Four Bridesmaids and a White Wedding: the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy of the year!

by Fiona Collins

  ‘Not a workaholic, not a workaholic at all.’ Tinks, her eminently capable assistant, had smiled as she’d watched JoJo pull the BlackBerry back out of the drawer and slip it into her embroidered carpet bag.

  ‘Bang to rights.’ JoJo had grinned. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I couldn’t possibly leave this baby behind.’ She’d patted the side of the bag and smiled sheepishly, but not that sheepishly. She didn’t care, actually – the shop was her second baby and babies needed close monitoring, didn’t they?

  ‘Boutique Brides will be absolutely fine without you for a couple of days, you know,’ Tinks had added, with a warm but business-like shaking of her head. ‘You can trust us.’

  ‘I know I can. You’re all amazing. You and Josie and Ayda are all brilliant.’ They were; her assistant and Tinks’ assistants were all fantastic at their jobs. She’d been very, very careful when she’d hired them; the interview process for each of them had gone on for days.

  JoJo had smiled and pulled the belt of her Burberry raincoat tighter. There had been light summer showers all day, so far, but with any luck they would clear for tonight, at least in Wiltshire – she quite fancied a wander around The Retreat’s boating lake at some point this evening. She’d leave her BlackBerry in the room for that, definitely, of course she would . . .

  ‘No need to even have your phone on.’

  ‘It’s on vibrate.’ She had both a phone and a BlackBerry, which was better for emails.

  ‘Right. And don’t rush back on Monday.’

  ‘I’ll try not to.’ The return train to Paddington was booked for 10.31. JoJo and her friends would be back in London for 11.45 and she was planning on heading straight to the boutique.

  ‘You didn’t need to come in at all today.’ Tinks straightened up the appointments book and smoothed down the skirt of her navy shift dress.

  ‘I know,’ said JoJo. She’d settled her sister, Millie, into her Maida Vale mews and had kissed her daughter, Constance, goodbye, several times. She should have gone straight on her way.

  ‘Have a great time,’ Tinks had said, with a note of finality. It appeared she had been actually ushering JoJo to the door. ‘You deserve it. And try not to think about work. Boutique Brides will still be here when you get back.’

  JoJo got it. She needed a break and she should enjoy that break without thinking about work all the time, but Tinks was kidding herself that was going to happen. JoJo was always thinking about work. JoJo loved work; second only to Constance, she lived for work. She was fiercely proud of what she had built up and what she had achieved – what was there not to love? As she stood outside the shop and continued her lingering glance at the window display and her beautiful dresses, all she could feel was immense pride.

  The little bell of the shop door rang and Tinks poked her head round it. ‘You still here? The shop really will be fine without you, you know.’

  ‘Sorry!’ said JoJo, with a start. ‘I’m going!’ And she set off down the street, her heels clacking on the now-drying pavement. She must try to make a concerted effort to forget all about the shop. She had booked something so lovely for herself and her friends; she should now focus all her energies on the weekend ahead and ignore that BlackBerry already burning a hole in the bottom of her bag.

  JoJo had browsed and booked the hen weekend one lunchtime, in between brides. She hadn’t had much time, and the phone had kept going, but it hadn’t taken her long to find The Retreat, in the heart of Wiltshire and not far from the historic National Trust village of Laycock, which Constance reliably informed her was where parts of the Harry Potter movies were filmed. The Retreat was quite pricey, but it looked so worth it. Wendy deserved a wonderful hen do. Their wild and crazy Wendy . . . she, the first to kick off her shoes and dance on the tables in restaurants; the one to wear the brightest, clash-iest colours and make Helena Bonham Carter look like a conservative dresser; who danced the longest and laughed the loudest and had the craziest hair . . . It had taken Wendy so long to find Frederick, and they needed to celebrate her upcoming marriage in absolute style.

  JoJo thought about her good friend as she walked. Wendy had met Frederick at a scientist convention in Maidstone: she was representing the destruction of aphids, or whatever it was she did; he was a corporate lawyer representing one of the big research firms. Wendy had told them that he’d approached her at the Morning Mingle, where they drank coffee and discussed science-y things in white coats, and that he’d ‘had her at molecular phylogenetics’. It made for a lovely story. Then she, Sal and Rose had met him last Christmas, when he’d joined them for dinner on their weekend away before leaving them to it for dancing and more cocktails. They’d all liked him enormously. He was quietly spoken, but with a lovely sense of humour. He was extremely polite. He rocked a very nice white, unbuttoned shirt and smart trouser combo. His build was lean, his face was handsome and he was, undoubtedly, a catch.

  ‘He’s very straight,’ Sal had observed, as he slipped off politely and quietly into the night and they’d finished their third round of Cosmopolitans. ‘In the old fashioned sense of the word, I mean. Posh, too. I doubt he’s the swinging from the chandelier type,’ she added, winking at Wendy, ‘but he’s straight and steady and polite and really, really nice. I like him.’

  ‘Me too,’ Rose had said.

  ‘Oh, me three!’ chimed in JoJo. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

  ‘You’d be surprised, actually . . .’ Wendy had smiled, raising her glass for an impromptu, celebratory chinking of them round the table ‘. . . about the swinging from the chandeliers thing . . .’ This was met with a rather raucous cheer. ‘But thank you for your kind words, all of you. I’m punching way above my weight, I know. He’s far too good for me. But I’m so excited about him! He’s perfect!’

  And now Wendy was marrying her perfect man, mused JoJo, walking onto the concourse at Paddington Station and making her way to the departures board, and she didn’t have to wait much longer to do so. The wedding was next Saturday. All that remained was to have the most brilliant weekend, starting now – the perfect girly send-off for their fabulous friend, who deserved the very best before she sailed off into the sunset with Mr Right.

  JoJo sighed with happiness; she saw so many women off into the sunset with their perfect men, and in the perfect dresses . . . nothing gave her more pleasure, actually. She’d just check her BlackBerry to see if Lucy Stoker, the girl who worked at Hamleys, was still coming in on Monday afternoon for her final fitting. There was a little work yet to be done on that beaded hemline and the darts at the back of the dress might need adjusting slightly . . .

  ‘Put that down! Right now!’

  ‘Step away from the BlackBerry!’

  Wendy and Rose were under the departures board, grinning their heads off and holding giant bags. Wendy had one of those wheelie cases, like air hostesses have. She was also wearing a giant pink and gold sash that said ‘Bride’ in big black letters, and a comedy veil. So much for JoJo’s instructions! She could have sworn she’d said no tacky props! Still, Wendy looked like she didn’t mind one bit; she was positively glowing and giving a little twirl for the benefit of passers-by. An old man gave her a bit of a wolf whistle and said, ‘Good luck, darlin’’ and Wendy beamed.

  ‘All right!’ said JoJo, ‘I’ll step away from the BlackBerry.’ She shoved it back in her bag and approached her two friends for a hug. ‘How are you both?’ she asked, giving them a squeeze. ‘It’s so lovely to see you. It feels like absolute ages . . . And where the hell is Sal?’

  Chapter Three

  Sal

  Sal was late. Novelty hen items were falling left, right and centre out of her badly zipped-up overnight bag and spilling onto the pavement outside her pub. She bent down and scrabbled to retrieve a pink fluffy set of handcuffs, a pair of inflatable penis deely boppers and some glitter L-plates. The MAMIL (Middle-Aged Man in Lycra) she’d just turfed off the premises, sitting astride his orange and black road bike in thr
ee-quarter-length socks and what looked like an over-tight, neon-pink mankini, sat back on his razor blade saddle and looked on in amusement.

  ‘Yes, I have handcuffs and penises,’ muttered Sal, trying to pretend the afternoon drizzle wasn’t ruining her hair and that it was perfectly normal to be grubbing around on the ground for wayward hen props. ‘Have a good look. But you brought a pushbike into a pub! Who does that?’

  ‘It’s not a “pushbike”,’ scoffed the man, looking down on Sal as she stuffed the L-plates back into her bag. ‘I told you in there. It’s a Carbon-Fibre Endurance Special Edition Speed Machine with Direct Mount Brakes . . . and I have an extremely high-tech computer attached to Nigel – I can’t get it wet.’ He patted the black box between the handlebars. He’d spent the ten minutes since she’d chucked him out of the pub covering it lovingly with what appeared to be a sandwich bag and an entire roll of Sellotape.

  ‘Nobody calls their bike “Nigel”!’ exclaimed Sal. ‘And don’t ever try to bring him, it, whatever, into my pub again or I’ll have you barred!’

  The man adjusted his tackle indignantly and squeezed a ridiculous cap onto his balding head. ‘It was always all right in the Old Grey Goose,’ he said sniffily, as he taxied off slowly down the road.

  ‘Well, my pub is the New Grey Goose!’ called Sal after him. ‘So leave the bike outside next time! And maybe have a wash before you come in.’

  Nigel’s owner had obviously been on a very long cycle that afternoon, before he felt the need to stop for refreshment, as he had tainted Sal’s pub with horribly smelly armpits. After he’d parked his massive bike against the pub’s newly restored, gorgeous inglenook fireplace, blocking it completely, he’d deposited himself on a nearby armchair and raised both arms in an exaggerated backwards stretch, inflicting said armpits on the room and causing Sal to come rushing over with a can of Febreze and a few choice words. He’d also placed a revolting sports drink on one of her nice new tables and it had spilt sticky, orange hideousness everywhere.

  What was it with men who liked to dress in restrictive, Day-Glo clothing and pretend they were permanently taking part in the Tour de France? Sal wondered, as she squeezed her bag into a shape that allowed the zip to be yanked up. She really could have done without the time-consuming eviction of man and machine this afternoon; she wasn’t exactly super-fit and had struggled wrestling a carbon-fibre frame with two giant, over-thin wheels – plus an indignant six-foot-four man with his middle-aged spread tucked into his spandex – over the threshold. Still, she hadn’t spent the last two months doing up her precious pub for it to be overrun with muddy wheels and less than savoury armpits.

  Sighing, Sal hauled her bag over her shoulder and marched off down the pavement in the direction of the bus stop. She really should have got ready earlier, she reflected, as she did have quite a long journey ahead of her. Bus to Woking Station, then a train to Waterloo and then the Underground to Paddington. Sal was cutting it pretty fine now and JoJo was going to be mightily disappointed in her if she was more than her customary ten minutes late.

  She arrived at the bus stop. The New Grey Goose, still just in view, was looking fabulous, she had to admit. Sal had done a lot of work to the pub: a typical, Tudor English pub with a low-slung roof and wonky beams. When she’d acquired it, parts of the roof were falling off and the white paintwork between the beams was grey and flaking. No more. The roof was now fully tiled and weather-proof; the exterior walls an attractive, soft pistachio green and punctuated by hanging baskets and a shiny black door. Inside, she’d swapped threadbare, flocked 1980s carpet for honeyed oak floors; burgundy, peeling wallpaper for smooth, cream walls; and brasses and horseshoes and dreadful wall-mounted beer towels for tasteful, black and white Surrey pastoral views. The New Grey Goose was now a very nice pub.

  A bus miraculously arrived, thank goodness, and Sal climbed aboard. As she walked down the central aisle, she spied her biking adversary cruising leisurely back down the street, his bum high in the air atop that painful-looking saddle and his suspiciously smooth calves taut. He raised one hand from the handlebars to give her a cheery wave. Cheeky git, she thought. But she couldn’t worry about him now. Martina, her manager, would have to deal with him if he came back. Sal was escaping for three nights and it felt really good, despite having to leave some good stuff behind.

  ‘All right, Sal?’ An elderly lady in a red raincoat, sitting at the front of the bus, greeted her with a smile.

  ‘Yes, good thanks, Mrs Ross. You?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. Lovely steak and mushroom pie I had in your place the other night.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Grinning to herself, Sal headed for the back of the bus just like she’d always done at school. She was pleased the new menu – and the new chef – was going down such a treat. Sitting down in the middle of the back row of seats, with a bit of a shove she tucked her overnight bag, stuffed with the contraband hen accoutrements, underneath. They were not really her thing, actually – she didn’t especially like the clichéd hen do, the wearing of tutus and pink cowboy hats and the dancing round a pile of handbags in a nightclub – but she was a rebellious sort of person who’d started buying them as soon as JoJo said they were banned.

  She also hadn’t been to a hen weekend for years, but had been invited to quite a few in her time. Some good, some bad, some hysterical; Rose’s had been quite memorable . . . She was relieved, too, she thought, as the bus pulled away, there was going to be no nightclubs this weekend. Sal was a pub girl, not club, always had been. She’d worked behind the bar at university and had never really left.

  ‘Is this seat free?’

  A young man, holding one of those tiny, ridiculous dogs that celebrities used to carry around, came and sat down beside Sal. Really? There were about forty other seats! The dog immediately started sniffing at Sal’s hand and she swiftly moved it away, bristling. She really hoped she didn’t smell of dog when she got to The Retreat, though it would probably get blasted away with a lemon and saffron infused laser, or something.

  Glamorous pamper party, the invitation said, or along those lines. It wasn’t really her bag either. She wasn’t into grooming, having her nails done, all that stuff. She was more of a soap and water woman, and she knew she’d feel uncomfortable with strange ladies in white tunics prodding and poking her, and having to lie face down with her face in a hole in a bed, and all that enforced pampering – but she should be looking forward to it. She needed some time off from the pub, everyone had told her so.

  Even Niall.

  ‘A break from all this bedroom action,’ he’d said earlier that afternoon and with his customary sexy grin, under that mop of sexy tousled hair and above that impressive set of attractive tattoos. ‘I imagine you in a pink cowboy hat, on one of those bucking bronco things, in a bar,’ he’d added. It had been after a particularly amazing session in Sal’s double bed, in the pretty beamed bedroom above her pub.

  Always the pink cowboy hats . . . ‘It’s not going to be that sort of thing,’ she’d replied, gazing at his gorgeous head as it lay on one of her pillows. She still couldn’t believe it kept finding its way there. ‘It’s going to be dead classy. If you knew JoJo like I know JoJo, who booked it, then you’d be in no doubt.’

  ‘JoJo the wedding dress designer?’ Niall said, propping that gorgeous head up on one elbow and staring at her with those ridiculously sexy green eyes. ‘Well, the thing is, of course, that I don’t know her at all. I’ve never met any of your friends.’

  He hadn’t. She and Niall weren’t really at the ‘meeting friends’ stage. They were still at the ‘shag each other senseless’ stage, the ‘we don’t know where this is going but we don’t currently care’ stage.

  ‘No, you haven’t, not yet.’

  ‘And will I?’ He turned to face her, his green eyes, framed by impossibly thick, dark brown lashes, sparkling with merriment and unabashed lust.

  ‘Yes. Probably. One day.’ Niall meeting
her friends would make him real. It would also make it real that she was sleeping with her chef – he of the magnificent pies – and had been for two months. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that, beyond the sheer, exciting thrill of actually doing it; although she knew, logically, it was certain to go nowhere, once she had discovered what was wrong with him.

  ‘And Rose, the put-upon mother of three will be there?’

  ‘Your words not mine, but yes.’

  ‘And you’re meeting Wendy’s sister-in-law-to-be for the first time?’

  ‘Tamsin, yes.’ After they’d received their invitations Wendy had said she was Frederick’s only sister and he’d suggested they should invite her. It was fine by Sal. Sal just wanted Wendy – who had once miserably declared she was going to end up spinster of her parish and wandering round with a load of meowing cats – to be happy.

  Sal glanced back at Niall. He was clearly not thinking about Tamsin, or anyone else. He had that foxy grin on his face again and his left eye was closing into the saucy wink she was beginning to really look forward to, usually at about this time of the day.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘have we got time for another go? Another dose of afternoon delight? I can get the playing cards out again, to get you in the mood . . .’

  ‘Ha. No!’ she’d protested, but not that strongly, and she definitely didn’t need a round of Chase the Ace to get her in the mood. She’d let him pull her back onto the bed for another, very enjoyable romp. Hence the real reason for her lateness. Hence the fact she was now pelting it from Paddington tube station to Paddington railway station (not that great a distance but possibly a step too far when a woman has to navigate escalators and people who refuse to stand on the right and a pair of new, unaccustomed-to heels, which would inevitably turn out to be a mistake . . .) as fast as she could and a full twenty minutes late.