Wedding Hells

by Jennifer Gilby Roberts

  Wedding Hells

  Copyright 2013 Jennifer Gilby Roberts

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  From the Back Cover

  Mel Parker’s perfect little sister is getting married and she’d rather cut her own arm off than attend. Her relatives are guaranteed to give her hell about not going first, her dress is unbearable and her beloved best friend Will isn't even invited.

  But her boyfriend is there. And there’ll be cake. So maybe it won’t be as bad as she thinks.

  Maybe it’ll be worse...

  Short Story (5,500 words)

  It’s 2.13 pm. My little sister, Brittany, has been Mrs. Phillip Beresford for 52 minutes and this day has already been the longest of my life.

  They could have had the common decency to elope, instead of making us spend the day at some stately home where we fit in like dandelions at Chelsea Flower Show. I’m surprised Brittany wanted Dad within a mile of Phillip’s parents. But then, I suppose it’s too late now for them to lock Phillip in the cellar and call off the wedding.

  “Can I have the bride and bridesmaids, please?” the photographer calls, waving his camera in a threatening manner.

  I attempt to take a deep breath and get stuck halfway through. I would kill to get out of this dress. Wearing it is like being wrapped in a boa-constrictor. It just about fit when Brittany bought it, but it certainly doesn’t now. It took two people to get the zip done up. My strapless bra has sunk into my skin and is garrotting various internal organs as we speak. Not to mention it’s 90 degrees out here and I feel like I’m wearing a greenhouse.

  “Smile, Melanie,” Brittany hisses, as I reluctantly move to stand beside her under the huge wooden gazebo (sod’s law means the sun has now gone in, so even the shade isn’t a bonus). She grabs my arm and pulls me to her other side, nearly mowing down another bridesmaid. “And stand this side. It’s less obvious that way.”

  My stye, she means, that my eye developed yesterday. As if it wasn’t bad enough being the only bridesmaid who isn’t straight out of a bridal magazine. Any minute now she’s going to ask me to step aside so I don’t spoil her perfect wedding album. I know she only let me be a bridesmaid because Dad insisted.

  “Turn sideways, shoulders to me, chins up, bouquets towards the bride - that’s lovely,” the photographer croons. “And SMILE.”

  This position is actually painful. No one told me to take up yoga to prepare for today. Psychotherapy, yes, but not yoga.

  I extend the painful twisting to my lips until I look like a demonstrator off a home shopping channel.

  “Hold it!”

  As I’m standing there, fighting to keep my smile from morphing into a snarl, I notice movement in front of my eyes.

  “One more!”

  A very large, very black spider slides down a thread from the roof of the gazebo and stops millimetres from my nose.

  I freak. I scream, jump backwards and send two bridesmaids crashing to the floor. They scream in shock. Brittany screams in temper. The photographer screams in anguish. Yet another shot is ruined. The hoards of other guests start tittering. The perfect groomsmen hurry over to help.

  “Melanie!” Brittany snaps, as the groomsmen lift two bridesmaids (with the combined weight of a marshmallow) to their feet. “Can you not pose for two seconds without ruining everything?! What the hell happened this time?”

  “It was a spider!” I protest, checking very carefully for its location. I can’t find it. Where has it gone?

  Oh God, it didn’t land on me, did it? Is it crawling down my cleavage as we speak?

  I have no choice. I have to check.

  “Melanie!” Brittany growls, grabbing my arm again and spinning me so I’m facing away from the guests. “What the hell are you doing? Get your hands out of your dress!”

  “But the spider!”

  She moves forward until there are centimetres between us and stares me down. “I don’t care if you have a poisonous scorpion climbing up your leg. Pose, smile and shut up!”

  Ah, sisterly love.

  I feel no crawling, so I’m reasonably confident the spider has merely climbed back to the roof of the gazebo. Plus, realistically, my boobs are so squashed together that you couldn’t slide a place card between them. It hasn’t gone down there. That tunnel has caved in.

  I ignore the dirty looks from the other bridesmaids and move back into position for the shot.

  “Alright, that’ll do here. Can I have the bridesmaids and groomsmen by the lake, please?”

  Five bridesmaids trip lightly to the lake and one plods. No prizes for guessing which.

  I suppose it could be worse. Will (my best friend of forever) only has an evening invitation, but as a great concession Brittany invited my boyfriend, Darren, so I have at least one person here who likes me. We’ve been together nearly eight months in total, although we split up for a while. Admittedly that ‘while’ included my graduation ball, but Will came up for it so it was fine. Anyway, we’re back together now. We even set up a couple of our friends as a joint venture. That’s got to mean something, right? I wonder if I’ll catch the bouquet...

  Okay, we’re probably a way off that. But it’s still fantastic to have him here. Makes me feel like I can make it through today.

  A few more photos in excruciating positions and there’s just the group shots left.

  Darren comes to stand beside me in the crowd and wraps his arm around my waist. I smile gratefully at him. He’s so handsome. Tall and dark with blue eyes, exactly my type.

  “Nearly finished,” he says comfortingly.

  “Further in, please,” the photographer yells over the din. “Get friendly. Act like you like each other.”

  ‘Act’ being the operative word for many of the guests.

  I dredge up one more smile and, after a few painful minutes, it is finally over.

  “And we’re done!” the photographer calls. “Now everyone get under cover, because it looks like it’s going to hammer it down any minute.”

  I look up. Rolling black clouds are closing in. Finally the weather is aligning with my mood.

  “Come over here for a minute,” Darren says, pulling me away from the crowd. “We need to talk.”

  “But it’s going to rain!” I protest, gesturing to the crowd racing towards the marquee. “I can’t change out of this dress, you know. So whatever you need to say, say it as quick as possible. You’ve got thirty seconds.”

  “Okay.” He blinks. “I-have-to-leave-now-I’m-meeting-Karen-we’re-dating-now-so-I’m-breaking-up-with-you.”

  I blink back. I stare at him. I must have heard that wrong.

  “What?” I ask slowly.

  “I-have-to-leave-now-I’m-meeting-Karen-”

  “Karen?” I interrupt. “My friend Karen? My friend Karen who we set up with your friend Adam?”

  He shifts from one foot to the other. “They didn’t get on, but I thought she was really nice. Look, I didn’t plan it, it just...”

  “...happened, yes,” I interrupt.

  Can you tell I’ve heard this before?

  “Look, I’m really sorry, Mel,” he says, attempting a contrite expression. It doesn’t suit him. It looks like a five-year-old has drawn it onto his face. “But you know we weren’t going anywhere, what with me moving back home. I wanted to come and support you at the wedding, but now that’s over I think it’s best if I just head off.”

  I
t’s not bloody over! Alright the ceremony is over, but the reception is only just beginning and this is the bit I need the support for! During the ceremony nobody was allowed to talk to me!

  “Go,” I mutter. “It’s fine.”

  He perks up. “Really?”

  No, of course not really!

  “Really,” I say. “Just go.”

  “Thanks, Mel,” he says. He takes my hand and squeezes it. “I hope we can still be friends. Hey, maybe when you find someone else we can all meet up and do something.”

  Is he serious?

  “Bye,” I say and turn away.

  I tear off towards the marquee, just as the heavens open and the rain pours down.

  At least it hides my tears.

  I get into the marquee and rush straight to the toilets, where I stare into the mirror. My pink dress is now several shades darker, the trailing ringlets from my once-elegant up-do have collapsed and I have black rivers running down my cheeks. Waterproof mascara, my ass. You know what rain is? It’s water. So why exactly is there more mascara on my cheeks than on my eyelashes?

  So, in summary, I’m dumped, drenched and depressed. Great. That’s exactly how I wanted to start off the reception from hell.

  Please God, could you promise me one thing? Don’t let Brittany get married more than once.

  At least I brought make-up and hair supplies. Well, as many as I could cram into the miniscule clutch Brittany let us have.

  I repair the damage as best I can and venture out into the room.

  The first person I meet is my father. Oh, joy.

  “Where’s Darren got to, my girl?” he greets me, hitching up his trousers for the hundredth time today.

  “He’s gone,” I say dully. “He’s dumped me and gone off with one of my friends.”

  “Good, good,” Dad says, taking my arm. “I’ve just been chatting to a super bloke and I want to introduce you. One of Phillip’s colleagues. A doctor, Melanie, a doctor!”

  Having both his daughters married to doctors would be the fulfilment of all my dad’s hopes and dreams. As opposed to if one of us had actually become a doctor, which would probably have sent him into mourning. Somehow, the whole women’s movement managed to completely bypass him.

  Still, I suppose it would be okay to meet this friend of my brother-in-law. I’m not actually against the idea of ‘marrying well’, as my dad puts it. I can see the advantages.

  Maybe this is all part of some grand plan and today Prince Charming will come and rescue me.

  Hey, it could happen.

  I perk up a little, as Dad steers me through the throng to a group of mostly middle-aged men in regulation black tuxes.

  Oh, wow, that must be him. He’s gorgeous. Like Darren, only airbrushed. For once Dad might have got it spot on.

  I smile at him as we approach and he smiles back.

  Then something blocks my view.

  “Malcolm, my elder daughter, Melanie.”

  I look up from Malcolm’s chest to his face and can’t quite believe my eyes. He must be twice my age at least and he’s got a belly like a beer keg. Which is probably what it is, judging by the florid complexion.

  “Delighted to meet you, Melanie,” he says, taking my hand and kissing it. My skin crawls like a thousand spiders are scuttling all over it.

  No, don’t think about spiders.

  I repress a shudder. I look over his shoulder, but Gorgeous Guy is nowhere to be seen. Dad strikes again.

  “Nice to meet you too,” I manage. “If you’ll just excuse me, someone’s trying to get my attention.”

  And I hurry off before Dad can stop me.

  It’s still tipping down, so I can’t escape outside. As I attempt to swim to safety, I get caught in Great Aunt Marion’s net.

  “Melanie,” she says, gesturing with her glasses, “Eleanor and I were just talking about how difficult it must be for you to watch your younger sister get married before you.”

  Oh, joy.

  “Not really,” I say blithely. “I’m only twenty-one, after all. Brittany’s getting married very young, that’s all.”

  “I was married by your age,” Great Aunt Marion warns, hitching up her bosom.

  “So was I,” Eleanor chimes in.

  I don’t know how or why, but none of my family has advanced past the 1950s. Nor do they realise that anyone else has.

  “Well, things are different now,” I say, pointlessly. “Anyway, I’m not ready to get married yet. I want to work first and live on my own. My friend Susan and I have a flat share lined up and I’m applying for jobs. I’ve got an interview next week, actually, for a job as an administrator. It’s not my dream, but it’s a foot in the door. I’ll stay there six months and then move on to something better.”

  “A flat share?” Great Aunt Marion sounds appalled. You’d think I’d announced I was going to go and live in a brothel. “You mean you’re not going to stay at home until you get married, like Brittany?”

  Is there a diplomatic way of saying that I’d rather cut off my own arm with a rusty steak knife? A rusty steak knife that’s really, really blunt? A rusty steak knife that’s really, really blunt and covered in Ebola germs?

  There is absolutely nothing I can say right now that will avoid a lecture.

  Or is there?

  I fake a sneeze. “I’m sorry, Great Aunt Marion,” I say, wiping my eyes, “my allergies are acting up. Cat hair just sticks to everything, doesn’t it? I’ll have to go. Speak to you later. Bye!”

  And, yet again, I run.

  Dinner is announced and I have never been so grateful in my life. One, this massively cuts down the number of people who have access to me. Two, I have been looking forward to this meal literally for months. Ever since I got on the scales upon getting home from university and realised that all the finals-induced panic-eating had done serious damage and I would have to go on a diet if I didn’t want to end up on The Biggest Loser, I’ve promised myself that today I could eat anything I wanted. Or as much as I can manage without actually splitting this dress, anyway.

  I’m seated between Mum and one of the other bridesmaids on the top table, which is bliss. Bridesmaid Girl #1 doesn’t give a toss about me, so talks exclusively to her other neighbour, Bridesmaid Girl #2. My mum does care about me (I think), but says little and nothing offensive. At last, things are looking up.

  Even better, I spy Gorgeous Guy at the next table. I can’t speak to him, but I can certainly admire the view.

  “How are you doing, Melanie dear?” my mum asks quietly.

  I shrug. “Okay,” I say. There’s no point in complaining. Mum will sympathise, but she won’t interfere.

  “I haven’t seen Darren since the photos,” she says. “Is he okay? Where is he sitting?”

  “There’s an empty seat with his name by it at the back,” I say, trying to speak without moving my lips in case someone in the family can lip-read, “but he’s not there. He’s gone off to meet his new girlfriend.”

  She starts. “You didn’t tell me you’d broken up! Why did you bring him?”

  “Because I didn’t find out until after the photos,” I say. “Apparently he felt that was the most appropriate time to tell me.”

  “Oh, Melanie,” Mum whispers. “I think you’re better off without that one.”

  “Absolutely,” I say, despite the tears pricking my eyes. “Good riddance. It’s time to find someone better.”

  “That’s the spirit,” she says and squeezes my hand under the table.

  Oooo, they’re bringing the starters!

  I perk up, until the plate is placed in front of me.

  What the hell is this?

  The venue provided Brittany with a whole list of mouth-watering entrées and she has picked...a salad. I’ve been on a sodding diet. Do you have any idea how many salads I’ve eaten? And I didn’t even like the first one!

  Brittany’s been slimming too, though she wasn’t exactly hefty to begin with. Apparently she isn’t planning to let he
rself go now she’s married, either.

  Dessert had better be something spectacular to make up for this.

  I’m quite tempted not to eat it on principle, but I’m hungry and I’m suspicious now that the main course may not be any better.

  “Mum,” I say as she delicately picks at her salad, “do you know what the main course is?”

  “Chicken and mushroom pasta, I think, dear.”

  I can’t stand mushrooms. As far as I’m concerned, they taste like what they’re grown in.

  I eat the salad, feeling mutinous.

  I’m picking through my pasta, trying to remove every trace of mushroom so I might actually get to eat some of it, when my attention is caught by the conversation going on beside me. Bridesmaid Girls #1 and #2 appear to be discussing Gorgeous Guy.

  “He’s so handsome,” one breathes. “Do you know him?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, who is he? What’s his name?”

  “James Matthews, he works with Phillip and my husband. But hands off, he’s taken. He’s engaged to the blond woman sitting next to him. Cathy? Kerry? Something like that.”

  Bridesmaid Girl #1 groans. “That sucks. Why are all the good ones taken?”

  Why, indeed.

  It’s official; the only thing I have to look forward to today is dessert.

  I perk up again when they clear away our dinner plates. Finally, my reward for all those weeks of denial and exercising. Well, sort of exercising. I’ve taken some very long, strenuous walks down the high street and back.

  The waiter places a cocktail glass in front of me. I can’t quite believe my eyes.

  Fruit salad. It’s a sodding fruit salad. What kind of dessert is that?! Where’s the chocolate? Where’s the cream? Where’s the health warning?

  It’s a good job Brittany won’t be coming home tonight, because if she did she wouldn’t be here tomorrow morning.