Rent a Bridesmaid

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Here is a p-l-a-a-a-t-e, cara mia!’ Dad sang, gesturing wildly.

  ‘T-h-a-a-a-n-k you, oh, my papa!’ I sang back, flapping my tea towel with a flourish.

  The chicken started to smell very good in the oven. Much better than pizza.

  ‘Let’s set the table properly. You shouldn’t eat a proper roast meal on a tray,’ said Dad.

  I laid out knives and forks and spoons on the kitchen table, like in a restaurant. I polished two glasses. We didn’t have any fancy napkins, but I carefully folded two pieces of kitchen towel to use instead.

  ‘They have flowers in restaurants,’ I said. ‘But we haven’t got any vases – or flowers either.’

  ‘We could use a jam jar,’ said Dad. ‘And if you run out into the front garden, you could pick some of our flowers.’

  ‘We haven’t got proper flowers in our garden,’ I said.

  ‘OK, OK, so I’m not a very diligent gardener. But you could cut some lavender off the bush, and then there’s all that purple creeping stuff – that would look quite pretty in a jar,’ said Dad.

  ‘Yes!’

  I got the scissors and ran down the hall and out of the door. We only had a very small garden at the front, and the back was mostly yard and my old trampoline. But Dad was right – the lavender and the little purple flowers looked good together, and I picked some of the taller daisies in the grass.

  When I straightened up, I saw that there was a lady watching me from the pavement. She had long black hair and very red lips and a big black dress and purple boots. I loved the way she looked. I didn’t know her but she looked strangely familiar.

  ‘Tills?’ she said.

  I dropped all the flowers I’d just picked. I nearly fell on the grass myself. It was Mum! But it couldn’t be Mum. Mum had dark-blonde hair and she didn’t wear red lipstick and she was very thin. This lady was very large underneath her dress.

  ‘Oh, Tills, don’t you recognize me?’ she said.

  It was Mum, but she looked so different that she seemed like a stranger. She was a stranger, yet she still had Mum’s voice. But when she held out her arms, I ran straight into them, and when I was pressed against her, I smelled her wonderful rosy perfume and knew it really was Mum.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Mum, sounding choked. When I looked up, she had tears in her eyes. ‘My Tilly,’ she said.

  ‘Are you my actual real mum?’ I asked.

  ‘How many other mothers have you got then, you soppy date?’

  ‘But you look so different!’ I said, craning my neck back to have another look at her.

  ‘Oh, my hair. Yes, I got fed up with all that mouse. I decided to dye it black. It looks more dramatic, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, it looks lovely,’ I said, though I didn’t really like it, not on her.

  ‘Maybe you’ll fancy dyeing your hair when you’re a bit older,’ said Mum, running her fingers through my mousy hair. ‘Still, it looked lovely at that wedding, all curly. Shame it’s gone straight already.’

  ‘You saw me? On the television?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I couldn’t believe it was you at first. You’ve got much bigger!’

  So had Mum, but I didn’t think it would be tactful to say so.

  ‘Then they said your name,’ Mum went on. ‘And I just burst into tears. My little girl, all grown up and a bridesmaid on the television.’

  ‘Did you like my bridesmaid’s dress?’

  ‘Well, I’m not that keen on pink, but you did look very pretty in it.’

  ‘It’s not ordinary pink – it’s raspberry pink,’ I said. ‘Oh, Mum, I just knew you’d see me on the television and come and find me.’

  ‘It took some doing. I drove to the old house and the people there said you’d moved nearly a year ago.’

  ‘We couldn’t tell you because we didn’t know where you lived. I thought you were abroad somewhere,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I was. For a bit. I’ve been all over the place. And I came back to see you, lots and lots of times – don’t you remember?’

  Three times. Was that lots? Didn’t she remember properly?

  ‘I was always thinking of you, Tills. Sometimes it practically drove me mad. You mean the world to me. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘And you mean the world to me too,’ I said, clinging to her. ‘Oh, Mum, you are real, aren’t you? I’m not just making you up? Sometimes I make you up so that it is almost real. And this is so exactly the way I’ve been imagining it would be. Oh, come and see Dad. He’ll be so happy to see you!’

  ‘Will he?’ said Mum. ‘But hasn’t he got a new lady now?’

  ‘Oh, Mum, as if! Come on!’ I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her up the path and through the front door. ‘Dad, Dad, Dad! We’ve got a surprise visitor! And look who it is!’

  ‘Sarah?’ called Dad from the kitchen.

  ‘Sarah!’ said Mum, raising her eyebrows. ‘Oh! So that’s her name.’

  ‘Mum, she’s just my teacher,’ I said quickly. I felt a bit queasy as I said it. Miss Hope was far more than just a teacher. But I didn’t want to explain about her to Mum, just in case it spoiled things. Not when all my dreams had come true at last. I still couldn’t believe it.

  I knew you were supposed to pinch yourself if you thought you were dreaming. As Mum followed me down the hallway, I nipped at my wrist where it was stick-thin, digging my nails in so that it really hurt. It wasn’t a dream. It was all really happening.

  ‘It’s Mum, Dad,’ I called, because I was worried he wouldn’t recognize her either.

  He came to the kitchen door. Then he stood totally still, staring at Mum. I waited for the bells to chime, the birds to start singing, the air to be thick with little cherubs with wings. But Mum and Dad didn’t embrace, didn’t kiss, didn’t even say anything. They just stood there, looking at each other.

  Dad swallowed so hard I could hear it. ‘So I assume you saw Tilly on the television?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Yes, quite by chance. I don’t even usually watch the London Local news. You should have told me,’ said Mum.

  ‘How, exactly, when I don’t have a clue where you’re living?’ said Dad. ‘So I take it you live in the London area now?’

  ‘North London. I’ve done quite a bit of driving around this morning, trying to find you both,’ said Mum. ‘But here I am now. And something smells good. Can I come to lunch?’

  ‘Oh, Mum, it’s like we knew! We never bother cooking on a Sunday, but today we’re doing a proper roast. I did the Yorkshire puddings and I’ve made a banoffee pie all by myself, look!’

  I ran to the fridge and pulled out the plate of pie. My hands were trembling. The plate was cold and I lost my grasp of it. In terrible slow-motion moment I saw it tilt in the air, and then my banoffee pie slid over the side and cascaded onto the floor like a clotted waterfall.

  ‘Oh, my pie!’ I cried, and burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Tilly,’ said Dad, moving towards me – but Mum got there first.

  ‘Poor old Tills,’ she said, and she sat on a kitchen chair, pulling me up onto her lap. ‘There now, darling, it was only a silly old pudding. We can make another. Don’t cry so.’

  But I couldn’t stop crying now I’d started. I sobbed and sobbed, leaning against Mum’s soft bulk, while she patted me on the back and made little hushing noises. It brought back so many memories that I was stuck, unable to stop. I could hear Mum and Dad talking to each other, but their voices were muffled. All I could hear was my ugly gulping cries and the voice in my head going Mum-Mum-Mum.

  ‘Here, Tilly, drink this,’ said Dad, giving me a glass of cold water. He put my hot hands round the cool glass and made me drink.

  I hiccupped at first, and could barely swallow, but he made me keep on sipping until the sobs died away.

  ‘There now,’ said Mum. ‘That’s better. What was the pudding anyway?’ She peered at the horrible slop on the floor. ‘It smells of bananas. Well, that’s OK, because I can’t stand bananas.’


  ‘It was banoffee pie, Tilly’s favourite,’ said Dad, getting down on his hands and knees with a big spoon and cloth and bowl, attempting to clean it up.

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Mum. ‘Tilly’s favourite is my favourite, strawberries and cream. Isn’t it, Tills?’

  ‘Well . . . it used to be,’ I mumbled.

  Not long after Mum left us Dad had given me a very big bowl of strawberries as a special treat, with lots of whipped cream on top. I’d bolted them down and then I was almost immediately sick all down myself. I’ve never been able to face strawberries since.

  I couldn’t help feeling a bit sick now, especially as the chicken smelled so strongly.

  ‘Just got to pop to the bathroom,’ I muttered, wriggling off Mum’s lap.

  I made a bolt for it, terrified of being sick in front of Mum. I wasn’t properly sick, though a lot of nasty liquid came into my mouth and I had to keep spitting it out. I looked in the bathroom mirror afterwards and nearly died. I looked absolutely terrible – bright red in the face, and red in the eyes too. I had a disgustingly runny nose!

  I mopped at myself frantically and tried brushing my hair, winding it round and round my finger to try to make it go curly again.

  ‘Tilly? Are you all right?’ Dad called softly, from outside the bathroom door.

  ‘Yep, fine, Dad,’ I said quickly. ‘Sorry I was such a baby. Just coming!’

  I rushed out of the bathroom. Mum wasn’t in the kitchen. I felt sick all over again.

  ‘Where’s Mum? She hasn’t gone already, has she? Is it because I was so stupid?’ I gabbled.

  ‘No, no, calm down, lovey. Mum’s just having a little wander around,’ said Dad.

  ‘Oh thank goodness! Oh, Dad, isn’t it weird? I just knew Mum would come back – and it’s all because of my bridesmaid’s dress! It’s the most wonderful magic dress in the whole world. This is the happiest day of my life. Isn’t it yours too?’ I said, hanging onto his hand.

  ‘Darling, I know you’re happy to see Mum, but—’

  ‘Happy-happy-happy!’ I shouted quickly. I didn’t want to hear him say anything else. Especially not any sentence with a ‘but’ in it. I pulled my hand away and ran to find Mum.

  She was upstairs in my bedroom, actually sitting on my bed. She was cuddling Blue Bunny.

  ‘Oh, darling! Here’s dear old Stripy,’ she said, rubbing her cheek against Blue Bunny’s ears.

  I stared at her. How could she possibly mistake Blue Bunny for Stripy? Blue Bunny was twice the size, with long ears and a fluffy tail. I didn’t even have Blue Bunny when Mum lived with us at the old house.

  I opened my mouth to point this out, but thought better of it. I didn’t want Mum to think I was arguing with her. I sat down slightly awkwardly on the bed, right beside her, wanting us to be as close as possible.

  ‘Ooh, don’t squash me!’ Mum said in a baby voice, making Blue Bunny’s head bob about in an unnerving way.

  I remembered I used to love it when Mum made my toys talk. But now it seemed peculiar, especially as she had given him the wrong sort of voice. I smiled politely all the same and eased along the bed a little.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Mum. ‘Are you a bit old for babyish stuff now? I can’t believe how much you’ve grown up in just a few months!’

  Eighteen months. Maybe twenty.

  ‘But you’re still my little girl?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Of course I am,’ I said quickly.

  ‘I’ve missed you so, my little Tills,’ said Mum.

  Then why didn’t you come and see me more?

  I didn’t say it out loud, but she seemed to hear the words inside my head.

  ‘It’s been . . . complicated,’ she said. ‘And I’ve moved around a lot. And I’ve been ill, actually.’

  ‘Did you have chicken pox? I did, just before we moved here,’ I said. ‘I’ve still got scars on my tummy because I scratched them.’

  ‘Poor baby. No, I was more sick in the head. You know, I went a bit bonkers. Probably because I was missing you.’

  ‘And Dad?’

  ‘Yes, and your dad too,’ said Mum. ‘But I needn’t have worried so. You two seem absolutely fine and you’ve made a lovely new life together.’

  ‘Well, it is lovely now you’ve come back,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Tilly, don’t. You’ll make me cry.’ Mum got a mirror out of her handbag and dabbed at her eyes. Then she put a fresh smear of scarlet on her lips. ‘Want to try some?’ she said, offering me the lipstick.

  ‘Yes, please!’

  ‘Hold still then,’ said Mum, and she turned my ordinary mouth into a startlingly bright cupid’s bow. ‘There now!’

  ‘Doesn’t it look a bit funny on me?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Don’t you like my lipstick then?’

  ‘On you, yes, it looks lovely.’

  ‘I thought I needed a bit of brightening up. My face looks so pale now I’ve dyed my hair black.’

  ‘Do you remember Aunty Sylvie? She’s got blue hair now!’ I said.

  ‘No, it was bright pink last time I saw her. And before that she went through a weird grey phase, like she was an old lady,’ said Mum, laughing.

  I laughed too, but my heart was thumping. So she’d obviously seen Aunty Sylvie twice this last year, or at the very least been in touch with her. She hadn’t bothered to get in touch with Dad and me. Not even the quickest phone call or a one-line email.

  There was a little silence. Mum bit her lip, smudging some of the scarlet gloss.

  Then Dad called, ‘Tilly, why don’t you come and make some of those little fairy cakes for pudding? They can be cooking while we eat the chicken. It’s nearly ready, and your Yorkshire puddings are rising beautifully.’

  Mum raised her eyebrows. ‘My, it sounds as if you’re a clever little cook now. I can’t cook for toffee. Who’s been teaching you? This school-teacher friend?’

  ‘No, Mrs Flower. I was her bridesmaid. She’s like my granny,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Your granny lives in Spain,’ said Mum.

  ‘Yes, I know, but I don’t see her, and my other granny’s dead, so I’ve got Mrs Flower now and she’s lovely. Come and watch me make cakes, Mum. I’ll let you lick the bowl if you like – that’s the best bit,’ I said, grabbing Mum’s hand and pulling her to the door.

  She stood up and rubbed her back. For a moment she looked quite old, a plump dark-haired stranger – but then she started doing that funny Dorothy dance from The Wizard of Oz, singing the song about follow, following the yellow brick road all the way along the landing and down the stairs.

  She sat at the kitchen table and did a little sketch of the room while I made the cake mixture and Dad cooked the vegetables. It was so cosy, all of us busy. I willed the kitchen clock to stop ticking so that we could stay trapped there for ever, drawing and stirring and cooking, my family.

  Dad carved the chicken and dished up the roast potatoes and the beans and carrots and my lovely golden Yorkshire puddings. I put my cakes in the oven and then we all sat down to eat at the table. Dad had to open the window because it had got so hot and steamy, and it was as if he’d let some of the happiness out because he started asking questions as we ate.

  ‘So where are you living now, Laura?’ he said, with a little edge to his voice.

  No, Dad. Don’t ask. It doesn’t matter. Mum’s living here now.

  ‘Oh, the other side of London.’

  ‘And are you still painting?’

  ‘Not so much. I’m designing more. Wallpapers, stationery, stuff like that.’

  ‘We’ve got your paintings stored away in the attic if you want them.’

  ‘Not really. They were all a bit dark and intense. I’m in a happy place now,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, good for you.’

  We ate silently for a minute.

  ‘Tilly’s very good at drawing now,’ said Dad.

  ‘Are you? Show me, darling,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, let her finish her chicken first.’


  ‘Oh, Tills, I can’t wait to see them!’ said Mum.

  I slid off my chair and ran to get my drawing pad from upstairs. Then I leaned against Mum as she turned the pages, pointing and remarking every so often. She smiled at all the wedding pictures. She didn’t seem to notice that she was very often the bride. Surprisingly, Mum liked the monster drawings most of all.

  ‘I didn’t know you had such an amazing imagination, Tills. These are really, really good,’ she said.

  ‘Do you really think so, Mum? No one else likes my monsters.’

  ‘Well, I do. Here, I’ll swop you this monster picture here for my sketch. Is that a bargain?’ Mum asked.

  ‘You bet!’ I gave her the monster picture and held out my hand. Mum’s sketch was much better than anything I could do. There was Dad with his back to us, standing at the stove. She’d drawn it so that steam seemed to be coming out of his head, not just from the boiling pots. She’d drawn me at the front of the picture, making my cakes, stirring the mixture earnestly with my hair in my eyes.

  ‘But you haven’t drawn yourself too, Mum!’ I protested.

  ‘Well, I can’t see myself, can I? Not if I’m sketching,’ she said.

  ‘Couldn’t you add yourself into the picture even so?’ I said.

  ‘All right, give it back then.’ Mum drew a rectangle round her sketch, making it like a page in a book, and then she added a pen held by a hand. ‘There, that’s me, drawing us,’ she said, pointing to the hand.

  ‘I wanted all of you in the picture,’ I said.

  ‘Eat your chicken, Tilly. It’s getting stone cold,’ said Dad.

  ‘You’re saving yourself for your cakes, aren’t you, Tills?’ said Mum, winking at me. ‘Me too!’

  She scraped all her chicken and vegetables to one side of her plate, but picked up her Yorkshire pudding and nibbled at it. ‘Mmm, delicious,’ she said. ‘Pudding and cakes, that’s what a girl likes.’

  ‘Very nutritious. You’re a great example to Tilly,’ said Dad sarcastically.