Bridesmaids

by Jane Costello

  ‘You said that about fellatio last week,’ Georgia points out. ‘You told me you could make a man’s hair stand on end.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ smiles Valentina. ‘That too.’

  Chapter 47

  The ceremony is short and touchingly sweet. Georgia cries, Georgia’s mother cries, Valentina pretends to cry and those of us close enough can even see Pete’s lip wobbling a bit.

  It takes place on an enormous terrace overlooking the bay, with the sun warming our skin and an audience so big I feel as if I know what it’s like to play the Royal Albert Hall.

  I spend the entire ceremony with my back to the guests, wondering where Jack is sitting and whether it’s obvious I’m squeezing my bum in to try to make it look smaller.

  Like many of the guests, he wasn’t due to arrive on the island until this morning, but I know he’s here because Grace saw him having brunch. He had fruit followed by scrambled eggs and toast, apparently. Granary. Two slices, no butter. I think Grace has a future career in the Secret Service, if she ever wants one.

  As Georgia and Pete kiss for the first time as man and wife, my spirits lift, knowing that I’m about to come face to face with Jack again. If I actually manage to locate him, that is.

  I walk down the aisle behind the happy couple, Valentina and Beth, and in front of Grace, Charlotte and Gina, trying to seek him out as surreptitiously as I possibly can.

  Suddenly, I feel a prod in the back and glance over my shoulder to see what Grace is drawing my attention to. I spot him immediately. Looking over at our procession is the only one of my ex-boyfriends here today. Fortunately, it’s one of the few I actually don’t mind being here.

  Seb and I went out together at university for seven whole weeks, which at the time was a performance I was pretty pleased with–although had I known I’d still be single so many years later, I might not have been so self-congratulating.

  Seb eventually suffered the same fate as all my subsequent romantic dalliances, but the whole thing was undoubtedly a more bittersweet affair.

  I can’t even remember what it was that made us split up, but what I do remember is that there was no sense of relief when it happened. Far from it. In fact, at the time I’m sure I actually regretted it. I even thought about telling him, but by the time I’d got my act together it was too late and he was with someone else.

  Anyway, why this blip in an otherwise unshakably predictable pattern should have occurred I’ve never been able to work out. But the plus side to all this at least is that bumping into him–and it’s been at least two years since the last time–isn’t anything like the traumatic affair it is with the others.

  When he catches me looking at him, Seb smiles and holds up his hand to give me a little wave. I smile back but am prevented from waving both by convention and by the bloody great bouquet I’m carrying; it’s so heavy I’m convinced someone’s hidden a dumbbell underneath all this foliage.

  ‘He’s not looking half-bad these days,’ whispers Grace as we get to the back of the room.

  I hate to admit it, but she’s right.

  Chapter 48

  Apparently, nobody has informed the photographer that this is supposed to be a celebration. With sideburns like Brillo pads and a complexion so ruddy it could have been blow-torched, this guy appears to have taken charm lessons from the Gestapo.

  ‘Right, if you’d just all move a bit closer together,’ he bellows. ‘Closer, please!’

  Grabbing the arm of an elderly lady dressed in migraine-inducing cerise, he shoves her towards her neighbour. He seems completely unable to appreciate that getting this number of people into the right position isn’t going to happen instantaneously.

  ‘You bridesmaids, you need to move forward. No, not that far!’ he shouts. ‘Stop there. No, not there, backwards a bit.’

  Valentina is pouting and for once I can understand why. But someone soon changes that.

  ‘I could have sworn I saw someone like you at the last wedding I went to,’ says a voice behind me which I recognise immediately as Jack’s.

  I hold my hand up to my mouth to try to suppress a smile.

  ‘Bridesmaid on the left, can you put your hand down, please,’ the photographer trumpets. ‘Right, let’s try again, shall we?’

  ‘If you don’t behave yourself, Miss Hart, you’ll be sent to the back,’ the voice behind me whispers.

  I try not to smirk, fearing that I will look like a professional gurner on these photos if I’m not careful.

  ‘I can do without you trying to get me into trouble,’ I lean back and murmur through my cardboard cut-out smile.

  ‘It’s hardly my fault if you can’t do what you’re meant to do properly,’ he replies. ‘I bet you were always in detention at school, weren’t you?’

  I’m trying to think of something witty to say in reply when the photographer instructs everyone but the bride and bridesmaids to stand down. The entire wedding party surges towards the hotel, all clearly desperate for a drink, and it becomes apparent that Georgia might have benefited from hiring some crowd control for this event.

  ‘Looks like I’m going to have to leave you to it,’ says Jack, smiling widely. ‘I’ll catch you later, shall I?’

  Yes, please.

  One of the things I am starting to learn about weddings is that the photos take such a long time that by the time they’re finished, most of the guests are already pissed, and the main wedding party has all got leg cramp. Almost an hour and ten minutes after this marathon began, I’m afraid I start to get rather fed up.

  ‘Have you seen the time?’ I say to Grace, who is next to me.

  ‘What about it?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s gone five p.m. and we’re all completely sober. It doesn’t feel right at a wedding somehow.’

  ‘I heard that,’ says Georgia.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, holding my hands up. ‘I wasn’t complaining, honest.’

  Patently, I was.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she says. Then: ‘Listen, Bruce,’ she tells the photographer, ‘from now on, let’s just have natural shots, shall we? Come on, girls, where’s the bar?’

  She marches ahead, leaving Mr Brillo Pads hopelessly redundant, while the rest of us attempt to follow her as daintily as is practical on a beach when you’re wearing two-inch heels. When we reach the terrace, I turn to Grace and take a deep breath.

  ‘Is my mascara intact?’ I ask her.

  She smirks. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hair okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How about lipstick?’

  ‘Evie,’ she says, ‘you look gorgeous. So gorgeous, in fact, that if you don’t manage to pull Jack tonight you never bloody will.’

  Chapter 49

  The reception is in a huge room packed with the sort of wedding paraphernalia you wouldn’t usually find outside a twenty-page Hello! magazine spread. There are four-foot table centrepieces made from white roses and feathers, an eight-tier cake covered in white chocolate and berries, and an enormous net above us filled with balloons.

  ‘Aren’t the feathers fun?’ says my mother, approaching me with two glasses in her hand. ‘I must ask Georgia where she got them from.’

  ‘Given that your reception is being held in a field, Mum, I’m not sure the Full Length and Fabulous look would quite work,’ I reply, taking a glass from her.

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking about them for the reception,’ she says. ‘I thought I could get a head-dress made. You know, something a bit Moulin Rouge. Of course, they’d need to be in a colour to match my dress. I told you I’ve settled on green, didn’t I?’

  Whether the Isles of Scilly were ready for my mother’s dress sense, I’m not entirely sure, but her unique style is unleashed on them to full effect today. She has chosen a purple poncho, a floppy sixties-style hat and a skirt so short that it should be illegal for a woman her age.

  The only positive thing I could possibly say about this ensemble is that she has at least got half-decent legs. It’s just a sham
e they’re currently sporting a pair of orange paisley tights that make her look as if she is suffering from the early stages of gangrene.

  ‘Hello,’ says a voice, and I whirl around, my pulse racing. It’s Jack. ‘I thought you must have been swept out to sea, you were all outside with that photographer for so long.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I say, gazing into his eyes.

  He looks back at me as if he’s trying to tell me something. I just can’t quite work out what.

  ‘I’m Jack,’ he says eventually, extending his hand for my mother to shake.

  Oh God, my mother. For some reason I’d had momentary amnesia about her being present. In her mad hat. And hideous tights. And…oh Mum, please behave yourself.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she says, smiling. ‘I’m Sarah–Evie’s mum. You’re one of my daughter’s ex-boyfriends, I presume?’

  The woman is a liability.

  ‘No, Mum,’ I leap in. ‘Jack is—’

  ‘Oh, sorry. It’s just that she seems to have amassed so many of them these days,’ she adds, for good measure. ‘Everywhere I go, I bump into someone she’s been out with.’

  ‘Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!’ I blurt out, wanting to throttle her. ‘That’s a good one, Mum. Anyway, er, right…er…’

  I’m trying to steer the conversation around to a subject that won’t let my mother embarrass me. But somehow it’s very difficult to think of one.

  ‘Well, it’s great to meet you, Sarah,’ says Jack. ‘Although I’d already guessed you were mother and daughter. You look very alike.’

  God help me! I hope he doesn’t think I’ve got a similar wardrobe.

  ‘Ooh, just excuse me for a second,’ says my mum. ‘I’m absolutely starved.’

  I’m hoping she’s going to disappear to try to find something to eat, but sadly not. Instead, she almost rugby tackles a waitress passing with a tray of canapés right in front of us.

  ‘You don’t know whether any of these are organic, do you?’ she asks.

  The waitress, who looks like she’s barely old enough to have left school, shakes her head. ‘I don’t. Sorry.’

  ‘Anything with gelatine in?’

  The girl shakes her head again. ‘Not sure,’ she says.

  ‘Anything vegan?’

  ‘Er, I think maybe that’s a spinach one,’ she says, pointing at something vaguely green perched on top of a square of puff pastry.

  ‘And the pastry hasn’t got any animal fat in?’

  ‘I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Mum,’ I interrupt. ‘Do you really have to ask all this?’

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘And you should too, young lady, with your allergies.’

  My allergies consist of one–to shellfish–and even then I haven’t had a reaction to that in years.

  ‘Now, where was I,’ says my mother. ‘How about the eggs–are they free-range?’

  The waitress looks as though, if she’s asked another question, her head might explode.

  ‘I can go and ask Chef, if you’d like,’ she offers.

  My mother shrugs. ‘Tell you what, I’ll take my chances, shall I?’ she says, and proceeds to load up a napkin with enough canapés for a small family to survive on for two days.

  I try to think of something to say to Jack to distract him from this bizarre interlude, but again, I’m struggling to find anything appropriate.

  ‘Is your bedroom nice?’ I enquire, and immediately realise he might think I’m looking for an invitation to a private view.

  ‘Not because I want to see it,’ I add hastily. ‘Well, I mean, I wouldn’t mind seeing it. But, not because I want to–well, you know.’ Oh God.

  ‘Er, mine’s got a veranda,’ I offer. You prat, Evie. Even my mother has paused from wolfing down her canapés and is wondering what I’m going on about.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ says Jack.

  ‘It is what?’ I ask. ‘I mean, what is? I mean…what?’

  ‘Yes, my bedroom is nice,’ he says calmly. ‘And it’s got a veranda overlooking the bay. Actually, it’s spectacular. I’ve never been to the Scillies before and I’m starting to wonder why. It’d be nice to come back for a bit longer, some time.’

  ‘Hmm, it is a lovely place, isn’t it?’ says my mum. ‘And all this luxury is such a treat. I’m not used to it. My holidays are usually very different.’

  Oh no. Don’t mention the week clearing up pollution in Egypt. Don’t mention the week clearing up pollution in Egypt. Please don’t mention the week clearing up pollution in Egypt.

  ‘I’ve just spent a week clearing up pollution in Egypt,’ Mum announces.

  ‘Funnily enough, a girl I work with did something similar,’ says Jack. ‘She loved it. And she actually made it sound enjoyable.’

  ‘You see?’ says my mother to me. She then turns back to Jack. ‘Evie thinks I’m mad.’

  ‘I know you’re mad,’ I mutter.

  ‘Well, I can see why it wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea,’ says Jack. ‘But I’d choose it over a week in Benidorm any day.’

  ‘You see?’ Mum repeats to me. ‘That’s what I think. Evie, you should listen to your friends more.’

  I do not like the way this conversation is going.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say, ‘I’d choose it over a week in Benidorm too,’ which isn’t actually true, ‘but there are lots of other places I’d rather go to instead. I’m not one of these people whose idea of foreign travel doesn’t extend beyond an 18-30s brochure, as you know.’

  ‘Well, no,’ says my mum. ‘Plus, you’ll soon be too old anyway.’

  Chapter 50

  The table plan may have been hand-crafted from crystals and white gold leaf, but there is one thing I don’t like about it. Jack and I are not sitting together.

  Worse still, he has been put next to another bridesmaid, Georgia’s Cousin Beth. Not only is she years younger than me, but with her sultry brunette looks she is effortlessly glamorous.

  Still, it’s not all bad. I am at least sitting next to Jim, which will give me the opportunity to find out whether he likes Charlotte’s new look.

  ‘What do you think of Charlotte’s transformation?’ I ask as the starter arrives.

  ‘She looks incredible,’ says Jim. ‘Really different. Although I thought she looked nice before too.’

  I grin.

  ‘Every time I see you, you ask me about Charlotte,’ he adds. ‘Anyone would think you were trying to set us up.’

  ‘Me?’ I say. ‘Nothing could have been further from my mind.’

  I pause for a second while he raises a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘All right, if I were,’ I continue, ‘and I mean if–you could do far worse than Charlotte. She’s an absolute angel.’

  Jim laughs. ‘Very subtle,’ he says. ‘But look, I know. I don’t need any persuasion.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No. I told you last time,’ he says. ‘I think she’s lovely.’

  I’m waiting for the ‘but’ as in, ‘I think she’s lovely but I just don’t fancy her.’

  ‘And I really like her,’ he concludes.

  ‘But?’ I say.

  ‘There’s no but,’ he tells me. ‘I like her. Really like her. There, you happy now?’

  ‘When you say you like her,’ I persist, taking another mouthful of my smoked salmon and lime crème fraiche, ‘really like her, do you mean you’re interested in her, you know, romantically?’

  Even I think this sounds ridiculously twee, but I can’t think of any other way of putting it.

  ‘Yes,’ he grins. ‘God, what more do I have to say? Yes, I think she’s lovely. Yes, I’m interested in her. Yes, I fancy her. You satisfied now?’

  ‘You fancy her?’ I echo, nearly leaping out of my seat. ‘Really? That’s fantastic! That’s bloody fantastic. God, you’re made for each other.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not so sure,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ he says, ‘I don’t think the feel
ing’s mutual.’

  I can’t believe this guy.

  ‘But it is!’ I tell him. ‘I promise you it is.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he says again, clearly unconvinced. ‘I just never got that impression.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just Charlotte,’ I say. ‘She’s hopeless. What I mean is, she can be a bit shy. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

  ‘And you think that’s all it is?’

  ‘Definitely. Leave it with me,’ I say.

  I can’t wait to tell Charlotte the news.

  Chapter 51

  I don’t actually need to go to the loo. But heading to the ladies after dessert at least allows me to make a long and completely unnecessary diversion past Jack’s table. I straighten my dress and breathe in as I head in his direction, trying to conceal the alarming and immediate effect a large piece of cheesecake with wild berry compote has had on the shape of my stomach.

  As I approach, I see Beth leaning on the table towards Jack, laughing, twirling a piece of hair round her finger and pouting so much she’d make Angelina Jolie look as if she needed lip implants. She, I notice guiltily, has declined her dessert. I attempt to breathe in even further and start to walk past, hoping Jack might catch my eye.

  But he doesn’t–and I bet I know why. If there were such a thing as a flirting contest, Beth would be going for a record-breaking gold medal. She’s gazing into his eyes so deeply, he must have as intimate a knowledge of her corneas as an optician by now.

  From the angle I’m at right now, I can’t see Jack’s face–despite my straining to see what his reaction is to this full-on flirtation. But from behind, I can’t help thinking he doesn’t look overly worried about the fact that his personal space is being invaded with all the determination of a crack military squad. I feel a stab of jealousy. And I don’t like it one bit.

  I force myself to snap out of it by doing a U-turn and taking another route to the loo, grabbing Charlotte on the way. It may as well not be a completely wasted journey.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ I say, linking her arm with mine.