Pride and Prejudice

“You cannot put Uncle Ravi beside the wine,” said Tessa.

“I was not putting him beside the wine,” said Jo. “I was putting him beside the window.”

“The window is beside the wine.”

They stood in the hall with the seating chart taped to the wall. The bride had sent it in a spreadsheet, which Tessa considered evidence that she had already given up on the human side of marriage. Jo moved a paper rectangle marked RAVI one place left.

“There. He’s beside Aunt Mo.”

“Aunt Mo will ask him why he never calls.”

“Then he should call.”

By noon, every guest had become a problem with a history: the cousin who would take offence at being near the children, the colleague who always found the person she was least meant to speak to, the neighbour who had once told the groom his new coat made him look financially adventurous.

Jo liked arranging people. From a few stories and old impressions, she could produce a table that seemed to explain everyone. Tessa distrusted this skill only when it was turned against her.

“Why is Mara at table four?” Tessa asked.

“Because she knows no one at table six.”

“She knows Daniel.”

“She said Daniel bored her.”

“She said his presentation bored her. That is different.”

The doorbell rang. The bride carried two bags of ice and a worried expression. “Small change,” she said. “Mara’s bringing her sister. And Daniel is coming with his partner.”

Tessa laughed so hard she sat on the stairs. Jo looked at the chart. Table four now had too many people. Table six had two empty places. Uncle Ravi remained beside the window, which was beside the wine.

“Should I be worried?” the bride asked.

“Only if you want everyone comfortable,” Tessa said.

Jo reached for the tape. “That was never the brief.”