Bad Bridesmaid
Page 1
‘My wedding is ruined and my marriage is going to fail. And it’s all your fault!’
LA romcom writer Mia Valentina has it all; money, success, a tanned and toned body, golden blonde hair and a string of sexy lovers. She’s almost forgotten her previous self: plain old Mia Harrison. Until a wedding invitation arrives requesting (demanding!) her presence as chief bridesmaid at her younger sister Belle’s upcoming nuptials.
Mia’s hasn’t been back in England long before she’s accidentally injured the groom, unintentionally ‘cursed’ the wedding and been caught in a compromising position with her sister’s soon to be brother-in-law!
With the wedding of the year going dangerously off the rails, Mia has no time to waste – especially with sexy fireman and best man Leo on hand to help… Will she use all of her expert romance knowledge to save the day or will she just walk away? No one ever said a bad girl had to turn good…
Praise for PORTIA MACINTOSH
‘How Not to be Starstruck was impossible to put down, hilarious, fun, flirty and packed with excitement.’ Victoria Loves Books
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‘A brilliant story full of fun, gorgeous rockstars, big egos and great friendships.’ A Novel Thought
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‘…if you are looking for a fictional tale of outrageous excess and the rock star life it is well worth a read.’ Books with Bunny
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‘For a Sex and the City meets Gossip Girl meets "Life of the rich and famous" -vibe: get yourself a copy of both Portia’s novels. Very, very enjoyable read and can’t wait for more!’ M’s Bookshelf
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‘I can not recommend this book highly enough, it is a must read for any one fancying a light heart and humour read, which can be devoured in one sitting.’ Compelling Reads
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‘How Not to be Starstruck had me laughing the whole way through. It was fun-filled, sweet, crazy and always entertaining. Portia MacIntosh wrote a fab book.’ 4/5 stars from Sophie*
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‘I loved this clever satire on the world of celebrity. It’s a witty, wry look at the showbiz lifestyle and I veered from being envious of Nicole’s life, to being glad it was nothing like mine!’ 5 stars from Mrs K J Barrett*
*Amazon reader reviews
Also by Portia MacIntosh
Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place
How Not to be Starstruck
Bad Bridesmaid
Portia MacIntosh
www.CarinaUK.com
When she was fifteen years old, Portia MacIntosh fell in with a bad crowd… rock stars.
After disappearing on tour and living the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle for a few years, Portia landed a job in the music industry – but only so that she didn’t have to join the real world just yet.
Now in her twenties, Portia is ready to spill the beans on the things she has witnessed over the years. Well, kind of. If her famous friends knew that she was borrowing their lives to inspire her fiction, they would stop inviting her on tour and banish her from the inner circle. Then she really would have to rejoin the real world, and she’s still not ready for that.
Portia only started writing novels to share her secrets, but has since realised that she actually quite likes writing – maybe even more than she likes living on a bus with a bunch of smelly boys.
Check out Portia’s blog at: www.portiamacintosh.tumblr.com
Follow her on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PortiaMacIntosh
…and Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/macintoshportia
Massive thanks to my lovely, lovely editors, Lucy and Victoria, and to the entire Carina UK team for all their hard work.
A huge shout-out to my Pink Ink ladies – Katie, Rebecca and Sam – who are always so supportive. Ditto my beautiful Gosling Girls – Victoria, Megan, Kirsty and Laura.
Thank you to everyone who bought Between a Rockstar and a Hard Place and How Not to be Starstruck, and an extra big thank you to everyone who wrote a review. Bad Bridesmaid is my first book that isn’t about the music biz, so I hope you all enjoy it just as much.
Finally, thank you to my wonderful family – my amazing mum and dad, my hilarious siblings for their constant IT support and proofreading skills, my awesome gran and all the other family members I have annoyed by refusing to tell them the titles of my books – you’d thank me if you knew about the sex scenes.
Finally, thank you to my new source of inspiration. You know who you are.
For my incredible mum.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Praise
Book List
Title Page
Author Bio
Acknowledgement
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Extract
Endpages
Copyright
Chapter 1
They say there is no such thing as bad sex. They lie.
After a couple of weeks of seriously steamy flirting with Zack Carson I just knew that there would be fireworks when we finally got around to getting it on – but it’s an uncomfortably hot Los Angeles night and, despite Zack’s best efforts, the fireworks just aren’t going off. Not even a sparkler. Not even a birthday cake candle. I’m too warm, I’m bored and my neck is starting to ache thanks to the overly ambitious position of Zack’s choosing.
Did it occur to me that it might not be such a good idea to sleep with my boss’s assistant? Of course it did, but one look into his sexy brown eyes combined with his jet-black crew cut and his chiselled, model-like good looks and I was never going to be able to resist – and that’s before I realised he has a motorbike. Bikers are hot – especially tall, dark and handsome ones who are covered in tattoos like Zack is. Still, I’ve got nothing going on down there. I’m not sure how long we’ve been at it but I’m ready for it to end – even if I don’t get a happy one.
I scoop together my long, honey blonde coloured curls and twist them into a bun on top of my head. This does little to cool me down but I know that as soon as I break out my GCSE drama skills (I just about scraped a C grade) I can pull a Meg Ryan and put an end to this.
‘That was awesome,’ Zack says afterwards, in his strong Californian accent – one that never fails to fascinate me, no matter how many years I’ve been here.
I moved here when I was twenty-five, and in the four years I’ve been living and working here I haven’t lost my Kentish accent, not even a little. Everyone teases me for it; you wouldn’t believe how many Mary Poppins jokes I have to endure on a daily basi
s. Despite being born and raised in Canterbury, my American friends can’t distinguish between my accent and Dick Van Dyke’s attempt at sounding Cockney, and so the soundtrack to my life here will forever be ‘Chim Chim Cher-ee’.
I watch as Zack makes himself more comfortable on the sofa. As I anxiously nibble my middle fingernail, I wonder how quickly I’m going to be able to get him to leave.
‘Could you fix me a drink?’ he asks, flashing me a big, toothy grin. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’
‘Sure,’ I reply reluctantly. ‘Back in a sec.’
As I walk towards the sink I hear Zack call after me.
‘This is a nice place you got here.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply. I’m not surprised he likes it; it was designed with someone like Zack in mind. The interior of my Beverly Hills apartment is everything you’d expect of a lad pad. It is ultra modern, with clean white walls and huge floor-to-ceiling windows to make the most of the stunning view, perfect for the king of the castle. With its white walls, glass surfaces and the pretty LED lighting that runs around the room, the open plan living area has the vibes of a fancy hotel lobby. I can change the colour theme depending on my mood, but unless I set the glow to pink (as I most often do) you could easily think this was still a bachelor pad.
The place came furnished (because the bachelor it belonged to met a girl, fell in love and decided he wanted to play house – sucks for him, great news for me) but the furnishings suit me just fine. The custom-made white leather sofa is a delight to sit on (it feels like Matthew McConaughey is hugging your bum), the kitchen has all the bells and whistles you could even begin to imagine (plus some I still haven’t figured out) and the bathroom could rival certain spas we have back home.
You can tell the place used to belong to a movie star because when I moved in there was a huge wall-mounted TV – which I have recently upgraded to an even bigger one – and I loved the way he had framed posters from his movies all over the walls, so much so I did the same. I realise how vain that sounds, but it’s not as bad in my case because my face isn’t on the posters. I don’t star in movies, I write them. Romantic comedies to be precise. I’m part of a small writing group called Pink Inc. and we’ve been responsible for all of the big hits in our genre over the past four years. I made a name for myself back in England when I was in my early twenties, writing for a girly TV drama called Love Online. The show was about a group of young women who decided to try and find love by meeting boys on the net. This was around the time social networks were becoming a must among young people and the show turned out to be a huge success. So at least I have that to thank the MySpace generation for – that and the world embracing flattering, high-angle selfies. After that I went on to bigger and better things, before eventually moving here and joining a team of screenwriters.
My success can be a little off-putting for men – not because I am successful, but because of what I am successful for: writing love stories. When people know that you’re responsible for these romantic movies they instantly think that you have unrealistic expectations about love. They expect you to be all lovey-dovey and mushy and on a quest to find a Prince Charming. For me this could not be further from the truth. I’m good at my job because I have a good understanding of the genre, not because I’m a soppy romantic.
I fill a glass with water and hand it to Zack.
‘Is this vodka?’ he asks with a puzzled look on his face.
‘Water,’ I reply bluntly.
‘When I said a drink I meant something alcoholic. I need it after that,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. I could do with a stiff drink too, but for me it would be to help me forget.
‘Oh, sorry. It’s just I’ve got to be up pretty early in the morning so…’ So take the hint, Zack.
‘Great. I’m tired too, and I love to spoon. Is that the bedroom over there?’
Whoa, stop right there, does he think he is staying over? This isn’t the Sleepover Club.
‘Erm,’ I start, unsure how to do this tactfully. This was only ever going to be a casual thing, and I thought Zack knew that. Sleeping together isn’t ever going to happen – literally sleeping together, that is.
‘You want me to go?’ Zack asks.
‘Well, yeah,’ I reply. ‘I’m just not great at sharing my bed. I’m a wiggler, I fling my arms around – it would be carnage.’
‘It’s three a.m.’ Zack replies with a laugh. ‘I’ll take my chances.’
‘Even so,’ I reply, pausing to think of the right way to say this, ‘I’d still rather you went home.’
‘If I sleep here I can give you a ride to work on my bike in the morning,’ he negotiates, but I don’t think you’re allowed to side-saddle on motorbikes and a helmet would trash my hair.
‘Even so,’ I repeat myself, but before I have the chance to say anything else Zack gets the message. He hops off the sofa and begins aggressively putting his clothes back on. I can tell that he is angry because even a simple task like putting his leg into his jeans isn’t going very well.
‘So this was just sex and now you want me out?’ he asks angrily, but I don’t give him an answer. ‘I thought guys were supposed to do this to girls – use them for sex and then send them packing – not the other way around. Who do you think you are, huh?’
Still, I don’t say anything. Well, what can I say? He’s hit the nail on the head.
I stand by the door as I watch Zack get dressed. With his clothes on and his boots in his hand, Zack approaches me and places a hand on my shoulder.
‘This is silly,’ he says as he massages me. ‘It’s the middle of the night, we’re going to the same place in the morning. You and I could be really good together.’
The fact he’s even considering us having some kind of future together after just one night causes me to pull a face – an involuntary reaction I have to the idea of relationships, and one that I can’t always mask.
‘Let me guess,’ Zack starts, ‘ “Even so”…’
Again, I say nothing. Nail on the head.
‘You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?’ Zack shouts as he storms out, slamming the door behind him.
‘Yep,’ I say quietly to myself before turning off the lights and climbing into my bed, alone, just the way I like it.
Chapter 2
Despite being late for work, I grabbed my usual skinny cinnamon latte from the coffee shop on the corner by my office before hurriedly making my way there.
‘Hold the lift,’ I call out, just in time to squash myself in with all the other people. And by lift, I mean elevator. There goes Dick Van Dyke again.
As we begin our ascent to the floor I work on, I finally get to take my first sip of coffee of the day. God, that feels good. I’d gasp with delight if there weren’t so many people around who might find this odd. It is only as I examine my takeaway cup that I realise there is a phone number written on the side. I cast my mind back to the coffee shop. I was in a rush, but I definitely remember being served by a woman. Before I have a chance to consider what kind of vibes I’m giving off (I suppose I do flirt – for sport – with almost everyone) I remember the young bloke who handed me my coffee, the one with the gorgeous smile. I’ll have to remember to make a note of his number before I throw my cup away.
My appearance seems to be a hit with the male population of LA, but it took a lot of work to get like this. Back in Kent I was Mia Harrison, a chubby brunette with very few men vying for her attention, and nothing much going on in life apart from work. When I moved to the States I decided it would be the perfect time to reinvent myself (what better place to fake it than LA?), so I slimmed down to a US size six (which is absolutely no fun to maintain), dyed my dull brown locks a sexy honey blonde colour, and every morning I meticulously curl my long hair with tongs, squash myself into something sexy and step into a high pair of heels.
Now my name is Mia Valentina. I’m twenty-nine years old. I believe in taking care of myself, believe in a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise rout
ine. OK, so I’m not really a female Patrick Bateman, but before I get dressed each day I do have a particular routine to make sure I can keep up my new look and maintain my new body.
I’m not sure if adopting a fancy sounding pen name and looking the part is helping my career at all, but let’s just say I’m not short of men vying for my attention any more. Men didn’t look twice at Mia Harrison, but Mia Valentina... she’s a hit. I don’t know why I’m referring to myself in the third person because that’s me now. Mia Harrison is nothing but a distant memory. Even when I go home to visit (which, I have to admit, is not very often) no one from my past recognises me and my family all tell me how much I’ve changed – although not necessarily for the better. In fact, the new me isn’t a hit with my family at all. I’m not talking about the way I look, more the way I am. I’m a different girl on the inside too. The old me had panic attacks. I was pushed around at work, messed around by men and ever since the birth of my younger sister even my family have made me feel like the second favourite child – please keep in mind that there are only two of us. Life before my sister Annabelle was born feels like a weird dream that didn’t really happen, because ever since beautiful baby Belle bounced onto the scene the attention has been fully on her. Sure, I achieved everything first, but Belle did it all better. It’s a horrible thing to say, but I almost feel like I was the starter child, the practice run before Belle came along. I was five years old when Belle was born, so I’ve been’ second best for the majority of my life. That’s why I love living out here, alone. No one knows the old me, I can totally be myself without worrying about the consequences – and believe me there are consequences, because these days my true self can be a bit of a bitch.
‘Good morning, Mia,’ my assistant Dalia chimes brightly, despite it being past noon. That’s the great thing about having an assistant, they go out of their way to assist you, even by making you feel like you’re not incredibly late for work when you really are.
‘Hey Dalia, what’s happening?’