I eat it, because I’m still hungry. I stab the pieces of fruit viciously with my fork, imagining each one is Brittany.
“When do you think they’ll cut the cake?” Bridesmaid Girl #1 asks #2, apparently no more impressed by the dessert offering than I am.
The cake! I can’t believe I forgot about the cake! That’ll make things better. You can’t make a cake without sugar.
Can you? Has she found a way?
No, even Brittany must have got a proper wedding cake.
Did she say something about cheesecake, or did I imagine it? You can’t really have a multi-tier cheesecake. Maybe it’ll be a whole load of mini cheesecakes on a cupcake stand. I may have to sneak a second one. And a third. Maybe a fourth.
“After the speeches, I guess,” Bridesmaid Girl #2 replies.
Oh, God, the speeches. I’d forgotten about them too. That’s what I get for blotting the wedding out of my mind for so long.
I think now might be a really good time to go and check my make-up. For half an hour or so.
I unwisely take another deep breath and suddenly I hear ‘rrriiippp’.
Oh God, I think my dress has given way.
I reach behind my back and try to investigate without anyone noticing. Yes, the straining zip has been wrenched away from the seam down the middle of my back. I can feel a draught and the crushing pressure has eased. It’s so nice.
I’ll have to fix it, though. I can’t go around for the rest of the day with my dress open at the back. Curse Brittany for not giving us shawls. Admittedly it is August and we’re in the middle of a heat wave, but even so. Did she never consider that this might happen?
No, because all her other bridesmaids are perfect so the only one this would happen to is me. And seeing me humiliated could only improve her day.
What on Earth am I going to fix it with? I haven’t got a safety pin. Hairpins? Ribbon? Can you stick a dress together with hairspray?
It’s still holding together at the top. I’ll just have to cover it up. There must be someone here I know who brought a shawl or a scarf or something I can put on.
I look around. I’m not seeing any. Where’s that person who’s always cold when you need them?
What, then? A napkin? A tablecloth? Am I going to run around for the rest of the day with a cape, being Super Mel?
Before I can make a plan, there’s the sound of fork on glass and Phillip is standing up. There’s no escape.
For fifteen minutes I’m forced to listen to a nauseating speech about how beautiful and wonderful and generally perfect my sister is and how fabulously lucky he is, etc. etc. etc. I’ve got to say, I have my suspicions that he didn’t write it himself. It just doesn’t sound like him, although admittedly I don’t know him that well. That and I swear I heard the exact same speech at my friend Janie’s wedding last year.
After he’s finished his obligatory compliments to the bridesmaids and read out a stack of boring cards from people who “couldn’t” make it, he finally sits down.
I would sigh in relief, but I’m rigid with tension because now my dad is going to speak.
I would kill to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Stuck down a mine, a few feet from an erupting volcano, in the middle of a lake of quicksand...
He heaves himself to his feet, stomach bouncing off the table and rippling like a mound of jelly.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, tugging at his waistcoat, “thank you all for coming. It’s a real joy to see so many people here to celebrate the marriage of my beautiful daughter. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
The inevitable applause and cheers.
“Brittany is, of course, my younger daughter,” he continues, and I flinch. I twist my hands under the table until my knuckles turn white. “I always thought that Melanie would go first and she had her opportunity a few years ago, but she let him go and now her sister’s beaten her to the altar.”
God, when will he get over that?
There’s a somewhat awkward silence, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Anyway, we’re very proud of Brittany. Not only is she beautiful, she’s a wonderful cook, a good cleaner and no one can get a stain out like she can. I’m sure she’ll make a terrific wife.”
He pauses to take a sip of his drink. I notice Brittany’s smile has become a tiny bit forced.
“And we couldn’t be more pleased that she’s managed to land Phillip. He’s the son-in-law any parent would wish for. A doctor, from a good family - what more could you ask? Well done, Brittany!”
More than a few exchanged glances between the guests.
“I’m not much for making speeches, so I’ll finish up.”
Hallelujah.
“Just a quick reminder that we’ve still got Melanie on our hands and we’re open to offers! Stand up, Melanie.”
I’m going to kill him.
Stiffly I get to my feet and smile weakly. I get a few sympathetic looks. Gorgeous Guy looks pityingly at me.
“Anyone interested, just let us know!”
He sits. I sit too, smile frozen in place. God, I knew it was going to be bad, but that surpassed even my expectations. At least Dad looks pleased with himself. No one else is. The applause is decidedly muted.
I sit and smile through the best man’s speech, which is dull by comparison. As far as I can tell, Phillip hasn’t done anything except train to be an ideal husband. So either he’s really, really dull or he’s a big fat liar.
Finally, it’s over. But I still can’t relax. What the hell am I going to do about this stupid dress?
The master of ceremonies gets to his feet and addresses the guests, “That’s the formal part of today finished! The band will be starting in twenty minutes, so everyone feel free to let your hair down.”
And then it hits me. Thank God I never got round to getting my hair cut. As the guests get up I take the whole lot down, pin back the sides and voila! The split is covered – my hands confirm it – and I still have room to breathe. I should have thought of this before. Of course the back of my neck is already sweating in the heat, but you can’t have everything. Wearing a shawl would probably be worse.
“Can everyone please gather round for the cutting of the cake,” says the master of ceremonies.
Finally, things are looking up.
I’m confused anew when I get a good look at the cake. It looks like your standard multi-tier wedding cake. It can’t be cheesecake then, I must have misheard. You couldn’t get cheesecake to do that. Not unless you made it with Polyfilla.
“Such a clever idea they had about the cake,” a middle-aged woman with a floppy hat whispers to her friend.
“Why? What did they do?”
“Well, it’s a cheese cake.”
“A cheesecake? How did they get it to stay up?”
“No, silly, it’s a cake made of cheese! Neither of them likes cake apparently, so they went for something a bit different. It’s just a stack of cheeses with a bit of icing over the top!”
This is a nightmare. Where’s my bloody cake?! I’ve had no proper dessert and even the favours were these stupid little candles instead of chocolates. It’s not fair!
I hate my sister. I hate her. This is just cruel. She knows I need sugar. It’s what runs through my veins. And ‘doesn’t like cake’, my ass. I am so showing everyone the picture of her covered in chocolate fudge cake. Admittedly she was only six at the time, but even so.
At least I get to watch Phillip shoving a lump of cheese into Brittany’s mouth. Ha, I bet she’s regretting her choice now.
“Ah, Melanie, there you are,” Great Aunt Marion says. Suddenly my aunts and great aunts are circling me like a witch’s coven. “We were just wondering what happened to that boyfriend of yours. We haven’t had a chance to inspect him yet.”
I’m tempted to lie, but I already told my dad and he’ll rat me out the first chance he gets.
“We split up, actually,” I admit, dredging up a smile. “We weren’t likely to stay together anyway
with him moving back home to Leeds in September. No harm done. Plenty more fish in the sea.”
Glances are exchanged all around the circle.
“You really need to start taking this more seriously, dear,” Great Aunt Clara says, tapping my arm with her fan. “You’re not getting any younger.”
I’m twenty-one!
“And Brittany’s married now,” adds Aunt Beatrice.
So my sister’s a freak! She only left school two months ago!
“And you’ve already dated so many men you’ll be getting a terrible reputation,” puts in Aunt Christine.
Four! I’ve dated four! And it’s not my fault they all turned out to be losers.
“She’s leaving home, you know,” Great Aunt Marion puts in. “Going to live with one of her university friends. In a flat. Miles away from her parents.”
There’s a chorus of tuts and a Mexican wave of shaken heads around the circle.
“In my day,” Great Aunt Caroline pronounces, “no respectable girl left home until she got married.”
But it’s not your day! You had your day, now it’s mine! There’s nothing wrong with a bloody flat share!
“Honestly, Melanie,” Aunt June says sorrowfully. “What are we going to do with you?”
How about bloody well leave me alone!
“Oh, I’m beyond help,” I say lightly, only it comes out almost as a sob. “Excuse me; I just have to go...”
I turn to escape – yet again – and charge right into a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. A wave of chilled champagne hits me with surprising force, once again soaking the dress that has only just dried from earlier, and drips down me like I have my own personal rain cloud.
That’s it. I’ve had enough.
Since then I’ve been hiding under a table. It’s working surprisingly well. The tablecloth is long and I picked the table nearest the toilets that no one wants to sit at. I have two bowls of sugar cubes nicked from the table and am quite happy.
Well, happy is a bit of a stretch. Let’s just say I may yet survive the day.
Suddenly my table cloth is lifted (that sounds like a euphemism, doesn’t it?) and a tall, dark figure crawls underneath. Will, who’s been my best friend all my life (almost literally, apparently I was three days old when we first met), gives me a wry grin.
“How did you know I was here?” I ask, grinning back.
“Some sixth sense,” Will replies, looking around my hiding place. “No one I asked had seen you for ages and your Great Aunt Marion filled me in about Darren running off and your shameful lack of interest in finding a husband etc., so I figured you had to be hiding somewhere. It’s been pretty bad, huh?”
“Horrific,” I reply. “You missed Dad’s speech. And Brittany served up fruit salad for dessert and a cake made of cheese.”
“Unforgiveable.”
“Exactly.”
Will sits down opposite me. “So what happened with Darren?”
I grimace. “You know how we set up his friend and my friend?”
“Yes.”
“Well now he’s gone off with my friend.”
“What a frelnik,” Will says, running a hand through his hair. “Why do you keep ending up with these losers? How about in future I vet all your boyfriends?”
I pull a face. “It’s not that bad. I’ve just had a run of bad luck, that’s all. Anyway, sod him. Compared to the rest of today, him walking out was nothing.”
Will rubs his neck, which is somewhat bent to fit under the table. “How long are you planning to stay under here?”
I shrug. “I’ll have to get out for the bouquet toss, or I’ll never hear the end of it. But as soon as we’ve waved Brittany off on her honeymoon I’m out of here.” I pause. “That is, if you’ll give me a lift, since I have no transport, no money and only a hazy idea of where we are.”
“Of course.”
“Sugar cube?” I offer, holding out the bowl. I’m sure I don’t need to explain that this is a very rare compliment.
“No thanks. I think you need them all.”
He knows me so well.
The band finishes a song and the master of ceremonies booms out, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Brittany Beresford will be throwing her bouquet in just a few moments and then she’s off to Mauritius! So can we have all the single ladies here on the dance floor, please?”
I briefly close my eyes and then straighten my shoulders. “Right,” I say, “that’s my cue. The final humiliation of today – I hope.”
“Nearly done,” Will says comfortingly. “Make it look good and they’ll be happy. Try and head-butt a bridesmaid or two.”
“With pleasure.”
Will and I crawl out as unobtrusively as possible. We get a couple of sideways glances. People probably imagine that we’ve been having some kind of romantic interlude under the table, but it’s not like that between Will and me. We don’t do the whole friends-with-benefits thing. Well, there are lots of benefits to being Will’s friend, just not that kind...you know what I mean.
I walk slowly to the dance floor and take my place in a gaggle of bouquet hunters. And my family think I’m one of them.
“Everybody ready?” Brittany trills, her back to the pack. “One, two, three!”
She throws the bouquet over her head. I make a full on leap, arms outstretched. I miss it, but that’s not a problem. What is a problem is that, with a loud tearing sound, the rest of the zip parts company with the seam and the top of my strapless dress collapses to my waist, displaying my rather shabby bra, a good chunk of my breasts and even a flash of nipple to the assembled guests.
My heart starts thumping. This can’t be real. I’m just having that nightmare again. Any minute now Brittany’s going to grow fangs and go Twilight on me. Wake up! Wake up!
I pinch myself hard. Nothing happens. I try again. Still nothing.
Oh God, it isn’t a dream.
My face burning, I retrieve the front of my dress, hold it to my chest and scuttle back over to Will. Every person in Satan’s marquee except him is laughing at me. This is the worst moment of my entire life.
“Car,” I say, determined not to give Brittany the satisfaction of crying in front of her. “Now.”
“Of course,” he replies, whipping off his jacket and draping it round my shoulders to hide the back of my dress. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a kilogram bar of Dairy Milk in the glove box.”
“I love you,” I say.
And we run away together.
THE END
Also by Jennifer Gilby Roberts
Parker Sisters series:
#1 The Dr Pepper Prophecies
#2 But I Said Forever
After Wimbledon (Also available as part of the Have Chick Lit, Will Travel box set.)
Early Daze
Cupid on the Loose! (Multi-author short story anthology)
Flights of Nancy (short story)
About the Author
Jennifer Gilby Roberts has a degree in physics and a postgraduate certificate in computing, so a career writing fiction was inevitable really. She was born and grew up in Surrey/Greater London, but now lives in North Yorkshire with her husband, small daughter, a middle-aged cat and a lot of dust bunnies.
She can also be found getting red-faced at zumba class, reading historical porn (as her husband calls it - Regency romance to the rest of us) and humming nursery rhymes while going round Tesco.
Connect with Jennifer at www.jennifergilbyroberts.com
Wedding Hells Page 2
