“Make you tea?” I moaned.
“It’s my perfect day,” she reminded me.
When I returned with Becky’s Earl Grey and a bottle of champagne, I found her with her mother. They were going through Becky’s wedding folder like a pair of generals preparing to take a small country. Or a large country, for that matter.
“The little bridesmaids will be here at nine. The hairdresser arrives at nine thirty,” said Becky’s mum. “And the cake is in place?” she said to me, looking over the top of her glasses.
“Of course it is,” I said. “I delivered it to the hotel kitchen last night.”
“Good. Ashleigh, I’m so glad you came to your senses and agreed to be here today. You know that if you hadn’t come, you would have regretted it for the rest of your life, don’t you?”
I nodded and helped myself to another glass of champagne. Becky’s mother pulled a mildly disapproving face but quickly reset to “smile” when she realized that I had noticed.
“Just so long as you don’t step on my train on the way down the aisle!” Becky said.
The morning passed in a flurry of hairdressing and makeup appointments. It was largely without event, except that one of the younger bridesmaids ate too many of the fairy cakes Becky’s mother had provided for elevenses and was sick down the front of her dress. Fortunately, the worst of the damage sponged off easily. Then it was time to get Becky into her dress: a proper fairy-tale number with lacing all the way up the back. I was surprised she could breathe by the time all the lacing was done, but she could still breathe and give instructions.
“Before I forget,” she said to me, “I need you to give this CD to the DJ for our first dance.”
The first dance had been such a big secret, but when I saw the CD, I wasn’t in the least bit surprised. If I’d gone into Ladbrokes and asked for odds on this particular song not being the first dance, I would have gotten an incredible deal.
James Blunt.
“It’s track—”
“Number five,” I said. “ ‘You’re Beautiful.’ ”
“How did you guess?” Becky asked.
Full marks for bloody originality. I wondered, yet again, why no one ever seemed to notice that “You’re Beautiful” isn’t an uplifting love song. It’s tragic. The last line says, “I’ll never be with you.” In fact, the only person I knew who ever got that was Michael, who sang the song to me as we walked back to his place from the Tube one night. I was charmed at the time, but looking back, I understood at last what he had been getting at. The emphasis was definitely on “I’ll never be with you” as far as he was concerned. The memory made the champagne in my mouth seem suddenly flat.
“Ashleigh. Ashleigh!” Becky clicked her fingers in front of my face. “You were zoning out. Remember what you promised? Today is a happy day, so I don’t want to see you without a smile on your face for one second. We can go back to moaning about Michael when I get back from my honeymoon.”
The way she said it, “Moaning about Michael,” with her comedy sad face, made me feel very stupid and small.
“You’re right,” I told her. “It’s your day and you’re my best friend. Here’s my happy face just for you.” I poked my fingers into my cheeks to lift up the sides of my mouth into a smile.
“Be careful of your makeup,” she said, inspecting me for damage.
“The cars are here!” one of the younger bridesmaids called up the stairs.
We bridesmaids would be traveling to the church in a limo. Becky and her dad would follow in a Bentley a little later.
“I’ll see you at the church,” I told her. “Keep smiling. Remember, it’s a happy day!”
“It’s my happy day,” Becky agreed.
So, I walked down the aisle behind my best friend, to the tune of “Sheep May Safely Graze” (so much classier than “The Wedding March,” Becky told me), feeling like a loser in my bright pink dress and trying desperately hard to convince myself that the congregation were too busy admiring Becky in her “cost-of-a-small-car” wedding dress to be looking at me. Nevertheless I was sure that I saw a couple of the hen-night harridans nudge each other as I passed by. Always the sodding bridesmaid. And they weren’t in the least bit surprised …
Up at the altar, Henry was waiting, looking slightly constipated in his morning dress. Though he wore a suit and tie five days a week and I don’t think I had ever seen him wear a shirt without a collar, even he looked uncomfortable in a waistcoat and cravat. Perhaps it was the color of his cravat and cummerbund that made him look so ill. Though Becky had been shrugging off the vestiges of our distinctly lower-middle-class upbringing since meeting her distinctly upper-class man, she hadn’t been able to resist insisting that Henry match his accessories to her flowers. Which were pink. I could only imagine what Henry’s mother had to say about that.
Standing next to Henry was his best man, Julian. As Becky and her father did the handing-over palaver, Julian looked at me in a way that was positively ravenous. I looked straight ahead. I may have been at my lowest point ever, but I was not so low that Julian, with his hamster cheeks covered in ruddy gin blossoms, should think he had a chance.
I took Becky’s bouquet and stepped back into my place in the front pew.
“Dearly beloved …,” the vicar began.
It was an emotional wedding. Becky was crying from the off. Henry cried. Julian caught my eye and seemed to be crying, too, though that may have been down to his hangover. I felt the tears spring to my eyes for a variety of reasons. The romance in Becky’s life and the corresponding lack of it in mine. The thought that I might never find myself standing at an altar with a man whom I loved. And the fact that my Jimmy Choos were too tight.
Becky and Henry exited the church to the triumphant pealing of bells. The rain held off for the photographs: an endless series of group tableaux in the graveyard to be followed by yet more shots at the reception venue. A double-decker bus had been hired to take the guests between the church and the reception, which was being held at a country house hotel, but first I had to get Becky safely into the Bentley and make sure that her skirt didn’t get stuck in the door. It sounds easier than it was.
On arrival at the reception, I knocked back two glasses of champagne in quick succession before I continued my chief bridesmaid’s duties, marshaling the smaller bridesmaids for photos and making a pretty arrangement of our bouquets on a table in the dining room once the photographs were done.
For the wedding dinner, I sat at the head table, between Henry’s father and his fourth wife. I soon gave up trying to make conversation with Henry’s father because his hearing aid was on the blink. The fourth wife was friendly enough, but she had only recently arrived in the UK from Ukraine and her English was limited to the names of all the designer concessions in Harvey Nichols. When I showed her the Jimmy Choos that had been killing me, she frowned. “Last season’s collection.”
After the meal came the speeches. Becky’s father embarrassed both his daughter and me with tales from our Croydon childhood. Henry gave a speech that was moving in its incompetence. It was so obvious that he loved his wife. Julian gave a surprisingly PG-rated best man’s speech. Actually, perhaps I shouldn’t have been so surprised, since Becky had vetoed any strip-club shenanigans for Henry’s stag party. Instead, he and his closest male friends had spent a day on a golf course and were home by 7 PM.
“Thank God that’s over,” said Julian when his speech was done and he could at last risk having a glass or six of champers.
“You did very well,” I assured him. My moment in the spotlight was still to come.
“It’s time for the cake,” said Becky’s mother, grabbing my arm with her heavily be-ringed fingers. “We’re all very excited to see it.”
I felt a little sick. I had worked so hard to make Becky’s wedding cake perfect. I had made the fruitcake a month before. The flowers, all made of icing, were also entirely fashioned by me. The previous evening I had watched nervously as two staff members fro
m the hotel kitchen helped me stack the three layers on top of one another. Objectively, I knew that the cake was a triumph. Becky couldn’t have gotten better if she’d paid a professional the best part of a grand. But part of me still worried that it wasn’t good enough for my friend or that something terrible might happen between the moment I added the last pink sugar flower and the moment it was wheeled into the ballroom. I had been into the kitchen to check on that cake at least five times during dinner. Now the moment of truth had come.
“You know,” Becky’s mother continued, “I was so worried that you were going to ruin Becky’s special day. Naturally, she’s kept me up to date with all the developments in your love life and the way that you’ve been dealing with them. We all felt very sorry for you, but at one point I actually asked Becky whether it was really such a good idea, having you in the wedding party at all. You would probably be much better off sitting at the back of the church, I told her. So you didn’t feel as though you were on display when you were finding things so difficult. Though of course nobody looks at anyone except the bride really. But Becky insisted. She said that your friendship was more important to her than that, and even if you did stomp up the aisle with a face like thunder, she would find it in her heart to forgive you.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
Becky’s mother swayed toward me as though to impart something confidential. “But let me tell you that I told her that I would definitely not forgive you if you didn’t pull yourself together and act like a grown-up and it didn’t matter if it was her wedding day, if you weren’t smiling when you walked up the aisle behind my daughter, I would give you what-for at the reception.”
“Well, thank goodness you don’t have to.”
“That’s what I said to Henry’s mother. And she agreed. Because trust me she was worried, too, after hearing from Henry how ridiculous you were being about that man.”
“Ridiculous,” I echoed.
“We were both quite convinced you’d make a scene.”
“You were?”
“Oh, yes. You always were the kind to make a scene. Even when you were a little girl. The times that Becky came home crying because you’d had one of your tantrums. You were lucky that I never slapped you. I really don’t know why she bothered with you. But at least we can laugh about it now, eh? Now let’s go and get that cake.” She practically pulled me to my feet. I shook off her hand.
“There’s no need for you to come,” I told her. “I’d rather do a last-minute check by myself. I want to make sure that everything is perfect before I let anyone see it. And I want Becky to be the first. Since it is her special day.”
“If you’re sure?”
“Really, don’t worry yourself about it at all. You should be entertaining the other guests. Mother-of-the-bride is a very important role.”
“You’re right.” Becky’s mother beamed. “Well, I can’t wait to see this cake of yours!”
She planted a powdery kiss on my cheek and headed back to her seat, lurching dramatically from side to side. She’d had way too much Roederer.
Meanwhile I headed for the kitchen, where Becky’s wedding cake waited for me. All three magnificent tiers of it.
In the kitchen, two waiters who were sneaking a smoke by the back door snapped to attention when I walked in.
“It’s time for the cake,” I said. “I’m going to need some help wheeling the trolley.”
“At your service,” said the younger guy, dusting cigarette ash from the cuff of his jacket.
“Not quite yet,” I said. “I need to add some finishing touches.”
The waiter nodded and went back for another smoke.
I looked at the cake, like an artist appraising a sculpture. What was missing? What would make this cake utterly unique and an extra-special gift for Becky? What would it take to make sure that this cake made Becky’s wedding reception one that no one who had attended it would ever forget?
The previous evening I had asked the chef if it would be okay to leave a Tupperware box in one of his larders. I fetched it now. It contained a few things I might need in a cake-related emergency. There were some spare sugar flowers in case I decided that less wasn’t more after all. There was the little tube of icing I had used to glue the miniature bride and groom (also made of sugar) to the top tier. That icing was what I needed.
My hand began to shake as I contemplated piping a special message around the side of each and every tier. I held my right wrist with my left hand to help steady it and began to pipe letters in neat capitals. The icing I piped was white, but the message could be seen clearly if you looked closely. The fact that the bride and groom would have to look closely was part of the fun.
It took quite a while and I have to admit that the last few letters were a little wonky, but the overall effect was amazing. I stood back to admire my handiwork. The two waiters joined me, silent with awe. I knew that the cake looked incredible. I could already imagine the delight on Becky’s face as we pushed the trolley out into the ballroom.
“Let’s go,” I said.
The two waiters positioned themselves one on either end of the trolley and slowly, carefully, began to move the cake toward the door. I walked out ahead of them with my head held high. Julian, the best man, saw us appear and tapped the side of his glass for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to cut the cake!”
The bride and groom met up again in the middle of the room—they had been circulating among their guests—and walked hand in hand to where I waited next to my masterpiece.
“Thank you so much,” Becky said to me. “I knew you’d come through in the end.”
Henry just grinned. He was sozzled.
“Have you got a knife?” Becky asked.
“Here you go.” I handed her the enormous knife with a porcelain handle big enough for two newly wedded hands that the hotel kept for just such an occasion. Becky and Henry stepped forward and rested the tip of the knife lightly on the icing so that everyone could take a snap. My stomach gurgled as I waited for her to stop posing and take a proper look at what she was actually cutting into.
It was a moment or two before Becky realized that there were words in the delicate tracery of icing that surrounded the carefully rendered sugar figures of her and her new husband. She squinted to read them.
“Oh, you’ve written something,” she said.
What was she expecting? Their names? The date of the wedding? Just “Congratulations,” perhaps? That would have been the obvious choice. She definitely wasn’t expecting what I had really iced on to her wedding cake.
I GIVE IT SIX MONTHS.
That’s what I had written. In elegant iced script, again and again and again and again. Around and around the sugar lovers like a labyrinth, and all over the sides of each tier. I had thought, as I was doing it, that it was a pity I couldn’t write my message in red, but I decided ultimately that white on white was more subtle and artistic. In any case, I could tell that it was having just as dramatic an effect.
Becky looked first at me and then at her husband. In his halfcut state, Henry had yet to register what was wrong with the otherwise perfect picture. Becky’s face crumpled. The cake knife dropped to the floor with a clatter. Henry narrowly missed losing a toe. Becky gathered up her enormous skirt and ran from the room.
“What’s wrong?” Henry called after her.
“What’s happened?” asked Becky’s mother.
The wedding party reacted in shock.
I left moments later, but I didn’t run after Becky, who had gone out into the garden to sob among the roses. I turned left, to the car park, where a taxi was already waiting. (I had asked one of the kitchen staff to order it in advance.) I went straight home.
Did it make me feel better? Not exactly. But in my drunken state I did manage to convince myself that my actions had been justified. I was fed up with being ridiculed or, at best, ignored. Becky’s mother had talked to me as though I were still a child. Well, the
worm had turned.
I pushed open the front door to my building. It was jammed, as usual, by junk mail. Pizza leaflets. Letters from our local MP. It made me even more angry than usual to see the pile of paper that no one in the building would ever read. But that day, just when I felt more alone in the world than I ever had, I noticed that there was something for me! A pale blue envelope with my name and address written on it in a very familiar hand.
It was a letter. From Michael!
Snatching it up from the pile of junk on the floor, I tore the envelope open and greedily devoured its contents. What did he want? Was it a love letter? Had the voodoo worked? Had he come to his senses? Did he want me back at last?
Dear Ashleigh,
I’m very sorry to have to write this letter. I can’t believe it has come to this. I have reason to believe that you have been hanging around outside my apartment building at all hours, wearing a ridiculous disguise including an ugly brown wig. The security guard says he has seen you on a number of occasions. My new girlfriend also suspects that you have been lingering outside her shop and arranging phony appointments to waste her time. This has to stop. If you persist in stalking me and my girlfriend like this, I will have no choice but to inform the police and take steps to have a restraining order taken out against you. For both our sakes, Ashleigh, but especially for yours, please try to put our relationship behind you and move on with your life.
Yours sincerely,
Michael
He had cc’d the letter to G. Kleinbeck. And to M. Fox, whom I knew as Martin Fox, one of the lawyers at Michael’s company. Martin and I had met on several occasions, and he had always seemed a nice bloke. I thought he’d liked me, too. The thought that he had seen the letter I now held in my shaking hands, a letter that accused me directly of being a stalker, made me feel rather sick. How could Michael do this to me! I was outraged for a moment before I started to panic. Was it possible that Michael had found out about my fake Facebook profile? Could he trace it back to me? There was bound to be CCTV coverage of me lurking around outside his building. Did Miss Well-Sprung have CCTV outside her shop? Was Michael gathering evidence to take me to court? Did he have enough already?
Getting Over Mr. Right Page 14
