Nathalia Buttface and The Totally Embarrassing Bridesmaid Disaster

by Nigel Smith

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2016

  HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  HarperCollinsPublishers, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

  The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Nathalia Buttface and the Totally Embarrassing Bridesmaid Disaster

  Text copyright © Nigel Smith, 2016

  Illustrations © Sarah Horne, 2016

  Nigel Smith and Sarah Horne assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Source ISBN: 9780008167097

  Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008167103

  Version: 2016-02-15

  To Michèle, for pretending I’m not as embarrassing as Dad.

  And thank you to Ruth, for the awesome idea, the amazing editing and the annoying nagging about finishing the flipping book.

  NS

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Read more from Nathalia Buttface

  About the Author

  Rave Reviews for Nathalia Buttface

  About the Publisher

  “Dad, I’m not coming out of the changing rooms and I’m not even joking and this wedding is utter pants and I hardly even know my lame cousin and bridesmaids are all rank and I LOOK TOTALLY STUPID and anyway I’m not doing it,” said Nat.

  Ever so loudly.

  Dad looked at the sour-faced lady who ran DREAM BRIDES LTD – a hot and cramped little dress shop above a newsagents on the high street. He gave her what he hoped was a charming smile. She wasn’t charmed one little bit. Her face, which was stony to begin with, hardened to granite.

  “She doesn’t have to shout,” said the lady, who was called Dolly Crumble and who was almost lost among the sickly pink and curdled cream and violently violet fluffy, frilly frocks that filled her little boutique.

  “That’s not shouting,” said Dad, whose voice was muffled by some kind of purple velvet thing that was apparently a really important bit of a bridesmaid outfit and seemed to be attacking him. “When she was a baby and was hungry or had wet herself, THEN she shouted. You should have heard it.”

  “Shuddup, Dad,” shouted Nat from the changing room. Billowing pink material surrounded her. It looked like she was being consumed by a possessed blancmange.

  Dad didn’t shuddup.

  “When baby Nathalia started yelling in the car, people thought a fire engine was going past. It was great – everyone else on the road got out of the way. I lost count of how many cars drove into lamp posts.”

  “Nobody cares, Dad,” shouted Nat.

  “Are you ready to come out yet?” asked Dolly Crumble. “Only you’ve been in there twenty minutes and this is the SIXTH Perfect Fairy Princess dress you have tried on.”

  “That’s because they’re all horrible,” wailed Nat. “They all look like vomit.”

  “Such language,” said the dressmaker, glaring at Dad as if he was to blame. “I hope she’s going to be a better behaved young lady on the big day.” She sniffed in a superior way and hoisted up her enormous bosom.

  “A wedding is the most precious day in any woman’s life. It is, you might say, the best moment of her entire life.”

  “Rubbish,” said Nat. “There’s tons of things better than a soppy wedding. There’s getting to number one in the charts or winning Celebrity All-Star Cook-Off or climbing Mount Everest or getting an Oscar or a Nobel Prize or an Olympic medal or going into space or—”

  “Yes, well, not many girls will do those things,” interrupted Dolly Crumble, “but all girls can get married.”

  “If everyone can do it, that doesn’t make it very special then, does it?” argued Nat. There was a stony silence, like a big, gaping dark hole. Dad jumped into it. With both feet.

  “Tell us about YOUR wedding day,” he said. “If I’ve learned one thing in the last few weeks it’s how much women like to talk about weddings. They really REALLY like to talk about weddings.”

  Nat thought she heard a rather strained tone in Dad’s voice but as she was still being swallowed by the evil dress, she couldn’t be sure.

  The silence got EVEN worse.

  “I have not had the pleasure of the bridal day,” hissed the dressmaker. “Well, I had the pleasure of the DAY – the lovely church, the beautiful flowers, the glorious dress, the expectant relatives. What I did NOT have was the pleasure of Derek Sponge, my intended, turning up. No, he decided NOT to marry me, but to run off to Torquay to open a Bed and Breakfast with Sally Bucket, my next door neighbour.”

  “Oops,” said Dad, stepping back. “You ready Nat?” he shouted. “We should be off soon.”

  “And so I vowed to make every other woman’s day at the altar absolutely perfect, NO MATTER WHAT,” said the jilted bride, “and whatever the bride wants, she gets. And this bride has left strict instructions that her six bridesmaids are to be six Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaids.”

  Angry little bits of spittle had gathered around MISS Crumble’s top lip.

  “And if it takes me all day to turn a turnip into a Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaid, then so be it!”

  With that she whipped open the changing room door and Nat popped out like a cork from a bottle of pink fizzy pop.

  Miss Crumble picked up Nat and dusted her off.

  “You’re as beautiful as I can make you,” she said. “Possibly as beautiful as ANYONE could make you.”

  “Thanks,” snarled Nat.

  Dad pushed the smothering purple material from his eyes. “Let’s have a proper look at you,” he said.

  “This is my biggest and best Perfect Fairy Princess outfit. I call her the Esmerelda, the Flower Fairy Princess. Isn’t she beautiful?” said the dressmaker, proudly.

  “No, she’s horrible,” said Nat, miserably, “and I’m going to have to walk around in it ALL DAY including at the party afterwards when ever
yone else is in party clothes and having fun and being all cool. I’m going to look like a cross between Tinkerbell, a stick of candy floss and a sneeze.”

  Which is literally what she looked like.

  Dad pushed the bit of purple material into his mouth for some reason. “No, it’s all right actually,” he said, squeakily.

  Nat eyed him suspiciously.

  His shoulders were shaking.

  “Are you LAUGHING at me?” said Nat, furiously. “You are, I can tell, don’t lie to me.”

  “It’s nice to see you in a dress,” coughed Dad in a strangled kind of way, “even a dress with big pink flowery wings.”

  “What even is this on my head?” snarled Nat. “It’s got my hair all tangled up.” Her long blonde hair was wrapped around some kind of pink fluffy crown. She tugged at it, but it was stuck fast.

  “It’s a tiara. All Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaids have to have tiaras, it’s the law,” said Miss Crumble, advancing towards Nat with a box full of sharp dress pins.

  “What law?” snapped Nat.

  “Fairyland law. Everyone knows that. Now, stand still and let me take it in. You haven’t got a shape really, have you?”

  “Dad, stop her talking about me like this,” said Nat, “she’ll make me sad.”

  “She’s a professional,” said Dad. “She’s just got her…er… own dressmaking language.”

  “Ow, she jabbed me on purpose,” yelped Nat.

  “Of course I didn’t,” fibbed Miss Crumble.

  Eventually, after much prodding and pushing and pinning and yelping, Dolly Crumble was satisfied and Nat and Dad were free to leave. Five minutes later they were sitting in the burger place opposite. Actually, Dad was sitting, Nat was hovering. Her bum was now a pincushion and it was too painful to sit.

  Nat slurped her pop fiercely. So fiercely, in fact, that bubbles came out of her nose and made her even crosser. “Why have I got to be one of Tiffannee’s stupid bridesmaids anyway, I hardly know her,” she growled.

  Dad sighed the sigh of a dad who has answered the same question six thousand times. Which was a bit unfair to Nat as he’d only been asked that question FIVE thousand times.

  “You DO know Tiffannee. She’s a close relative when you look at our family tree from a distance,” he said.

  “If you look at family trees at enough of a distance, it looks like EVERYONE’s related,” said Nat, who had done evolution at school that term. “Everyone except Darius Bagley, who was made in a lab. By mistake.”

  Darius was not only the naughtiest boy in the history of schools ever, he was also Nat’s best friend for reasons so old and complicated Nat couldn’t even remember.

  “But you are properly related to Tiff,” said Dad. “She’s the daughter of my cousin Raymonde. Auntie Daphne’s son.”

  “Is she a proper Auntie or just one of those old women I have to call auntie even though they’re not? The ones with hairy faces and a smell of cat wee?”

  “Auntie Daphne is Bad News Nan’s sister,” explained Dad, patiently, “and you know Raymonde because he lives in Texas these days and always sends you baseball caps for Christmas.”

  “Oh yeah I like him,” said Nat, who liked baseball caps.

  “Tiffannee’s his daughter, which makes her your, er, your, um—” Dad’s eyes glazed over, “it makes her your relation anyway. Let’s say cousin.”

  “I don’t know why she can’t get married in Texas,” grumbled Nat, “we could all go there and eat cheeseburgers and get a tan and drive round in big cars.”

  “Tiffannee was born here, most of her relatives are here, and she says she’s always dreamed of a perfect English wedding.”

  “I flipping well know THAT,” said Nat, “it’s all I’ve heard for months, Tiffannee’s perfect wedding.”

  “I was pretty honoured to be asked to organise it,” said Dad.

  Nat snorted.

  “I haven’t really got the time,” fibbed Dad, who always had loads of time, “but Raymonde’s stuck out there in Texas working for that big oil company and, well, you can’t say no to family.”

  Nat snorted again. “Tiffannee asked MUM to help organise her wedding, not you. No one would ask you to organise anything, not even a sock drawer. You write Christmas cracker jokes for a living and you don’t even get those done in time.”

  Nat stamped her feet in silent fury as Dad just chuckled and dripped tomato sauce over his shirt. “I did do something useful actually,” he said. “I got you promoted to THIRD ASSISTANT Bridesmaid. Cool, eh?”

  “Brilliant, thanks,” grumbled Nat sarcastically as they clambered into Dad’s rubbish old campervan, the Atomic Dustbin. The Dog licked Nat’s face, as if to say he understood her fairy princess pain. As they drove off in the familiar cloud of black engine smoke, Nat’s brain was working overtime.

  I’m not doing it, she thought. I don’t care how I get out of it, but I’m not doing it. I just need a plan…

  At home there was no escape from the wedding horror.

  The kitchen table – and indeed most of the house – was covered in silly wedding magazines. They were stuffed with glossy photos of daft looking, super-skinny, soppy brides pouting smugly on beaches, or draped over park benches, like they were homeless.

  “Do you think if we spoke to Tiffannee she might change her mind about fairy princesses and have a less ridiculous wedding?” asked Mum, as she sat in the kitchen, listening to Nat’s woes.

  “She seems pretty set on fairies,” said Dad. “She wants a Fairytale Wedding, and so fairies are important.”

  “And no one says no to a bride, apparently,” muttered Mum with half an eye on her mobile phone, “even one who demands really mad things.”

  Nat snorted. “Who even likes fairy princesses? It’s like that lame school play we did last term.”

  Nat had played keyboards in the school orchestra for their production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d thought it was totally pants and soppy and it had only been enjoyable at all because Darius had jammed the smoke machine full on and the fire brigade had had to be called out.

  A horrible thought struck Nat and she gasped.

  “You took pictures of that play,” she said, “and you sent them to all the family! OMG, Dad, it’s YOUR FAULT. You’ve given Tiffannee the stupid idea to have a stupid fairy wedding. Which makes you – stupid.”

  Mum crossed her arms and looked at Dad, a small smile playing around her mouth. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, “your father is a buffoon sometimes.”

  Dad looked guilty. Nat wanted to strangle him.

  “Still, I suppose we should be grateful Dad didn’t send her pictures of The Wizard of Oz,” said Mum, “or she’d be making the bridesmaids into munchkins.”

  “And Dad would be the scarecrow,” said Nat, “the one without a brain.”

  “Cooee! Only me,” said Bad News Nan, bustling into the kitchen with two enormous carrier bags. “Ooh, I’m starving. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  Mum slipped quietly out of the kitchen as Bad News Nan plonked herself down and took a packet of biscuits out of a bag.

  “I’ll have to have them dry as no one’s offered me a cup of tea yet,” she said, taking her false teeth from her pocket and popping them in her mouth.

  “Nan, can you help me get out of being a stupid Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaid?” said Nat, making tea.

  “Certainly not,” said Bad News Nan, “you can’t back out of being a bridesmaid, oooh the very thought. If your auntie Daphne was dead she’d turn in her grave.”

  Nat thought she heard Mum giggling in the living room.

  “We’d never hear the end of it, you letting the family down. Your uncle Cuthbert let the family down and it killed him.”

  “Mum, Uncle Cuthbert lived to be a hundred and six,” said Dad, “he was the oldest Bumole in history.”

  “And the wrinkliest,” shouted Mum from the living room.

  “I tell you it killed him stone dead,” s
aid Bad News Nan, living up to her nickname. “He promised to save that big tinned Christmas pudding for everyone – but he couldn’t wait, could he? Boiled it up on Christmas Eve, forgot to put a hole in the tin and BOOM! Only person ever to be killed by a flying plum pud.”

  “Yeah, since you put it that way, you’ve got a point, Nan,” sniggered Nat squeakily.

  For some reason, even though Bad News Nan only ever knew horrible, miserable, doom-laden, awful news, she always cheered Nat up. Maybe it was because her nan enjoyed the bad news so much.

  “Plus another thing,” Bad News Nan droned on, “your auntie Daphne won’t stop talking about what a big shot Raymonde is, over in America. Multi-billionaire she says he is, just cause he bought her a caravan at Camber Sands. So you, young lady, are not going to show us up.”

  Nat sighed.

  “Besides,” Nan continued, from behind a shower of biscuit crumbs, “you should think yourself lucky you’re going to a wedding at all. All I ever get invited to is funerals.”

  “You like funerals,” said Dad. “You even go to funerals of people you’ve never met.”

  “I like to keep up,” said BNN, “they give me ideas for mine. And there’s always a good spread afterwards. There was half a side of ham left over at Doreen Wilmore’s wake last week. It just fit in my shopping bag. Kept me in sandwiches for days,” she added, smacking her lips.

  Mum popped her head around the door. “Gotta dash,” she said. “I promised to run Tiffannee to the Castle where she’s having the reception. There’s some kind of issue over the buffet. It might even be a crisis.”

  “Castle?” said BNN. “Castle, oooh that is posh. Ideas above her station, people will say. Not me, of course. But it is a bit flash.”

  “It’s the Castle Court Hotel and Country Golf Club,” said Dad patiently. “You know this, you’ve got an invite. After the church, we’re going there to have lunch, and then there’s a band and disco.”

  “And fairy princesses,” growled Nat. “Let’s not forget the fairy princesses.”

  “I got my wedding outfit from the charity shop today,” said Bad News Nan, taking a huge, bright green dress out of a shopper. She stood up and pulled it on over her clothes.