Bridesmaids

by Jane Costello

  ‘I doubt it,’ she says furiously. ‘If he’s checked out this morning he’s left without even saying goodbye to me. Never mind without sleeping with me. And I don’t know how you work, Evie, but that’s the sort of behaviour I just don’t tolerate on a second date.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, feeling a surge of optimism. ‘I’ll have to think of another way of getting it to him. Have you got his address? I’ll take it round there myself.’

  She thinks for a second, then snatches the phone from me.

  ‘Now you mention it,’ she says, ‘I am going to have to go round to see him anyway. I need to arrange his next tennis session. So I’ll take the phone.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, hating myself for feeling so disappointed and for not being able to think of a good reason to wrestle it back off her.

  Valentina opens the boot of her car and starts piling her luggage into it.

  ‘So…do you think you’ll forgive him?’ I ask, unable to stop myself. ‘You know, for leaving without saying goodbye?’

  She gets into her car, pulls down the visor to look in the mirror.

  ‘I may do,’ she says. ‘It depends on what happens when I go and see him. Which I’m going to do right now. Now, how do I look? Passable?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Definitely passable–but not your best. I mean, you said that yourself.’

  I’d feel a bitch saying this to anyone else, but this is Valentina we’re talking about–and I don’t think a ram-raider driving a tank could dent her ego.

  ‘Well,’ she sighs, ‘given that most people would kill to look like my idea of passable, I think that’s probably good enough. Anyway, even Penelope Cruz gets bags under her eyes sometimes. Catch you later!’

  And off she goes, with Jack’s phone on her passenger seat.

  Chapter 25

  Red Cat Farm, Wirral, Friday, 9 March

  ‘So, when was it that your pig first started to speak French?’ I ask, my notebook and pen poised.

  ‘Ooh, it were a while ago,’ says the farmer, who looks as if it’s been a while since he washed. ‘We ’ad a farmhand from over there, see. We tried to tell ’im to speak proper, but he insisted on talking foreign. Well, Lizzie ’ere just seemed to pick it up.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, nodding in an attempt to hide the fact that I think this story is the biggest load of swill I’ve heard all year. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a chance he–sorry, she–could let us hear a few words?’

  He sucks his teeth. ‘She don’t just do it on demand, love,’ he says.

  I feel like saying that, given that a photographer and I have come all the way over here to interview the bugger, surely a little ‘Oui’ isn’t too much to ask.

  ‘Well,’ I say instead, ‘do you think we could do anything to help persuade her?’

  ‘A bit of cash might not go amiss,’ he says.

  Great. So the pig will only speak French if I pay him. She’s obviously more skilled than I realised.

  ‘Sorry, but we don’t pay,’ I say. ‘We’re a local paper–we don’t have the budget.’ Which isn’t strictly true, but I can’t believe we’d pay anything for this story, short of the pig launching into a perfect version of Serge Gainsbourg’s ‘Je t’aime…moi non plus’.

  This really isn’t my week, and quite frankly, this story is just about the last straw. I’ve been a reporter with the Daily Echo now for almost eight months, and was starting to feel pretty optimistic about the way my career was progressing. Okay, so at first I was writing little more than two-paragraph ‘nibs’–that’s news in briefs (which is nothing to do with underwear)–about school fetes and car boot sales. None of which, in case you haven’t guessed, was threatening the shortlist for any major journalistic prizes.

  But, gradually, the news desk started to trust me a bit more, and the two-para nibs became single columns, then the single columns became page leads, and somehow, I started to find my name on the front page every so often, covering everything from court cases to human interest stories.

  This week, however, it all went wrong. Horribly wrong. Because this week was when our News Editor Christine–who described me as being ‘overflowing with enthusiasm and potential’ in my first company appraisal–went on maternity leave.

  Her replacement is the terminally sleazy Simon, who can’t see my potential because he’s too busy looking at my arse. He has bombarded me with school fete nibs and picture stories for what he smirkingly refers to as his ‘soft news slots’. In fact, the stories have been so ridiculous, you’d have to be soft in the head to call them news.

  Hence the reason for my being here in a farm ‘over the water’ at the far end of Wirral–and barely even on the Daily Echo’s patch–praying that Lizzie the Gloucester Old Spot will ask someone for a croissant. New York Times here I come!

  Okay, so it’s not just this. It’s the fact that I have spent the last five days attempting to find out what happened when Valentina went round to Jack’s house–and failing miserably. Grace is away on honeymoon, so she’s out of the game as far as gossip is concerned. I’ve attempted to grill Charlotte about it but, bizarrely, Valentina doesn’t appear to have told her anything. And I’m certainly not going to ask Valentina herself about it.

  So why am I so desperate to know?

  God knows.

  I’ve spent the last five days asking myself that, in between hammering out pieces about bilingual pigs and dogs with eating disorders.

  ‘What a pile o’ shite this is,’ whispers Mickey, the photographer. Mickey isn’t known for his excessive amounts of patience, but in this case he’s undoubtedly right.

  ‘Listen,’ I tell him. ‘We both know this animal can’t speak French, any more than I can speak Mandarin. But the thing is, Simon wants a story about it and I can’t go home completely empty-handed. Shall we just try to get the photo done with and then go?’

  ‘She bloody well can speak French,’ protests the farmer, obviously having overheard me. ‘But she won’t do it if she’s under stress. And you coming in ’ere telling her she’s not capable won’t be helping.’

  We eventually manage to persuade him to pose for a photo with Lizzie in exchange for a few glossy copies of it to hang on his wall. Mickey, still muttering under his breath, takes it in record time.

  ‘I remember when this used to be a paper of record,’ he complains to me.

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ I reply. ‘I’m as chuffed to be here as you are.’

  ‘So,’ says the farmer, ‘when will it be in?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say. ‘It’s one of those stories that we call “hold-able”. If the city centre is razed to the ground, I’m afraid it doesn’t go in until the next available slot.’

  Which will be never, if I’ve got anything to do with it.

  ‘Only I’ve got the nationals interested too,’ he says, ‘so you’d better get in there quick.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ I say, trying not to smirk. ‘Come on, Mickey, let’s go.’

  Chapter 26

  Alderley Edge, Cheshire, Saturday, 17 March

  Another Saturday, another dress fitting. But this time, it’s for the wedding of Georgia and Pete. And this time, the budget is so big it should be listed on the Stock Market.

  ‘How much is this wedding costing exactly, Georgia?’ asks Valentina idly as she examines a rail of dresses which, tellingly, don’t even have price tags.

  ‘About two hundred grand at the last count,’ says Georgia, immediately looking like she wished she hadn’t let it slip. ‘I mean, not that it matters what it’s costing. We could be getting married in Chorley Register Office, for all I care.’

  ‘Thank God it’s already booked,’ mutters Valentina.

  The reality is that Georgia’s big day couldn’t be less like a session at Chorley Register Office. In fact, the ceremony is happening in the Isles of Scilly and is on course to be so lavish, it will make the average royal wedding look like something out of Coronation Street.

  Geor
gia is having six bridesmaids and we’re all here today for fitting number two, in a boutique so upmarket that even the dummies in the window have attitude. Actually, that’s not strictly true. We’re all supposed to be here, but Grace, typically, is late following a domestic crisis caused by Polly having fed the rabbit some leftover chicken jalfrezi.

  Georgia’s two younger cousins are also here and today is the first time we have met them. Beth and Gina are both in their early twenties and are so pretty you could mistake them for younger sisters of Catherine Zeta Jones. Valentina could barely hide her disappointment when they arrived.

  Then, of course, there is Charlotte, who looks about as cheerful at the prospect of being a bridesmaid again as the average Death Row prisoner.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask, as she sits down next to me on a velvet stool.

  She nods and attempts a smile.

  ‘It’s not really your sort of thing this, is it?’ I whisper.

  ‘Not really,’ she says. ‘I’ve put on at least half a stone since Grace’s wedding. I’ve not weighed myself, but I know I have. Only my Evans cords would fit me this morning.’

  I put down the bridal magazine I’ve been flicking through and place a supportive arm around her. Then, the curtain is pulled back and Georgia emerges in her wedding dress, smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘What do you think, girls?’ she asks, twirling around as her gorgeous silk skirt skims the floor. She does look amazing and even Valentina joins in our cacophony of approval.

  ‘Well, I’ve got to admit it,’ I tell her. ‘You scrub up well.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ she says, grinning excitedly.

  ‘Absolutely. I think you should have gone for more frills though judging by some of these,’ I joke, nodding at my wedding magazine. ‘Some of the dresses in here look like those little dolls my grandma used to put over her toilet roll.’

  ‘Are you excited, Georgia?’ asks Charlotte softly.

  ‘Hysterical might be a better word,’ Georgia replies. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do once it’s all over though. It’s taken a year and a half to organise this wedding. I’ve forgotten how to talk about anything other than bloody tiaras and calla lilies. My conversational skills are destroyed.’

  ‘Apparently,’ says Valentina, fixing an enormous, elaborate tiara onto her head, ‘some couples, once they’re married, struggle to find anything in common because all they’ve talked about beforehand are things to do with the wedding.’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘It’s a well-known fact,’ she says indignantly. ‘It’s fully recognised by the psychology profession. I read it somewhere–Glamour magazine, I think. Now, what do you reckon?’ She turns away from the mirror to show us her tiara.

  ‘Lose the tan and you’d look like the White Witch,’ I tell her.

  She narrows her eyes.

  ‘Just joking,’ I say.

  But something has been bothering me about the way Valentina’s behaving today, something I’ve been trying to put my finger on since we got here–and have only just done so. It’s been a full twenty minutes and she hasn’t mentioned Jack yet.

  Chapter 27

  Charlotte has the look of someone five seconds away from their first-ever bungee jump. In fact, all she’s been asked to do is go behind the curtain with the dressmaker to try on her dress.

  ‘Why don’t you go next, Evie,’ she says, her eyes imploring me to take the pressure off.

  ‘Yeah, okay, no problem,’ I say.

  Our dresses are called ‘Peony Dream’ and are strapless, calf-length and as obscenely expensive as everything else to do with this wedding. As I pull mine on, the fit is, mercifully, near enough perfect–which means that unless I develop a craving for pasties and Big Macs between now and the wedding, I won’t have to have another fitting.

  ‘There,’ I say, pulling back the curtain to the same round of applause that Georgia, Beth and Gina have all had.

  ‘You don’t think that’s a bit saggy at the bust, do you, Evie?’ Valentina asks in an innocent tone. ‘Not everyone can get away with that sort of cut.’

  ‘It fits perfectly,’ Georgia jumps in diplomatically. ‘Evie, you look fabulous.’

  When I’ve changed back into my jeans I sit myself down next to Charlotte.

  ‘You know Jim’s going to be at the wedding, don’t you?’ I whisper. ‘Georgia liked Grace’s wedding video so much she’s asked him to do hers.’

  ‘I believe so,’ she says.

  ‘So, are you going to talk to him this time?’ I say, nudging her gently. ‘Or just spend the entire afternoon talking about teabags or something equally fascinating with Auntie Ethel?’

  She giggles.

  ‘Oh, do you like Jim, Charlotte?’ Valentina is like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to gossip. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me? I hate being the last to know these things.’

  Charlotte blushes. ‘So Evie thinks,’ she says.

  Valentina ponders for a second.

  ‘He’d look a lot better with a couple of inches off that hair, you know,’ she tells Charlotte. ‘You might want to ask him to consider it if you end up going out with him.’

  ‘I didn’t even say I liked him,’ she protests, going redder still.

  ‘I think we need a plan of action to get you two together,’ Valentina decides.

  I groan.

  ‘Georgia, why don’t you put them next to each other on the seating plan?’ she continues, apparently oblivious to how uncomfortable she’s making Charlotte feel.

  ‘Er, do you want me to, Charlotte?’ Georgia asks hesitantly.

  ‘No,’ she says. Then: ‘Well, yes, okay. I mean, if you like. It makes no difference to me.’

  Valentina gasps as she picks up a floor-length Vera Wang number and holds it against her body to admire herself in the mirror. I use the distraction to lean over to Charlotte again, this time whispering so quietly I’m certain nobody can hear.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says.

  ‘But the thing is,’ I continue, ‘I only mentioned it because I think he might fancy you.’

  She frowns.

  ‘He virtually said so at Grace’s wedding,’ I add.

  Okay, so I might have slightly embellished the conversation, but it’s all for a good reason.

  ‘Fancies me?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, he said you were lovely,’ I whisper. ‘And the way he said it, it definitely amounted to the same thing.’

  ‘So, Georgia,’ Valentina says loudly, cutting short my conversation again. ‘The guests at your wedding–are many in your sort of social circle?’

  Georgia smirks. ‘I obviously socialise with them,’ she says. ‘If that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Valentina, pausing. ‘I suppose what I mean is do they have a similar sort of, well, standing?’

  ‘Standing?’ echoes Georgia.

  ‘Financial standing,’ says Valentina, begrudging the fact that she’s had to spell it out.

  ‘Ah,’ says Georgia. ‘You mean are there any filthy rich, eligible men? Loads, love, loads. I promise.’

  Valentina grimaces. ‘Oh Georgia,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe you think I’d be so crude as to only be interested in someone for their money.’

  I can’t let this conversation go without exploring what’s behind it.

  ‘Are you single again then, Valentina?’ I ask, trying to look like I’m only vaguely interested.

  She pouts. ‘At the moment, yes,’ she says. ‘I decided I ought to be concentrating more on making some “me time”. Plus, Jack was very nice and everything, but not really my type.’

  ‘When did this happen?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, I let him know the day after Grace’s wedding,’ she says.

  ‘Right,’ I say nonchalantly.

  ‘You’re more than free to go after him, Evie,’ says Valentina smugly. ‘I mean, he was very upset when we split up, obviously, but you never know–he might be after a me
aningless fling with someone to get over it. And I know you’re good at that sort of thing.’

  Chapter 28

  Valentina doesn’t bother closing the curtain to get changed.

  She just unzips her dress and lets it drop to the floor so she is completely naked except for a pair of satin high heels and a thong so small it looks like you’d need a microscope and a pair of tweezers to get it on.

  Okay, so her body is perfect in every way–high breasts, neverending legs, and a backside so pert an airbrush couldn’t improve it. But I think everyone would feel more comfortable if she behaved a little less like someone who’d just checked into a Swedish nudist colony.

  Turning her head to admire herself from behind in the full-length mirror, she runs a hand slowly across one of her buttocks.

  ‘I hope I’ve not put any weight on since last time,’ she says. ‘I haven’t been going to the gym as much as usual lately.’

  ‘It must be terrible to have to live with all that cellulite,’ I tell her. ‘There are support groups for people afflicted as badly as you, you know.’

  She tuts and turns around to let the assistant help her get her dress on. As I continue flicking through a magazine, Charlotte nudges me.

  ‘Do you like Jack?’ she breathes.

  I think about this for a second, then find myself smiling.

  ‘It goes against all my principles, given that he’s been out with Valentina,’ I say. ‘But, yes, I think I do.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’ she asks.

  ‘Good question,’ I reply, the implications of what I’ve heard only just dawning on me.

  ‘Valentina’s the only link between us,’ I continue. ‘Perversely, now they’ve split up, I can’t think of any obvious opportunities to see him again. Short of becoming a stalker, that is, and I don’t think I’m capable.’

  ‘Thankfully,’ she giggles.

  But the smile is soon wiped off Charlotte’s face. Because there is only one more person left to try on their dress, and that’s her. As she heads behind the curtain, she pulls it back right to the end, checking that there are no gaps anyone could see through. The assistant goes in to try and help her, but is sent away–and for a good ten minutes, there is nothing but silence coming from behind the curtain.