My Sister's Wedding: For better or worse, two families are about to become one . . .

by Vicky Pattison

  I’m deep into my wistful spiral when my phone beeps with a text. It’s from Bex. Maybe she’s texting to explain that stupid photo with Nicole. Or seeing when I’m free for a catch-up. I smile and open the text.

  Dress fittings at 5.45pm tomorrow, remember! Don’t be late!

  Ugh. Definitely not what I was expecting. I slam the phone down with disappointment. This has been the shittiest night.

  And I can feel this zit on my chin getting bigger by the second.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Becky

  I stare at myself in the changing room mirror and take a deep breath. This is my wedding dress. The actual dress that I will be wearing when I commit to Daniel for the rest of my life. I feel so . . . grown up.

  I turn to the side and admire the detailing on the bodice. I’ve always known the sort of dress I wanted to wear if I ever got married. This is a Jenny Packham dress from her spring collection. It’s pure white silk, with long lace sleeves, a pearl-encrusted bodice and a slightly flared silk skirt. It’s not big and bouncy, it’s simple and elegant, and I feel like this dress was made for me. I love it, but then maybe I’m not seeing it properly any more, maybe I’ve romanticised it. I feel nervous about leaving the changing room, heading into the main part of the shop where Lizzie and Lauren are waiting to see the dress for the first time. It’s so much pressure. What if they don’t like it? What if it doesn’t suit me? I’ve seen enough episodes of Say Yes To The Dress to know that one bitchy bridesmaid can ruin the entire dress-fitting process, if not the whole wedding.

  I cautiously pull back the heavy rose pink curtain and step out into the shop.

  Lauren clutches Lizzie with a gasp and tears immediately spring to Lizzie’s eyes.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Lizzie says with a heavy swallow. ‘You look perfect.’

  Lauren stands up, clapping her hands together. ‘You look gorgeous, mate. Pure class! Daniel’s gonna spoff on the spot when he sees you.’

  I laugh at Lauren’s filthy comment. Ordinarily Lizzie would say something equally inappropriate but she’s been quiet ever since we got here. She says she’s tired. Poor thing. She must be working too hard at her new job. All that walking!

  I turn and look at myself in the mirror again. From behind me, Lizzie approaches and places a tiara with a veil on top of my head. Small, elegant crystals twinkle, and the veil is made of soft vintage lace.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s beautiful!’ I say, putting my hand up to my head. ‘Where on earth did you get this?’

  ‘I found it in Portobello market a few days ago. It wasn’t expensive or anything. You can tell me if you don’t like it. I don’t mind. I just thought it could be your “something old”.’

  Tears spring to my eyes. ‘It’s amazing. I love it. Thank you so much.’

  Lizzie smiles, though I’m sure there’s a tinge of sadness to it. Something isn’t right. She’s usually so bright and sunshiney. The life and soul of any get-together. She obviously needs to cut down the hours she’s working. I make a mental note to talk to her about it when we’re alone.

  I look at myself in the mirror again and feel truly lucky. Things may have been a little strained between me and Daniel since Darla’s launch party but it seems pretty trivial in the grand scheme of things. I know he loves me and I definitely love him, and this is just one of those things all couples have to go through. I’m starting to realise just how much work it’s going to be keeping his family on-side. We haven’t quite found the perfect balance of compromise yet but I know we will. It will take some time but luckily we’ll have the rest of our lives to figure it out.

  ‘The Daily World will probably do a whole series of articles on that dress,’ Lauren laughs, snapping me out of my reverie. ‘They’re obsessed with you!’

  I blush slightly. They do keep writing about me and every time they do, the clothes I’m wearing in whatever pictures they’ve managed to take keep selling out. It’s weird. The lipstick I wore to Darla’s book launch sold out the next day, and now they’ve started calling it ‘The Rebecca Effect’. It’s beyond embarrassing, and it’s not the kind of attention I’m entirely comfortable with. I just hope they lose interest once Daniel and I are married and there’s no more engagement or wedding news for them to latch onto.

  ‘They are pretty obsessed with you.’ Lizzie agrees, with a grimace. I instantly feel bad. All of this attention on me means that she still needs to fly under the radar. The ‘bad sister’ narrative hasn’t quite disappeared so she can’t give them another reason to write anything else about her. I can see that it’s dented her mood and she’s feeling the strain of not being able to go out for a few drinks whenever she wants. I hate asking this of her but I know it’s for the best. Maybe I’ll suggest the two of us go out soon so she can let off some steam, and then we can all get back to normal once the wedding is over.

  When the tailor has made a few adjustments to the length of the dress, it’s time to leave. The champagne I’ve had has made me feel a little light-headed. Lauren must sense this weakness in me because she immediately suggests that we go on somewhere for cocktails.

  I laugh. ‘I don’t know. Daniel’s expecting me back. I said I’d cook dinner.’

  Lauren rolls her eyes. ‘You’ve got the rest of your life to cook him dinners, lady. Come on. We’ve not been out properly in ages and we still need to celebrate you bagging a bestseller. You have to celebrate the good times when they happen!’

  Her enthusiasm is infectious. And it would be nice to spend a bit more time with Lauren and Lizzie, just the girls.

  ‘Go on, then!’ I say. ‘Let’s do it!’

  ‘Are you coming, Lizzie?’ Lauren asks Lizzie, who’s tapping away on her phone, a look of concentration on her face.

  She hesitates and looks at me, like she’s asking for my permission. I hate this. I remember back to earlier, when I was thinking that the two of us could go out soon so I say, ‘Please come, Lizzie. We won’t go nuts but it’ll be fun.’

  For a moment I think she’s going to say yes but then she shakes her head, ‘Nah, I best not. I’ve, um, I’ve got work in the morning.’

  I’m disappointed but I respect this new-found work ethic of hers. I give her a hug. ‘OK, no worries. I’m proud that you’re taking your new job seriously.’

  Lizzie pulls away and smiles at me. ‘You taught me well.’ She says. I think she’s being genuine, but a weird look that I don’t understand passes across her face.

  Before I can ask her what’s wrong, Lauren is dragging me away by the hand. ‘I’ve called an Uber. Let’s go! Bye, Lizzie, you crazy dog lady!’

  Part of me wants to stay and see what’s going on with Lizzie but she’s already smiling at Lauren’s comment, waving goodbye and walking away. Maybe she’s all right after all? And so I push the guilt down and let Lauren lead me towards the waiting Uber.

  Ouch.

  OUCH.

  What the hell?

  My head is banging. My mouth feels like the Sahara. Everything hurts. My feet are throbbing. I feel as though I’ve been hit by a car. A very large car. A Ford Galaxy, maybe. I haven’t felt this bad since . . . No, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad.

  I open my eyes and turn over, expecting to see Daniel. Instead, I see Lauren. She’s still fast asleep, last night’s mascara smudged around her eyes, a little bit of drool on her chin.

  Huh? Why am I . . . ?

  And then I remember that I’d decided to crash at Lauren’s instead of going home. Why? I have no idea. Seemed like the thing to do at the time.

  I have not been that drunk in a really long time, I’m talking years. I like a few drinks but never any more than that. I like to be in control. I have too many people relying on me to ever be anything but in complete control. But last night . . . I didn’t intend to get that smashed, I was just having a great time with Lauren, and her excitement about us being out on a girls’ night was a natural mood enhancer. Cocktails turned into shots pretty quickly. It gets a bit blurry afte
r that.

  Rubbing my eyes, I try to piece together the events of last night.

  After we left Lizzie, I’d texted Daniel to let him know I wouldn’t be back until late and he’d been fine about it, saying he had work to do on his hotel pitch and would be busy the whole night anyway. We had gone back to Lauren’s place in Islington to get ready. Lauren convinced me to go out in disguise. ‘The paps are all over you right now,’ she had said. ‘You won’t be able to have a good time if you’re constantly looking over your shoulder, wondering if one of them is trying to take your picture. Be someone else for the night. It will be fun!’

  So I had. I’d borrowed a long red wig from Lauren (left over from a time she’d dressed as Jessica Rabbit to a fancy dress party) and some thick-rimmed black glasses. She’d also dared me to wear a short strappy black dress that clung to every curve of my not-very-curvy body. I didn’t look anything like myself and there was something freeing about that. It had helped me let go, or unclench, as Lizzie would’ve said.

  We’d gone from bar to bar, revisiting all the old haunts that we used to go to when I was a little bit more footloose and fancy-free, doing shots in each place, dancing, talking, drinking, laughing. We were careful to avoid any situation where the paps might have got wind of where I was, mind. The disguise had helped keep them off our trail but to be honest the bars we went to weren’t the stereotypically fancy places where photographers are generally hanging outside anyway. Put it this way – Nicole and Seffy wouldn’t have been seen dead in any of these bars. I do feel a bit hypocritical going out on the lash, waking up with a hangover, when I’ve specifically asked my sister not to do so until the wedding is over. But I honestly didn’t think the night would end up this way. I’d thought we’d have a few drinks, a bit of a laugh, and then I’d be home by midnight. I blame the wig. Sneaky wig.

  Lauren’s eyes flutter open.

  ‘Fuck. My head.’ She croaks.

  ‘I know.’ I say. ‘I’m rough as toast.’

  ‘Mmmm, toast.’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  We look at each other with a grin, because we both know we’re thinking the same thing. When we were at university, every time we had a hangover, we’d throw on our scruffs and head out to the local café for a massive, filthy fry-up and a huge mug of builder’s tea. And nothing sounds better than that right now.

  I borrow some leggings and a T-shirt from Lauren. I pull them on and then scrub my face clean as best as I can with a face wipe. That’s as good as it’s going to get today so we head out to the nearest greasy spoon ten minutes after getting out of bed.

  When the food arrives I text a picture of it to Daniel. We generally eat healthily so I know this will make him laugh.

  At The Bluejay Cafe in Islington having the best breakfast ever! Wish you were here

  He replies instantly that he’s insanely jealous and that he’s looking forward to seeing me later. I smile.

  As Lauren and I tuck in, devouring the sausages and bacon, mopping up the dippy egg with toast, we dissect the night, laughing at the funny things that happened and groaning at the memory of all the dancing.

  ‘It was so nice to see you relaxed,’ Lauren says. ‘You’re usually so “on”.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, taking a sip of my sugary tea.

  ‘I don’t know. You’re just always worrying about other people, focusing on them being okay and maybe not letting yourself have fun as a result. It was just nice to see you having a good time without having to worry about anyone else. You proper let your hair down, you little minx.’

  I smile and shrug. I’m not quite sure what to say. Looking after Lizzie has been my job since our mum left. What else was I supposed to do? To be honest, I don’t really want to think about it. It’s been years, but even the very thought of Mum, and the position she put us in when she left, makes me want to cry.

  ‘How’s work?’ I ask, changing the subject. Lauren gets the hint and the conversation moves onto safer territory. Good old Lauren, she’s so great at reading people.

  Lauren starts telling me about her latest PR project which is to increase interest in London’s lesser-known public parks. Her job is to raise awareness over the coming summer with various events and press coverage. She’s in the middle of explaining some of her ideas for the campaign when she stops in her tracks. Her eyes widen as she stares out of the café window.

  I follow her gaze and my stomach drops. It’s the paparazzi! I turn round quickly so I have my back to the window, my heart pounding. How did they find me here? In Islington? In a greasy spoon?

  ‘This is not good.’ Lauren says, taking in my scruffy outfit, messy hair and hungover face. She waves her hands about. ‘THIS is not The Rebecca Effect! This is more like The Shia LaBeouf circa 2014 Effect.’

  I look down at myself. I cannot get photographed looking like this. I look vaguely like a homeless person. I know how easy it is for the newspapers to turn against you and if they get a photo of me now, that could make things difficult for Daniel. His dad is already piling on the pressure because of this pitch; I can’t give his family another reason to give him grief. It can’t happen.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ I say in a panicked voice.

  Lauren stands up. ‘Come on,’ she says, grabbing my hand.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Trust me!’ She pulls me towards the café’s bathroom. ‘I’m in PR. Spin is my thing. Leave it to me.’

  Once we’re inside the bathroom, Lauren points at the sink and instructs me to wash my face and pay extra attention to the mascara crusted around my eyes. While I’m doing that, she rummages around in her tote bag and pulls out a hair bobble. She pulls my short hair up at the back and ties it into a small, cute ponytail. Then she grabs at the T-shirt I’m wearing – her old baggy blue Nike T-shirt – gathers as much material as she can at the back and twists it into a tight knot so that the T-shirt becomes a sort of crop-top, falling just above the leggings.

  ‘I can’t go out showing my belly!’ I say, trying to pull the T-shirt back down.

  ‘You have no belly to speak of, you skinny cow, shushy.’ Lauren raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you trust me?’

  I look at her, this woman who has never let me down.

  ‘I trust you.’

  ‘Good. Pinch your cheeks,’ she instructs. ‘You look like Casper the Hungover Ghost. And whack some of this on your lips, eyelids and Cupid’s bow.’ She hands me a little tub of travel Vaseline and then she disappears out of the bathroom.

  I stare at her fleeting back as she exits. What the hell is a Cupid’s bow?

  I look in the mirror and pinch my cheeks until they turn pink and apply the Vaseline to all the instructed areas, guessing where the Cupid’s bow is. (Is it my cleavage?)

  When she returns she’s holding one of those clear takeaway cups from the café and a bottle of washing-up liquid.

  ‘I’m not washing my face with that,’ I say, horrified. ‘It’s taken me years to get rid of my teenage acne!’

  ‘That’s not what it’s for,’ she replies, pouring a stream of washing up liquid into the cup. It glints bright green under the artificial bathroom lighting.

  ‘We can’t have any bubbles,’ she mumbles to herself. She turns on the tap and very, very slowly lets a stream of water trickle into the cup. When she’s done, she puts the lid on, pushes a straw through it and hands me the cup.

  ‘Right, we need to leave now.’ She holds up her hand to halt the panicked tirade that is about to come out of my mouth. ‘We’ll leave through the front door, heads held high, as though we were fully expecting photographers to be waiting for us. When we go outside, you just tell them you’re on your way back from the gym. Simple as that.’

  ‘But we’re coming out of a greasy spoon café!’

  ‘I’ll just say I nipped in to use the loo. Hang on a sec!’ She pulls off the large sunglasses that are sitting on top of her head and thrusts them at me. ‘Put these on.’

  I do as
I’m instructed. OK, this might just work except for one thing. I brandish the cup of murky green goo at her. ‘One last thing – what the sodding hell is this for?’

  ‘That, my friend,’ Lauren says with a grin, ‘is kale, avocado and spinach juice. Rebecca Ashworth does not stuff her face with sugary tea and sausages.’

  I laugh. Lauren is a bloody genius!

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Working on her wedding body?’ Nicole spat, tucking her feet beneath her on the Chesterfield sofa. ‘Rebecca Ashworth is a total skinny fat. She’s never been to a gym in her untoned life!’

  Nicole and Seffy were spending the weekend at one of the Balfour’s three country houses, indulging in champagne, bracing walks, hunting, and avoiding the plethora of rich and delicious foods that the chef kept trying to feed them while continuing to plot the downfall of Rebecca Ashworth. When Nicole had spoken to Daniel on Saturday and he’d casually, laughingly, mentioned that Rebecca was hungover at some disgusting café in Islington, Nicole had immediately put Martin on the case. Catching Rebecca in less than her perfectly controlled, neat and tidy state would make a great front-page photo. Only the photo Nicole was looking at wasn’t of a pale, dishevelled and pasty-looking Rebecca. Instead she was fresh-faced, showing off just the right amount of her annoyingly flat stomach and carrying some foul-looking green juice. The press loved it. ‘The juice she carried looked as refreshing as her attitude towards her life, that simply oozes balance, happiness and relatability,’ they said. Nicole wanted to scream.