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

by Fiona Collins

  ‘A little bit of colour to represent our colourful and gorgeous Wendy.’ Sal had winked. ‘I love it!’

  ‘True colours,’ JoJo had added, with a smile.

  Their dresses did all look extra gorgeous with their extra splash of colour, thought Rose now, admiring herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. JoJo had done brilliantly. And she was so glad Wendy was adding her own wonderful personality to this wedding.

  ‘There!’ JoJo exclaimed, finally emerging from the silk folds of Wendy’s dress and plucking the last pin from her lips. ‘All finished and perfect. Well, almost.’ She stood up and went over to the bed, from under which she extracted a smallish cream oblong box. ‘We got you this – all of us,’ she added, glancing at Tamsin with a smile. ‘You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to, but we thought you might like it.’

  JoJo opened the box and held out a delicate and extraordinarily pretty necklace strung with tiny, multicoloured flowers in softly opaque ceramic: a beautiful riot of ruby reds and cornflower blues and yellows and pinks and jade greens.

  Wendy exclaimed. ‘I love it! Of course I’ll wear it! Thank you, thank you so much.’

  JoJo carefully fastened the necklace at the nape of Wendy’s neck and Wendy took a long look at her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Wow,’ she said wistfully. ‘Look at me! I never thought I could look this beautiful.’

  ‘Well you do,’ said Rose, sipping her champagne. ‘You are an absolutely stunning bride. Frederick is literally going to flip when he sees you coming down the aisle.’

  Wendy grinned, tears springing to her eyes. ‘Don’t set me off, for God’s sake,’ she said, grabbing a tissue and dabbing at her eyes gently with it. ‘I know I’ve got waterproof mascara on, but I don’t want to take any chances. Please nobody say anything emotional or soppy from now on as I can’t bear it!’

  ‘You might want to hang on to that tissue for a moment,’ said Sal, as there was a gentle tap at the door. ‘I think your dad’s here.’ She opened the door to a silver-haired gentleman in a smart suit and matching waistcoat who beamed with delight, tears in his own eyes, when he saw his daughter.

  ‘Oh, Wendy, oh Wendy,’ was all he could manage to say.

  ‘Dad, stop it and stop it right now!’ cried Wendy, a solitary, happy tear slipping down one cheek as she went over to kiss him. ‘You know what we said about waterworks.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Wendy’s dad, pulling an enormous white hanky from his trouser pocket and blowing his nose enthusiastically into it. ‘I’ll rein it in, I promise. The cars are outside, you know. Are you ready?’

  A pair of pristine white Bentleys was to take them around the perimeter of the stately home’s grounds and to the chapel. Rose had been thoroughly amazed by that chapel when they’d had a nose at it yesterday and this morning. It was picture postcard perfect, set on a jewel of a lawn and flanked by a tiny, crumbling old graveyard. Sumberley Hall had been bought by one of Frederick’s ancestors in the 1700s and was owned today by his Great-uncle Theodore, Wendy had told them, and generations of Frederick’s family had been christened, married and buried there, in that lovely chapel and its grounds. Rose already knew that today it was going to be full of gardenias and peonies and that the vicar, a woman, bore a very happy resemblance to Dawn French. It was going to be absolutely wonderful.

  ‘Yes, I’m ready. Let’s go,’ Wendy said, taking her father’s hand, ‘before I start blubbing big time and all this gorgeous make-up comes off.’

  *

  ‘Amazing,’ said Rose, as they saw the two immaculate cars waiting at the bottom of the sweeping set of steps at the front of the building and she felt her own tears threaten to well up. She’d travelled in a Bentley to her wedding to Jason. They’d made the short journey to the little church in Hinklesworth four months before Darcie was born. She’d been a very fat but very happy bride. Oh dear, thought Rose, she really didn’t want to be reminded of her own wedding day, today – it was almost unbearable, when she had no idea if her marriage was surviving or not. If Jason still wanted it or not. She hadn’t heard from him since his last text, and she hadn’t dared text him either. Now she had mentioned it – the affair – she was terrified he was going to confirm it and to receive that dreadful confirmation, via a text, she now decided, would be the worst thing ever. Her only option was to do the modern equivalent of putting her head in the sand: not check her phone.

  Was he going to turn up today? She didn’t know. There would be a place for him at the reception – a seat next to hers, a place set with cutlery, a collection of various glasses, a place card with his name scrolled on it, in fancy writing . . . but would he fill that seat? Would he be by her side, now, and for the rest of her life, or was that space going to be vacant for ever?

  She was ready for him, if he wanted her: she’d had a blitz at home – the whole house, top to bottom – a massive sort out, too, of her stuff. Her clothes and shoes were organised to military level and anything remotely frumpy or unflattering had been packed up and taken to the charity shop. She’d been to the Spa and Beauty Bar, in town, with Darcie, and had had the works done – manicure, pedicure, her eyebrows shaped, her legs waxed, a facial . . . ironically all the things she originally thought they’d be getting on the hen weekend. What she’d got instead was a wake-up call to change her life: Rose was now spruced and groomed and the best version of herself, and she hoped it was enough.

  As she stood on the steps of Sumberley Hall, the thought of a vacant, Jason-shaped space in her life chilled her, so she placed that thought carefully into a small box at the back of her mind and locked it with a mental key. All her focus today would be on Wendy and her friends; nobody wanted a miserable (if not immaculately groomed) bridesmaid who kept looking over to the door to see if her possibly cheating husband had shown up.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Tamsin, standing to her left and looking a little concerned.

  Rose immediately turned her frown upside down. ‘Yes, thank you, I’ll be fine,’ said Rose. ‘Thank you, Tamsin.’

  Tamsin took Rose’s hand and the bridesmaids watched as Wendy and her father got into the first Bentley – a wonderful scene of silk and white roses and unalloyed happiness. Then, careful of their dresses, the four of them got in the Bentley behind.

  ‘How are you feeling, Sal?’ asked Rose, as her friend took her seat with a slight sigh and gratefully reached for a tiny bottle of complimentary water that was wedged in the side pocket of the door.

  ‘Not too bad,’ said Sal, with a stoic smile, ‘the morning sickness is still in its early stages, thank God. Give it a couple of weeks and I’ll be heaving in a bucket, I’m sure! I’m just so damn hungry all the time,’ she added, with a scowl, gulping down a slug of water. ‘Luckily I’ve got a couple of packets of Mini Cheddars tucked in my knickers!’

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘No, of course I haven’t,’ said Sal with a grin, ‘but I’m looking forward to those pre-reception canapés we’ve been promised, I can tell you.’

  She was so happy to be pregnant, thought Rose. So happy. It was such a crying shame that things hadn’t worked out how she’d wanted them with Niall. Sal had been in floods of tears about it, yesterday morning, when they’d met at Liverpool Street Station. She’d relayed the whole fateful conversation with Niall, between sobs, had told how shocked he was, how angry, and had declared bitterly that anyone who needed to run away to ‘think about things’ was not worth thinking about for a moment longer themselves. He’d tried to call her several times last night but Sal wasn’t having any of it. What did he want to say? she’d cried. How angry he still was? How it was officially over? As far as Sal was concerned he’d made his feelings known, loud and clear, and there was no point speaking to him again. She’d switched off her phone in disgust.

  Poor Sal, thought Rose, looking at her now as she swigged at her water and stared out of the window. Sal had loved Niall, the first man she had loved fo
r an awfully long time. It would take her a while to get over him, but Rose knew, once she had, Sal had a lot to be really, really thankful for. She had a baby on the way and a group of really good friends to rally round and support her. She would be fine.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ said JoJo, as they rolled down the picturesque single track lane that took them to the chapel. They had just passed a cute gatehouse, and a couple of sheep. ‘Not a cloud in the sky.’ JoJo was seeing beauty everywhere since the hen weekend, noted Rose – she had been waffling on about the cute little sparrows and those ‘gorgeous’ rhododendron bushes at breakfast on the terrace this morning – and seeing men everywhere, too. It was like a radar that had been stuffed and stitched down the back of her neck for years was now released, up and on the alert. Since they’d arrived at the hotel last night, JoJo had smiled at about ten different men, flirted with a bellboy and been happily chatted up by one of Frederick’s cousins, down from Scotland, despite the fact the guy was three foot nothing and sported the biggest hipster beard in the village, if not the whole country. Last night she’d also told them a few more details about her magnificent one-night stand and Rose was jealous as hell, but still relieved she hadn’t enjoyed one of her own, with Paul. It would not have been the right thing to do and she was really rather proud of how she had taken the moral high road – a road JoJo, in her entirely different position, didn’t need to travel on.

  ‘We’re here,’ said Sal. The Bentley came to a stop outside the chapel and they watched as Wendy stepped out of the car in front onto the path, her dress softly fluttering in the warm breeze. Rose was euphoric for her; she had never seen Wendy so happy, and the four bridesmaids looked at each other and smiled. They had done it: they were about to get Wendy up the aisle.

  They stepped into the tiny lobby of the chapel. ‘Quite a crowd,’ Rose whispered to the others, as she peered through an uneven gap in the heavy wooden doors that led to the nave, beyond which they could hear an expectant buzz: chatter, laughter, the odd shriek and giggle of a child and the discordant tuning of an organ. The chapel was indeed packed. Both sides of the tiny nave were rammed solid with people crammed shoulder to shoulder, bare arm against bare arm, and there were dozens of children squished and wriggling on laps. Frederick had a hell of a lot of family, Wendy had told them – a million cousins, a trillion second cousins, all with hundreds of kids – and Wendy had loads of work colleagues here, flying the flag for her. All scientists. It was funny, considered Rose, her nose to the gap, they really looked like scientists, too. There were an awful lot of side partings and glasses; half of the chapel had turned up as the cast of The Big Bang Theory.

  ‘Come on, Rose,’ hissed Sal. ‘Come away now! We need to regroup before we go in there and face all that lot. And I need you to check if I’ve got lipstick on my teeth.’

  ‘You haven’t,’ said Rose, stepping away from the doors. ‘You’re perfect.’

  ‘We all are,’ said JoJo. ‘OK, Tamsin?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ replied Tamsin.

  ‘Then let’s get into position.’

  The organist started up. You had to have a dodgy organist with more than a few bum notes at a wedding; it was traditional. The vicar – who did indeed look like Dawn French – opened the doors for them and they hovered on the threshold.

  ‘Are you ready, Wendy?’ said JoJo.

  Wendy, on her dad’s arm, beamed. ‘I’m ready.’

  They set off, up the aisle, a little faster than was traditional – it was like Wendy couldn’t wait to get up there – the bridesmaids, like ducklings in a row, behind her. Rose had never been a bridesmaid before and it was all surprisingly nerve-racking, having all eyes on her. And then Frederick’s head turned and everything but Frederick and Wendy and their love for each other melted away. Well, almost everything. Rose grinned, giggles rising within her like bubbles. Frederick was not wearing what Wendy said he was going to be wearing. He was supposed to be pairing a pale gold tie with his morning suit – one of those wide, wedding cravat things. Instead, he was sporting a large bow tie, and not only was it in the bright, cheerful colours of the rainbow, but it was spinning.

  The bridesmaids caught each other’s eyes and grinned. How brilliant. Ultra-conservative Frederick was doing something just for Wendy and it was perfect.

  *

  The photos were taking ages; didn’t they always? They’d all been standing on the little lawn outside the chapel for over an hour. Sal had attempted a little grumble, but Rose could tell her heart wasn’t really in it. Nobody minded it was taking so long; nobody minded anything when the bride and groom looked so ridiculously happy. As they’d stepped outside the chapel, the sun shining and the bells pealing and tumbling over each other – their joyous sound rising to the soft clouds above – Wendy and Frederick, now husband and wife, had looked ecstatic. They’d clutched onto each other’s hands as though for dear life, they’d grinned from ear to just-married ear; they had kept kissing each other every few seconds.

  The ceremony had been absolutely gorgeous. Just . . . perfect. There had been smiles and more than a few tears; when Wendy and Frederick said their vows there had not been a dry eye in the house and Rose’s chin had been wobbling like a just over-turned jelly. It had all been so bloody beautiful. And now they were on the lawn being swept in and out of endless photos. The groom’s family, the bride’s family, the groom’s friends, the bride’s friends, and all the different permutations thereof. It was quite a task and not helped by the fact that the photographer was diminutive and very soft spoken: a tiny chihuahua trying to round up a field of unruly, increasingly half-cut sheep.

  Canapés and Pimm’s were coming out on endless trays from the massive white marquee behind them and Rose was on her second. As she sipped it through a straw she glanced over to the car park again, where she was keeping an eye out for Jason’s Volvo, or the sight of him walking towards her, but there was nothing. She’d glanced to the back of the chapel at one point during the service, as the door had suddenly opened, but it was just one of Frederick’s elderly relatives looking for the loo. So much for her focus . . . Rose bet he wasn’t coming in time; he was probably still on the plane. Or he wasn’t coming at all – he was lying in someone else’s arms on the thirtieth floor of a Hong Kong high-rise, performing the Philharmonic Snorechestra in someone else’s bed. Stop it, she told herself. Stop it now. She must stop thinking like this or she would go mad.

  She realised she’d finished her Pimm’s.

  ‘Would you like another Pimms, JoJo?’ JoJo was standing next to Rose but looking all around her, with a very open and inviting expression on her face. Good Lord, was she checking out eligible men?

  ‘No, I’m all right, thank you.’

  ‘Tamsin?’

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks.’

  ‘I could do with another orange juice,’ said Sal. ‘I’ve got a raging thirst on me, all of a sudden. Bloody pregnancy hormones.’ She grinned.

  ‘I remember them well,’ said Rose – hers had resulted in an addiction to lemon squash and a propensity to lick Oxo cubes. ‘OK, I’ll get you one.’ She looked around her for a waitress with a tray, but they all seemed to have disappeared for the moment; she’d wander into the marquee and get it herself. She was dying to have a bit of a nose inside anyway . . .

  Wow, it was beautiful in there. Everything was white and silver and festooned with the same pale magnolia roses as in Wendy’s bouquet – a very classy scheme as Rose would have expected – but at the centrepiece of each table was a surprising vase of over-abundant, wild, multicoloured flowers. Had Wendy added these, last minute? Had Frederick? They were stunning. Rose made her way to the bar and asked for a Pimm’s and an orange juice. She sat on a high stool and waited for them to be mixed and squeezed. It was so calm and quiet in here. She’d just sit for a while. The photos would still be going on when she got back outside.

  ‘Rose?’

  She turned, surprised, and Jason was standing the
re. Just standing there in a slightly crumpled grey suit and a white shirt and a navy tie, his dark hair all neat – he’d had a haircut; his eyes tired and red-looking. He looked . . . uncertain, and had the disconcertingly attractive beginnings of a five o’clock shadow.

  ‘Rose.’

  ‘You’re here,’ she said. The barman slid the two drinks over to her, but she barely noticed. ‘Thank you,’ she said to him, not daring to turn away from Jason in case he disappeared. ‘So, you’re here,’ she repeated. ‘I didn’t know if you’d make it or not.’

  ‘I got here as soon as I could,’ said Jason. There was a vacant stool next to her; he sat on it and pulled it a little closer to her. Rose’s heart started thudding and her throat went dry. She took a quick sip of the Pimm’s then put it back on the bar. ‘I landed at Heathrow three hours ago. I’ve been pedal to the metal or whatever the expression is. I’m still wearing yesterday’s suit.’

  Rose nodded. She looked down at her lap. She was scared to say anything. She noticed he was holding a cream envelope on his, a wedding card. She’d given one to Wendy already . . . so, Jason wanted to give his own one to the bride and groom? What on earth did that mean?

  ‘You look lovely,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’ She looked up, searching his face. She didn’t know if he was saying that because he meant it or because he felt he was supposed to say it.

  ‘How was the hen weekend?’

  ‘Great. How was Hong Kong?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘It always is,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Look, Rose . . .’ Oh God, here it came. She looked down again. She didn’t want to be looking into his eyes when he told her it was over. ‘I’m not having an affair, Rose.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She looked up and said it quickly, without thinking. It was a ridiculous thing to say – he must know if he was or not! ‘What about Susie?’