‘I’m going away for a little holiday, Tilly,’ she said.
‘Oh don’t, please don’t!’ I cried. I ran to her and climbed onto her lap. ‘Can’t we come with you, Mum?’
‘No, Tills, I need to be by myself for a bit. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. You stay with Dad and be a good girl,’ said Mum.
‘But when will you be coming back?’
‘I don’t know.’
Dad made a little choking sound. He went out to the downstairs toilet. I pulled Mum’s head closer and whispered in her ear.
‘Can’t I come with you, Mum?’
I hated remembering that. It was horrible of me to try to walk out on Dad too. But I just wanted to be with Mum so much. It didn’t matter anyway. Mum wasn’t having it.
‘No, I have to be by myself. Don’t start crying, Tills. You’re better off without me. You both are. Now come on, slide off my lap. I’ve got to go now. This is awful for all of us,’ she said.
She kissed me goodbye. She waited until Dad came out of the toilet and kissed him too. Then she walked out of the front door with that one suitcase. She didn’t come back that night. Or the next or the next or the next. She didn’t come back for months.
Dad and I were so happy when she suddenly turned up on the doorstep. We thought she’d come back for good. She hugged us and kissed us and said how much she’d missed us. We didn’t notice at first that she didn’t have a suitcase with her. She hadn’t come back – she was just visiting to make sure we were all right.
She wasn’t stupid: she could see we weren’t all right at all; we were all wrong without her. But she still went again. She came back three more times, just for a day. She never even stayed the night. All the times in between we waited for her. Whenever we heard a car drawing up nearby, or footsteps, or the squeak of our front gate, we jumped up, ready.
That was why we moved away. Dad said we had to start a new life. We couldn’t stay waiting for ever. I was terrified Mum wouldn’t be able to find us the next time she came back.
‘Maybe she won’t come back at all,’ said Dad. ‘Anyway, I’ve left our forwarding address with the new people in our house, the neighbours, Sylvie, all her friends. Mum will find us if she wants to.’
Mum obviously didn’t want to.
I didn’t tell Matty any of this. It was too sad.
She was staring at me, waiting for an explanation. I just shrugged my shoulders helplessly.
‘Oh well,’ she said. She chewed her pen. It was actually my pen, and she was making little nibbly marks.
‘Don’t muck it up,’ I said.
But then she jerked and bit off the entire top.
‘Matty! My pen!’
‘What? Sorry! I didn’t mean to,’ she said, spitting the top out. ‘I’ve just had the most wonderful idea!’
‘What?’
‘You can advertise. Offer your services! Rent-a-bridesmaid!’
Chapter Seven
‘RENT-A-BRIDESMAID,’ I SAID slowly.
‘You could make yourself a little profile on the internet,’ said Matty.
‘No. I can’t. Dad made me promise that I would never do anything like that on the internet. He says it’s dangerous.’
‘Yes, but hundreds of thousands of people do it. And he needn’t know.’
‘But I’ll know. And I’ll feel terrible if I break my promise.’
‘Oh, Tilly, you’re such a hopeless goody-goody wuss. Tell you what, I’ll do it for you – on my iPad, so your dad couldn’t possibly find out. There! Problem sorted!’ said Matty triumphantly.
‘I’ll still know though. I’ll still be breaking my promise. No, I can’t do anything on the internet,’ I said.
‘Well, how are you going to advertise then?’
‘I know exactly,’ I said. ‘I’ll put an advert in Sid’s window.’
When we went up to Matty’s bedroom to play, the Warrior Princesses stayed sleeping in their cardboard-box palace. The dinosaurs and cuddly toys and ponies lay on their backs, immobile. Lewis lay on his back too, arms and legs out like a starfish on the rug. He sang all the songs he knew, pop songs and theme tunes to television shows and advertising jingles and Christmas carols. He sang very loudly, and when he didn’t know the right words, which was often, he made up rubbish. It was very distracting, but at least it stopped him interfering with our important task.
Matty and I were compiling our advert for Sid’s window. I tore out a page from my drawing book, made it into a neat square, and started working on another bridesmaid’s dress border while Matty made a rough draft of the wording because I couldn’t think what to say. I could make up a profile for Dad in a heartbeat but I was stuck when it came to describing myself in a positive manner.
‘It’s easy-peasy,’ said Matty, scribbling away, and then read out:
‘Very pretty, sensible nine-year-old
has barely worn gorgeous pink
designer bridesmaid’s dress with
matching accessories. Will attend
any wedding ceremony and add
that perfect stylish touch to your
wedding photos. Very small
rental fee for one day.’
‘Matty! I’m not in the least pretty!’
‘Well, you do look quite pretty in that yucky dress.’
‘Sensible?’
‘Well, you are sensible, except when you go all moody on me.’
‘I haven’t got matching accessories.’
‘Of course you have. You can wear my pink shoes. They did get a bit scraped at the toes when I danced, but you could colour them in with your felt tip. And you can wear those awful pink frilly knickers. Mum washed them and I’m never wearing them again, believe you me,’ said Matty.
‘I don’t want to charge a fee either. I’ll be someone’s bridesmaid for nothing,’ I said.
‘You’ve got to be professional. They won’t take you seriously if you say you’ll do it for free,’ she said. ‘Go on, write out the advert. Your handwriting’s neater than mine.’
‘I’m not putting I’m pretty. It’s not true and it sounds like showing off.’
‘No it doesn’t. And if you don’t put that, they’ll think you’re hideous and no one will want you to be their bridesmaid,’ said Matty.
‘You can’t say stuff like that – it’s mean. You can’t help the way you look. Everyone should have a chance to be a bridesmaid.’
Matty sighed. ‘I’m simply being practical. OK, if you’re someone’s little sister or niece and you happen to be ugly, then they maybe won’t mind too much. You’re probably stuck with them anyway because of family pressure. I’m positive my Aunt Rachel didn’t want to have me as her bridesmaid because I look stupid in frills and she knew I’d muck about, but Grandma insisted. You’re not a family bridesmaid, though. You’re a professional selling your services, so you need to reassure people you’ll do a good job and look the part. Now write the wretched thing and let’s play. I’m getting bored with the whole subject.’
‘Me too, and I don’t even know what you two are whispering about,’ Lewis sang.
I still wasn’t sure, but I wrote Matty’s words in my best fancy handwriting and then put the card carefully in my school bag. I didn’t know how I was going to get to Sid’s to put it in his window, but I decided to think about that problem later. The Warrior Princesses awoke and leaped from their palace, preparing to do battle. We managed a great game before our lasagne and salad supper.
‘Mm, something still smells good,’ said Dad when he came to collect me.
‘We’ve still got heaps left. You’re very welcome to a plateful,’ said Angie.
‘Oh no! No, I wasn’t hinting! I was just commenting, that’s all. No, I’ve got my own supper at home, honestly,’ said Dad, blushing painfully. ‘You’re being wonderful looking after Tilly like this. You can’t look after me too!’
‘You look as if you might need a bit of looking after,’ said Angie. ‘Come on, sit down and have some supper.�
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But Dad wouldn’t – he was far too embarrassed.
‘Oh dear, I don’t know how to make it up to Matty’s mother. She absolutely refuses to take any payment for having you,’ he said in the car going home.
I suddenly had a crafty idea.
‘Let’s give her a little present then, Dad. Sid’s shop is always open early. Let me run in on our way to school in the morning and I’ll choose her a big box of chocolates. I’ll use my own pocket money.’
‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ said Dad.
I felt a bit guilty then. Very guilty, in fact. But it didn’t stop me running into Sid’s shop the next morning with my purse and my advert in my school bag. Luckily Dad couldn’t find anywhere to park outside, so he said he’d drive round the block while I bought the chocolates.
I did buy chocolates, the biggest purple box in the shop.
‘Is it your mum’s birthday?’ Sid asked.
I wriggled. ‘No, they’re for my friend’s mum,’ I said. ‘And can I put an advert in your window, please?’
‘Is this for another lady to look after you? What happened to the last one? Did you play her up?’ he asked, looking amused.
‘No, this is for me,’ I said, handing it over.
Sid peered at it, sucking his teeth.
‘I don’t quite get it. You want to be someone’s bridesmaid?’ he said. ‘It doesn’t usually work like that, does it? Aren’t you supposed to be asked by the bride and groom?’
‘Yes, well, this is the modern way,’ I told him.
‘Does your dad know about this?’
‘Yes, of course.’ It was a downright lie and I felt dreadful, but I was scared Sid wouldn’t accept the advert if I said no.
He still didn’t seem too keen on the idea. ‘I’ve never heard of this bridesmaid malarkey before. People advertise themselves as cleaners or childminders or odd-job men or as a man with a van – little kids don’t advertise themselves as bridesmaids.’
‘Perhaps I’m starting a whole new fashion,’ I said.
‘Hmm. I’m going to ask a lot of questions if anyone seems interested in this advert of yours. And if you get any replies, you’d better let your dad vet them carefully. If you get replies,’ he said. ‘People don’t want a stranger for a bridesmaid. And they’d want to choose their own bridesmaid’s dress, surely?’
I glared at Sid. ‘I will get replies, just you wait and see,’ I said. I paid for the chocolates and the advert and marched towards the shop door. I held my head up high and didn’t look where I was going, so I tripped right over a crate of milk waiting to be shelved.
‘Whoops! You’d better not do that walking up the aisle in your famous bridesmaid’s frock,’ said Sid, cackling with laughter.
I swept out, still trying to look dignified. Dad drove past and I jumped in the car.
‘Oh yes, good choice,’ he said, nodding at the chocolates. ‘Matty’s mum will like them.’
She did really like them, and seemed especially touched when I told her I’d bought them with my own pocket money.
‘That’s so sweet of you, Tilly. But you mustn’t ever do it again. We love having you round here.’
She opened the box of chocolates right away and let us choose one.
‘Yes, we especially love having you here,’ said Lewis, his cheek bulging with the chocolate Turkish delight. ‘Mum doesn’t usually let us have chocolates.’
Matty chose the caramel. I had the nutty one, my favourite. Angie had the strawberry cream and smacked her lips.
‘Don’t listen to Mum,’ said Matty when we were up in her bedroom. ‘Please buy her a box of chocs every week.’
‘Every day,’ said Lewis.
‘I might have to!’ I said, suddenly realizing something. I needed an excuse to go back to Sid’s shop every day for my replies.
I didn’t have enough pocket money to buy a big box of chocolates every day – or even every week. But I thought up a cunning plan I could just about afford.
‘Could we stop off at the newsagent’s again this morning?’ I asked Dad the next day when we were in the car going to school. ‘Matty’s mum loved her chocolates so much that I thought I’d buy her just a little bar every day as a tiny treat. Don’t you think that’s another brilliant idea, Dad?’
‘Not really. I think that’s going a bit over the top,’ he said.
‘But it’ll still come out of my pocket money. It won’t cost you a penny,’ I insisted.
‘It’s not the money, you silly sausage. It’s sweet of you, but I’m sure Matty’s mum wouldn’t want you to spend all your savings on chocolate, especially not for her. The one box was a nice gesture, but you don’t need to go over the top,’ said Dad, and he accelerated past Sid’s shop.
I stared back in anguish. I imagined Sid with a huge pile of cards and letters for me, all asking me to be a bridesmaid. How long would he keep them? How would I ever get Dad to stop off at the shop? Could I secretly slip out of the house and fetch them all by myself? Could I ask Matty’s mother to trail all the way to Sid’s after school, when it was at the opposite end of town to her house?
I was so taken up with worrying over the problem that I barely paid any attention in our first lesson, Literacy. I doodled bridesmaid’s dresses compulsively all over several pages of my jotter while Miss Hope droned on about the media and different types of reportage.
‘Tilly!’ she said suddenly, right in my ear.
I’d been so anxiously absorbed that I hadn’t realized she’d crept up on me. I jumped violently and everyone laughed, even Matty.
Miss Hope shook her head at me. ‘Oh dear, what are you drawing now?’ she said, and picked up my jotter. She peered at all the dresses, each identical, and looked puzzled.
‘They’re not dinosaurs, Miss Hope,’ I said quickly.
‘So I see,’ she said. ‘No, they’re very carefully designed dresses. You’ve drawn them very well, Tilly, but I’d prefer you to concentrate on the lesson, if you don’t mind.’
‘Yes, Miss Hope,’ I said miserably.
Miss Hope went back to the front of the class and carried on. She said she wanted us all to divide into pairs and start a special project, our own newspaper. We had to report on a week of news, but we had to write our features according to what kind of newspaper it was. It could be serious reporting, or very sensational. We could concentrate on important issues or family matters or sport or fashion.
‘I expect you’ll want to do a page of dress designs, Tilly,’ said Miss Hope.
‘Yuck, I hope not,’ said Matty. ‘Let’s do a newspaper totally devoted to sport. What sort of sports get reported on, Miss Hope? Can we write about skateboarding?’
‘Well, why don’t we all bring a newspaper into school tomorrow and see for ourselves?’ she said.
Bring a newspaper.
Hurray!
‘Miss Hope says we’ve got to bring an old newspaper to school tomorrow,’ I told Dad.
‘But we haven’t got any newspapers. I read the news online,’ he said.
‘So can I buy one from Sid on the way to school?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s a bit daft, buying one specially,’ said Dad, but he gave in.
The next morning I went charging into the newsagent’s on the way to school. I picked up the first newspaper I saw, found the right money, handed it over to Sid, and grinned at him expectantly.
‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Do you want chocolate or crisps?’
‘I want my replies, please! I’m Matilda, the girl who put the advert in your window,’ I said.
‘Replies?’ said Sid. ‘You didn’t get any replies. I said so, didn’t I?’ He shook his head – but he had a gleam in his eye.
‘You’re teasing me!’ I said. ‘I did get replies, didn’t I?’
‘Well, yes, to my total surprise, you did.’ Sid rummaged in a drawer and brought out one Basildon Bond envelope. ‘Here we are. Your reply.’
‘Where are all the others?’ I asked merrily.
&n
bsp; ‘What do you mean, others? There aren’t any others. I’m amazed you got the one. Take it then. And you’d better hop it now – your dad’s hooting his horn at you.’
‘I was sure I’d get heaps of replies,’ I said.
‘Well, you never know. You might get more. You’ve paid for a week, so your card stays in the window a few more days. You can always pay for another week after that if you’ve got money to burn,’ said Sid.
I stuffed the one envelope in my school bag and trailed out of the shop clutching my newspaper.
‘In you get, quick,’ said Dad. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ I said.
I thought I’d get a whole sackful of replies. I’d imagined myself attending weddings all summer, wearing my beautiful raspberry-pink bridesmaid’s dress Saturday after Saturday until the end of September. I’d planned to go through all the replies with Matty so she could help me choose the most promising invitations. But at least I had one reply. I could get to be a bridesmaid once.
All through breakfast club, I kept putting my hand inside my school bag and stroking the smooth envelope. But I couldn’t even take one peek at it before Matty arrived. The moment she got to school, I streaked across the playground towards her – she was hopping up and down, waiting.
‘Did you get to go to the newsagent’s? Did you get many replies? Where are they, stuffed in your school bag?’ she gabbled.
‘I’ve got one,’ I said, fishing for it.
‘One?’ said Matty, wrinkling her nose.
‘I expect I’ll get lots more,’ I said quickly. ‘Let’s look at this one!’
I slit the envelope open carefully and drew out the letter. The writing was very clear and neat, sloping gently to the right, with lovely loops. I looked at the signature first.
Iris May Bloomfield. I said the name aloud delightedly. It was such a wonderful flowery name. I pictured Iris May Bloomfield, certain she’d be very pretty, probably with long fair curly hair. She’d have deep blue eyes – that’s why she was called Iris. She’d have a lovely figure, perfect for a long creamy-white dress, and she’d carry a bouquet of pink roses on her wedding day to match the subtle colour of my dress.
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