It was the Friday before the wedding and ten of Jen’s friends were arriving in just over an hour’s time. Dad had been packed off down the pub. Luke and Joe were staying over at a friend’s and Emma had been allowed to stay because she insisted that she was one of the girls. She begged to be able to wear her bridesmaid’s outfit and in the end Jen gave in.
‘You’re very dressed up tonight,’ said Lia, when she first appeared in it and gave us a twirl.
‘It’s my wedding dress,’ she said. ‘And tonight is part of the wedding.’
I can’t argue with that, I thought and made a mental note to take it to the dry-cleaner’s before the big day. The ‘things to do before the wedding’ list was growing longer and longer, with number one still being: Find place for reception or else we’ll all be out in the back garden.
‘Who’s coming?’ asked Lia.
‘Bunch of Jen’s work mates,’ I said, ‘so don’t feel that you have to stay. They’re mostly in their thirties, so will probably just want to sit about drinking and talking about work.’
‘No prob,’ said Lia. ‘Where’s the list of to do?’
‘By the fridge,’ I said. Lia and Becca had been brilliant in coming over to help me organise things for Jen. I hadn’t known what to do, but Jen assured me that all they’d want was some food and drink and everything would be OK. It all sounded deadly dull to me, but it was her night so her choice.
‘Wine,’ read Lia.
‘In the fridge, but oh – open some red to steam or breathe or whatever it has to do.’
‘Mixers?’ asked Lia. ‘Girls often like girlie drinks. I know this from doing the bar for Mum at her dos. You need plenty of ginger ale and coke and lemonade and juice for anyone who’s driving.’
‘They’ve hired a van or people-carrier and a driver,’ I said. ‘I don’t think any one of them is driving. Oh God, crisps. Peanuts.’
‘Sorted,’ said Lia as she held up bowls full to the brim.
We’d sent Jen upstairs to pamper herself and get ready in leisure so that she could enjoy the night, and I’d thought it was all under control until we started putting things out. I couldn’t find anything. The corkscrew. Ashtrays. Did we have enough glasses? There were boxes shoved away in cupboards that still needed to be unpacked.
Lia and Becca told me to sit down, take a few breaths and polish a few glasses while they took over.
They soon had things organised.
Half an hour later, the house looked lovely – candles on the shelves (even though it was a warm August evening and still light outside, we drew the curtains so it looked atmospheric), the rooms were sprayed with jasmine scent, the white wine was cooling, red wine breathing, nibbles were in their bowls, some gentle background music on the CD player and we were ready for the guests.
Lia took me to one side. ‘You know the boys were arranging a little surprise,’ she said. ‘Um . . . well, let me just say that Jen might not be the only one who’s surprised.’
‘Meaning?’ I asked.
Lia just tapped the side of her nose. ‘You’ll find out,’ she said with a laugh.
‘I think the ladies are here,’ said Becca as she looked through the window at a people-carrier that had just drawn up outside.
I took a deep breath and prepared myself to be on my best behaviour for Jen’s middle-aged work colleagues.
Two minutes later, ten wild girls burst through the door. They had pink feather boas round their necks, little pink bunny ears on their heads, and a couple of them had wands – which of course had to be handed over to Emma, who suddenly looked perfectly dressed for the occasion.
‘Let the party begin,’ called a tall blond girl with a very low cleavage. ‘Where’s Jen?’
Jen appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Hey, Carole, Marcie, Trace. Hey . . .’
In a second, she was down the stairs, everyone was air-kissing, and someone whipped out a veil and tiara and put it on Jen’s head. Another girl added some pink Velcro handcuffs and another a plastic ball and chain. These girls looked like fun.
Lia was right about the drinks, and large jugs of fruity cocktails were made and were soon circulating as the noise level grew louder and louder. My ‘tasteful’ background CD was taken off and replaced by Bruce Springsteen, then the Rolling Stones, and the girls were up and boogieing for Britain.
‘Er . . . I thought you said they were going to be a boring lot,’ said Becca with a grin as we watched from the kitchen. ‘They’re like a bunch of hyperactive eight-year-olds who have had too much sugar!”
‘I know. Hey, I hope we’re this boring when we’re as old as them,’ I said. ‘Care to join in and dance, modom?’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Becca, and we went to join Lia, who was ballet dancing with Emma in the middle of the dance floor. Like the chicken-clucking earlier, everyone caught on, and soon everyone was pirouetting and attempting balletic leaps all over the place.
It was a hoot and after a good hour or so of crazy dancing then singing their heads off, the girls gave Jen presents. They’d bought her some fab stuff, from the naughty to the nice: frames for her wedding pics, pretty silk underwear for the honeymoon, perfumed soaps, scented candles, books on how to keep a marriage alive, a chocolate willy . . .
‘Your dad’s going to love those,’ said Becca as Jen unwrapped a pair of edible banana-flavoured boxer shorts.
‘I do not want to know,’ I said as I put my hands over my eyes.
After presents, one of the girls organised games, and we played charades, musical statues, and we were just getting ready for a game of musical chairs when the door bell rang.
‘Oh God,’ said Jen. ‘If any of you have ordered a stripper, I will kill you.’
Lia and Becca looked sheepish and went to open the door. A hand passed a portable CD-player to Lia, who pressed a button on it. Immediately, the music from the stripping scene in the film The Full Monty began to play.
‘Oh noooooo,’ said Jen. ‘You have.’
I put my open palms up to her as if to say, ‘Nothing to do with me’, then I turned to watch with the others.
They weren’t your run-of-the-mill strippers. In came Squidge, Mac, Ollie and – Ohmigod! I could hardly believe my eyes! – Jamie. He looked over at me straight away and grinned sheepishly.
Becca nudged me. ‘Surprise,’ she said. ‘He came down to stay with the Axfords yesterday. When Ollie told him that the boys were doing this, he told us not to tell you that he was going to be here too.’
The boys had hats, scarves, coats, fleeces and wellies on, and must have been absolutely boiling as it had been a hot day. The girls stared clapping to the music and the boys went into a dance routine that had clearly only been rehearsed a couple of times. It didn’t matter, because they were hysterical. Squidge and Mac would dance off in one direction while the others went the other way, Ollie seemed to be doing his own thing like he was centre stage and Jamie had no rhythm at all. They were vaguely in time with the music though. When Squidge gave the signal, off came the caps, then the scarves . . .
Jen and her mates started calling, ‘Off, off, off,’ and stamping their feet. Even Emma joined in.
Off came the fleeces, the jeans . . .
At this point Squidge and Ollie were having a whale of a time, strutting their stuff like professional dancers up and down the room. Squidge twirled his T-shirt in his hand and threw it at one of the girls with a cheeky wink. Ollie wiggled his hips as he pulled his T-shirt over his head. Hmm, nice six-pack, I couldn’t help but think. Mac and Jamie, on the other hand, looked like they wanted to die, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the embarrassed expressions on their faces as they thrust their hips and tried to look the part.
‘Off, off, off . . .’ demanded the girls, and at last the four boys were down to nothing more than their swimming shorts, white bow ties around their necks and their wellies. They lined up at that point, turned round, bent over and wiggled their bums at us.
Squidge got up and turned round
. ‘And that, ladies, is your lot.’
‘Teasers,’ called one girl and, for a moment, her and her friend looked like they might jump on the boys and strip them completely.
Luckily, they were saved as Jen stood up – rather shakily, as she had been laughing so much. She went to the front door and turned back to us, then thrust her arms up in the air. ‘Conga!’ she called, and began to jiggle her hips and sing the conga tune, ‘Dad da dad da da da daaa . . .’
Suddenly it seemed the perfect thing to do. In an instant, everyone was on their feet and in a line with their hands on the person in front’s hips and off we wiggled and swayed, left leg out then right leg out. Jamie made a beeline for me so that I was in front of him, then off down the road towards the village we went, singing at the top of our voices, past the pub where Dad was sitting in the window. He did a double take as we conga-ed by like lunatics and I gave him a wave. At one point, I swear I saw Mr Gibbs from the local paper stare at us open-mouthed from the pavement, then I saw a flash. He must have taken a picture as we danced back up the hill and back into the house.
It was a great night. The best hen night ever, all the girls said later as they staggered into their people-carrier to be whisked away to their beds. And all the more perfect for me because Jamie had been there and was clearly as into me as he ever had been. After a promise to see him the following afternoon, Mac and Squidge also disappeared off home in the back of Mr Squires’ van, and Mr Axford came to give Ollie, Lia, Jamie and Becca a lift.
Jen put her arm around me as we surveyed the mess that was left. ‘Let’s do it in the morning,’ she said. And thanks for organising that.’
‘No prob,’ I replied. ‘Hen night completed. No broken bones. Everyone intact . . .’
Jen rubbed her head. Just about.’
‘All we need now is somewhere to hold the wedding reception.’
Jen groaned. ‘Oh don’t . . . I’d forgotten about that for a moment. One thing at a time. One thing at a time!’
I TRIED THE WHITSAND Bay Hotel. It was booked solid.
The Penlee Point Hotel. Also booked solid.
I tried as far down the coast as Seaton and Downderry, but with no luck. I tried all the hotels I knew inland and one receptionist even laughed at me. ‘You want to book for next Saturday? It is the height of the season,’ she said. ‘Most people book for these types of events at least a year ahead.’
I enlisted Lia and Becca to help, but even with the three of us phoning around we couldn’t seem to find anything.
‘Booked, booked, booked,’ said Lia as she showed me the list she’d tried.
‘There’s a barn in St Austell that could hold a hundred,’ said Becca, ‘but you have to arrange your own caterers and it would take too long to get down there really, wouldn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘We need somewhere local, but the catering problem is solved. Mac’s mum is going to do it. Remember she used to do big parties when they lived up in London? Mac said it will be a doddle for her and she’s delighted to have the work, even at such short notice. All we need is somewhere to hold eighty people.’
Next we researched companies that supplied marquees, but as with the hotels, it seemed like the whole world wanted to get married in August and all of them were already hired out.
‘We could chance it,’ I said, ‘and not have a marquee – but it would be Murphy’s Law, wouldn’t it? That would be the day we’d have torrential rain.’
‘But really, Cat,’ said Becca, ‘this isn’t your responsibility. You should be hanging out with Jamie now that he’s down here, not stuck on the phone. This is your dad and Jen’s problem. This new phase of your life was meant to release you from taking care of everyone, but you’ve ended up doing it more than ever.’
‘I want to do this for them,’ I said. ‘They deserve somewhere nice for the reception. And I have seen Jamie. Lots. In between trying to get this organised. And life will be different once things settle down, but the move and the wedding are the start of this new phase. I so want everything to go smoothly, and Dad and Jen are looking for places too. They don’t know I’ve been spending so much time trying to find somewhere. See, I think they’ve given up, because they’ve been saying that as a last resort we can have it at home – but it won’t be that special will it?’
‘Let me go and talk to my mum,’ said Lia, and secretly I breathed a sigh of relief. I had been hoping that she might say this, because if anyone could sort this out, it would be Mrs Axford. She was ace at organising parties, but I hadn’t wanted to impose in case she might think that I was taking advantage of her good nature. She always invited me and the rest of the gang up to any social events up at Barton Hall, and provided us with costumes on the night if it was fancy dress, then afterwards she’d load us down with left-over party food. I didn’t want her thinking that I took any of it for granted.
Just after Lia left to go and find her mum, Squidge called.
‘Come over right now,’ he insisted.
‘Why has something happened?’
‘Nope. Just get yourself round here.’
‘Oh, tell me now, Squidge,’ I said but he’d hung up.
‘I’d like to kill him when he does that,’ I said to Becca, ‘demanding that I turn up then not telling me why, and then my mind goes into overdrive trying to imagine what he wants.’
‘Mine too,’ said Becca. ‘So let’s get over there.’
We got on our bikes and whizzed down to the village as fast as we could, and once there, his mum directed me up the stairs where Squidge was sitting at his computer. He glanced at his watch. ‘Hmm. Not fast enough,’ he said. ‘When I summon my minions, I expect them to get here in record time.’
I glanced over at Becca and she nodded. Together we pulled Squidge off his chair and on to the carpet.
‘No, no,’ he cried. ‘My leg, my arm, don’t forget my broken bones . . .’
Becca pinned him down. ‘Your pathetic excuses no wash with us, signor,’ she said in a Spanish accent. ‘You ’ad the plaster off ages ago.’
Squidge held his hands over his face. ‘OK. Do what you must, but I vill never tell you my secrets. You may torture me, do your vorst but please I beg you, don’t ruin my beautiful looks.’
‘Becca, let him up,’ I said. ‘Come on, enough messing about. What do you want?’
Becca did as I asked and Squidge sat back at his computer, pressed a few buttons, then scrolled down to find an Internet site. ‘I didn’t want to describe this to you on the phone, Cat, in case it didn’t sound as fab as it looks – but take a deco at this . . .’
He stopped scrolling on a page showing the interior of a room, then turned to gauge my reaction.
‘Ohmigod,’ I said as I stared at the picture on the screen. ‘Squidge, you’re an angel.’
‘Aren’t I?’ he beamed back. ‘And it’s Moroccan too.’
It was perfect. A room in Marrakech. The walls were painted the same sky-blue as mine in my bedroom at home, but the designer had used burnt orange to contrast with the blue and it looked absolutely fabulous. The windows and door were painted orange, rusty-orange silk curtains floated at the window, and various knick-knacks had been chosen to complement the colour scheme.
‘I thought I’d seen something like this,’ said Squidge, ‘when Lia first started talking about the Moroccan trip, and I researched the locations on the Net. I didn’t want to say until I was sure I could find it again.’
‘Amazing you remembered it,’ I said.
‘It struck me at the time as a great use of colour. You don’t always have to have orange or red walls to make a room look exotic. In fact a lot of designers use white walls in hot countries, but with the right rugs, cushions and lamps, etc you can make it look totally Moroccan.’
Squidge knew about stuff like this, and was into colour and design, because he wants to be a film director or a photographer when he leaves school. I gave him a big hug.
‘Can you print it for me?’ I asked.
&nbs
p; Squidge nodded, pressed a few buttons and the picture began to print out. ‘If you go to one of the big DIY stores, they have all sorts of paint effects you can buy now, and I bet you could get one that makes the paint look cracked like old wood, which would look fab in burnt orange. Mac and I will help you do it if you like.’
‘I’d love it,’ I said. ‘Maybe after the wedding?’
‘Just say when,’ said Squidge, ‘and we shall make your room just how you wanted.’
Squidge is such a good mate and I knew that he wouldn’t rest until he knew I was happy with the result. At least that’s one thing sorted, I thought as he printed out the colour scheme for me. My room was going to look brilliant after all.
‘I wished that there was something I could do for you in return,’ I said. ‘What can I do?’
Squidge shrugged. ‘You don’t have to do anything. I . . .’
‘I know,’ I said as an idea struck me. ‘How are you getting on with your bike?’
Squidge groaned. ‘I’ll get round to it one of these days.’
‘Today then!’ I said. ‘You can do it, Squidge.’
‘I know, just . . . Mac and Lia have been trying to get me to do it and watching my every move, but they don’t realise they make it worse.’
‘I won’t look,’ I said. ‘You can fall off as many times as you like. And anyway, we learned to ride bikes together, don’t you remember?’
‘Yeah, come on. We’re your oldest friends,’ said Becca. ‘Least, Cat is!’
Squidge sighed and got up. ‘I suppose – and if I can’t make a fool of myself in front of my oldest friend, then who can I?’
We went downstairs and wheeled his bike around from the back shed, and after a few times of him getting on it with us holding the bars, he suddenly said, ‘Oh this is ridiculous. Let go.’ And he was off down the road, cycling as happily as he ever did. He stopped the bike, turned around and pedalled back, no hands, just like he always used to when we were kids. He was about to get up and stand on his seat when his mum came round the corner, waving a paper at us.
All Mates Together Page 9