When my boyfriend proposed, I said yes – not because I was madly in love with him, but because it seemed like the correct thing to do. We’d been together for eight years and all of our friends were getting engaged; my life felt like a constant cycle of hen nights. I knew something was wrong but I suppressed it. Sometimes I’d get these flashes of anxiety. I’d worry about the fact that I no longer felt excited when my boyfriend walked into a room, or that we didn’t have sex any more – but I was 28, which at that point felt ancient to me, and I was frightened of being alone. I told myself I was experiencing nothing more than a classic case of pre-wedding jitters. I threw myself into buying the big white dress and designing the invitations. I planned to stash a bottle of gin in the church, so I could have a shot to calm my nerves before I walked down the aisle.
About three months before the wedding, I was home alone one evening and decided to watch Sleepless in Seattle. It was my father’s favourite film – he loved the classic jazz soundtrack and Nora Ephron’s dialogue. It had been on in the background a lot during my childhood and teenage years, so I was expecting it to be a comfort watch; something to almost lull me to sleep. I’d remembered the film as being about a man (Tom Hanks) and his cute son grieving the death of his wife. But that night I interpreted the film completely differently. I was sucked into the perspective of Meg Ryan’s character, Annie, who is engaged to a perfectly decent but slightly boring man – and deciding whether or not to call it off. I’d always seen Sleepless in Seattle as being about bereavement, but that night on my sofa, it felt like a film about one woman’s decision whether to get married, and play it safe, or give it all up and take a leap.
