Bridesmaids (14 page)

It’s quite difficult to drown your sorrows when the person you’re with will only drink Diet Coke because there are too many
WeightWatchers
points in anything else.

‘Oh, come on, Charlotte,’ I say. ‘Just have a little glass of Pinot Grigio with me, why don’t you? I’m sure I read somewhere that you burn off more calories lifting a glass of wine to consume it than it actually contains.’

‘That’s celery,’ she says. ‘And no, I can’t, Evie. Not now I’ve already come so far. I’m determined.’

‘Sorry,’ I say immediately. ‘Don’t listen to me–you stay on the straight and narrow.’

‘Valentina will be joining us in a minute,’ Charlotte tells me. ‘She’s been on a date. She’ll have a glass of wine, I’m sure. It apparently didn’t go according to plan.’

Within five minutes, Valentina has appeared at our side and is flinging herself onto the chair next to us.

‘I need a glass of water,’ she says, putting her hand on her forehead dramatically.

‘Not you as well,’ I say.

‘No, you’re right,’ she says. ‘I might have already had a fair bit tonight, but I’m afraid I’m in shock. Can I have a Chardonnay, please?’ she asks a passing waiter.

‘So come on, tell us,’ I say. ‘What happened on your date?’

‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ she says.

‘Try us,’ I reply.

‘Okay, well…Zak is the guy I met on Georgia’s hen night. And he seemed
perfect
. Six foot four inches of Latin gorgeousness. Runs his own business–as a property developer, he said. Anyway, he phoned last week to ask me out to dinner and didn’t even flinch when I suggested
Le Carriage
.’

I raise an eyebrow.

‘Proposing somewhere you need a second mortgage to eat at is a very good first test, Evie,’ she tells me. ‘So, I arrived twenty-five minutes late—’

I raise the other eyebrow.

‘You’d have to be
desperate
to arrive any earlier than that,’ she says firmly. ‘Anyway, you wouldn’t believe this, but he wasn’t even there yet.’

‘Was he stuck in traffic?’ I offer.

‘That’s the thing,’ she says, wide-eyed and incredulous. ‘No. He just
rolled
in there, half an hour late with no explanation.’

‘That must have been annoying,’ says Charlotte.

‘An understatement, Charlotte, an understatement,’ says Valentina, taking a large gulp of her wine as it arrives. ‘Not least because I’d made an effort. I’m talking new heels
and
a facial. I was only telling myself on the way there that if it took longer than ten minutes for him to want to spend the rest of his life with me, I’d be amazed.’

I bite my lip, suppressing a smile.

‘Anyway, let me get to the story,’ she continues. ‘I’m
waiting at the bar when he arrives, and when he gets there, the waiter asks him what he’d like to drink. Do you know what he ordered?’

I shake my head.

‘A Bacardi Breezer,’ she says. ‘A
green
one, if you will. In
Le
goddamn
Carriage
!’

Charlotte and I both snigger.

‘They made him up a cocktail instead,’ she says. ‘But then, we sit down and he looks at the menu. And I realise he’s pulling a face.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say.

‘So he says: “I hate all this foreign shit”. Can you believe it? “What foreign shit would that be?” I ask him. “Well,” he says, “what’s this when it’s at home: pow-lett?” He was referring to the
poulet
.’

I put my hand up to my mouth, more enthralled by this story than I can possibly have imagined.

‘“It’s chicken,” I told him. “Oh, is that all?” he says. “That’ll do then. Does it come with chips?’”

I start to laugh, but Valentina appears not to find any of this remotely amusing.

‘Oh look, I won’t go on,’ she says. ‘But let me just tell you, he spent the rest of the night shovelling pieces of chicken into his mouth like a caveman, not even mentioning my outfit, and then, to top it all off, he assumed I was paying! Ha! As if!’

‘Gosh,’ says Charlotte. ‘You wouldn’t think someone who was a property developer would behave like that.’

‘That’s another thing,’ says Valentina glumly. ‘He wasn’t a property developer at all. He was an estate agent. A
trainee
estate agent.’

‘So you didn’t sleep with him?’ I ask.

‘Certainly not!’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t dream of sleeping with someone who wanted
me
to pay for a meal.’

Do you know, it’s funny, but I feel better already.

The Isles of Scilly, Saturday, 7 April

When Georgia told us this place was amazing, she wasn’t joking. We flew into the main island in the Scillies, St Mary’s, yesterday evening with a red sun glistening on the water and it almost looked like we were landing in the Seychelles rather than a part of the UK.

Of course, when you do land, it is immediately apparent that you’re not in the Seychelles because there’s a chip shop, three pubs and a Spar-type supermarket selling copies of
heat
magazine and packets of Benson & Hedges. But still.

We then travelled by speedboat to a smaller, more rugged island which gives the impression of being virtually uninhabited apart from the hotel. And what a hotel: sumptuous and trendy at the same time, with the added bonus of an utterly breathtaking position on the edge of the Atlantic. This place has got just about everything going for it.

Today, there is not a cloud in the sky and as I stand on the bleached-wood terrace of Georgia’s honeymoon suite, there is only a soft breeze whispering against my skin. The steps lead down to a private beach, where the sand is fine and pale and
the sea is crystal clear. In fact, the only thing that has disturbed the view all morning is Valentina doing a Pilates routine which involved lots of bending over with her arse in the air.

‘This place is gorgeous,’ I sigh.

‘It’s great, isn’t it?’ says Georgia, who is sitting at the stool of a baby grand piano in her wedding dress, all ready for the ceremony. ‘I love it here. It was where we spent our family holidays as a kid.’

‘Not Butlins, then?’ I ask.

‘Look, I’d have enjoyed Butlins just as much, I’m sure,’ she insists.

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,’ I tease.

The suite is big and luxurious, but also unfussy in a way that only really expensive places can get away with–with coir carpets, whitewashed furniture and the odd impressionist seascape on the walls. There are still more than forty-five minutes to go before Georgia gets married, but in stark contrast to the scene before Grace’s wedding, she seems to have been ready for ages. Predictably, I can’t say the same for my best friend.

‘Did you see Grace earlier?’ asks Georgia quietly.

She has been heroically attempting not to panic about the fact that one of her bridesmaids appears to have gone AWOL.

‘Er, briefly,’ I say.

‘Because she’s getting me a bit worried now,’ Georgia continues. ‘I’ve been calm all morning and now look at me.’ She holds out her hand to demonstrate how much it is shaking.

‘She’ll be here,’ I say, as convincingly as possible. ‘Honestly, don’t worry.’

Suddenly, the door bursts open.

‘Sorry! I know I’m late,’ says Grace, wearing that permanently frazzled look she does so well.

‘Tracking you down this afternoon has been like trying to trace Osama Bin Laden,’ I say.

‘I know, sorry,’ she says again. ‘I’ve had Adele on the phone complaining about a deal I’ve just done, I’ve had my mother on the phone complaining that Scarlett won’t eat puréed steak and kidney pudding, and I’ve had the dry cleaners on the phone complaining that I still haven’t picked up the rug I dropped off three months ago.’

‘Grace,’ I say, ‘what you really need is your own personal customer services department.’

‘Well, look, you’re here now,’ says Georgia, throwing the last bridesmaid dress in her direction. ‘So just go and get this on and be quick about it.’

‘Yep. Right. No problem,’ says Grace, catching the dress. She turns, striding towards the dressing room, where she collides with Valentina at the doorway.

‘Oh…Grace,’ says Valentina with barely disguised horror at the vision before her. ‘Do you need to borrow…a new face?’

Grace frowns. ‘Thank you, Valentina, you look gorgeous too,’ she says, and barges past her.

‘I know,’ smiles Valentina. ‘I’ve just been tested for allergies and discovered I have a lettuce intolerance. I gave it up last week and think my skin is glowing already.’

Just then, Charlotte emerges from the dressing room, all dressed and ready.

‘Wow! You look great!’ I say excitedly, prompting her to blush immediately.

Which is a shame, because if ever she had no reason to blush, it is now.

At its most basic level, Charlotte is wearing a bridesmaid
dress
that fits
. As well as the visible weight loss, her hair and make-up–courtesy of the combined efforts of both myself and Valentina–are a vision of sophisticated glamour so far removed from the old Charlotte, she could be another person.

‘I’m so pleased with your look, Charlotte. I’ve got
such
hidden skills, haven’t I?’ muses Valentina. ‘And I actually think hair and beauty therapy is probably the area in which I excel the most.’

‘You said that about fellatio last week,’ Georgia points out. ‘You told me you could make a man’s hair stand on end.’

‘Oh yes,’ smiles Valentina. ‘That too.’

The ceremony is short and touchingly sweet. Georgia cries, Georgia’s mother cries, Valentina pretends to cry and those of us close enough can even see Pete’s lip wobbling a bit.

It takes place on an enormous terrace overlooking the bay, with the sun warming our skin and an audience so big I feel as if I know what it’s like to play the Royal Albert Hall.

I spend the entire ceremony with my back to the guests, wondering where Jack is sitting and whether it’s obvious I’m squeezing my bum in to try to make it look smaller.

Like many of the guests, he wasn’t due to arrive on the island until this morning, but I know he’s here because Grace saw him having brunch. He had fruit followed by scrambled eggs and toast, apparently. Granary. Two slices, no butter. I think Grace has a future career in the Secret Service, if she ever wants one.

As Georgia and Pete kiss for the first time as man and wife, my spirits lift, knowing that I’m about to come face to face with Jack again. If I actually manage to locate him, that is.

I walk down the aisle behind the happy couple, Valentina
and Beth, and in front of Grace, Charlotte and Gina, trying to seek him out as surreptitiously as I possibly can.

Suddenly, I feel a prod in the back and glance over my shoulder to see what Grace is drawing my attention to. I spot him immediately. Looking over at our procession is the only one of my ex-boyfriends here today. Fortunately, it’s one of the few I actually don’t mind being here.

Seb and I went out together at university for seven whole weeks, which at the time was a performance I was pretty pleased with–although had I known I’d still be single so many years later, I might not have been so self-congratulating.

Seb eventually suffered the same fate as all my subsequent romantic dalliances, but the whole thing was undoubtedly a more bittersweet affair.

I can’t even remember what it was that made us split up, but what I do remember is that there was no sense of relief when it happened. Far from it. In fact, at the time I’m sure I actually regretted it. I even thought about telling him, but by the time I’d got my act together it was too late and he was with someone else.

Anyway, why this blip in an otherwise unshakably predictable pattern should have occurred I’ve never been able to work out. But the plus side to all this at least is that bumping into him–and it’s been at least two years since the last time–isn’t anything like the traumatic affair it is with the others.

When he catches me looking at him, Seb smiles and holds up his hand to give me a little wave. I smile back but am prevented from waving both by convention and by the bloody great bouquet I’m carrying; it’s so heavy I’m
convinced someone’s hidden a dumbbell underneath all this foliage.

‘
He’s
not looking half-bad these days,’ whispers Grace as we get to the back of the room.

I hate to admit it, but she’s right.

Apparently, nobody has informed the photographer that this is supposed to be a celebration. With sideburns like Brillo pads and a complexion so ruddy it could have been blow-torched, this guy appears to have taken charm lessons from the Gestapo.

‘Right, if you’d just all move a bit closer together,’ he bellows. ‘Closer,
please
!’

Grabbing the arm of an elderly lady dressed in migraine-inducing cerise, he shoves her towards her neighbour. He seems completely unable to appreciate that getting this number of people into the right position isn’t going to happen instantaneously.

‘You bridesmaids, you need to move forward. No, not that far!’ he shouts. ‘Stop there. No,
not
there, backwards a bit.’

Valentina is pouting and for once I can understand why. But someone soon changes that.

‘I could have sworn I saw someone like you at the last wedding I went to,’ says a voice behind me which I recognise immediately as Jack’s.

I hold my hand up to my mouth to try to suppress a smile.

‘Bridesmaid on the left, can you put your hand down,
please
,’ the photographer trumpets. ‘Right, let’s try again, shall we?’

‘If you don’t behave yourself, Miss Hart, you’ll be sent to the back,’ the voice behind me whispers.

I try not to smirk, fearing that I will look like a professional gurner on these photos if I’m not careful.

‘I can do without you trying to get me into trouble,’ I lean back and murmur through my cardboard cut-out smile.

‘It’s hardly my fault if you can’t do what you’re meant to do properly,’ he replies. ‘I bet you were always in detention at school, weren’t you?’

I’m trying to think of something witty to say in reply when the photographer instructs everyone but the bride and bridesmaids to stand down. The entire wedding party surges towards the hotel, all clearly desperate for a drink, and it becomes apparent that Georgia might have benefited from hiring some crowd control for this event.

‘Looks like I’m going to have to leave you to it,’ says Jack, smiling widely. ‘I’ll catch you later, shall I?’

Yes, please.

One of the things I am starting to learn about weddings is that the photos take such a long time that by the time they’re finished, most of the guests are already pissed, and the main wedding party has all got leg cramp. Almost an hour and ten minutes after this marathon began, I’m afraid I start to get rather fed up.

‘Have you seen the time?’ I say to Grace, who is next to me.

‘What about it?’ she asks.

‘It’s gone five p.m. and we’re all completely sober. It doesn’t feel right at a wedding somehow.’

‘I heard that,’ says Georgia.

‘Sorry,’ I say, holding my hands up. ‘I wasn’t complaining, honest.’

Patently, I was.

‘No, you’re right,’ she says. Then: ‘Listen, Bruce,’ she tells the photographer, ‘from now on, let’s just have natural shots, shall we? Come on, girls, where’s the bar?’

She marches ahead, leaving Mr Brillo Pads hopelessly redundant, while the rest of us attempt to follow her as daintily as is practical on a beach when you’re wearing two-inch heels. When we reach the terrace, I turn to Grace and take a deep breath.

‘Is my mascara intact?’ I ask her.

She smirks. ‘Yes.’

‘Hair okay?’

‘Yes.’

‘How about lipstick?’

‘Evie,’ she says, ‘you look gorgeous. So gorgeous, in fact, that if you don’t manage to pull Jack tonight you never bloody will.’