Bridesmaids

by Jane Costello

  I burst out laughing. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ I say. ‘You’re at least three inches taller than Barbara Windsor.’

  I see the faintest trace of a smile.

  ‘Look, what is the point in panicking?’ I continue. ‘It’s not like Patrick won’t wait for you. So what if you’re a bit late? And besides that, whatever you may think, you look gorgeous.’

  ‘Do I?’ She sounds sceptical.

  ‘Well, you will do soon,’ I say, looking at her dressing-gown. ‘Come on, it’s time to step things up a gear.’

  And then I go into bridesmaid-overdrive, assaulting Grace with her toupe tape, nail polish, bronzing balls, lip gloss, bronzing balls (again), then, finally, the dress, which it takes both of us–plus Polly–to squeeze her into.

  Just when I think we’re all done, with time to spare, it becomes clear that the drama is not over yet.

  ‘Oh bugger!’ Grace shouts suddenly. ‘I left my earrings downstairs with my mum. Evie, I’m so sorry but you’re going to have to go and find her.’

  I look at the clock again. I feel exhausted.

  By the time I’ve located Grace’s mum, secured the earrings and am heading for the stairs, I note that there are about four and a half minutes to go. But as I start dashing up the stairs, something–or should I say someone–stops me in my tracks.

  He is quite simply one of the most stunning-looking men I’ve ever seen. ‘Ruggedly handsome’ is the phrase that springs to mind–as in, gorgeous but not so perfect he’s dull or pretty. He’s got smooth and tanned skin, chiselled features and eyes the colour of warm treacle. His nose is slightly crooked but it hardly matters. He’s got a body so tight he’d make Action Man look like he’d let himself go.

  My pace slows as I walk up the stairs, and my heart-rate quickens as I realise he’s looking right at me. Brazenly, I find myself holding his gaze as we step closer to each other. Then, as our paths are about to cross, the most incredible thing happens.

  He looks at my breasts.

  It’s only for a split second, but there is no doubt that it happens. In fact, it’s so blatant I’d almost describe it as a gawp. His eyes widen conspicuously and I even detect a faint intake of breath. As he drags his eyes away and continues on his way downstairs, I can’t help shaking my head in disbelief.

  Part of me is appalled at how deeply Neanderthal this otherwise god-like creature turned out to be–and I remind myself of my personal vow never to judge a person on their looks. The other part of me is quietly pleased at the apparent effectiveness of my recent John Lewis purchase.

  It is therefore with a slight spring in my step that I open the door to the bridal suite.

  ‘Ta da!’ I say. ‘One set of earrings.’

  Grace turns around to look and gasps–before collapsing into hysterical giggles.

  ‘What?’ I ask, bewildered.

  ‘I’m not having you in my wedding photos looking like that,’ she cackles, barely able to contain herself.

  ‘Like what?’ I ask, pleased that I’ve done something to make her relax at last. But as I look down, the cause of her mirth becomes horribly apparent.

  Chapter 4

  My cleavage has been attacked by two rogue jellyfish. At least, that’s what it looks like. My chicken fillets, the ones I was so very chuffed about, clearly felt restricted inside my dress–and have ridden up to make a break for freedom.

  In fact, they nearly made it: my two ‘completely 100 per cent natural-looking’ breast enhancers are now poking out of the top of my dress for all the world to see. Or should I say, for him–Action Man–to see. Which feels rather worse than just the world.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ I say, furiously yanking both fillets from my cleavage. In the absence of a barbecue, I chuck them in the bin.

  ‘Just think of it as God’s way of saying you were born flat-chested for a reason,’ Grace tells me kindly.

  ‘I’m glad you find it amusing,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry.’ Grace is clearly trying not to snigger. ‘But you must admit it’s quite amusing.’

  I look across the room and see that Charlotte, Grace’s other grown-up bridesmaid, is back–having spent most of the morning sorting out flower arrangements–and even she is trying to suppress a smile. Which means it must be bad, because Charlotte is possibly the sweetest person in the known universe.

  ‘Don’t worry, Evie,’ she comforts me. ‘I’m sure nobody noticed. They may have just thought they were part of your dress.’

  I resist the temptation to tell Charlotte that the one person who did see it couldn’t have noticed more if they’d jumped out and slapped him on both cheeks.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Charlotte.’

  I feel a stab of guilt for not having found some time to help her get ready for today. It isn’t that Charlotte’s not pretty, because she most definitely is. She’s got skin that I’d kill for–smooth and clear like a baby’s, with gorgeous rosy cheeks–and eyes so big and gentle they could belong to Bambi. I remember thinking when I first met Charlotte–years ago now–that she reminded me of an eighteenth-century milkmaid: gloriously soft and round and wholesome.

  But while Charlotte does have natural assets, it’s fair to say she doesn’t make the most of them. To be horribly blunt, there are contestants at Crufts who will have spent longer on their hair than she has today. And although Charlotte wouldn’t be Charlotte without her ample curves, she never dresses to flatter them. Her bridesmaid dress today is so tight, it looks dangerously close to cutting off her circulation.

  ‘It’s nearly time,’ I say, holding Charlotte’s hand and squeezing it.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, looking utterly terrified.

  Grace thrusts a bouquet into my hand.

  ‘Right, you two,’ she says. ‘We can’t stand around discussing Evie’s cleavage all day. We need to get down that aisle–and quick.’

  Chapter 5

  It is difficult not to get caught up in the magic of a day like today.

  Even someone as prone to cynicism as I am can’t help but dwell on all things uncynical at such a time. Like how incredible it must be to love someone so much you want to grow old and incontinent with them.

  Because it’s not just the spray tan that has given Grace the glow she’s got today. It’s Patrick, the man she’s about to marry. And the fact there isn’t a doubt in her mind that he’s the man for her, for ever.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ whispers Charlotte as we wait outside the main room for the ceremony to start.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Why?’

  ‘You sighed, that’s all,’ she replies.

  ‘Did I?’ I whisper, a bit surprised.

  She smiles. ‘Don’t worry, Evie,’ she says. ‘You’ll meet someone special one day.’

  You’re more of an optimist than me, Charlotte.

  As I follow Grace down the aisle to ‘What a Wonderful World’ sung by Louis Armstrong, I spot Gareth among the guests and my thoughts swing back to the last time I saw him, sniffing into his napkin as I told him our relationship was no more.

  I attempt a ‘no hard feelings’ smile but he pointedly turns away to concentrate on his Order of Service. I bite my lip for a second. What’s wrong with me exactly? Gareth wasn’t that bad. None of them were that bad.

  I glance over to my left and another of my exes, Joe the TV producer, catches my eye and winks. Okay, maybe he was that bad. Smug as ever in his Paul Smith suit and sunbed tan, I can smell the four litres of Aramis he’s probably bathed in from the other side of the room.

  I haven’t seen Peter the musician–the third of my failed relationships–here today, but I know he’s somewhere, playing with his tongue ring and rattling the ubiquitous key chain that I’m convinced is welded to him.

  Grace and Patrick meet at the front and exchange nervous looks. I suppose even if you have spent the last seven years together, signing up for potentially the next seventy is enough to make anyone’s stomach do a few back-flips.

>   The pair met when they were trainees at the same law firm and, even though that was years ago now, Grace’s friends knew as soon as we met him that Patrick was the man for her. There was an immediate connection between them–and two kids and three mortgages later, it’s still obvious to anyone who meets them.

  The registrar is an eccentric-looking woman in an A-line skirt that probably wasn’t very fashionable in 1982 when I suspect she bought it. It looks like the sort of thing Trinny and Susannah would spit on then set fire to. As she introduces the first reading, it suddenly strikes me that there was one person I hadn’t spotted as I walked down the aisle.

  He of the deep brown eyes and chiselled jaw. Action Man.

  No, this is good news. This means that one of the most monumentally cringeworthy incidents of my life is something to which I need never give a second thought. Because the only person who witnessed it isn’t even a guest at the wedding. I can forget it now. Completely.

  I think about the definition in his features and the smooth skin that just got better as I moved closer towards him. And as I remember his smell–a heady combination of sultry aftershave and clean skin–I find myself slumping in my seat. Like hell this is good news.

  Action Man, where are you?

  Chapter 6

  Our friend Valentina is giving the reading. It’s only meant to be a one-and-a-half-minute speech, but you’d be forgiven for thinking she was about to collect an Oscar. She glides to the front and, as she steps onto the platform, conspicuously lifts the hem of her crimson chiffon dress to reveal more of her never-ending bronzed legs than were already on show.

  Valentina has been part of our circle of friends since she latched onto Charlotte in Freshers’ Week at Liverpool University. They made as unlikely a twosome then as they do now. Poor Charlotte was the desperately shy girl who’d hardly been out of Widnes. Valentina was the exotic-looking Amazon who’d been everywhere, done everything, and all in all was about as shy and retiring as the average Penthouse centrefold.

  Valentina tried her hand at various careers when she left university–personal shopper, Hollyoaks extra, upmarket restaurant hostess–before settling on one of the things at which she genuinely does excel. She is now a professional tennis coach and apparently making quite a name for herself. Although I’m told that’s at least partly because she wears skirts so short they’d make a gynaecologist blush.

  If you asked me my opinion of Valentina, I’d say that, deep down, she’s a decent cove. But that’s not a universally held opinion, since her idea of a great conversation is other people listening to how she is always being mistaken for Angelina Jolie.

  As Valentina puts her notes on the lectern, she looks up to check that the Best Man has been taking notice and, judging by the appreciative look on his face, there is little doubt of that. With a pout and flick of her dark glossy hair, she prepares to address her audience.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, before I start my reading, can I just say how overwhelming I personally have found it, that two of my closest friends are getting married today,’ she gushes.

  ‘When they persuaded me to do a reading I really couldn’t have been more pleased to play such a significant part in the most momentous day of their lives.’

  Grace and Patrick exchange looks. Far from needing any persuasion, Valentina had sulked so much when Grace explained that she wanted to keep the bridesmaids to a minimum that Grace had only agreed to the reading to shut her up.

  ‘The blessing I am about to read is one which has been used in Native American weddings for centuries,’ she continues. ‘You may be interested to know, however, that the author of it is actually still unknown. It’s a beautiful piece of prose and I hope that when you hear it, you’ll agree that it is truly fitting for a day like today.’

  She composes herself dramatically as the registrar looks at her watch.

  ‘Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be the shelter for the other.’

  She pauses for effect.

  ‘Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be the warmth for the other…’ Et cetera.

  After Valentina’s performance (and it is a performance) the service seems to pick up speed and in no time at all, Grace and Patrick are walking back down the aisle as man and wife, to the loud applause of their guests. Polly and I are next in the procession, holding hands as she skips along. Charlotte skulks somewhere behind us.

  I try to avoid smiling at the guests, given that there seems to be an ex-boyfriend wherever I look. But just as I am attempting to keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead, something draws my attention to the far corner of the room. He’s standing by a window which overlooks some of the most beautiful scenery in the country. But he makes an unbeatable view all by himself.

  My pulse starts racing and I grip Polly’s hand tighter. It’s Action Man. And he’s looking right at me.

  Chapter 7

  My face flushes as our eyes meet and I turn away in embarrassment, my mind whirling with thoughts of those bloody chicken fillets. I bend down to whisper to Polly.

  ‘You were such a good girl during the ceremony,’ I tell her, more to give the impression that I’m preoccupied than anything else.

  She looks at me as if to say: ‘What are you on about?’

  I can still feel his eyes burning into me as we almost reach the door. Sod the chicken fillets, Evie, I think, just look at him. The applause is ringing in my ears as I turn slowly towards him. He’s clapping enthusiastically, and when he sees me look over, he smiles. It’s a soft, friendly smile–one that is completely, utterly confident.

  Which is the last thing I feel at the moment.

  Ridiculously, I look away again, without smiling back, without holding his gaze, without anything. My eyes focus on Grace’s dress and I feel like kicking myself. The fact that I’ve just noticed I’d done two of her ivory buttons up wrong is the least of my concerns.

  When we reach the drawing room, Grace and Patrick kiss while champagne corks pop and the guests pour through to congratulate the happy couple. I grab a glass of bubbly from a passing waiter and only just stop myself from knocking it back in one as I monitor the door, which he’s going to have to come through sooner or later.

  Not that I know what I’ll do when he does.

  The drawing room is soon a riot of people and it’s difficult to keep track of who has come through the door as there are so many of them. But as I sense someone by my side, my heart leaps.

  Chapter 8

  Grace is looking no less stressed than she did before the ceremony.

  ‘Evie, listen,’ she says, ‘I need your help again. Can you get everyone outside? We’ve got to start doing the photos.’

  I look around at the guests tucking into a lavish champagne reception in a cosy drawing room filled with roaring open fires. My task, if I choose to accept it, is to get them all out–even the ones in strappy high-heeled sandals–onto a wind-swept terrace in February.

  ‘You give me all the best jobs, Grace,’ I say. ‘I think it might take me until next weekend.’

  In the absence of knowing where to start, I pick the group of people next to me.

  ‘Er, hi,’ I say. ‘Er, could I please ask you all to make your way into the garden for the photographs? Thanks. Thanks so much.’

  I move on to the next group and say the same.

  Five groups later I realise that this ever-so-polite technique is getting me precisely nowhere. I’d get more response talking to the wedding cake. So I decide to start tapping people on the shoulder as well.

  ‘Er, yes, hi, hello,’ I say. ‘Really sorry to interrupt, but do you think you could make your way into the garden? The photographer’s ready.’

  Nothing. I cough–my aim being to be polite but authoritative. In other words, to get people to start doing as they’re bloody well told.

  ‘The photos are about to be taken,’ I say, with a definite firmness now. ‘Could you make your way into the garden…please?’

  This is starting to
get really annoying. I am either invisible or people are more interested in the booze and smoked salmon blinis than standing outside for half an hour being told to say ‘chocolate biscuits’.

  Hmm. Okay, so I knew it was going to be a challenge. I need to get bossy. Very well–I can do bossy. I resist the temptation to stand on a chair, but decide to give it all I’ve got anyway.

  ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,’ I bellow, aware that all I’m lacking is a bell and a town-crier’s outfit. ‘PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY OUT INTO THE GARDEN AS THE PHOTOGRAPHS ARE ABOUT TO BE TAKEN.’

  The whole room stops talking and turns to look at me as if I’m a stripper who’s been booked as the star turn at a Women’s Institute meeting. Obviously, I was rather louder than I thought.

  I suddenly realise that I was so close to the poor bloke next to me that I just might have punctured his eardrums. He’s visibly cringing, and I hadn’t known what that looked like until now. He turns around slowly with the clear intention of discovering the source of this outburst and I realise that I’ve got nowhere to run.

  The second I see his face, my heart sinks. At least nobody could accuse me of not knowing how to make a first impression.

  Chapter 9

  I decide that there’s only one way to redeem this situation–and that’s to say something funny. To make Action Man think, Okay, so this woman has twice acted like she’s just escaped from the local asylum but, my goodness, isn’t she just the wittiest, most amusing individual I’ve ever met? That would at least go some way to remedying this disaster.

  I try to conjure up my best, most side-splitting line, to lighten the atmosphere and ideally make him want to take me home immediately.

  ‘Er, ah! Er, erm…’ I splutter. ‘Sorry about that.’

  Move over Monty Python.

  He smiles. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘You’ve got an impressive set of lungs, that’s for sure. Although don’t take that the wrong way, will you?’