Promise Me: A heartbreaking and unputdownable page-turner

by Jade Beer

  Perhaps I shouldn’t entirely blame my thieving flatmate for putting me in this devil-may-care mood, but I decide there and then not to cancel Helen tomorrow. For once, I’m going to be the silly one and do something spectacularly stupid.

  2

  Natalie Butler

  Whoever is banging that hammer against the inside of Nat’s head really needs to sod off. The hangover! It’s tearing through her, waves of nausea swaying up over her, setting her stomach to sea as it twists and churns under – oh hell – last night’s dress. It’s still glued to her and rather sadly, stinking a bit, smattered in what she hopes is buttercream but could just as easily be toothpaste – a starting gun for the first unwelcome flashback from yesterday. That mortifying dance the bride made her do up the aisle to Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake It Off’ – damn YouTube and its never-ending gallery of inspirational ‘Our Wedding!’ films. It’s not the first time Nat’s had to publicly humiliate herself in the name of being a bride-slave and sure as hell won’t be the last. But she can see it all now: the two girls sat three rows from the front, clearly having a damn good bitch about her as she fixed a determined grin to her face, threw her hips from side to side, pumped her head back and forth and ploughed on towards the celebrant as quickly as the lilac spray-on satin sheath would allow; the bewildered faces of everyone over the age of twelve who just didn’t understand what the frig was going on. Still, that’s what the bride wanted and so that’s what she got. One of the most toe-curling starts to a marriage ceremony Nat has ever been part of. And considering this is her fifteenth time up the aisle this year, that’s no small brag.

  Urgh! Why does she do this to herself? Why would anyone do it to themselves, she wonders again, as the last bit of moisture evaporates from the back of her throat and she starts to contemplate the Herculean task of getting out of bed. Not just the expense and the big show-off but why marry at all? Aside from the important stuff she is yet to work out the answers to – like, is there any such thing as true love? Could she ever conform to someone else’s timeline of the perfect life or happily cast aside all those feminist objections about one man giving her away to another? Aside from all that, there is the seriously big stuff: someone else insisting she picks her knickers up off the floor; sharing her bed every night with someone who might do something as grotesquely anatomical as break wind. How would she stop herself getting bored with him quicker than most people migrate from Pret’s double-berry muffin to the white chocolate and cranberry? Plus, she likes her name and wants to keep it, and could she ever, with any sense of dignity, pull on a white dress when she’s bonked as many best men as she has? Nat makes a feeble attempt to raise the duvet from her sticky, sweaty body then drops it swiftly as the stale smell of last night’s booze and fake tan hits her nostrils. Rank!

  No, there is a good reason why she once got savaged by a bride for physically punching away the bouquet toss and why, yes, she can handle being an enduring disappointment to most people for not even being engaged. Because the idea of her own wedding, even a low-key one in a registry office where the previous customer might have been doing something as devastatingly romantic as renewing their driver’s licence is just not that appealing. There will be no Godly union for this girl because she is yet to convince herself that even the most thrilling moment – tearing the wrapping off the new pepper grinder from the gift list – is going to enhance her life in any way.

  Oh, for a Nurofen within arm’s reach right now! She stretches for her mobile instead to check the time: eleven o’clock. Not bad. As a rule, she doesn’t get hammered at weddings. Tipsy, yes, for sure. But yesterday was different. Apart from the aisle dance there was also the dedication she was forced to sing in front of the entire three-hundred strong reception, the words to which charted the passionate love affair between bride and groom. All to the tune of ‘Oh Happy Day’. Every word that screeched out of her made her skin flush a deeper shade of fearsome red. No one could get through that without booze. So, in between endless reassurances to the bride that she looked more ravishing than the groom’s ex, who, unfortunately, he’d invited, Nat was knocking back the gin miniatures from the hotel minibar. And when they were done, it was out with the half-bottle of prosecco that she always carries with her for such emergency situations – resulting in the sort of messy post-wedding situation that she is glad only she has to witness. How wonderful to be single. Earning her own money, and blasting it just as quickly in Space NK. Dating is easy, thanks to the captive audience of up-for-it single men hanging off her at the weddings she’s constantly attending and, well, she prefers her own company most of the time.

  She’s still festering in bed, three floors up in the new-build block of flats where she can hear every toilet flush and the wake-up alarm of the couple living next door to her, which is not ideal when they get up as conventionally early as they do. She has to match their TV viewing or be forced to listen as their soundtrack competes with the noise of her own widescreen. Feeling the migraine swell within her, she looks down at the pastel-coloured spots stuck to her cleavage. Once moist confetti, it’s now crusted hard there. She can hear the buses passing on the main road outside, rattling the window frames as they make their way into Wimbledon town centre. It’s Monday morning. Maybe it’s a good thing she hasn’t got a proper job. One that might require her to be at a desk by now. Although, she can’t carry on like this forever either. But for now, her day is going to consist of a half-head of highlights – her brassy yellow locks begging for the familiar fingers of Charles Worthington. Then, major perk of the job, dress shopping.

  OK, she’s not going to feel bad about yesterday’s performance. At least she’s being honest with herself, not something she can say for every woman she follows up the aisle, including Miranda Forbes – now Mrs Christopher Barings – the New York investment manager who prioritises personal wealth over private friendships and whose train Nat was fluffing less than twenty-four hours ago. Miranda flew in to London on business two years ago and Nat was her relocation manager at the estate agency, sourcing the Mayfair apartment she needed for three months while Miranda stopped a very wealthy client taking his family’s business to a rival bank. As Nat went above and beyond the call of duty, accompanying Miranda to theatre productions, spending weekends exploring the capital’s visiting exhibitions and helping her hammer the plastic in Selfridges’ personal shopping department, the two became close. Inseparable, even. There was no one else Miranda wanted to spend four hours trawling the beauty hall in Harvey Nichols on her behalf, hunting down the best waterproof mascara. It had to be Nat. Her best friend in the world – despite living on opposite sides of the Atlantic. That was their story and they were sticking to it. Everyone swallowed it. Even Christopher. No reason not to.

  * * *

  Nat finally wrestles herself free of the duvet, drags herself through into the kitchen and drinks enough water to fill a goldfish bowl, noticing in the window that her skin has all the telltale signs of yesterday’s abuse. It’s blotchy, make-up smeared, tired and grey. No high-street face mask is going to sort this out. She needs something weapons-grade; an overdose of vitamin C-rich serum and a level of hyaluronic acid that could double as bathroom cleaner.

  She moves into the lounge and scans the mantelpiece above her faux-coal fire. Lined up in date order are invitations to the eight other weddings she will attend this year, the first indication of the kind of day each will be. The pristine white, bevelled card from Smythson, embossed with smart bronze lettering that sits perfectly within its tissue-lined pale blue envelope. The bespoke cartoon of a couple bungee jumping together. The pop-up 3D country house that’s the couple’s venue. Far right is the invitation to the last one of the year, on Christmas Eve. OK, a bit of a pain in the arse to be needed aisle-side that day, but what the hell? It’s an illustration of a girl with a mop of blonde curls leaning over a man at a typewriter above the words ‘Our Love Story’. This bride has been amazingly low-maintenance so far, leaving it entirely to Nat to find the
designer and order the invitations. Nat’s loved her over-to-you approach from the start. This one will be a doddle.

  * * *

  One restorative bacon double cheeseburger and two hundred quid’s worth of caramel highlights later and Nat is breezing into The White Gallery on Connaught Street, feeling jubilantly near-human again.

  ‘Helen, how are you?’ She’s perfectly on schedule by the looks of it. The boutique’s owner already has a fresh brew waiting for Nat, requisite bone china teapot positioned on a rose-gold, glass-topped table, together with a gilt-edged plate of pale pink macaroons. It’s like Helen knows Nat’s sugar slump is about to hit.

  ‘I’m wonderful, Natalie, my dear. And I am so happy to see you again. Come on, tell me how yesterday’s wedding went?’ She has both arms around Nat’s shoulders and is guiding her into the boutique. ‘I honestly don’t know another woman alive who gets invited to as many as you do.’

  ‘Ha! Just perfect, thank you, Helen. And I loved the dress so much, I woke up in it this morning!’ As usual, she’ll spare Helen the more unsavoury details of what she really looked and smelt like in that dress when the hangover forced her awake.

  ‘Thrilled to hear it! Now, everything is ready for you, exactly as discussed. You’re choosing the dress you’ll wear to Alice’s wedding today, I believe? Make yourself at home and I will bring your rail through to the fitting room.’ Helen is everything that Nat is not. Together, ordered, sensible and very clean-looking. While Helen busies herself with the rail, Nat shoves a macaroon into her mouth whole, with the intention of seeing another off before Helen returns.

  Despite her own lack of bridal aspirations, Nat has to admit this place is pretty awesome. She’s been here so many times and loves how entering Helen’s world seems to bathe her in a gloss of refined elegance that is not naturally hers. Now that she is through the huge black lacquered door onto the polished parquet floor, she is once again distracted by the two rails of bridal gowns that run either side of the boutique towards the back of the shop. The ultimate dressing-up fantasy, Nat has often thought about buying one, so she can howl at everyone’s reaction when she wears it to the pub. Each rail is straining under the weight of full-length white gowns of every conceivable fabric and shape. Tulle and chiffon sweep over heavier organza, onto gowns of satin and silk. Then come the heavily embellished dresses with all their showy sparkle before the modern crepes and the expensive regal laces. Nat has lost herself so many times in those gowns, when she should have been in the changing room helping another weepy bride make a decision. She always appreciates the works of art, despite never having the inclination to fulfil their purpose herself.

  There is a gold lattice frame leaning against one of the walls, onto which Helen has hung a selection of delicately embroidered shrugs and bridal cover-ups, and a glass cabinet filled with some of the most beautiful accessories Nat has ever seen. Strings of vintage pearls, glass beaded belts, soft faux-floral headpieces, Swarovski hair clips and bell jars that are filled with exquisite cream chiffon corsages. As she steps forward for a closer look, Nat can see Helen has updated her inspiration mood board too since her last visit. She’s added some new fabric samples, a truly stunning piece of gold embroidery, some loose appliqué pink flowers, netting studded with gypsophila, images from some of her designers’ latest shoots and a photograph of a shoe with intricate mother-of-pearl inlays worked around the heel. The boutique also smells divine, thanks to the vast number of café au lait dahlias, potent, pale yellow freesias and clouds of soft white hydrangeas filling various urns around the room.

  ‘OK, Natalie, shall we?’ Helen has returned and is ready for business, small white notebook tucked under one arm and her usual brown leather bag of pins and clips in the other. ‘So, you said Alice is having a full white wedding and the bridesmaids need to be wearing white too, is that right?’

  ‘Correct, Helen. But I’m the only maid so we don’t need to co-ordinate with anyone else. The wedding’s not until next year, I’m just getting ahead of myself and this will be the bride’s fourth attempt at choosing the right husband so she’s very happy to leave the dress choice to me. Come to think of it, this might be the closest I ever come to the real thing myself, so let’s make it a good one, shall we?’

  ‘Absolutely! Is the bride going to be joining us today, or has she specified whether you need to be long or short?’

  ‘Nah, she’s happy for me to decide so I say short, then I can get the legs right out.’ Nat is stripping off her jeans and sweatshirt now while reaching for her third macaroon.

  ‘OK, let’s say goodbye to the multi-way wrap dress then and the off-the-shoulder bohemian number. I think what we need is a bit of this.’ Helen is lifting a dress aloft, looking delighted with her early choice. ‘The ballet-inspired midi dress has tiny silver cut beads on the bodice and a pretty ruffled trim that edges the neckline. You’ll have your legs and arms exposed, but the grosgrain ribbon at the waist and the soft tulle skirt still keeps it feminine. What do you think?’

  Just as Nat opens her mouth to say she loves it, Helen’s mobile springs into action and she hastily tries to reject the call.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Natalie, I never normally have that switched on during an appointment. I must have forgotten to flick it to silent at lunchtime. Let me just do that now. I can see it’s my daughter. She’s getting married. On Christmas Eve, can you believe? The invitations have just gone out. A really sweet illustration of her and her fiancé, Jacob. He’s a novelist. Well, trying to be.’

  ‘Ahh, lovely!’ ventures Nat, immediately suspicious that all is not entirely well here. ‘What did you say your daughter’s name is, Helen?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t actually, but it’s Betsy. It’s possible you may have seen her in here on one of your visits, she has brilliant corkscrew curls. Well, when she’s not flattening them with those straightening irons of hers.’ Helen is all smiles, the super-proud future mother-of-the-bride.

  But those names are horribly familiar to Nat. ‘And he’s a writer, is he?’

  ‘He’s working on his first novel as we speak. That’s why they chose to have a typewriter on the invites. A little random if you ask me, but there you go.’ Helen dismisses the mild criticism with a fleeting wave of her hand.

  That sounds remarkably like the invitation that’s sitting on Nat’s own mantelpiece at home. The one she chose and had printed because the bride was showing no interest whatsoever in doing it herself. Now is probably not the time to share that piece of information, thinks Nat. Women hire a professional bridesmaid for many reasons: they want high-level organisational skills without the need to reciprocate all the good deeds; they take a look at their own friends and realise no one’s up to the job or they have torn loyalties and elect to appoint a stranger rather than offend a sister or an old school chum. But all of them, without question, want and need one simple thing: her total discretion. Nat’s become a victim of her own success. What started as a bit of low-level hen do planning has spiralled now so hiring her often negates the need for a separate wedding planner. In truth, she prefers it that way. It’s easier to conceal and invent when you have eyes over every part of the deception. And it pays well – maybe too well. It was never Nat’s intention to build a career from this, but the large and regular payments hitting her account are making her reluctant to break free and get a proper job – one that doesn’t involve lying for a living.

  And that’s exactly why Nat shoves another macaroon into her mouth before she can say anything that might expose lovely Betsy or force Helen to question the real motivation behind her daughter’s big day.

  3

  Betsy Whittaker

  The 6.50 a.m. from Birmingham New Street to Euston is not a lot of fun. Not when Betsy has to fold herself in half to accommodate her own body, a backpack, her sloshing-everywhere morning coffee and a laptop twice the size of the wobbly fold-down tray harbouring the remains of an earlier commuter’s breakfast. Still, she’s on the train, she has a seat and, as ye
t, no one with any severe personal hygiene issues has chosen to sit next to her. There is also the prospect of another inspiring day in the London office awaiting her. Which is surprising.

  When her boss at the recruitment agency promoted her to account director earlier this year it came with the initially horrifying downside of at least twice-weekly trips to the capital. But that negativity quickly evaporated when Betsy arrived on day one and was assigned a young, super-keen team to manage and told she would be reporting directly to Dylan, the agency’s managing director.

  Dylan: the man who has helped her nearly double her monthly earnings with his bold approach to candidate and client management and a level of charisma that seems to floor everyone in his path, male and female. The confidence of the man. Completely comfortable hearing his clever views project across the office, never for a second stilted or awkward with the new girl, he has welcomed Betsy in and promptly set about fast-tracking her up the league table of company high performers. How can she not be impressed? And want to impress him. Her already sky-high levels of organisation are being ratcheted up. First in, last out every day, never missing a beat. Jumping on any new business leads with the ferocity of a hungry wolf, leading meetings like her life depends on it. Motivating her team to work harder and smarter.