by Katie Fforde
‘I'm sure he is, but they'll show through your dress where it glides over your thighs. It'll spoil the line. I've got a thong if you don't want to go knickerless.’
Distracted from Elsa for a moment, Ashlyn's mother turned to her daughter. 'Darling, I really do think you'd better wear something. You can't go to church without pants on.'
‘Whatever,' said Ashlyn, 'as long as Elsa agrees to be my bridesmaid.’
Sarah, aware the room seemed very crowded all of a sudden, took charge once more. 'Elsa, you go to the bathroom and have a shower and a shave – sorry, that sounds a bit weird! Mrs Lennox-Featherstone, you go to your room and get dressed. Bron will want to do your hair soon. And Ashlyn, you sit still so Bron can finish yours and then she'll touch up your make-up.'
‘Let's open a bottle of champagne,' said Ashlyn when her mother had left the room and Elsa had been sent to the bathroom with a razor and an exfoliating scrub. 'I put a couple of bottles in the mini-bar fridge.’
Sarah really wanted to say no. She knew it was fatal for people to start losing control at this stage but she was weakened by events. She wouldn't have any herself but she really appreciated how welcome it would be to the others. 'OK then, if you must.'
‘Can you open it for us then, Sarah?' The bride fluttered her eyelashes just a little and Sarah sighed.
‘Get the glasses, Bron, there's a dear,' she said.
Everyone had a glass, and Sarah realised it had been a good idea after all. Just seeing the champagne pour creamily into the flutes had a calming effect.
Chapter Two
Elsa realised she shouldn't have washed her hair just after the shower hit the top of her head, but it felt so good, standing under the pounding water. The hotel had provided very pleasant-smelling and luxurious toiletries and Elsa thought she might as well make the most of them. She also deserved them. It was going to take far more effort to do this than anyone realised. Going home with soft and gently perfumed skin was, she felt, a justified perk. Besides, the shower in her converted loft and workroom wasn't that good. She stayed under the water for as long as she thought she'd get away with.
Eventually she went back into the bedroom feeling clean and shiny with armpits dewy, hairless and fit to be seen. 'I probably shouldn't have washed my hair,' she said apologetically.
Bron, who had been checking Ashlyn's hair, which was swept into a chignon that enhanced her blonde beauty, looked up briefly and said, 'It's OK,' before turning back to the delicate diamond tiara sitting on the top of the shining gold base, making sure that no pins were visible, and nothing less than a hurricane was likely to dislodge it.
‘Happy?' Bron asked the bride in the mirror.
‘Magic,' said Ashlyn, seeing herself as a proper bride for the first time. 'I look quite like Claudia Schiffer, don't 'Even more gorgeous,' said Sarah, laughing gently.
'Now, if you don't mind going somewhere and keeping very still, we'd better let Bron get on with Elsa.’
Elsa, seated in front of the mirror, draped in a gown, peeked at herself through her hair. She really hated having it done and recently had taken to cutting the ends off herself with her dressmaking scissors – but not too often in case it permanently blunted them. It wasn't so much that she minded the end result, she just hated spending all that much time looking at herself in the mirror.
Bron stood behind her, holding Elsa's hair and moving it this way and that. 'It's a lovely colour,' she said.
‘Thanks,' muttered Elsa.
‘And in great condition. I'm just thinking… We haven't got a lot of time to put it up, what do you think about a restyle?'
‘Won't that take longer than just putting it in a bun?' said Elsa. She'd already had enough excitement for one day.
Bron shook her head and shuddered at the same time. 'Definitely not. Up-dos take ages. A cut and a blow-dry will be much quicker and I think it'll look fab.'
‘What about the headdress?' said Ashlyn from her seat by the window, as she idly flicked through a magazine. 'She has to wear it.'
‘Not a problem. What do you think, Elsa?’
Elsa didn't want to think. 'I'll shut my eyes,' she said. 'You do what you think is best.'
‘Excellent,' said Bron softly, and picked up her comb.
Elsa sat at the dressing table, trying not to look at her reflection. She spent her working life coaxing beautiful fabrics into graceful shapes to make young women's bridal dreams come true but she really hated getting dressed up herself. Her wardrobe consisted of several pairs of black trousers and several black tops. She felt safest in black.
Bron's gentle fingers raised her head or moved it every now and then. She combed, she cut, and Elsa still didn't look. As with using the bath products, having a haircut would make the torture that was to come useful, if possibly unbearable.
Elsa had never liked being the centre of attention and would do anything to avoid it. It went back to her schooldays when she blushed terribly easy and everyone used to tease her. She still blushed – although not quite as much -but the habit of never doing anything that made people look at her stuck.
Bron chatted gently to Elsa as she worked, commenting on the wonderful condition of her hair. 'And as I said, it's a lovely colour.'
‘You don't think I should have some highlights in it or something?'
‘No, it's a lovely rich brown, and so shiny. Highlights would spoil it.'
‘Oh.' Elsa sat in silence for a while as Bron continued to comb and chop.
‘Right,' said Bron, 'now for the make-up. You can shut your eyes quite legitimately now.'
‘So did you train to do make-up as well as hairdressing?' Elsa asked, to make conversation as much as anything.
‘Not really. I worked as a hairdresser for a television company for about five minutes before I went freelance. One day the make-up artist didn't turn up so I did it. I'd seen it done lots of times and sort of picked it up. It makes you more employable if you can do both.'
‘So you're freelance, are you? I thought you worked in a salon.'
‘I do, nowadays. I'd like to go freelance again, but it's a money thing.' And a boyfriend thing, thought Bron, but she didn't share this with Elsa, who was technically now a client. 'Right, have a look,' she said a little while later.
'Oh my God! A fringe!'
‘I know I should have asked, but you might have said no.'
‘I hardly recognise myself! My eyes look huge! Is it the make-up?’
Bron shook her head. 'I haven't put much on, just a touch here and there.’
Elsa stared at the stranger who stared back. She looked younger and yet more sophisticated at the same time.
‘Wow!' said Sarah, looking up from her clipboard to inspect the new bridesmaid. 'That looks amazing. Look at your cheekbones.'
‘You do look lovely,' said Ashlyn. 'Just as well you're a brunette or I'd be jealous.'
‘It's amazing what the right haircut will do,' said Bron. 'Now, the headdress. Did you make these?'
‘A friend of mine did. I can make them but quite honestly I had so much to do with the dresses, I asked her to do them for me.'
‘How do you fix it? Oh, I see, little combs. I hope it'll stay on. Your hair is so shiny, I might need some clips.' She stood back. 'Oh! It looks adorable.’
Elsa hadn't been referred to as adorable since she was three, but she had to admit that she did look better. Her usual beauty routine of toothbrushing and moisturiser didn't involve looking in the mirror. Seeing her features emphasised with make-up was a shock. Her eyes really were quite large, with thick lashes; her skin glowed and her lips looked fuller. 'Wow, I look amazing – and only a little bit like a deer caught in the headlights. Thank you so much.’
Bron laughed. 'If you want to be a dear, put the dress on! It's getting late. I can see Sarah looking at her watch.’
Elsa hadn't been to many weddings and none as a main part. She had been thoroughly briefed by Sarah, Ashlyn and Ashlyn's mother, and they had all given her quite different
instructions. Now she sat in the back of one of the wedding cars, a vintage taxi, with the two little bridesmaids and one of their mothers. As she was wearing the big dress, she was sitting on the bench seat next to the smallest bridesmaid, while the other two sat opposite.
‘I love your dress,' said the mother, who Elsa thought was called Pam. 'Did you make it?'
‘Yes, I did all the dresses.’
Pam sighed. 'It's heaven.’
Elsa smiled, not sure if she should take the credit for her creation or be modest about her appearance. The dress was a picture. It was a slightly simplified version of the bride's, in the palest pistachio with very occasional cerise detailing.
The bodice was boned, a process which took hours of very precise cutting and seaming. It had been a real stroke of luck at the time that Fulvia, the errant bridesmaid, had shared Elsa's dimensions, because she was never available for fittings. Elsa had made a model of her own body, aided by a giggling friend and a bottle of wine, when she was a student, so she could fit the dress perfectly. On top of the boned bodice was embroidery enhanced by crystals. It would have been perfectly suitable as a wedding dress, she had thought, wondering at the extravagance and generosity of the bride's family.
‘It must have cost a fortune,' said Pam.
Elsa took a breath. 'It did, and not a small one, but it also took hours and hours of hand-stitching – almost as much as the bride's. Poppy and Amanda's dresses didn't take so long.' She smiled at the little girls who were now admiring their ballerina-length dresses with broad sashes. They had simple wreaths of fresh flowers on their heads, which (fortunately) had not been Elsa's responsibility. A lovely girl called Sukie wearing dungarees and a broad grin had delivered them at a ridiculous hour before she had dashed off to the church.
‘Looks like we're off at last,' said Pam. 'There's Ashlyn getting in the car with her father. He'll be able to keep her calm, I hope. Did you dress Vanessa, too?'
‘Mm. That was quite difficult.' It was a silk suit of the most heavenly fabric that Mrs Lennox-Featherstone had bought in Singapore and had been hell on earth to sew.
‘So they paid you thousands, as a family?’
Elsa took a breath. It was a lot of money, but if you counted up the hours of time and labour, and the fact that the money was spread over two years, it didn't make her a rich woman. 'Yup.'
‘So you don't mind being a bridesmaid then? At least you're getting to wear one of your creations.'
‘Mm,' said Elsa. 'I'm actually happier in my black trousers.'
‘Great hair, by the way.’
Elsa blushed.
*
Elsa had a long time to admire the back of Ashlyn's dress, which had been super-complicated to make. All those folds and gathers, beading and ribbons, had at first seemed a bit over the top to Elsa. But Ashlyn had insisted, and combined with a bit of tactful toning down on Elsa's part, the effect was gorgeous.
The whole wedding was gorgeous, she had to admit. Sarah had done wonders. There was even a local choir so that the hymns had harmonies, and the fact that most people didn't know them didn't show.
Yet she was still anxious. She didn't feel right wearing a client's dress, even if she had tried it on a couple of times.
But was it, she wondered, trying to distract herself from the minefield of the reception and the photographs that lay ahead, like staying in your own spare room? Magazines suggested that if you had a spare room you should sleep in it yourself to make sure it was comfortable. Maybe wearing one of her own creations would reveal any little flaws that might only come to light with wear. Call it research, she told herself, and shivered.
At last the ceremony was over. Widor's Toccata boomed out from the organ and eventually it was time for the bridesmaids to process out after the bride. Just concentrate on the little sweeties, Elsa silently ordered the congregation, don't look at me.
But fate wasn't listening. It was only Elsa who processed, the little ones had been caught up by their loving parents, abandoning Elsa to a walk of, if not shame, definitely embarrassment. She stiffened her back and tried to look natural. Why had she never realised how difficult these darn dresses were to walk in?
There had been no video in the church but now the still photographs were to be taken. Elsa wasn't sure what she should do. Would they really want her in the photos? Mrs Lennox-Featherstone had said she did, but surely you wouldn't want a virtual stranger appearing next to beloved little nieces and old family friends? Having her photograph taken was something else she hated, ever since she'd been caught with her mouth open, looking completely gormless, as a child. Her parents' gentle teasing about this photograph hadn't helped.
‘Er – chief bridesmaid – what's your name? I've got Fulvia down here, but somehow I don't think that's right.' Hugo the photographer smiled his lazy but scarily efficient smile in her direction.
‘I'm not really a bridesmaid,' began Elsa, 'I'm only-’
'Yes you are,' said Mrs Lennox-Featherstone. 'For all intents and purposes, you're the chief bridesmaid. Tell Hugo your name, dear.’
Elsa longed to rebel, to stalk off across the churchyard and not let herself be captured on film, all dressed up like a dog's dinner, feeling a complete idiot, but for one thing she didn't have the courage, and for a second, she didn't want to spoil anyone's day.
‘I'm Elsa,' she said to Hugo.
‘Well, I'm glad to find that out,' said a male voice from behind her. 'I'm Laurence, your partner in crime.’
Elsa shot round. She felt guilty enough already without people saying things like that to her.
‘The best man?' said a tall, faintly smiling man who wasn't exactly good-looking, but seemed well made and confident. He wasn't standing in for anyone else, obviously.
‘Oh, hi. I'm not really the bridesmaid,' she said for what felt like the hundredth time. 'I'm just wearing the dress.'
‘And a very lovely dress it is,' said Hugo. 'Now, if you'd just stop crushing yourself against that buttress so we can see you and it, I'd like one of the pair of you..
Elsa gave up. She'd told everyone she wasn't the real bridesmaid and they didn't seem to care, so she decided to just go along with what anyone wanted her to do, as long as it didn't involve dancing or kissing or arcane practices like that. She stood next to Ashlyn, as requested, and then took a paper cup of chilled orange juice that Sarah had arranged to be served.
‘This is all very civilised,' said Laurence. 'I was a best man last year and it was absolutely baking. We had to stand around for hours having our photographs taken and someone fainted from the heat.’
Sarah, who was nearby, a yellow Labrador at her heels, making sure that she'd ordered enough juice, heard this and said, 'It also makes people less likely to fall on the alcohol the moment they get to the reception if they're not dying of thirst. Oh, I'd better get out of the way.’
Hugo had made everyone laugh and had been very brisk and organised about getting the right people into groups. Even the dog had posed appropriately. Elsa was surprised. Hugo had such a laid-back appearance but behind the lazy smile was obviously someone who got things done.
‘That's a wrap for now,' said Hugo and everyone relaxed. Then he took another photograph.
Totter!' said Ashlyn. 'I had my mouth open!'
‘But your teeth are lovely. Now, on to the reception, everyone. I'm afraid I'll be asking for more posing there, but you love it, so that's all right.’
Elsa saw Ashlyn pouting prettily and wished she could pout. It was obviously something you were born either able to do or not, like curling your tongue.
‘Come with me,' said Laurence, taking her arm. 'I'll drive you to the reception.'
‘I'm sure you should be looking after someone else,' Elsa protested. 'After all, I'm here on false pretences.'
‘Not at all. You're my responsibility. Believe me, I know,' he went on, when Elsa still hesitated. 'I've been a best man lots of times.'
‘Oh? Why is that? Were you the most popular boy at sc
hool or something?'
‘Not at all. It's just that I don't drink and the brides always make their bridegrooms pick me even if they hardly know me. I'm guaranteed not to lose the ring, allow the groom to get too drunk the night before, or, worse, strip him naked and tie him to a lamppost.’
Elsa giggled. 'And presumably you're guaranteed not to goose the bridesmaids?’
'Actually, the brides don't usually care about that. It stops the groom doing it, after all.'
‘So you're saying I might not be safe in your car?'
‘You will be, absolutely safe. I'm known as Laurence the Dependable.'
‘Well, that's nice.'
‘No it's not, it's boring as hell, but it's what I seem to be stuck with. Shall we go?’
When Elsa saw Laurence's car she wondered if his title was really accurate. It was an ancient-looking Morgan and barely had room in it for Laurence, let alone Elsa and her dress.
‘I think I might have to take a taxi,' said Elsa.
‘Not at all. I'm an expert at squeezing meringues into my car.'
‘This is not a meringue!' Elsa was stung. 'It's a beautifully crafted, elegant creation and cost a fortune.'
‘So is my car. Trust me.’
By following his instructions, Elsa did find that she and the dress could both be squeezed into the Morgan quite neatly.
‘You are practised at this,' she said, making sure she hadn't trapped any of the precious material in the door. 'Oh yes. It's the only stipulation I made today. Sometimes the family wants me to drive their car so I can take a bevy of aunts.'
‘Is a bevy the proper collective noun for aunts?'
‘It was in one particular case. I had to drive them to the station afterwards – they were drunk as skunks. Not a happy experience. At least it wasn't my car.’
Elsa laughed. 'You should get paid. You could hire yourself out. Sarah – she's the wedding organiser – she'd get you work.’
Laurence gave her a look that told her this suggestion didn't find favour with him and started the car. 'I do have a life, you know.'
