‘The bathroom’s next door. It’s all yours; we have an en suite.’ Alice puts my case down. ‘Bathrooms are very big here. In both senses. One of Sam’s clients has seven in his house.’
I’m still gazing around the room. ‘I have to warn you, I may never leave.’
‘Come on, let’s go back on the terrace and I’ll get you something to drink,’ says Alice. ‘Do you want some iced green tea? I know it sounds dubious but I’ve got addicted to it. Go out, sit, enjoy the sun.’
I watch Alice swish over to the giant fridge, heels clacking on the floor. She’s wearing much more make-up than she used to, but it suits her. I can’t believe this is her actual life. When we were younger, I was always so impressed by Alice’s achievements. Four years older than me, she could ride a bike without stabilisers, do up her laces when I was still on Velcro, and tell the time on a proper clock when I could only do digital. She could even do cartwheels. Sitting on the terrace, and looking out at the canals, I feel as if I’m seven years old again and she’s cartwheeling all around me.
‘So how are things going with the wedding?’ I ask, as she sits down opposite me and hands me a tumbler of iced green tea. I take a sip; it’s surprisingly delicious.
‘Fine! Fine. Great,’ she says brightly. A tad manically, in fact. ‘It’s just, you know, a lot of work. And we’ve both been so busy settling into the house and our new jobs and doing visa and immigration stuff – I’m frightened at how much there still is to sort out wedding-wise.’
I nod understandingly. I’ve seen the rom-coms; she probably just needs help making her final eyeshadow decision or reassurance that the swan ice sculptures won’t melt. ‘Well, I’m here to help. Call me Lily Wedding Services, Inc. In fact, let’s make a list right now.’
‘Are you sure, Lil? You’re just off the plane.’
‘No, it’s fine! I feel really awake now. Let’s do it.’
‘If you’re positive … I’ll go and get the spreadsheet.’
A spreadsheet? Is she joking? But sure enough, she reappears with a laptop and opens up a forbidding-looking Excel file.
‘So,’ she says, opening it up, ‘there are things that only we can do – like, we still haven’t agreed on the song for our first dance, or written our vows …’
‘You have to write your own vows?’
‘Yes! That’s what they do here; it has to be all personal and heartfelt. But we’ve been so busy and knackered, we haven’t been able to face it. Which doesn’t seem like a great omen.’ She looks so despondent that I’m even more determined to sort everything out for her.
‘What else? Tell me the essentials.’
‘Right. I need to find a make-up artist, because the lady I’d booked has broken her hand; pick up all our dresses from the alteration place; organise a hair appointment for Mum and the aunts; find a canopy for the ceremony; organise flowers and confetti; call the chair hire place for some extra chairs; call the venue again with the final numbers, but first chase a few people who still haven’t RSVP’d …’ She reels off about a hundred other tasks before adding, ‘Oh, and I need to get some drinks and snacks in for tomorrow evening. Cynthia – that’s Sam’s mum – and his sister and various other female relatives are coming over and we’re making favours.’
‘What are those?’
‘You know – those presents they give away at weddings. We’re making little jars of Californian olive oil, with the guests’ names handwritten on the labels. And origami table decorations. Cynthia’s suggestions.’ She nods towards the basket full of paper inside the glass doors. ‘I’ve been practising but mine all look like bus tickets.’
This all sounds like a major waste of time. ‘Are you sure you want to spend a whole evening doing that?’
‘Of course not! But I have to. Cynthia’s really disappointed that we’re not having what she calls a “real” rehearsal dinner. Our parents have never met before, so we wanted to have dinner, just the six of us, the night before in a restaurant.’
‘But that sounds nice! Why’s she disappointed?’
‘Because that’s not the way they do things in their family. They love having gigantic occasions where everyone pitches in and cooks cornbread with Great-Aunt Sarah’s recipe, and makes home-made decorations, and I can tell she thinks I have no soul because I’m buying everything. Whereas I bet to all the film people who are coming, it’s going to look like we’re being cheap.’
‘Alice, don’t be crazy! How could they think that? The venue looks like a dream.’ I’ve seen the website: it’s called the Casa de la Luna, it’s in Santa Monica by the beach, and it’s stunning.
‘Thanks. I think so too. We keep saying to each other: at least the venue is perfect. Anyway, what else? Oh. I need to book a hotel for Ruth and her boyfriend.’
I’m about to ask why Alice hasn’t got herself a wedding planner when this stops me in my tracks. ‘What? Wait, back up. Why the hell do you have to book a hotel for Ruth?’
Alice sighs. ‘Because … I can’t even remember why. She still hasn’t booked her flights because she wants to get a last-minute deal, and she asked me to find her a cheap hotel in a good part of LA, but to wait till the last minute to book it. Which I genuinely don’t mind doing, but it’s one extra thing on the list and I feel like my head is going to explode as it is.’
Ruth might be one of Alice’s oldest friends from school, but it sounds as if she needs a good slap around the head.
‘Is she always such a pain?’
‘I never would have said so, but lately, yes. She … Oh, never mind. I’m being bitchy.’
‘Go on, have a vent. Family doesn’t count.’
‘She’s been odd since I got together with Sam, to be honest,’ she says reluctantly. ‘She kept saying how hard it must be that he worked such long hours, and not many girls would put up with it, and wasn’t I worried that he might move back to the States. And then when I told her we were engaged, she said, “Because of Sam’s visa?”’
‘No!’
‘Yes. And did you see what she wrote on my Facebook page?’
‘No, what?’ I love a good Facebook drive-by shooting.
‘She wrote, “Congratulations Alice, I’m so pleased for you, you’ve FINALLY found your happy ending!!!” Don’t you think that’s weird? FINALLY in caps? It made me sound desperate. And why wouldn’t she congratulate Sam too? Am I the only one getting something out of this?’
‘So why did you ask her to be bridesmaid?’
Alice looks at a loss. ‘Well … I didn’t exactly … No, forget it.’
I sit bolt upright. ‘You didn’t ask her?’
‘She sort of assumed. But it was understandable because we’ve talked about being each other’s bridesmaids in the past. Lily, please forget I said any of this.’
‘You should uninvite her,’ I say decisively. ‘You don’t need that toxic stuff at your wedding. Cut the cord.’
‘I can’t do that. It would be really rude, and she would go mental.’
She looks so stressed out that I decide I’d better change the subject. ‘What about Sam? Can’t he help? I don’t know much about weddings, but I know they’re not supposed to be a surprise party for the groom.’
‘He has, he’s done loads of stuff. He drove thirty miles recently to taste-test a tagine. But he’s working round the clock these days, and also he doesn’t care about it. Any of it. He just wants us to be married, and every time I forward him something to do he doesn’t understand it or he asks if we can do without it, so I end up doing it myself.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway. That’s enough about the wedding. I haven’t even asked you how you are! How is the acting going? And how’s your dad? I’m looking forward to meeting, um …’
‘Fiona. But she prefers Fi.’ I will never call her Fi.
‘What’s she like? Do you get on with her?’
‘She’s OK.’ I’m not going into any more detail. ‘You’ll meet her at the wedding. Speaking of which: would you like me to call the chair hire place? And make hair app
ointments?’
‘Yes! Would you do that?’
‘Of course. And I can pick up your dress, too, and the bridesmaids’ dresses.’
‘That’s great! Let’s see. You could hire a car …’
‘Oh – sorry. I’m not really driving these days.’ I know it’s stupid of me. I wasn’t even involved in Mum’s accident. But I’ve tried sitting behind the wheel of Dad’s car, and I still find it so frightening that I can’t even make myself start the engine.
Alice looks as if she understands.
‘We’ll figure something out,’ she says. She gets to her feet. ‘I’ve got to go out for an hour or two, I’m afraid, I’ve got a meeting.’ Alice has told me she works as a literary scout; I don’t know what that is exactly but it sounds very cool. ‘Here’s a spare key, and you can borrow my bike. Why don’t you cycle down to the ocean? You should try and stay awake as long as you can, to avoid jet lag. I’ll be back around seven thirty and we can have dinner. Sound good?’
‘Perfect! What about Sam?’ I ask casually.
‘He should be home early tonight. He’s looking forward to seeing you.’ A dopey, radiant smile breaks out across her face. ‘I’m sorry I was moaning about all the wedding stuff. It is a pain, but you know what? It doesn’t matter, because I’m marrying the man of my dreams.’
She gives me a hug and rushes off, leaving me wondering if I’ll ever feel that glowy about anyone. Probably not – since Calvin cheated on me, I’ve become quite cynical about men. In my experience, either they’re so keen that it’s off-putting, or else they’re players. But I’m happy for her.
I fire up Alice’s laptop and order the extra chairs, so at least there’s one thing off her list. Then I google hairdressers near the hotel where her parents are staying, and book in four appointments. Next, I decide to send Dad a quick email to let him know I arrived safely.
Alice is still signed in to her gmail. I’m about to sign her out when I see there’s an unread email from Ruth. I know it’s bad, but I can’t resist having a peep. It says:
Hi Alice,
Quick question. I know we talked about booking the hotel for two nights, but now I’m wondering if we should stay somewhere else the second night so we see more of California. The flights are still looking so expensive, and having flown all that way it seems a shame just to see LA, which everyone says is horrible anyway! And since you’re not organising any events for the day after the wedding it might be dull hanging around. Or would there be stuff to do?
Maybe you could organise a spa day for us hard-working bridesmaids? If you can suggest a few cool things for us to do on a Sunday in LA then I’ll stick with the two nights, otherwise let’s leave it at one. Maybe the second night in Santa Barbara? Or if that’s too expensive (like all of California it seems!!) do you have other suggestions? Let me know asap!
xo Ruth
PS Do you remember Monica Hadley from school? Her hen weekend is the same date as your wedding. I am gutted to be missing it, but your wedding comes first!
I read the email again, open-mouthed. I literally cannot believe this shit. A spa day for us hard-working bridesmaids? LA is horrible? Who is this monster? My blood boiling, I start typing back.
Hi Ruth,
I am sorry that my wedding is such a giant pain in the arse for you. You’ll be pleased to hear we’ve decided to scale it back to immediate family, so you don’t have to come any more. Enjoy Monica’s hen weekend!
Alice xo
Ah, if only. ‘Having flown all that way it seems a shame just to see LA.’ WTF? This isn’t some sightseeing trip. This is my cousin’s wedding. Which means she’s not only disrespecting Alice, she’s disrespecting our whole family. Specifically, my mother’s family; Alice’s mother is – was – Mum’s sister. Still, I can’t interfere. I try and delete my draft message, but Alice’s computer is configured differently to mine, and somehow I end up making the screen go tiny, then huge, then it freezes. I click for a few minutes until it becomes normal again.
And then a message flashes up: Your email has been sent.
What? No! I didn’t press send! I click frantically on the outbox to see if I can delete it there, but it’s empty. I check the ‘sent’ folder, and there it is: a full-fat crazy email from Alice Roberts, courtesy of me.
Now what? I’ll have to immediately message Ruth, apologise and say it was me and it was a joke. But I don’t want to! She’s been a cow to Alice. And even if I do apologise, surely the damage has been done?
I drum my fingers, then decide to email my dad first and write to Ruth later. It’s the middle of the night in England anyway; she won’t read my/Alice’s message for hours.
But once I’ve signed out of Alice’s email, of course, I can’t get back in, and I don’t know Ruth’s email address. Damn. Well, she’ll probably think the message is a joke … hopefully. I agonise for a while before deciding there’s nothing I can do for the time being; I’ll have to think of something later. Pushing the whole fiasco to the back of my mind, I go and do my make-up before leaving the house.
The sea – or the ‘ocean’, as Alice calls it – is about five minutes away. I lock up the bike, run down to the sand and paddle my feet in the Pacific. The water’s freezing but everything else is perfect, with a light sea breeze and not a trace of smog. There’s a crowd of surfers dotted on the gentle waves. To my right, in the distance, there’s a long pier with an amusement park and Ferris wheel. Suddenly I have the kind of painful thought that often hits me out of the blue: Mum would have loved this. Whenever we went to the beach, she was always the first one out of the car, while Dad was re-parking more neatly and Chris and I were arguing over whose turn it was to use the boogie board.
To distract myself, I hop back on the bike and start cycling towards the pier. Signs tell me this is the way to Santa Monica. Santa Monica! I can’t believe I’m actually here. Nor can I believe what I see on the cycle path along the way. There are people talking on their mobile phones while rollerblading, women riding what look like mobile cross-trainers, dogs on skateboards (being pulled by their owners, but still) and a man on a bike with a poodle in his backpack. I cycle past a synagogue called ‘Shul on the Beach’ with a sign outside that says: Because there’s more to Judaism than bagels.
The epicentre of Venice Beach is a tacky-fabulous boardwalk, with graffiti-splattered buildings, pizza parlours, buskers, a skateboard park, rollerbladers and a roped-off area on the beach given over to body-building. Muscle men gleaming with oil are doing acrobatics on hoops and trapezes. Hearing music, I turn around and find it’s coming from a man in a loincloth, with two snakes in a basket in front of him. A family nearby are eating lunch at an outdoor table, with a King Charles spaniel sitting up beside them like a person. This place is fantastic! I never want to leave!
I lock my bike, buy a slice of pizza and a Diet Coke from a little hole-in-the-wall, and consume both while enjoying the sun and watching a rap artist busking. Then I wander down to the sand, where I notice a guy jogging towards me wearing a pair of navy shorts. He’s cute. Not Baywatch exactly, but still: dark hair flopping over his brow, suntanned chest … He’s also jogging barefoot, which intrigues me. He’s got dark blue, slightly slanted eyes and looks deep in thought. Oops, he’s noticed that I’m staring at him. Is he looking back? I think he might be.
‘Hi,’ I say, on a mad impulse. After all, Americans chat each other up all the time, don’t they?
‘Uh – hi,’ he says, sounding surprised, as if he’s not used to women approaching him. And jogs right by me. My cheeks flaming, I immediately turn around and hope nobody saw me get the brush-off.
‘So how was your afternoon?’ Alice asks when I get home. I stayed out so long, she’s back already. She’s setting the table for dinner out on the terrace, which looks beautiful with the sun sinking lower in the sky, casting its light on the canal. ‘Did you do anything exciting?’
‘Yes!’ I start gabbling about body-builders and snakes in loincloths as I help her s
et the table. I’m wondering whether to confess about my email to Ruth, but it doesn’t seem the right time. Better to wait and see what Ruth does.
‘Sam will be home any minute,’ Alice says. ‘Are you OK to eat in? I’m sorry if that’s boring, but he sounded exhausted on the phone. You must be tired too.’
‘Of course! Let me change first.’
‘You don’t have to change. Come and have a glass of wine with me on the terrace.’
‘Oh no – I feel kind of sticky after the plane. I’ll be quick.’
Although I’ve met Sam several times, I feel acutely anxious about what to wear to see him now. I’m not a big clothes person – I live in jeans and T-shirts and Converse. But now everything I’ve brought seems too casual and shabby. Having thrown about five different outfits on the floor, I go with jeans, a navy tank top, silver earrings and my hair tied back in a bun, so he can see my bone structure.
I walk into the living room to find Sam picking Alice up and swinging her around. I didn’t know people did that in real life.
‘Honey, Lily is here.’ Alice points out, looking pink.
Sam looks embarrassed too. ‘Lily! Great to see you,’ he says in an extra-hearty voice, putting Alice down and giving me a quick hug. ‘How was your trip?’
Sam is very handsome, though I certainly don’t fancy him – aside from being my cousin’s boyfriend, he’s a bit too all-American and serious and polite for me. Also he wears T-shirts under his shirts, which I find weird. But now I’m seeing him in a whole new light.
‘It was great. I’ve been awake for,’ I look at my watch, ‘twenty-two hours now, but that’s not a problem. I’m good at long days. Ten, twenty hours, makes no difference to me at all. Lots of stamina.’
‘Good for you,’ he says, looking bemused. ‘I hope you like Italian food.’
‘I love it! And I hear you’re a great cook.’
‘I do like to cook, but actually I picked something up. From the new place on Abbot Kinney,’ he adds to Alice.
‘We haven’t used our kitchen once since we moved in,’ Alice admits. ‘Oh no, you got pasta! I’m not supposed to be having pasta until after the wedding.’
Girls on Tour Page 10
