Four Bridesmaids and a White Wedding: the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy of the year!

by Fiona Collins

  She felt like a teenager again. A quite ridiculous one.

  Then he’d left the bar. He was walking across the dance floor; he was coming her way. Rose was sure the eyes of every single woman in that room – and there were a lot of them – were on him. Play it cool, she told herself, play it cool, but she had never really played it cool in her life and didn’t actually know how to do it. He stopped to talk to someone – oh no! It was Vanessa! Twenty-something, blonde, pretty . . . and far too much competition. Please find her dull, prayed Rose, please find her dull and come over and talk to me. Or at least let her say something really, really stupid. Rose had turned to face the other way; she didn’t want to witness Vanessa laughing prettily and Paul looking raptured by her youth and wrinkle-free face.

  ‘Hello, Rose,’ he’d suddenly said, from behind her.

  She’d turned, far too quickly probably. ‘Hello, Paul.’

  ‘Can I get you another drink?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Her heart pounding, her cheeks flushing and her knickers getting in a good old heavenly twist, she’d downed the rest of her champagne, plonked the flute on a passing tray and had smiled at him expectantly.

  ‘Follow me,’ he’d said.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Sal had hissed, from the corner of her mouth, as Rose sailed past her.

  ‘Does it matter?’ Rose had replied, somewhat cryptically. She was going for a drink with Paul. She was at a party. She looked the best she had in probably twenty years. If she didn’t know what she was doing then all the better – but she did, of course. She knew exactly what she was doing,

  She’d followed Paul to a corner of the room where silver balloons with ‘50’ on them were suspended from the ceiling in a kind of arc.

  ‘What do you usually drink?’ Paul had asked, as soon as they’d reached the corner. His eyes, she’d thought. His eyes were amazing. She had never seen eyes like them.

  ‘Tap water,’ she’d replied, without thinking – those eyes had dazzled her. Still, it was true. Rose didn’t like tea or coffee, she barely drank wine as she hardly went out and when she was at home even just one glass would have her snoozing in front of the telly within ten minutes (if Jason was at home he always reported that her mouth was hanging open, her head nodding like one of those dogs people used to put in the back of their cars – what a charming image!). It was a fact that she drank a lot of tap water.

  ‘That’s why your skin is so lovely,’ Paul had said, and Rose lit up inside. He thought she had lovely skin! That made her feel wonderful. She was doing an internal tally – Paul against Jason. Paul said she had lovely skin; Jason no longer paid her compliments. Paul had said she was pretty; Jason implied she napped like a geriatric bulldog. At the moment, Paul was coming out way on top in the comparison. She had a fleeting image of him being on top of her, but quickly stuffed it to the back of her brain; Paul was asking her something. ‘Would you like to go off piste tonight?’ he’d said, grinning. ‘Seeing as you usually only drink water. How about a mojito?’

  ‘I’d love a mojito,’ Rose had said.

  Its minty sweetness had pleased her; its kick of very strong rum warmed her down to her toes. She’d drunk it far too quickly. The Manhattan – her next cocktail – had bedded down nicely into her bloodstream, too, its punch of alcohol hitting all the right spots. They’d made small talk, she’d asked him how he had become a yoga instructor and Paul had entertained her with stories of how he’d trained, on a hilltop in India, with a guru, back in the 90s. Rose wondered was it Vanessa’s Bindi and had enjoyed a little giggle to herself. She’d laughed and nodded and sipped her Manhattan . . . And now the Singapore Sling was making her feel warm and free and relaxed and, to be quite honest, rather drunk. The vision of him cross-legged, under a tree in Goa, with his top off, was also giving her a warm glow.

  She reached up and touched one of the silver balloons overhead as she sipped at her Singapore Sling and stared at Paul’s profile. She was not jealous of tonight’s Glamour Pamper party girl, whoever she was. Fifty. It seemed like the beginning of the end to her. It was a frightening milestone looming on a distant horizon. She was only forty-two; she was still young (ish). She let a panicky feeling to seize the day, the night, whatever, wash over her; time was running out and so was any allure she had – fast. She needed to live; she needed to feel alive. Paul, that halo of balloons above his head, gazed back at her and made her feel sexy and desirable. It was so dangerous. She was scared she was going to do something reckless tonight, given half the chance, but at the same time she was terrified she wouldn’t dare.

  ‘You look really lovely tonight,’ he said, looking her up and down with those eyes.

  ‘Thanks.’ Rose was grinning, she was delighted and didn’t care that he knew it. Another compliment – he could keep them coming, as far as she was concerned. She didn’t feel part of the furniture with Paul. She felt centre stage, glittery and iridescent, lit by a spotlight from above and from within by a thrilling flame. Paul had noticed her; Paul was interested in her and thought she looked lovely. It felt absolutely brilliant.

  ‘So, how’s your day been?’ he asked her. ‘After the magnificent yoga session that is?’ He winked and she felt her heart fizzing, like a sparkler on Bonfire night. What was this man doing to her?

  ‘Well, the Mind Gymnastics was pretty interesting—’ her Occasion of Delight had been the moment she’d first bumped into Paul in the lobby; wrong on so many levels, but never mind ‘—then there was some high-risk boating across the lake, which ended with Wendy falling in and having to be rescued. Just a run-of-the-mill afternoon.’ She grinned.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Paul, his face all amused and gorgeous. ‘I heard about you girls and your little escapade today. Steve told me about it.’ He leant forward and whispered in her ear, ‘I bet you looked cute in your life jacket.’

  She could smell how delicious he was: aftershave mixed with minty mouthwash and draught beer – a fantastically sexy combination.

  ‘Of course I did,’ she said, cheekily, the alcohol flowing through her veins and making her feel warm and very much alive. She hadn’t, of course – she’d looked horrendous, but she wouldn’t be telling him that. ‘And how was your day?’

  ‘Well, hot yoga, of course,’ he said. ‘There were some very attractive women in today’s class.’ He looked at her, really looked at her, and she could feel his piercing blue eyes boring into her soul and undressing her, a sensation she decided she really rather liked. ‘Then I worked out this afternoon – in the gym, leg day.’ Blimey, she thought; that she would have liked to have seen. ‘Then I took a sauna and caught up on some paperwork. I run an organic protein shake business on the side. It’s doing pretty well. Would you like another drink?’

  Rose looked down at her glass. She’d finished the whole fruity cocktail already – oops! Oh, well.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said.

  ‘Same again?’

  ‘OK.’

  She’d mixed her drinks quite enough already; she’d stick to the Singapore Slings, not that they were exactly the safest option – they were potent enough to take the roof off this place. She felt really drunk now; she’d have to concentrate on not slurring her words, or falling over.

  He returned with her drink and they fell into easy conversation once more. He was so easy to talk to, noted Rose – sometimes all she got from Jason these days was grunts. They talked about The Retreat, more about Paul’s career (he used to be a personal trainer, for a big gym chain, in London, before he got the yoga bug); the food and drink they liked (quite a long list, in Rose’s case; Paul told her he was a committed vegan, something she was quite impressed by as she loved a burger and a sausage, often in the same bun); the music they listened to (him, Coldplay and U2; her, Beyoncé and Ellie Goulding); and their favourite movies of all time (The Hunt for Red October and Bridget Jones’s Diary, respectively). It was a fun, lively chat,
but not once, Rose realised, did Paul ask her if she was married, if she had children, what she did for a living . . . and, strangely, she liked that. He wasn’t interested in all the baggage she may be carrying around; he couldn’t even see it. It made her feel young again and like anything was possible. She was just Rose. Not a mum, not a wife, just Rose.

  ‘I’ll get you another,’ he said, and he disappeared to the bar again, where she saw him chatting to the barman as her cocktail was mixed. An elegant lady in an emerald green dress sidled up and tried to talk to him. Paul was polite, Rose could see, but patently not interested; he made his excuses and came back to Rose.

  ‘Let’s walk by the lake,’ he said, handing her the glass. ‘Come on.’ And he took her free hand and, just like that, led her through the packed room of people, some dancing now, and out of a narrow side door. No discussion, no question. It was sexy. Very sexy. And she was half cut now, she knew. Her centre of gravity was uncertain and her body felt strangely light, like she was floating. She also got the giggles, which she prayed wouldn’t turn into hiccups.

  The sun had just gone down and the lake, suddenly cloaked in darkness, looked stunning. It was all dark and limpid, and reflected the fairy lights from the lake house like jewels. The summer moon was full and bright. And it was warm, a soft breeze coming off the lake and playing with the tendrils from Rose’s artfully messy updo. She felt . . . wonderful – drunk, but wonderful – and having her hand in Paul’s gave her feelings she knew she shouldn’t be having but thrilled her all the same. His large, warm hand was sending signals of electricity all around her body and she felt looked after; she felt desired – both of these emotions were strangers to her in her own home.

  Paul walked her to the start of the bridge and they began to stroll over it, still hand in hand, and Rose was just aware enough to not let her heels get stuck between the gaps in the boards, although it was quite tricky. She felt like she was in a film, really. It was very romantic. To their left, The Retreat was all lit up in warm, yellow uplighters and floodlights. Either side of them, the lake gleamed, black and still. And the music and laughter and the light that spilled from the lake house out into the air echoed all around.

  When they reached the centre of the bridge, Paul gently manoeuvred Rose against the wooden handrail and stood behind her, snaking his arms round her waist. She gasped with pleasure when he touched her; she loved the heat of his hands on her body. She didn’t care that it was wrong; she couldn’t give a monkey’s, actually. It felt amazing and she deserved it. She knew she deserved it.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Paul. He was bending down so his mouth was close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin. They were looking out towards The Retreat. Rose could see diners in the restaurant, clinking glasses and laughing, and staff hurrying to and fro. Behind them, the sounds of the party ebbed and flowed – Bruce Springsteen sung about a ‘Hungry Heart’; a shriek of joy rose out into the night and hung in the air.

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Rose. ‘It’s very beautiful.’

  She was hoping he’d say ‘just like you,’ but he said something else.

  ‘Do you believe in lust at first sight, Rose?’

  ‘Lust?’

  ‘Yes.’

  At first, disappointment flooded her. What? Didn’t he mean ‘love’? Love at first sight? When they bumped into each other in the lobby? When they looked at each other and thought ‘yes!’? Then, she realised, that was not what had happened. Not at all. This was not love, what was going on right now – what existed between them was a lot more primeval, more thrilling and sexy. Lust. It was an exciting word. Who needed boring old love when you could have what she was feeling right now?

  ‘I guess I do,’ she said, relishing in the power of her own, slightly slurred words. Did he realise she was drunk? Did he care?

  ‘I do,’ whispered Paul. ‘I felt it as soon as I met you.’ He slipped his hands from the stomach she was desperately trying to hold in and placed them on her shoulders in order to turn her gently to face him. In the moonlight and the reflection of the party lights in the water, his face was glowing, sensual, everything.

  ‘Put your drink down,’ he commanded.

  When she straightened up again, she stumbled slightly against him. He caught her in his arms and she found her face buried in the fabric of his shirt. He smelled of fresh cotton and pure man; she was intoxicated. He stroked her back; she let him. He ran an expert hand down to the curve just above her bum; she let him do that as well. This was marvellous, this was amazing. Sexy things like this didn’t happen to her. Lust at first sight . . . she liked it.

  He pushed her away from him slightly and leant down to her so their faces were inches apart.

  ‘I’m going to kiss you now,’ he said.

  ‘Are you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes. If you want me to.’

  His face was ridiculously close to hers. His lips were inviting, so inviting; she could imagine just how they would taste. Of course she wanted him to! How could she not? A kiss from an extremely sexy, handsome stranger was just what the doctor ordered. In fact, the doctor had demanded it! Jason was on his way to Hong Kong to do God knows what with that Susie; she was here with a man who desired her and a kiss from him would make everything better. She looked back into Paul’s eyes and anticipated that heavenly kiss . . .

  ‘Would you prefer to go to my room?’ murmured Paul, all concern and desire. ‘I’ve booked one here, for the night – I hope you don’t mind my presumption.’ He smiled, his eyes glinting with promise and seduction, but her smile slid off her face and straight into the lake, a bit like Wendy’s oar. His presumption . . . He’d booked a room . . . He’d booked a room for them, to have sex in. This wasn’t about a romantic kiss on a bridge across a lake on a summer’s evening. This was about sex, and Paul presumed he was going to have it with her very shortly indeed.

  ‘Oh,’ said Rose. She abruptly pulled her face from his. Lust at first sight, hey? Yes, she’d had sexual thoughts about him during the hot yoga session, yes she’d imagined his hands on her body, in all sorts of places, but it had all been a rather lovely fantasy. Her thoughts about him tonight had all been a lovely fantasy. And now that fantasy slipped away. With the words ‘booked a room’ it all became horribly real and she knew there was no way she wanted to have sex with him! No!

  Paul leant towards her again.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered, his lips soft and ready. ‘Kiss me. We don’t have to go to my room. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.’ They both knew what that meant – that he would push as hard as he could for what he wanted, and eventually she may give in. She’d been pretty naïve, hadn’t she? To think this man wanted to put a bit of romance into her life, to give her back some of the lovely feelings she’d been lacking for so long. This situation was not romantic at all – it was manufactured, fake, and designed to get her into that room. She did mind his presumption and she also understood why he hadn’t asked her any questions about herself. The details of her life were superfluous: he was all about the conquest, the chase.

  She looked at him. Properly. His eyes were closed. His soft warm skin was glowing. His lips were there for the taking. OK, he was not the knight in shining armour she might have imagined him to be, but he still had quite a sheen to him, albeit not a very deep one. A man as amazingly sexy and good-looking as this had never been interested in her. A man like Paul had never entreated a woman like Rose to kiss him. She wouldn’t sleep with him – God, no! – but would it be so bad to kiss him anyway? Kiss him, as something she wanted, and then say goodbye? There were all sorts of good reasons for doing so, she mused: to get back at Jason, to give her what she’d been missing, to make her feel she could still feel.

  His lips were still there, waiting. They looked so delicious. How easy it would be to just tip her face forward and kiss them . . . to get back at Jason . . . to give her what she’d been missing . . . Suddenly, she didn’t want to kiss
him. Suddenly, Rose saw this scenario, here by the lake, for exactly what it was and her motives in it became crystal clear too. She didn’t want this man! She just wanted attention – the attention she was wasn’t getting from Jason.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to kiss you and I definitely don’t want to go to a room with you. You’ll have to presume with someone else.’ She would have sounded quite prim if she hadn’t been so drunk.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, moving his face back. He looked at her quizzically. ‘I’ve upset you.’ He looked far from upset himself. He looked . . . amused. And she was resolute. She didn’t want to kiss Paul, however heavenly, however easy it would be. She wanted to save her marriage. Yes, yes, yes, she realised, as though she had been struck by a thunderbolt from above, she wanted to save her marriage! Her marriage was not lust, it was love: it was based on love – they’d had it once, and it could still be there, for her and Jason, no matter how dormant at the moment, and they could try to get the lust, the yummy feelings back, too, somehow, couldn’t they? Jason had once looked at Rose how Paul had, a million years ago.

  ‘You haven’t upset me,’ she said. It was true – he was just an opportunist who’d tried his luck, and you couldn’t blame him; she’d certainly been giving him all the right signals for all the wrong reasons. She suddenly felt completely ambivalent about Paul, after all the thrills and intoxication. It was over. ‘It’s absolutely fine,’ she added. ‘Honestly. But, I’m going to go now. Goodbye, Paul.’

  She turned and walked back over the bridge. She felt so drunk now, she was stomping a little, her heels were going dangerous near the gaps, but her mind was also very clear, and full of Jason. Once he got home she’d confront him head on about his colleague, and those tickets; she’d question him about his overseas trips and when they could come to an end; she’d sit down and have it out with him about why they’d both stopped making an effort a long time ago. She was going to be proactive; she was going to be determined. If there was anything to be salvaged she would try her absolute best to salvage it. She was a wife and she was a mum. And she wanted to stay both.