Mail Order Bridesmaid

by Emilia Beaumont

  “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. I’ll never tell.” Jezebel said. Or was it Jasmine? Jez, Jazz… it didn’t matter. My mind was addled and confused and a little worried about what other rumors were flying around about me now, courtesy of my ex.

  I paused. These were dangerous waters, not the warm shallows I was used to.

  “Never mind. So, what do you say? Saturday? It’s an all-day event, a wedding in fact. Free bar.”

  “Not if I was the last woman on earth,” she replied. With a flourish, hair whipping around, she spun her chair around to face the opposite direction and dug into the file cabinets.

  A passing giggle caught my attention. “You really know how to crash and burn, Mr. Rhodes.”

  My secretary, Josephine, glided by, a pleased smile on her face, like a cat that had not only got the cream but the damn mouse too.

  Trying to keep my dignity I retreated, following in Jo’s wake, shoulders hunched. Well, that could’ve gone better, I thought. Luckily it was the tail end of the lunch hour and not everyone was back to see my disastrous attempt, but no doubt by the end of the day it would be all around the office.

  Jo slid into her chair behind her desk. I waited for her to get situated.

  “Yes?” she drawled, exaggerating her impatience. “Do you need some salve for that burn?”

  Jesus, were all the women in this place out to get me? Though in the case of Miss Josephine here, that had always been the norm. I would be suspicious if she wasn’t giving me a hard time. Jo and I had never truly gotten along. She thought I was arrogant, and I thought she was an entitled sorority chick who was killing time in an office until she found a worthy husband whom she could sponge off. We tolerated each other. No, that was putting it mildly. We pretty much hated each other.

  Of course, it didn’t help matters that I’d slept with the younger sister, broke her heart, then mistaken Jo for Beth when she’d first joined the company. That was an awkward moment in the supply closet.

  Regardless, she was stuck with me and I was stuck with her, a gold-digging secretary, all because her uncle was my boss. I may have been the head of department, but he ruled the roost.

  “I have a job for you,” I replied with a wicked smile.

  “If you think I’m going to go to that stupid wedding and be your date, then you have another thing coming. Sarah has already warned us.”

  “Shit, did she take out an ad in the fucking Sunday Times or something?”

  “Close to it.”

  “Ugh, I could sue her for slander.”

  “But you won’t. You’ll only make it worse.”

  She was right, I wouldn’t. This would all blow over sooner or later.

  “That’s not what I was going to ask,” I replied, lying. Fuck. Onto Plan C.

  “Spit it out, I don’t have all day and I’d rather not spend what’s left of my lunch hour talking to the likes of you.”

  “Careful, Josephine. There’s no need to be so hostile. Remember who you are talking to. And I don’t need for you to be my date, I need you to find me a date. A bridesmaid, in fact. I’m a busy man and well, I just don’t have the time to search the meat-market to find a choice cut.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I already have a job.”

  “Not for long…”

  “You can’t threaten me,” she spat back.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Unless you want me to tell a certain somebody that it was your fault the contracts for the Morton deal were late. A lot of money was lost that day.” I’d held this little bit of information in my back pocket for a few weeks now, hoping I could eventually use it; mount a campaign of gross incompetence against her, to get rid of the thorn in my side, so I could replace her with a secretary who didn’t scowl at me all day.

  But using it for this was just as good. I didn’t have time to search high and low for a bridesmaid. Like I said, I was a busy, important man. And I didn’t want to strike out for a third time after Sarah and Jasmine. My ego could only be bruised so much in one day.

  Jo laughed. “It’s my word against yours. My uncle will never believe you.”

  “Maybe so, but do you want to take the risk? Besides, I have another reason you’ll want to play matchmaker.” I smiled and waited for her to bite.

  A second later her mouth opened and I reeled her in. “And what’s that?” she asked with a testy exhale.

  “Guess who’s in charge of this quarter’s bonuses?” This time I was beaming, lips spread wide, giving her my best wolfish grin.

  Jo groaned. “You? But—”

  “Bingo!”

  “And let me guess, you plan on not giving me one if I don’t do what you ask?”

  “Precisely. You catch on quick when you want to.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  I tutted and waggled my finger. “A dick that has leverage,” I said and shot her a wink. “I’ll even sweeten the deal. You find me the perfect bridesmaid, and I’ll double your bonus. Win-win all round. How does that sound?”

  “Like I’m making a deal with the devil.”

  I chortled. “Oh, you have no idea.” I leaned down and took the pen from her hand and found a scrap of paper. I listed the requirements for the date I needed for Gerard’s wedding. It was a short list, mainly comprised of her being able to fit into the one-of-a-kind dress. I scribbled the details Ger had drummed into me. Better be worth it, I thought.

  Jo glanced at it and frowned. “Is that it? You sure you don’t want her to have a huge set of knockers too?”

  “Don’t be crude, Josephine. It doesn’t suit you,” I said with another tut. “I simply need a date. Someone who’ll look good on my arm and won’t drool after one glass of champagne. Think you can manage that?”

  “I guess, but where am I supposed to find someone who will go out with you? Your reputation isn’t exactly stellar at the moment.” Jo barked a laugh. “She’d have to live in another state. Or country!”

  “I don’t care how you find one, just do it. There are plenty of those online dating apps, right? Timber?”

  “Tinder.”

  “Whatever. Set me up with some accounts, narrow the applicants down. Get off your lazy ass for once and do this. Find me a bridesmaid.”

  Jo crossed her arms and glared at me. I knew she wished I would drop dead but I defied her and stared right back; living, breathing, and in color.

  Then a slow smile started to upturn her lips, her eyes sparkling as if a switch had been turned on in her head. For some reason, she reminded me of Batman’s Joker. That didn’t bode well.

  “What?” I enquired.

  “Oh, nothing,” she said sweetly, inspecting her nails. “I have the perfect solution. I’ll have you a match in no time. Piece of cake.”

  “Good,” I said a little uneasy. “Make sure she’s the right size, mind. That’s the most important thing you have to worry about. She has to fit into the dress.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “Good,” I said again, my tone sharper this time. “Otherwise no pocket-money for you. Don’t screw it up, Jo. You’ll know I’ll make your life a living hell if you do.”

  With that all sorted I turned to my office.

  “No wonder, Sarah left you,” Jo muttered behind me.

  “I heard that.”

  “You were supposed to!”

  Two

  Anna

  “But you don’t understand, I have no money.”

  “Miss Pavlov, as I have already explained we can only assist you with your missing passport.”

  “Everything was stolen!”

  The agent’s face turned to stone, unamused by my little outburst. I hadn’t meant to raise my voice or lose my temper but we’d been going around in circles for what seemed like hours. I was trapped on a nightmarish carousel, getting nowhere fast.

  The older woman with deep wrinkles around her eyes blinked at me with mild impatience; there’d been a line a mile long when I’d entered the U.S. Embassy in St. Petersburg, Russia
. The agent was probably wondering how many sob stories she would have to listen to before she could take a break. I could almost hear her stomach growling at me to leave.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I took a long breath. “It’s just this has never happened to me before. I’ve never been mugged. And now I’m stuck here, alone, in a foreign country. I can’t speak the language, my travel plans are ruined. I have no one. All I want to do is go home and forget this ever happened.” The tears were threatening to make an appearance but I batted them away, not that they would do much good on this stony excuse for a person.

  She nodded, bored. There was no sympathy evident in her distant eyes and she began to recite my options again, her tone level and even as if she were reading from a script.

  “You will need to contact someone—a family member, a friend—back home and ask for them to send you some money or to make travel arrangements for you. We will be able to provide an emergency passport and help you with the money transfer if needed. There are plenty of Western Union points around town.”

  “I don’t have anyone,” I whispered, my head dropping forward, inches away from colliding with the scratched-up Plexiglas, partly opaque from age in places. “My gran is the only one left and she’s in a nursing home. She doesn’t have any spare money. Wouldn’t even know how to get it to me even if she did. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Then you only have one other option. You will need to sell anything and everything that you can. Here and back home. Do you have any assets in the states? A car perhaps, or a savings account?”

  “If I had a savings account I wouldn’t be in this mess,” I snapped, losing my patience. Why wouldn’t she help me? They couldn’t just leave me stranded in Russia for the rest of my life, could they?

  “Look, I don’t know what else to do. I’ve already sold everything I can spare. I’m living in a hostel, I have a cleaning job that pays for my bed, but that’s about it. I barely eat. What else am I supposed to do? I came here for help and you won’t even do that.”

  “Unfortunately my hands are tied, Miss Pavlov. And I’ll forget that you mentioned you have what is probably an illegal job…”

  I wanted to rip out my hair in frustration. Instead, I took a deep breath and started to count to ten. I only opened my eyes again once I knew for sure I wasn’t going to break down in a puddle of tears or scream at the top of my lungs.

  The agent leaned forward, closer to the thick Plexiglas barrier between us, and pointed at my chest.

  “What about your necklace? That looks like it could be worth something. Enough to maybe get you home. I can give you the information for some reputable pawn shops that won’t rip you off.”

  I clutched at the dangling locket that hung low and long. “I can’t… No,” I said more firmly. “Selling my necklace is not an option.”

  The agent sighed. “Suit yourself. Then there’s not much else I can advise. I’ll be happy to process your temporary passport when you need it.”

  I let my shoulders sag. The conversation was over. The agent stared blankly at me, as if I wasn’t even there, waiting for me to leave. I did the only thing I could and lifted my body, overloaded with worries and fears, out of the chair and left the cramped booth. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if I caused a scene; I still needed them to issue my temporary passport if I ever did manage to afford a flight home. But with only three hundred and eleven rubles—just over five U.S. dollars—to my name, I was going nowhere fast. I needed at least forty thousand to buy a ticket to the States.

  So much for my big adventure, I thought. I’d dreamed of exploring the world, writing about my experiences, but I’d only made it partway across Europe before getting myself into trouble. I’d landed in London, then after a week caught the train through the tunnel to France. I wished I’d never left the ancient streets of Paris and the bright café I’d worked at for a short stint, cash under the table, and all the rich food I could eat. François, the chef, had been sweet on me.

  But my feet started to itch, needing new experiences to write about, and I was off, backpacking northward. Through picturesque Belgium and Amsterdam, getting my buzz on and topping up my travel funds, distributing leaflets aimed at tourists on the cobbled streets, pointing the way to hot clubs and other places of interest. Once the kitty was full again, I stuck out my thumb and hitched rides east. Only stopping for a brief moment in Germany before following the crowd of backpackers to Copenhagen. I hadn’t planned it that way, but everything was going so well. Until I reached Stockholm and lost the small group of traveling companions who’d adopted me.

  It wasn’t such a big deal, I enjoyed traveling by myself, but then I made the mistake of getting on the ferry to St. Petersburg. It was only hours after disembarking that I was mugged by two figures, large blurs, stains upon my adventures, and left bruised, scared, and alone.

  I was lucky. I had to remind myself of that. It could’ve been so much worse. They took all I had: my money, my phone, and watch, anything of value, including my dignity. Thankfully they hadn’t spotted my necklace, tucked away beneath several layers of clothing. I clutched at it again, like a lifeline and made my way back to the hostel, following the map Darya had kindly sketched out for me.

  I was very lucky, I told myself again. If it weren’t for Darya, I’d be living on the streets, dirty and cold, with an empty belly and no hope. Somehow, through wild gestures and bad mimes, and I supposed the added bonus of looking like a lost backpacker—though my pack was deflated of belongings—locals pointed me toward the Little Waters Hostel.

  Darya had taken one look at me when I’d entered the cozy building and knew instinctively that she had a battered and weary traveler on her hands. And though I was a complete stranger to her, she wrapped me in her arms and let me weep, comforting me with her soft Russian words. Once I was wrung out, no more tears left to cry, the softness of her face transformed to something akin to determination and we came up with a plan. She couldn’t give me a bed for free, but I could work and earn my keep until a better solution was found.

  A scattering of leaflets, some loose on the table, some pinned to a corkboard, fluttered in greeting as I let the door close behind me.

  “How did it go?” Darya asked from behind the chipped turquoise counter. The color clashed with the rest of the foyer. Lemon-yellow ceiling, bright graffiti murals, a pink, frayed armchair off to one side that had seen much better days. The hostel, especially the downstairs, reminded me of youth centers back home, decorated haphazardly by so many hands. But somehow the confusion of it all worked and reinvigorated travelers when they entered the space. It made them feel welcome. A home away from home. Though I couldn’t feel the effects of it today.

  “Not well.” I sank into the chair and rested my chin in my cupped hands.

  Darya winced. “Do not worry. Your luck will turn. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I hope you’re right. I can’t stay here for much longer, I’m such a burden.”

  “You are no such thing. You stay for as long needed, as long as you contribute.” Darya shrugged. “Toilets still need scrubbing. My back is enjoying this holiday.”

  I smiled. “Is that a hint?”

  “A little one.”

  “Okay, I’ll get right on it,” I said and got to my feet, shrugging off my jacket. Working would keep my mind distracted anyway. No point in wallowing. That would definitely get me nowhere. But if I was to get back home, I needed more money, a second job, something that paid more than minimum wage. Forty-five rubles an hour, or less than a dollar, wasn’t cutting it, especially when most of that “paid” for my bed and a roof over my head.

  “Darya, I don’t suppose you could give me any more hours? Don’t get me wrong,” I added quickly, “I’m so grateful to you and all that you have done for me, but at this rate it’ll take me months, if not years, to be able to afford a ticket home.”

  “I wish I could. There is only so much work to do.”

  I nodded, understan
ding and gave Darya a swift hug. “I know, thank you anyway. Now, where is that mop?”

  Darya proceeded to give me a rundown of my afternoon duties; she was right there wasn’t much, though it would still be back-breaking work nonetheless.

  * * *

  I was finishing up changing the bedding in the last female dorm room—I was getting pretty good at making neat folds and hospital corners—when a group of young women, chattering loudly, entered from a busy day exploring. I offered them a smile but quickly got back to work. I wasn’t part of their world anymore, not really. I was a backpacker in limbo. If I wasn’t moving forward then could I even consider myself a traveler any longer?

  That was another one of the downsides of being stuck in a foreign country with no money. I didn’t even get the chance to step foot outside and do what I’d come here to do in the first place—suck up all the glorious culture and visit all the places my gran had told me stories about.

  “Sorry, are you finished? Can we come in?”

  “Be my guest,” I replied, they were already halfway into the room, claiming their beds again.

  “Hey, you work here, right?”

  I lifted my head to find a woman about my age, with long brown hair standing a foot away from me. She had kind eyes and either a Scottish or Irish accent. I couldn’t tell.

  I nodded. “Kinda. Do you need something?”

  “Oh, no. We were just wondering is all. We’ve seen you about. What’s your story? You work and sleep here?”

  “Yeah, it’s a long story.”

  “You should come join us, tell us. We’ve got a little bet going, you see.”

  “I have to finish up here,” I said glancing at the five remaining beds that still needed clean sheets before the masses descended.

  “We can help, can’t we girls?” The others nodded, and the brunette stuck out her hand. “Colleen, nice to meet you.”

  I wiped my hands on my jeans then took hers. “Anna.”

  Before I knew it I was introduced to the rest of their group. Then Shawna, Sofia, Nina, and Colleen were stripping off the beds.