smells of cheap shisha. In the middle of the marquee is a bar area, full of people, on the left is a room set up with dining tables, and on the right a room lined with chairs for the ceremony.
It’s decorated like a circus had a baby with a music festival. Catering staff are walking around on stilts with trays of canapes, there’s a self-service candy floss machine, and hay bales serving as benches.
‘Why didn’t you warn me this was the hippie wedding from hell?’ I whisper.
‘I didn’t know it would be this bad. Anyway, what would you have done if you’d known?’
‘Brought some extra nicotine gum, for starters.’
‘Stop being dramatic. It’ll be fun.’
Although I’m wearing the most generic navy suit imaginable, I stick out like a sore thumb. Most guys are wearing casual shirts without jackets, some with suspenders and bow ties, and skin-tight ankle-hugging trousers. A few are even wearing sandals.
‘Oh my god, Tilly!’ a girl screeches.
We’re swarmed by two girls who look exactly like Matilda: blonde, short, fake-tanned. I never realised quite how much fake tan she wears until now, standing beside these clones.
Matilda shrieks back at them. She lets go of my hand, and the three of them group-hug. One’s in an orange dress, the other in yellow. With Matilda’s red dress, four more and they’d make a rainbow.
I’m introduced to them, Jodie and Josephine, but all I get is a quick hello, and they immediately start reminiscing with Matilda about uni.
A waiter brings over a tray of cloudy green drinks, so I take two. I’m half-expecting it to be laced with hallucinogens, and that wouldn’t be a total disaster right now. I down the first one, discovering it’s some sort of cucumber-flavoured champagne with an egg white in. I hand the empty glass back to him and keep the second one to sip.
‘We’re going to the loo,’ says Matilda. ‘Back in a tick!’
It’ll be at least ten minutes before she’s back. Usually, I’d be outside smoking by now. I check my pockets again for gum, even though I know they’re empty.
The only other person in the crowd who doesn’t seem to know anyone here is a tall bald guy, leaning against the bar. He’s holding a woman’s white fur coat, drinking a pint with his spare hand, which is covered in tattoos. He’s wearing a grey suit, similar to mine, but no tie. His open collar shows off more tattoos around his chest and neck.
We catch eye contact. He shakes his head, laughs, and rolls his eyes. I’m not great at picking up social queues, but I’m certain that meant, ‘What the hell are we doing here?’
The ceremony is a whirlwind of bizarre song choices and awkward readings. The groom, a lanky goof with a man-bun and scruffy beard, cries more than anyone else.
‘So, he doesn’t come from a circus background?’ I ask Matilda as we find our table for dinner.
‘No. His dad’s an investment banker. They live in Kensington.’
‘Why on earth did Lydia agree to this theme then?’
‘Well, his family paid for it all. Lydia didn’t have much choice.’
Jodie and Josephine sit next to Matilda. Neither of them has brought a date, so once again I’m invisible. It doesn’t bother me now, though, because all I’m thinking about is eating, desperate for some traditional lamb or beef with potatoes.
I’m pleasantly surprised when the tattooed guy sits next to me. His wife, now wearing her fur coat, is stunning, with long, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and immaculate make-up.
‘Alright,’ he says to the table in a thick Yorkshire accent, but everyone ignores him.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘What you still doing with that thing on?’ He shows me his blue tie, stuffed into his pocket.
‘Oh, yeah. Good shout.’
I take my tie off, and yet I’m still over-dressed.
The food finally arrives, but it isn’t food at all. The starter is a wheatgrass shot with sticks of celery. Matilda and her friends inexplicably act like this is normal.
‘You told me the food sounded nice,’ I say.
‘It is nice,’ snaps Matilda. ‘Stop complaining.’
I overhear the tattooed guy asking his wife, ‘What’s this rabbit food bollocks?’
She shushes him, but I can’t help laugh.
The main course is this pitiful little beetroot thing, attempting to pass for modern art. My urge to smoke intensifies with each vegan monstrosity they put in front of me. The tattooed guy and I both stare at our plates like we’ve been asked to dissect an alien.
‘I can’t eat this shite,’ he says.
‘Me neither,’ I agree. ‘I wish I was home watching the rugby with a bucket of KFC.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ he says.
We clink our glasses and drink. I notice he’s drinking at least half his pint in one go so I try my best to keep up. The beer gets stuck in my throat, making me cough. He chuckles, patting me on the back.
‘Steady, you two,’ his wife commands.
‘Dave,’ he says, holding out a brick of a hand.
‘Rory,’ I say, shaking it.
We spend the next ten minutes debating whether rugby league or rugby union is the better sport, and he’s impressed with my knowledge.
After a nonsensical speech from the best man, three fire breathers begin a performance. As I watch them spit out their flames towards the marquee’s high ceiling, my knee is bouncing like mad. I can almost taste that first sweet drag of a cigarette.
With a still-empty stomach, I’m hanging on by a thread. I tell Matilda I’m going to the toilet and head straight to the bar for a pint instead. A minute later, Dave follows me over and orders a Stella.
‘Thought I might find you here,’ he says.
‘It’s a nightmare in there.’
‘Fancy taking these pints outside then?’
‘Lead the way.’
The fresh air is a welcome ally. The sun’s setting over the fields, the west side of the sky has a nice yellow hue, and in the east it’s tinted purple.
There’s an outdoor seating area round the side of the marquee with some tables and heating lamps.
‘Fag?’
Dave holds a full packet of Chesterfields out to me. The end of a cigarette pokes out, practically begging me to smoke it.
‘No, thanks. I’m trying to quit. Sorry, I mean I have quit.’
‘Ah, rubbish. One won’t hurt.’
The metallic taste of blood registers in my mouth. I realise I’m chewing the skin on the side of my thumb nail.
‘No, really.’ I need to give him a bit more, so I go with the easiest option. ‘Uh, my girlfriend would kill me.’
‘Oh, give over!’
He lights his cigarette and takes a greedy drag, letting his eyes roll back into his head.
‘I quit once,’ he adds. ‘Lasted about four days. Patches or gum?’
‘Gum. But I’ve run out.’
‘Gutted.’ He takes another deep drag and exhales with unparalleled satisfaction.
Matilda emerges from the marquee. She doesn’t spot us at first, so I turn one of the heaters on to light up the smok– the seating area.
‘There you are! You missed dessert.’
Dave and I exchange a glance.
‘Oh, no…’
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Chatting to Dave.’
‘Alright, love,’ he says.
‘Are you smoking?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘He isn’t,’ says Dave. ‘I offered, but he declined. And I’ll tell you what, you’re a lucky girl. This here’s a good man.’
‘That’s sweet,’ she says. ‘I’m glad you’ve made a friend.’
‘It was either that or kill myself.’
‘Well, anyway, they’re about to cut the cake. Come on.’
She clutches my arm and starts to pull.
‘Actually, Rory was just talking me through sommat. Guy stuff, y’know. Could you give us five?’
‘Oh.’ Matilda’s cheeks flush red. ‘Of course. I’ll see you boys in there.’
She disappears back inside, and Dave lights another cigarette.
‘That’ll buy us some time,’ he says.
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘Sure you won’t have one?’
He holds the pack out again. This time, my hand starts to climb towards it. But I refuse to let myself give in.
‘No, I can’t. To be honest, as much as Matilda would mind, I’d hate myself so much more.’
‘Really?’
Maybe it’s because I’ve only just met Dave. Maybe it’s because I’ve had nine pints, four glasses of that weird cucumber concoction, and nothing to eat all day except a croissant. Maybe it’s all the above. For whatever reason, I feel comfortable opening up to him.
‘My dad was an alcoholic. He used to get violent with my mum sometimes, before she kicked him out. After that, she drilled it into me that addiction is the most pathetic weakness there is. I know that’s probably not true, but I still feel like if I don’t have the strength to quit smoking, I’m just as bad as him. If I can’t, I’m weaker than the addiction, and I feel like that makes me pretty worthless.’
Dave puts a thick, heavy arm around me. It’s like being hugged by a tractor.
‘Give yourself a break. You’re not your old man. And smoking ain’t nothing like being a drunk. Trust me, I’ve been one.’
‘I dunno, mate. I’m a fairly bright guy. Quitting should be straightforward, but it’s so hard. I’m ashamed I can’t just do it.’
‘Listen.’ He spills a bit of Stella on our shoes. ‘I used to be an alcy. Cost me my first wife, that did. But I got it under control eventually. And you know what helped me do it?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Me best pal helped me see that quitting’s never straightforward. It’s full of ups and downs. But one moment of weakness don’t have to send you back to the beginning. You have one fag tonight, or tomorrow, that don’t wash away all your progress. It’s just a minor setback. It don’t mean you should start beating yourself up.’
Somehow, this puts me at ease, like someone’s been sitting on my chest and they’ve finally got up.
‘I appreciate that.’
‘No bother.’
I run back inside and get us another drink. When I come back out, he’s already smoking another cigarette.
‘Oh, thank god!’ Lydia, the bride, has followed me out, holding her wedding dress up so it doesn’t brush against the grass. ‘I thought that’s why you’d be sneaking out here.’
‘Oh, no,’ I say. ‘I quit.’
‘Good for you, honey,’ she says. ‘Dave, can I pinch one please?’
‘Course, love.’
‘I didn’t know you smoked, Lydia.’
‘I don’t anymore. But my mother in-law’s driving me insane. First, she insists on this dreadful theme, now she’s trying to plan when I’m having our first kid. I need a bloody fag.’
Dave gives Lydia a cigarette. He holds the packet out to me again, but jerks his hand back.
‘Sorry, lad,’ he says. ‘Force of habit.’
‘Have one, Rory,’ says Lydia. ‘I won’t tell Tilly.’
She holds her cigarette up to my face, the smoke swirling around in the orange-tinted twilight, almost hypnotising me.
‘I can’t. Maybe I should head home. I’m actually not feeling too well.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Dave. ‘You’re fine.’
‘Rory!’ Matilda calls. ‘What are you still doing out here?’
‘That’s my fault,’ says Dave.
‘Lydds, you’re smoking?’ Matilda sounds more amused than surprised.
‘Guilty!’ says Lydia.
‘Want one?’ Dave offers the packet to Matilda.
She purses her lips, considering it for a second.
‘Oh, what the hell. Why not.’
My mouth drops open in disbelief.
‘You’re such a bad influence,’ Matilda says to Lydia, lighting up and taking a drag.
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘You’re smoking?’
‘I always end up having one when I see these girls. We used to smoke like chimneys at uni.’
‘And what about all the stick you’ve been giving me about quitting?’
‘Whatever,’ says Matilda. ‘Have one if you want. It’s not the end of the world.’
I want to storm off, but there’s no way out of here without a taxi, and I’d rather go sit in the horse shit in the field than go back into that marquee. I take a deep breath and exhale nothing but pure frustration.
Dave’s point about progress is ping-ponging around in my head. All three of them stare at me. The smoke is intoxicating. As badly as I want to be strong, this ridiculous wedding has driven me to breaking point.
And maybe just having one isn’t as big a deal as I thought.
‘You know what, I will have one. Thanks.’
Dave folds his bottom lip. There’s either pity in his eyes, or the booze is really starting to hit him.
‘No,' he says. ‘Sorry, lad. You’ve been so good all night. I won’t let you spoil it now.’
‘You’re kidding?’ I say.
‘I’m not.’ He flicks his cigarette into the field. ‘And trust me, you’ll thank me one day.’
‘Can I have another, please?’ asks Lydia.
‘Nope,’ says Dave. ‘It’s not fair on Rory.’
He empties the pack into his hand, snaps all the remaining cigarettes in half, and drops them in the mud.
‘Wow,’ says Matilda. ‘You two have really bonded.’
‘Fine,’ Lydia whines. ‘I’m going back in.’
‘Yeah,’ Matilda agrees. ‘Let’s leave these two besties alone.’
The girls head back inside, and Dave’s wife passes them on her way out. She steams towards us like a train.
‘David! How many have you had?’
‘Just the one, love,’ he says, recoiling. ‘Honest.’
‘Liar!’
‘No, really,’ I say. ‘It’s true. He’s just been talking me through something.’
Dave and I exchange another look.
‘Guy stuff, y’know?’ I add.
She doesn’t seem to fully believe me, but it does the trick.
‘Well, come back in soon,’ she says, walking off. ‘I’m bored.’
‘Will do,’ he says.
When the coast is clear, he lets out a sigh of relief.
‘Cheers for that, lad. You saved me neck.’
‘No worries,’ I say, patting him on the arm. ‘Now go get me another pint.’
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