Always the Bridesmaid

by Lindsey Kelk

  ‘That’s not what she said,’ Mum said.

  ‘It sort of is,’ Dan said.

  ‘I don’t have an empty life,’ I shouted. ‘I have a brilliant life. I have friends and a job and I’m seeing a very handsome man who is a lawyer.’ I stood up and slammed my hand on the table for good measure. ‘Yes, a lawyer.’

  ‘A blind lawyer?’

  ‘Shut up, Dan!’ my mother and I shouted at the same time.

  ‘I happen to love my life, thank you very much. Yes, I plan parties for a living, and yes, I spend a lot of time talking about my friends, but there’s nothing wrong with that. I care about my friends. I don’t have too much time on my hands, so don’t worry about that. I work eighty hours a week, I go to yoga and spinning and book club, and, yes, I see my friends. Friends who are having dinner at Ceviche right now while I’m sitting here trying to have a nice family dinner with you.’

  ‘When do you go to yoga?’ Eleanor yelled.

  ‘I go sometimes,’ I yelled back.

  ‘What’s a ceviche?’ Dad asked.

  ‘It’s raw fish,’ I said, slightly calmer. ‘It doesn’t matter, Dad.’

  ‘I thought raw fish was sushi?’ he whispered to Mum. ‘Have they changed it?’

  ‘It’s different to sushi,’ Dan replied. ‘More Spanish and pretentious.’

  ‘It’s not pretentious, it’s delicious.’ I breathed out hard. ‘And for the love of God, Eleanor, can you not stop that baby crying?’

  ‘We’re letting her cry,’ she replied calmly. ‘She’s a baby, she’s supposed to be making that noise. I’m not sure what your excuse is.’

  ‘Can we all calm down and finish our dinners please?’ Mum said in a voice so high-pitched I thought the windows would shatter. ‘I’ve got an apple crumble in the oven for pudding.’

  ‘Ooh, crumble,’ Dad said.

  ‘Now, Maddie.’ Mum took a deep breath and cut up a tiny piece of lamb while the rest of the table stared at their plates. ‘Tell us all about this lawyer.’

  11

  Wednesday May 27th

  Today I feel: AMAZING.

  Today I am thankful for: BEING AMAZING.

  I don’t know what I’ve been worrying about.

  It turns out I am, as I secretly expected, amazing at everything, not just sitting on the settee eating Quavers as my sister seems to believe. Although I’m also good at that because I’m GENERALLY AMAZING.

  Admittedly my meeting with the couple who wanted us to plan their baby-naming didn’t get off to the best of starts, but I think I got there in the end.

  ‘Hi, I’m Maddie,’ I said as I entered the meeting room armed with high heels, several notebooks and Sharaline (sigh) by my side. ‘It’s so great to meet you, Mr and, uh, Mr Dickenson.’

  ‘Andrew and Christopher, please,’ Andrew said, pointing at himself and his husband. ‘I took his name. Who’d want to be Andrew Higglebottom all their life? Silly name.’

  ‘And this is Sharaline.’ I gestured towards my intern. Speaking of silly names. ‘Can we get you anything to drink? Coffee, tea, a glass of champagne maybe?’

  ‘I wouldn’t turn down a glass of fizz,’ Christopher said, flashing a very elaborate diamond wedding band as he did so. Fantastic, I thought − big budgets ahoy. If I got the job full time, I’d be on commission. The bigger the diamond, the bigger the party and the bigger the pay cheque for Maddie.

  ‘Sorry we kept cancelling last week − things have been rather hectic.’

  ‘I can only imagine,’ I replied, waving away the apology but secretly catching it and putting it in my back pocket. I had been so convinced they were going to cancel the party, I hadn’t slept properly in a week. ‘You have a baby on the way − you must be insanely busy.’

  ‘You can’t even imagine,’ Andrew said. ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Oh God no!’ I laughed madly, reaching for the remote to turn on the projector screen across the room. ‘Ew.’

  Andrew and Christopher did not join me for a chuckle.

  ‘My sister just had a baby, though,’ I said, scraping my fringe out of my face.

  Still nothing.

  ‘And she’s gay.’

  ‘Did you organize her baby-naming party?’ Christopher asked hopefully.

  ‘No, she had a very traditional christening,’ I said, sorting through my folders. ‘It was lovely, actually.’

  They glanced at each other, sharing a look last seen on my parents’ faces.

  ‘Have you planned many of these kinds of events?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘So many. You’re in such safe hands,’ I said, swiping too roughly at my iPad screen and promptly throwing it across the room. Climbing out of my chair, I slunk across the room to pick it up.

  ‘When we called, we originally spoke to someone called Victoria?’ Andrew said. ‘Is she going to be here today?’

  I gulped slightly. ‘Victoria actually left the company,’ I said, crossing my legs and attempting to present my most professional self, but neither of those things was easy in a pencil skirt. Both men looked at me with alarm as I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat until one knee was successfully over the other. ‘It’s just me and Shona on the events side now.’

  ‘Shona? Who’s Shona?’ Christopher perked up. ‘Are we meeting Shona?’

  ‘No, I’m going to be taking care of you,’ I said, trying to sound reassuring and not wonder whether or not I would have to pay to replace the now cracked screen of my iPad. ‘You don’t need to worry about anything at all. Other than your baby. Not that you need to worry about your baby. Probably. I don’t know.’

  Sharaline burst through the door carrying four glasses and a bottle of Bollinger.

  ‘Here we go,’ she said, placing the bottle in the middle of the table while Andrew and Christopher pursed their lips like cats’ arses. ‘Shall I pour?’

  ‘Please,’ I nodded, clearing my throat and shuffling my papers. If this was going to go tits up, I was at least getting a drink out of it. ‘I was just about to ask Mr and Mr Dickenson to tell me all about their baby.’

  The couple shared a look and a shrug and accepted their champagne. Clearly they had the same attitude towards this situation as I did.

  ‘We’re having a little girl, Audrey Dickenson,’ Christopher said as Andrew pulled up a picture of a sonogram on his phone. Sharaline and I ahhed in unison. When did it become socially acceptable to show any old person the inside of someone else’s uterus? I didn’t get it. ‘Our surrogate is due in three weeks and so we were hoping to plan the party for some time at the end of July.’

  ‘OK.’ I nodded sagely as Sharaline took down notes. ‘And you want to do it on a weekend?’

  ‘Yes, on the 25th ideally,’ Andrew confirmed.

  One week before Lauren’s wedding, I scribbled down in my own notepad. Not to worry. Perfectly fine. Entirely achievable.

  ‘So I’m going to show you a presentation of some events we’ve organized,’ I said, cueing up my presentation, ‘but is there anything in particular you’re thinking about? A certain theme or location to get things started?’

  ‘There is,’ Andrew said, whipping out his own, undamaged, iPad. ‘We’re both very detail-oriented people, so we’ve done quite a lot of research already.’

  He wasn’t joking. Before I could so much as pull up my PowerPoint, he was scrolling through a Pinterest board showing me photos of floral arrangements that would cost two thousand pounds apiece, cakes that I couldn’t get made for less than a grand, and venues that didn’t even exist in the UK.

  ‘We know exactly what we’re looking for,’ he said, swiping through the pictures far too quickly for me to take them in, but the general feeling I was getting was that these men would consider one of Elton John’s parties a bit cheap. ‘Afternoon tea in an English garden with a storks and roses theme.’

  ‘Storks and roses,’ I repeated, making a note on my pad.

  ‘The ceremony will take place amongst the roses and the colours will be peach and pink. All
the roses need to be peach and pink. All the food should be peach and pink. All the decorations should be peach and pink. Then we want a wonderful, wonderful party for the grown-ups and the children but it should be classy, not tacky. And Christopher has coeliac disease, so everything will need to be gluten-free. Oh, and there can be no balloons. I have globophobia.’

  I clucked my tongue and tried not to cry. ‘Riiiiight.’

  Sharaline picked up her champagne glass and knocked the whole thing back. Maybe she wasn’t as dense as I thought.

  ‘Obviously we’re looking for something out of the ordinary,’ Andrew said, pausing on a picture of the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party from Alice in Wonderland. ‘Something extravagant and surreal and spectacular. It has to be something that will blow people’s minds.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But child-friendly.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But totally insane.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But beautiful.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But fantastical.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘And money is no object.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘But we’re talking within reason.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Does that sound like something you can manage?’

  ‘You want a beautiful, fantastical, spectacular party in a pink and peach rose garden without any gluten or balloons that will blow everyone’s minds but not scare the babies?’ I said. ‘Piece of piss. I mean cake.’

  They turned to look at each other. Andrew grasped Christopher’s knee and gave a curt nod.

  ‘If this isn’t something you think you’d be able to put together,’ Gluten-Free Christopher said, looking almost relieved, ‘we can always, you know, do it ourselves.’

  ‘We talked about this,’ Andrew hissed. ‘You’re too busy to plan a party. You can’t do everything, Christopher.’

  ‘Really, this is completely fine,’ I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. ‘Nothing I haven’t done before.’

  ‘Really?’ Christopher said, beginning to look hopeful. ‘Truly? You’ve done something on this scale before?’

  ‘A thousand times,’ I exaggerated. ‘At least.’

  ‘Hello, everyone.’

  The door opened and Shona strode in, blonde ambition ponytail swinging around on the top of her head, black-and-white checked trousers so tight even Christopher and Andrew would have been able to pick her vagina out of a line-up.

  ‘How’s it all going?’ she asked, leaning over the empty chair at the head of the table. ‘Has Maddie wowed you with her vision?’

  ‘We’re only just starting,’ I said, all my bravado falling away. ‘I’m showing the presentation.’

  ‘I’m Shona.’ She strode round the table to my clients, shaking their hands so hard I thought their arms were going to fall off. ‘You must be Andrew and Christopher. Congratulations on the new baby − you must be so happy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Andrew said, his eyes shining brighter than his wedding ring. ‘We’re so glad you’re going to be joining us.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Shona’s smile was so wide her face nearly split in two. ‘I just came in to grab Sharaline.’

  Christopher nudged Andrew. ‘I told you that was her name.’

  ‘I’m taking notes for Maddie,’ Sharaline said, waving her notepad at the boss.

  ‘Sharaline is taking notes,’ I repeated, trying to sit up as straight as the compression bandage I was wearing as a skirt would allow. ‘We won’t be that much longer.’

  ‘We really won’t,’ Andrew confirmed.

  ‘You don’t need Sharaline,’ Shona purred, glaring at our new assistant. ‘You’re very good at taking notes − you were taking mine last week, after all.’

  Sharaline closed up her notebook and shuffled out of her chair, throwing me an apologetic grimace as she went. Patting the younger girl on the shoulder as she scuttled out of the meeting room, Shona gave Andrew and Christopher one last winning smile and then winked in my general direction.

  ‘You’re in good hands,’ she said as she walked out. ‘I taught her everything she knows.’

  And then the door slammed shut.

  ‘I think we might want to go away and think about this,’ Andrew said, draining his champagne. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘No,’ I said, staring at my notepad. ‘We’re not finished.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, gesturing for Christopher to drink up as he stood. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Do sit,’ I said loudly, standing up and staring them down. ‘Please.’

  I was not going to give up. I was not going to be intimidated by an impossible party or a size six bottle-blonde and her stupidly monikered minion. The only things Shona did that I didn’t was put on a show. I was the one who did all the work, I was the one who looked after the logistics. And if you can take care of the shitty end of the stick, the sexy end shouldn’t be any trouble.

  I could do this.

  Probably.

  Andrew sat down slowly, holding Christopher’s hand underneath the table.

  ‘Fantastic!’ I said, accessorizing my slightly too loud voice with my finest jazz hands and the strongest smile I could muster. ‘Shall we take a look at my presentation?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Christopher said. ‘Could we have another drink?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, turning on my laser pointer. I wasn’t messing about. ‘Have the bottle − go crazy.’

  One hour later, thanks to a combination of utter bullshit, a show-tunes medley (that Andrew loved but Christopher hated) and two more glasses of champagne, I managed to convince them to let me send over a proposal for their baby-naming ceremony by the end of the week. For the first time since Matilda had suggested I apply for this job, I was more excited than I was scared. In fact, I was so busy researching peach and pink rose gardens where I could hold a spectacular, baby-friendly, mind-blowing party with storks but no gluten, it was past four before I realized I hadn’t heard from Will. Hadn’t he said he wanted to do something on Wednesday night? Wasn’t it Wednesday? I pulled out my desk drawer to check my phone. Nothing.

  Right, I thought, pulling an Independent Woman pout. I’m not in the mood for being dicked around today − I’m just going to text him. And before the wimpy, wet, ‘what will he think?’ mind-fuck could take hold, I sent the message. And before I’d had a chance to regret it, my phone lit up with a response.

  Result!

  ‘Alright, gorgeous,’ I read. ‘Work’s still crazy, let’s hang out at yours. Be there at 8.’

  With the smug grin of a woman who had received an immediate reply from a new not-quite-boyfriend, I texted back with a ‘K’ and shoved my drawer shut. I was a woman in control, a woman in charge. I was a woman who had to cost out whether or not it was affordable, never mind ethically acceptable, to dye two dozen white rabbits pink for the world’s most ridiculous party.

  At least it’s not sea lions again, I told myself, shuddering at the memory. You might think they would be an adorable addition to a summer pool party, but no, they are not.

  I was reading up on vegetable versus chemical dyes when an appointment appeared in my calendar: 5.00 p.m., new client consultation. It had to be a mistake.

  ‘All right, Sasha,’ I called out to our receptionist, who had scheduled the appointment. ‘I’ve got a new client thing in my diary for five, but Shona’s already left for the day.’

  ‘It’s not for her,’ she replied happily.

  Sasha had been our receptionist for three years, but Shona still insisted on calling her Michelle because that was the name of our old receptionist and she couldn’t be bothered to learn a new one.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said. ‘He asked for you specifically.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘He,’ she replied. ‘And he’s fit, as well. Just sent him up to the meeting room. Brush your hair and get your arse in there.’

  Curiouser and curiouser.

&n
bsp; ‘My hair doesn’t need brushing,’ I said after she’d already hung up. I grabbed my notebooks and a pen, pausing after catching sight of myself in the window and throwing it all back down while I scrabbled around in my desk for a hairbrush.

  ‘Hello again,’ I said, as I walked into the meeting room to come face to chest with Tom the Usher.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, looking down at me.

  I stood in the doorway hugging my notebook to myself and sucking my stomach in. I hadn’t forgotten the panda comment.

  ‘Are you going to sit down?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes?’ I replied, not sitting down.

  ‘Are you going to sit down in here?’ he asked.

  I pursed my lips and shuffled over to the opposite side of the conference table, dumping my notebooks and pens and sitting as carefully as possible in my pencil skirt. Tom sat down across from me, white shirt, grey trousers, messy hair, briefcase on the chair next to him. A briefcase! A proper one! I didn’t even have a proper pen; they were mostly a collection of promotional biros I’d nicked from the bank.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked. ‘I mean, what can I do for you?’

  ‘My mum’s sixtieth birthday is in September,’ he said, taking a hardback diary out of his briefcase and flicking through the pages. ‘And I wanted to do something special for her. A party. You organize parties.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said. I opened up my notebook and scribbled down ‘mum’, ‘birthday’, ‘sixty’ and ‘briefcase’. All pertinent information. ‘So you want us to plan a birthday party?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Surprise party. She’s never had one.’

  I pushed my hair behind my ears, glad I’d given it a quick brush but wishing I’d thought to bother with a bit of lip gloss. Not that it mattered, but I hated thinking it might get back to Will that I looked anything less than fantastic when we were still in the shaving-your-legs-every-day stages of our relationship.

  ‘Is your dad in on it or is it a total surprise?’ I asked.

  ‘That would be a surprise,’ Tom said. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Right,’ I replied. Event planning 101 − never ask directly about family members. Lots of them are dead. I am a lip-gloss-less imbecile. ‘Sorry.’