Revelry
Page 32
Bella’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh Pops, you look gorgeous. Can I hug you without ruining anything?’
‘Course you can, you silly arse. Come here.’ She flung her little arms around Bella. When she released her, Bella could see that her eyes were suspiciously shiny too. Poppy only cried on the rarest of occasions (unlike Bella, who found herself gently weeping like George Harrison’s guitar with embarrassing frequency now she was in her thirties. Sad news stories, soppy song lyrics, old episodes of Friends she’d seen a million times before – it didn’t take a lot these days).
‘If it wasn’t for you, Belles, I wouldn’t be standing here today. So thanks lovely. For everything.’
They downed their champagne and Poppy added, ‘Looking pretty gorgeous yourself, if I may congratulate myself on my exquisite taste. In friends and clothes.’
‘Such a pretty dress.’ Bella dabbed at her eyes with her fingers, then licked them, trying not to get any watery black residue on her cotton voile halterneck bridesmaid’s frock (she’d predictably forgotten to pack waterproof mascara). She and Poppy had spent ages choosing the exact shade of coral pink that most flattered Bella’s dark hair and eyes.
‘Thanks for not putting me in lilac frills.’
‘It was touch and go, especially when you kept going on about having my hen do at School Disco.’
They both laughed.
‘Shit, look at the time!’ said Bella. It wasn’t hard to miss, a fluorescent LCD display projected against one of the whitewashed walls of the ultra-glamorous, ultra-modern villa. ‘Take one last look at yourself as a single woman, babe. No last minute regrets?’
Poppy shook her golden head. ‘No last minute regrets.’ They both looked at her reflection again, different memories racing through each of their minds. ‘Let’s go then. But you’d better put your knickers on first.’
Mark looked around the crowded beach and smiled broadly. What a way to get hitched, man. Playa S’Estanyol, a little sandy cove halfway up the east coast of Ibiza, was a bugger to get to, located at the bottom of a long and bumpy pine-tree-shaded track, but that hadn’t fazed Mark. He’d relished bombing down in his hired jeep, sending up clouds of white dust, fucking up the tyres and making his girlfriend Sam squeal. And even his unromantic heart had thrilled at the beauty of the beach, nestled into warm yellow rocks and backed by the lush green forest. The scent of pine groves mingled with the sea air and clear tourmaline water lapped the pale shore. Further out, where the ocean changed to navy, pristine white sails breezed across the horizon.
Nudists habitually basked on the rocks and in the crystal waters at the southernmost end of the beach, but today they’d kept away out of deference to the nuptials. Spoilsports. In Mark’s experience, the more a nudist wanted to flaunt their bits in your face, the older and saggier they were (Scandinavians aside), but sometimes a young chick with a hot bod slipped through the net and he wasn’t above a sneaky peek. Still, it was early season, only May, and although it was a beautiful day, in the high 20s already, the sea was probably still cold enough to freeze your nuts off.
Arctic camouflage material fluttered above the stone-clad bar/restaurant area, giving a dappled shade to the tables that had been laid for the wedding feast. Sam had said it looked like crochet from a distance. Now she was ordering a drink at the bar, possibly unaware of the fact that every male eye on the beach was currently feasting on her.
That’s my girl, thought Mark proudly, taking in her pretty little body in its short yellow dress, huge knockers threatening to burst through the thin floral fabric. Her long, straightened, henna-red hair was caught by the breeze as she noticed him watching her. A genuine smile lit up her sweet young face and she waved, tottering over the sand on foolish heels. Mark could have fucked her right there, in front of everybody.
‘Isn’t this wicked?’ She breathed in her husky voice as she reached him. ‘I can’t wait to see Poppy’s dress. And Bella’s. I bet Poppy’s got her something really nice to wear – they’re such good mates. Not like when Karen made me wear puke green satin.’ She made a face to illustrate and Mark laughed.
‘You’d look gorgeous in anything, babe.’
Much as Mark couldn’t believe his luck about Sam, he had long harboured threesome fantasies about Poppy and Bella: Poppy so fair, Bella so dark, both of them so fit. And he’d nearly had his wicked way with Bella a couple of times last year. But that was before she got together with Andy. And before he met Sam, of course.
Damian was doing the rounds, sweating slightly in his cream linen suit. He’d be glad when he could take the bloody jacket off. It was great seeing all their friends and family gathered on the beautiful beach, the result of months of excited planning. The planning had been amazing, without doubt the best nine months of his life. He’d nearly lost Poppy last year, in more ways than one, and the joy he’d felt when she surprised him with a proposal had been overwhelming. Relief had turned to magical excitement as they planned every last detail of what they hoped would be the best day of their lives, and he’d never felt closer to anyone. But by God was he nervous now. He was almost 100% sure he was doing the right thing.
‘Not getting cold feet are you, darling?’ asked Simon, his best man and fellow journalist on the men’s style magazine Stadium. ‘Here, have some of this.’ He passed him his drink, an ice-cold White Russian.
‘Thanks mate.’ Damian took a swig. ‘And no I’m not. Well – maybe a bit.’ He laughed. ‘But only stage fright, not the till death do us part bit, I’m absolutely convinced about that.’ He looked at Simon through his wraparound rock-star shades, fully aware of what most of his friends had made of Poppy’s behaviour the previous year. ‘And I’m bloody hot in this suit.’
‘Il faut souffrir pour être belle.’ Simon’s affected campery could be misleading sometimes. ‘Anyway, you’re lookin’ mighty fine, dude.’ And Damian was. The cream linen set off his half-Indian, half-Welsh complexion beautifully and the sharp cut emphasised his lean build. The shades, which he planned to take off during the ceremony, concealed soulful dark eyes that slanted down at the corners.
‘But maybe you should have taken a leaf out of that couple’s book.’ Simon was now laughing in the direction of an ageing pair of ravers in matching purple sarongs. The man was bare-chested, the woman improbably pert-breasted in a gold and lilac paisley bandeau bikini top. They were boogeying barefoot in the sand to Moby, half-pissed already by the look of it.
‘That’s Bella’s Dad and his latest,’ said Damian, laughing too now and waving over at them. ‘Hey Justin, hey Jilly.’ They waved back, blowing kisses.
‘You don’t mind them not making more of an effort?’ Simon was very conscious of his own and others’ sartorial standards. Today he was impeccably dressed in a white open-necked shirt under a similar suit to Damian’s (only in a muted café au lait shade, so as not to upstage the groom).
‘Why do you think we’re getting married on a beach, you twat?’
He just wished Poppy would hurry up so they could get this over with.
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
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Copyright © Lucy Lord 2012
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