Simi, heart tight with rage, watches Katania raise her coffee cup to her lips.

This woman. She shakes me up like popcorn. Sitting so special on her little mind throne.

Simi tears her eyes away and breathes in slowly. Fresh, sun-brushed air threads through her, cooling her. Shoulders back she fills her lungs again, letting the green soothe into her. Then she picks up her cup, and takes another sip, her eyes reaching over the rim and into the distance. She holds them there, firmly, trying to ignore Katania, but the new sugar in her tone draws her back.

“Such a tricky situation. Perhaps I sound a little harsh but Jen will come round. You’ll see. And, by the way, I am sorry Mick’s not here. I love him dearly, but with this new priest, I think it might be for the best. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I can’t sit around here all day waiting for Jen.”

Simi flicks her eyes back across the table and sees Katania getting to her feet. As she steps away, a voice trills over the grass.

“Simi … woo hoo … Simi!”

Simi turns with her cup still poised, to search out the voice. There, at the top of the steps to the golf course is Marybelle, in a big, floppy-brimmed staw hat. She is on her tiptoes and waving one arm in a wide, generous arc, back and forth across the sunshine.

“Good morning Simi – I hope you slept well!” she calls. “See you at the rehearsal … I’m off to do some yoga with our yoga guru. Catch you later!”

Like a sunflower thinks Simi, returning the wave, as Marybelle, one hand holding her hat in place and the other blowing kisses, descends the steps behind a bare-chested young man with long hair.

Katania’s voice chips over Simi’s shoulder. “No idea why those English like long hair. That’s the best man’s brother. Trust Marybelle to be hooked by every passing yoga guru … oh, hi Jen darling, hello Hansie.”

Simi swings around to see the couple pull up some chairs, while Katania takes back her old seat at the head of the table. Simi smiles but is barely noticed.

Right. This is probably my chance to get away.

“Jen says Mick can’t make it, is that right?”

“Don’t worry Hansie. I’ve found a solution. There’s a priest from London here, who seems perfect. He’ll be up soon to meet everyone.”

“Jen said.” Hansie nods, but his body does not relax.

As the silence tightens, Simi scans the golf course in the vague hope that Marybelle might suddenly abandon her yoga teacher. But there is no sign of her, so Simi finishes her coffee and stands up. She is about to explain that she is off to get her sunglasses, when she realises that she has become invisible in the standoff. Katania does not look at her, and Jen and Hansie, fingers entwined beneath the table, are too busy searching each other’s eyes for alternatives, to see her. Simi slips away quietly.

Good luck to them. Tied together, happy as a pair of laces.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Does not belong here? She seeing something I’m not seeing?

“Are you serious? Jen looks so happy to me.”

Katania, a pitying smile on her lips, leans back, stroking again the flat sheen of her hair. The silent caressing and the clinking of the gold bangles, irritate Simi. She is pondering her own hair options for the wedding when the coffees arrive. She tips in two sugars and stirs, then raises the cup. She holds it lightly between her fingertips, both elbows on the table.

Those nails, Simidele. Loving the colour. Bold is good. Need it to survive all this green … and white.

“Well,” Katania sighs, giving her hair a final pat, “Jen’ll be stuck here for a while at least. I made the same mistake I suppose. She’ll come to her senses. Now just have to calm her down about this priest.”

Simi blows across the surface of her coffee, her mind switching from her nails to the priest, and wondering how Katania has the right to pick him from the tea factory in the first place. She says nothing for a while, but then she decides to put her query out there. She begins, cautiously.

“Choosing the celebrant … it’s not really …” she puffs another breath across the hot liquid, “your problem?” The coffee ripples slightly. She lowers her cup back to its saucer and looks directly at Katania. “Surely the choice is up to Jen and Hansie?”

“Oh please! What do they know? They’ve never been married before. I’ve had two weddings and I know what matters. The photographs. The looking fantastic. The videos. It’s so important to do this stuff better than everyone else. You want people to talk about your wedding. The beautiful show. Have you ever been married?”

“No,” says Simi.

Never. Came close once. Think I’ll keep that to myself.

“No wonder you’ve no idea what I’m talking about. A wedding is a special part of any woman’s portfolio. It matters.” Katania, impatience jingling, picks up her teaspoon from her saucer.

Simi tries to look away, but her gaze is hooked by Katania’s sharp scooping of froth, and by the parade of little cream pouches towards her scarlet lips. Three abrupt mouthfuls later she is done. She returns the teaspoon to its saucer, and dabs at her mouth with a napkin, her eyes catching Simi’s.

“You’re not the only one who won’t see it like me. These farmers – no disrespect, I love them all – but all they do is crops, rain, cattle. They have no idea of what life is really about.” She leans towards Simi, and drops her voice. “Jen’s a bit mixed up in it, but it’s just a phase she’ll grow out of. Hansie is not her forever-man. There’ll be others, but the right sort of people want to know what they’re getting. Believe me, it’s a tough, glittery world out there if you want to be where the money is.”

You telling me about that?

Anger, a new anger, begins to drum through Simi.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023