Bridesmaids

by Jane Costello

  He answers the door wearing jeans and a T-shirt which shows off the definition in his arms to such an off-putting degree I know immediately I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else tonight.

  ‘Come in,’ he says, taking off my coat as I am enveloped in a fantastic aroma, which for once isn’t coming from him.

  ‘You do like Thai food, don’t you?’ he says as we go through to the kitchen so he can stir his sauce.

  ‘Love it,’ I say.

  Then somehow, and I honestly don’t know how, something happens which brings our conversation to an immediate end. It might be the spices invading our senses or, more probably, the simple fact that this has been building up for weeks. Whatever it is, within seconds of my arrival Jack and I are in each other’s arms, kissing–no, not kissing, devouring–each other.

  With our mouths exploring each other’s and his body pressing hard against mine, we stumble across the room until we find ourselves next to the breakfast bar. Jack lifts me up onto a stool, kissing every inch of my collarbone as I wrap my legs around his waist. Something takes over me as I grab his T-shirt and, determinedly, lift it over his head to expose the smooth, toned muscles of his torso.

  Item by item, we undress each other until we are both almost naked, Jack is inside me and we are swept away in a bliss I can confidently say I have simply never experienced before.

  The Thai red curry frantically boils over and the rice turns into mush. Dinner is certain to be inedible.

  But, quite frankly, neither of us care.

  Chapter 85

  My flat, Monday, 21 May

  We didn’t move from Jack’s flat for two full days. Honestly, I was waiting for the Missing Persons Bureau to turn up after an intensive forty-eight-hour search, only to find us lazing about in bed having survived on nothing but toast, black coffee and a healthy helping of lust.

  Tonight, I’ve been on a late shift at work and so we’ve agreed we won’t see each other until tomorrow. Apart from anything else, there is a big part of me that thinks I really ought to spend a night by myself just to prove I can do it without pining for him.

  At least, that was the theory. It’s now almost 10 p.m. and as I open the door to my flat and flop in front of the television, the news is on and I wonder if he’s watching it too. I immediately shake the thought out of my head. I am getting concerned that I’m becoming a bit pathetic now.

  Tonight, when I was covering a story about a protest by fox-hunters, it made me wonder where Jack stood on animal rights. When I went to the ladies and looked in the mirror, it made me think about him kissing my forehead last night. I even found myself doodling his name on my shorthand pad when I was meant to be taking down some quotes from a local councillor. The last time I did that with a boy’s name, Duran Duran were in the charts. In short, I’ve been thinking about Jack Williamson more or less constantly.

  But it’s not all been good. Because at the back of my mind I still can’t shake the nagging feeling I have about that phone call from Beth. Should I challenge him about it? Or would that make him run a mile? I’m thinking about this very issue–again–when my mobile rings.

  ‘Just thought I’d phone to see how your evening was,’ says Jack.

  Despite what was going through my mind a second ago, the sound of his voice makes me smile. In fact, it makes me smile so widely, I know I couldn’t look more uncool if I was wearing Clark Kent’s glasses.

  ‘Oh, fabulous,’ I tell him. ‘I had a succession of nutters on the phone. One wanted me to do a story about him being ripped off by a guy who’d sold him some dodgy cannabis.’

  Jack laughs. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I advised him to contact Trading Standards,’ I say. ‘What about your night?’

  ‘Nothing like as exciting,’ he says. ‘I was torn between catching up with a load of work, fixing the skirting board in the living room and watching repeats of M.A.S.H. on satellite.’

  ‘It’d have been Hot Lips Houlihan all the way for me,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, well, she pretty much won the day,’ he agrees. ‘But I have to say, I had a much better night last night.’

  I smile again, this time from ear to ear.

  ‘Me too,’ I purr. ‘In fact, if you don’t think it’s too forward, I’d like to do it again some time.’

  ‘I do think it’s forward,’ he tells me, ‘and I’m very glad you’d like to do it again some time, because as far as I’m concerned, you can do so as often as you want.’

  ‘Ah, but will I get breakfast in bed every time?’ I say.

  ‘Is that all you want me for?’ he asks, sounding hurt.

  ‘Hmm, that and your body,’ I tell him.

  By the time the conversation ends an hour and a half later and I’m climbing into bed, I have to force myself to think about some of the other things I’m meant to be thinking about at the moment. Benno, aka my pal DI Gregg Benson, and his story about Pete Gibson’s goings-on (which I’m still plugging away at), Polly’s fifth birthday next week, my mother’s wedding…Oh God, yes–my mother’s wedding!

  Only three weeks to go, and while she’s sorted out a woman to dye her headdress and someone to apply her henna tattoos, there are still other matters she’s ‘working on’.

  Like invitations. And transport. And music.

  Why do I think I’d be better relying on a three-year-old to organize this wedding?

  Chapter 86

  My mum’s house, Scarisbrick, Lancashire, Friday, 8 June

  I answer the door to Valentina, who is grinning madly and carrying a suitcase so big that if it had wheels you’d call it a caravan.

  ‘Are you embarking on a round-the-world trip or something?’ I ask, grabbing the handle of her case to help her hoist it up the stairs.

  ‘If you’re referring to my case,’ she says, ‘I promise you Harvey Nicks have some far less modest ones.’

  ‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me,’ I tell her.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ she says, uncharacteristically chirpily, ‘but just for the record, I have got both myself and Charlotte to attend to today, which means I had to bring double the amount of cosmetics. We have completely different skin tones.’

  I study her expression for a second.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask. I’ve never seen Valentina smiling quite so broadly before, largely because she’s worried about triggering the onset of premature wrinkles.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replies mysteriously. ‘Oh yes indeed.’

  We finally get up to my mother’s bedroom which, with its riot of batiks and ethnic throws, looks like a cross between a charity shop and an opium den. The overall feel of the place is shabby chic without the chic. And with six people crammed into it, it’s also already starting to feel a little bit claustrophobic.

  ‘Valentina! Lovely to see you!’ says my mum, kissing her on the cheek.

  Mum has spent all morning in her dressing-gown, with her red hair pinned up in tight kiss curls, which I strongly suspect are going to make her look like a Muppet when they come out.

  ‘Thank you, Sarah,’ beams Valentina. ‘And how are you today? Nervous?’

  ‘Oh no,’ says Mum. ‘I don’t tend to get nervous. I’ve done too much yoga over the years–I think nervousness is beyond me.’

  ‘All that dope you smoked in the seventies probably helped too,’ I put in.

  The doorbell rings again and Valentina jauntily offers to go and get it, although she’s probably glad to get away from all the joss sticks, which must be clashing dreadfully with her DKNY Be Delicious perfume.

  It’s Charlotte, Grace and Gloria Flowerdew, my mum’s friend and another of her many bridesmaids, wearing her trademark dungarees. What with my two younger cousins, Deborah and Jasmine, as well as Denise–who works on reception at the place where my mum teaches yoga–the number of people in the room is now starting to give it the air of a third-world bazaar.

  ‘Right, Charlotte,’ says Valentina, guiding her over to the edg
e of the bed. ‘How shall we do your make-up today?’

  ‘Oh, er, I don’t mind,’ says Charlotte. ‘You always do it nicely. Just do what you think.’

  ‘Right,’ says Valentina, looking for some reason as if this wasn’t the response she was expecting.

  ‘What do you think, Grace?’ she adds, tilting Charlotte’s chin upwards. ‘I reckon some soft apricot swept across her eyelids would really bring out her colouring, don’t you?’

  Grace, who is rummaging around in her handbag, looks up momentarily.

  ‘Definitely,’ she says, before going back to trying to locate her mobile.

  Having grinned more than the average Cheshire cat since she got here, Valentina, for some reason, is starting to look unhappy. This time, she turns to me as I’m putting my own make-up on in the mirror.

  ‘Evie,’ she says, ‘those colours you’re using might be nice for Charlotte too. What do you think?’

  Then she does the weirdest thing. She places both hands on my shoulders and leans down to look at me in the mirror as she’s talking. It’s the sort of chummy physical contact you might expect between two pals in their third year at Mallory Towers. From Valentina it’s as suspicious as a brown parcel making a ticking noise.

  ‘I’m sure you’re a far better judge of these sorts of things,’ I tell her.

  She pulls away and crosses her arms, now looking really annoyed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask. ‘There is something the matter, isn’t there?’

  ‘Well, now you mention it, yes,’ she says.

  ‘Well, come on then, spit it out.’

  ‘This!’ she squeals, thrusting her left hand in front of my face, as the room falls silent.

  On the third finger along she is wearing a diamond ring. No, not just any old diamond ring.

  This diamond ring is so big you could use it as a paperweight.

  Chapter 87

  ‘Bloody hell!’ comes a cry from the other side of the room.

  It’s Denise, and she is rushing towards us. Grabbing Valentina’s hand, she examines the ring while Valentina at last looks mildly satisfied.

  ‘I was going to get one of those!’ exclaims Denise in the sort of tones that make Coleen McLoughlin sound as if she’s had a lifetime of elocution lessons.

  Valentina’s face drops. ‘I don’t think you were,’ she says snootily, turning her nose up.

  ‘I was,’ insists Denise.

  ‘No,’ insists Valentina back, snatching her hand away. ‘No, you weren’t.’

  ‘Honestly,’ continues Denise innocently, ‘it’s Diamontique, isn’t it? They had them on that shopping channel last week. They are gorgeous. You lucky thing.’

  Valentina looks as if she’s going to faint.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ asks Charlotte diplomatically.

  Our friend dramatically perches herself on the edge of my mother’s bed, the back of her hand on her brow.

  ‘This is not, I repeat, not Diamon-whatever,’ she says firmly.

  ‘Diamontique,’ corrects Denise, clearly oblivious to the distress she’s managing to elicit.

  ‘This,’ stresses Valentina, ‘is a genuine five-carat diamond, perfectly cut and one of a kind. Master craftsmen have toiled away for months to create the most beautiful, the most unique and the most perfect engagement ring anyone could ever hope to find. And more importantly, it cost a bloody arm and a leg!’

  Poor Denise is finally silenced.

  ‘You’re engaged?’ asks Grace, incredulous.

  ‘Is that so hard to believe?’ Valentina sounds slightly hysterical now.

  ‘Yes–I mean no,’ Grace flusters. ‘What I mean is, you’ve only known Edmund for a matter of weeks, haven’t you? Isn’t it a little soon?’

  ‘We’re in love,’ growls Valentina.

  Charlotte leans down to give her a hug.

  ‘Well, I’m delighted for you,’ she says simply. ‘You deserve it, Valentina.’

  This, for some reason, seems to snap everyone into action and they all start fussing and congratulating her. When it dies and people begin to concentrate on their curlers and mascara again, I go over to Valentina.

  ‘Well done,’ I say. ‘It’s fantastic news, brilliant. So when did he ask you to marry him?’

  ‘Oh, yesterday,’ she says. ‘It was very romantic.’

  ‘Did he get down on one knee?’

  ‘Between you and me, not exactly,’ she whispers. ‘We were in the middle of a particularly athletic technique I’d read about in Cosmopolitan at the time. But then I can’t complain. I was only expecting a multiple orgasm from it and ended up with a fiancé. What more could a girl ask for, from a quiet night in?’

  Chapter 88

  I think the others first started to wonder about the nature of this wedding when my mother announced that we were all to just bring our own bridesmaid dresses. There were no fittings, no months of wading through bridal magazines, nothing more in fact than a simple instruction: wear purple–if you like.

  I warned Mum at first that there were so many of us, we were in danger of looking like a walking bunch of grapes. But it’s only now we’re all here that I realize just how many shades of purple actually exist. In fact, we are a veritable rainbow of colours, ranging from Avon Lady pink to the sort of maroon you’d find on the upholstery of a 1982 Cortina.

  Still, some of us don’t look half-bad.

  There was something about Jack being here today as my official steady boyfriend that prompted me to make what Valentina referred to in amazement as ‘an effort’. I’m talking manicure, hair done by a half-decent stylist and a dress that has sent my overdraft into freefall.

  Charlotte, meanwhile, is also a revelation in the dress–the size 12 dress–I helped pick out with her. Grace looks nice, if slightly dishevelled because she was in such a rush this morning. Although she’s not pleased that Valentina has spent all morning offering her Eye Rescue Treatment.

  Valentina is sporting her usual look–footballer’s wife meets high-class call girl–and is already dazzling everyone in sight with the blingiest ring outside a P Diddy video.

  That said, given this event involves my mum’s friends too, I can’t say with any conviction that the standard of dress here today is averagely high. From Gloria with her 1970s maternity smock to Penelope with her culottes, if the fashion police turned up today, some of this lot wouldn’t just be convicted, they’d end up on Death Row.

  Still, nobody will be surprised about this when they see what the bride herself is wearing. As we reach the front of the register office, I sit down with the other bridesmaids and the guests have the opportunity to see Mum’s wedding dress in all its glory.

  Bob turns towards her and smiles as if she is the most beautiful person in the world. I’ve always known he was slightly mad and this has just confirmed it. Because everybody else just gasps.

  The most striking element of the bride’s dress is that it is green and when I say green, I mean she could start traffic with it. As for the design, the bottom half is fine–full-length, swirly–but the top has a peculiar neckline that involves both a halter neck–an alarmingly low-cut halter neck–and collars. It is the sort of thing Margot Ledbetter of The Good Life would have worn to a swingers’ party. The look is embellished further by a headdress made from a single enormous peacock feather which could have been raided from a Museum of Native American culture.

  The registrar, an aged gentleman who, judging by his tweed jacket, clearly isn’t a fan of experimental fashion himself, looks almost shell-shocked by the vision before him and has to compose himself before beginning.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he says meekly. ‘May I start by welcoming you here on this very special day. Today, Sarah and Bob are here to offer each other the security that comes from legally binding vows, sincerely made and faithfully kept. You are here to witness this occasion and to share the joy which is theirs.

  ‘But before we begin the main part of the ceremony, there
will be a short reading by, er, Ms Gloria Flowerdew.’

  Gloria nearly knocks everyone out with the overpowering pong of patchouli oil as she walks past.

  ‘Er, hi, everyone,’ she says, holding up her fingers to make the peace sign, and begins to recite the words to some poem.

  It all sounds strangely familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on where I’ve heard it before. It’s only when she reaches the main body of the text that I actually realize what she’s reading.

  ‘Thank you, Gloria,’ says the registrar, at the end. ‘That reading was an extract from, ah, “Baby Light My Fire” by The Door Knobs.’

  There is a smattering of giggles.

  ‘The Doors,’ I whisper to him. ‘Just The Doors.’

  ‘Oh, ah, right–just The Doors,’ he corrects himself, embarrassed.

  The poor guy looks as if he’s spent a lifetime marrying people. But I’ll guarantee he’s never encountered anything like this before.

  Chapter 89

  Outside the register office, the sun is shining and the mood is one of general elation.

  ‘You look really happy,’ I tell my mum affectionately.

  ‘I am really happy,’ she says, looking surprised as I lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘What was that for?’ she asks.

  I shrug. ‘I’m just really happy for you too.’

  God, I’ve turned soppy lately. Even though my mother looks as if she’s been playing with the contents of a dressing-up box, when she and Bob were saying their vows earlier, I actually had a tear in my eye. What that’s all about, I don’t know. Well, maybe I do.

  As the guests start pouring out of the register office, we find ourselves in a blizzard of confetti which is, my mum spends a long time reassuring everyone, 100 per cent biodegradable.