In Pursuit of the Perfect Wedding
Emily adjusted the final lily in the arch, breathing in the sweet scent of the flowers she’d gathered until midnight. The marquee in the garden gleamed as white as a bride’s dress, and her arrangements—roses, peonies, eucalyptus—looked like a living painting. This was Sophie’s wedding, her childhood friend, and Emily had poured her heart into it as if it were her own.
«Emily, where are you?» Sophie’s voice, bright with nerves, cut through the morning quiet. «Mum’s on her way, and we’re still not ready!»
«I’m here, Soph,» Emily wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out of the marquee. «The arch is done, tables are nearly finished. Everything’s on track.»
Sophie, in joggers with her hair half-up, looked as though she hadn’t slept in a week.
«Are you sure about the blush peonies? Mum rang last night—said white flowers are tradition in our family.»
Emily’s fingers tightened around the shears in her pocket.
«We talked about this, Soph. The peonies were your idea. You wanted soft but not boring.»
«Yeah, but Mum…» Sophie hesitated, twisting her sleeve. «Fine, we’ll sort it later. Just don’t let her make a scene.»
A car door slammed. Out of a white Range Rover stepped Margaret, the bride’s mother, in an ivory trouser suit. Her sharp gaze swept the marquee, the tables, then landed on Emily.
«Are these the flowers?» Margaret arched a brow like a customs officer. «Emily, I thought you were a professional.»
«Good morning, Margaret,» Emily forced a smile. «These are the arrangements Sophie chose. We wanted—»
«Sophie had nothing to do with it,» Margaret cut in, striding toward the arch. «In our family, weddings have white roses and baby’s breath. Elegance. Tradition. This…» She waved at the peonies, «looks like a market stall.»
Sophie coughed but stayed silent, eyes glued to her phone.
«I can add white roses,» Emily said slowly, heat rising in her cheeks. «But the peonies are already bought, and they suit the—»
«Suit?» Margaret laughed like she’d heard a joke. «Darling, I’ve planned three nieces’ weddings. Trust me, I know what suits. Fix it by evening.»
Emily looked at Sophie, hoping for backup, but Sophie just shrugged.
«Mum, maybe leave it? The guests will love it anyway.»
«The guests?» Margaret turned on her. «This is a family wedding, not a blogger’s bash. Emily, start over. I’ll send white roses within the hour.»
She walked off, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and the sudden feeling that the marquee had shrunk.
By noon, Emily was drenched in sweat, dismantling her work. The new roses, delivered by courier, smelled sickly sweet, like artificial fragrance. She remembered childhood summers with Sophie, weaving dandelion crowns and dreaming of weddings. Sophie had sworn hers would be «like a fairy tale,» not a photocopy of her mum’s traditions.
«Em, you okay?» Sophie appeared with water, smiling sheepishly. «Mum’s overdoing it, but you know she means well.»
«Means well?» Emily set down her scissors. «Soph, I spent three weeks planning these flowers. You picked them. Now I’m just the help, redoing everything on her orders.»
«Not the help,» Sophie glanced away. «She’s paying, and well… James said white roses are classic too.»
«James?» Emily froze. «Your fiancé? Since when is he a florist?»
Sophie laughed, but it sounded strained.
«He just wants it perfect. Don’t be mad, Em. You’re my best friend.»
Emily swallowed the lump in her throat and turned back to the roses, which now felt foreign.
By evening, tension hung thick. Guests in gowns and suits filled the marquee, music poured from speakers, and Emily, in a simple black dress, checked the table arrangements. Her peonies, banished to the storeroom, lay there like discarded dreams.
«Emily, you pulled it off,» Margaret appeared, champagne flute in hand. «Though not without my help.»
«Thanks,» Emily gritted out, fists clenched.
«But this—» Margaret nodded at the centrepiece, drowning in baby’s breath, «is a disaster. Who blocks the view like this?»
«That was your design,» Emily said quietly.
«Nonsense.» Margaret waved her off. «Fix it before seating.»
Emily opened her mouth—then saw Sophie in her wedding dress, laughing with James. Tall, perfectly styled James, whispering in her ear. Emily’s chest tightened. She hadn’t seen him since he’d left her three years ago for «new horizons.» Now here he was, her best friend’s fiancé, without so much as a hello.
«Emily, did you hear me?» Margaret’s voice snapped her back. «The flowers. Now.»
«I’ll handle it,» Emily muttered, moving toward the table as the marquee walls seemed to close in.
During dinner, the strain grew. Sitting in the corner, Emily watched Margaret bossing waiters, straightening tablecloths, holding court. Sophie, radiant under the spotlight, felt miles away. James, though, was too close—his laughter grated like an old scar.
«And here’s our florist!» Margaret raised her glass, summoning the room’s attention. «Emily, tell everyone how we saved this wedding from your… experiments.»
Guests chuckled. Emily’s face burned.
«It was a team effort,» she said, voice trembling. «Sophie chose the vision. I brought it to life.»
«Sophie?» Margaret’s brows shot up. «Oh, Sophie’s a romantic, but weddings are serious. Without my roses, this would’ve been a circus.»
«Mum, stop,» Sophie flushed, barely audible. «Emily did an amazing job.»
«Amazing?» Margaret scoffed. «Is that why half the bouquets are wilting by dessert?»
Emily glanced at the tables. Her peonies, which she’d sneaked onto the side tables, still glowed fresh. Margaret’s roses, though, were shedding petals onto the linen.
«Your roses are wilting,» Emily said softly. «Maybe because they sat in a van for three hours without water?»
The room hushed. Margaret’s lips thinned.
«Don’t get clever. You should be grateful you were even invited.»
«Mum, enough,» Sophie finally spoke up, but James squeezed her shoulder.
«Sophie, it’s fine,» he said, smile icy. «Emily, don’t ruin the night. Mum just wants perfection.»
«James, seriously?» Emily snapped. «You didn’t even say hello, and now you’re lecturing me?»
«Em, not now,» Sophie pleaded. «This is my day.»
«Your day?» Something brittle inside Emily cracked. «I worked three weeks to make it perfect. And you let your mum and your… fiancé humiliate me!»
«Enough!» Margaret stood, voice ringing. «You’re out of line, Emily. This is my daughter’s wedding, not your show. If you’re unhappy, leave.»
Emily looked at Sophie, waiting for defence. Sophie just fiddled with her veil. James studied his shoes.
«You know what?» Emily stood slowly, untying her apron. «I’ll go. But first—»
She walked to the centrepiece, pushed Margaret’s arrangement aside, and replaced it with her peonies—vibrant, alive, smelling of defiance.
«This,» she said, sweeping a glance over the room, «is my work. And I’m proud of it.»
Gasps. Sophie covered her mouth. James coughed. Guests murmured; someone clapped.
«Are you done?» Margaret stepped forward. «Leave before I call security.»
«Don’t bother.» Emily dropped her florist badge on the table. «I’ll see myself out.»
She turned, feeling stares bore into her back. At the storeroom, she paused, looking at her peonies—never shown, already wilting, petals falling like dead hopes.
Outside, Emily climbed into her old van, still scented with blooms. The rearview mirror showed the marquee, laughter and toasts muffled by distance. She remembered James leaving her years ago, calling her «too ordinary.» Now Sophie, her Sophie, had chosen silence over her «perfect day.»
Her phone buzzed. A text from Sophie: «Em, I’m sorry. Talk tomorrow?»
Emily didn’t reply. She started the engine, night air rushing in cool and clean as her resolve. In the back, one forgotten peony lay slightly crushed but still beautiful.
The marquee shrank behind her, along with someone else’s wedding, traditions, expectations. She didn’t know what came next—but for the first time all night, she breathed free.