Bridesmaids (30 page)

Grace and Patrick’s house, Saturday, 21 July

‘I want to wear my bra,’ whines Polly.

‘You can’t, I’ve told you,’ says Grace, grabbing some baby food out of the microwave with one hand and brushing her hair with the other. ‘Five-year-olds do not wear bras.’

‘I bet Evie will be wearing a bra,’ Polly replies. ‘Won’t you, Evie?’

‘Well, yes,’ I tell her. ‘But I’m a 34B–and you’re not.’

Polly pouts.

As usual, Grace’s kitchen is so chaotic, it’s starting to look less like the hub of a domestic household and more like the set of
It’s A Knockout.
The theme to
Bob the Builder
has been blaring out for the last half-hour while Grace has galloped around ironing Polly’s outfits, locating bottles of Calpol and entering into intense telephone negotiations with her mother about whether or not Scarlett should be eating with a knife and fork yet.

Grace plonks Scarlett in her high chair and starts shovelling a spoon into her mouth with a concoction on it she insists is lentil bake–but actually looks more like something
you’d find splattered on the floor outside a nightclub at 2 a.m.

As Patrick wanders in, looking for something to polish his shoes with, I find myself studying his face in the light of Charlotte’s revelations yesterday. He looks about as happy as you’d expect for someone who’s secretly unemployed and has recently had a drunken shag with one of his wife’s oldest friends.

‘Well, I have to say I never thought Valentina and Edmund would end up together, did you?’ Grace asks, looking at Patrick hopefully to see if he might answer her.

‘Hmm,’ he shrugs, pulling a duster out of the cupboard under the sink.

As best man, Patrick is due to meet the groom at his house in about twenty minutes. It won’t be a minute too soon, as far as I’m concerned: just being in the same room as him and Grace, with the knowledge that I have but she doesn’t, is making me feel distinctly twitchy.

‘God knows what sort of marriage they’ll have,’ Grace ploughs on. ‘I can’t help thinking she’ll walk all over him.’

‘Maybe,’ he says.

Grace flashes me an almost apologetic look as if to say: This is how stimulating our conversation gets these days. I look away immediately and start studying the nutritional information panel on the back of a packet of Cheerios.

‘How does she get on with his parents?’ she asks.

‘Fine, I think,’ Patrick grunts. ‘Don’t know, really.’

‘Bernard probably loves her,’ she continues, ‘but Jacqueline…I don’t know, I suspect she’d have preferred it if Edmund had brought someone a bit less exuberant home.’

‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘Like Madonna.’

Patrick puts his duster back into the cupboard under the sink and walks towards the hallway, saying nothing. I hear the door to the loo shut just as Polly arrives wearing her lovely pale pink dress, through which her ‘bra’–which is actually the top half of a bikini–is perfectly visible. She looks like a strange hybrid of Shirley Temple and a Kings Cross hooker.

‘
Polly
,’ says Grace wearily as Scarlett starts hurling her plastic bricks across the kitchen. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘I can’t remember,’ she says.

‘I told you you couldn’t wear that thing, didn’t I?’ says Grace.

‘But—’ she interrupts.

‘No buts,’ Grace says sternly.

‘Yeah,’ I add, starting to tickle her. ‘Or we’ll call Supernanny.’

Polly collapses into reluctant giggles, forcing their way through despite her being absolutely determined that she’s going to sulk.

‘I’d better get going,’ says Patrick, appearing again.

‘Daddy,’ says Polly, ‘can I wear my bra for the wedding? It’s not a real bra, it’s only a pretend one. And Grandma bought it for me because she thought it was nice and knew that it was only for me to play with really. So can I, Dad?’

Grace and I listen to all this almost speechless. If Polly is like this at five, what on earth will she be like when she’s fifteen? Machiavelli?

‘If Grandma bought it for you, then I don’t see why not,’ says Patrick, grabbing his car keys.

‘Patrick!’ protests Grace. ‘No, she can’t wear it! I could have throttled my mother when she bought her that.’

‘But Daddy said I could,’ says Polly, pulling a face so distraught you’d think she’d just been told she had to spend the rest of her life in a workhouse with a diet consisting of nothing but gruel and dried peas.

‘Daddy didn’t mean it,’ says Grace. ‘Did you, Daddy?’

Patrick flashes her a look.

‘I
thought
,’ he says indignantly, ‘that Mummy and Daddy weren’t supposed to contradict each other in front of the children.’

‘You’re right,’ says Grace, with equal indignation, ‘they’re not. But Daddy obviously doesn’t realize that
he’s
just done exactly that.’

‘Right,’ he says, his tone getting firmer, ‘but Mummy must surely accept that Daddy isn’t psychic and therefore could not have been aware of whatever it was exactly that she’d said earlier.’

‘Mummy
does
,’ says Grace, ‘but given Daddy now knows what Mummy’s views were, she would be very grateful if he would back her up on this.’

He looks on the verge of throwing another comment so acidic it could melt the furniture, when suddenly his phone rings. He pauses to answer it.

‘So,’ says Polly, ‘now that Mummy and Daddy have had a chat about it, I’m okay to wear my bra, aren’t I?’

‘No!’ shouts Grace.

She and Polly continue their battle, as Bob the Builder chirps on and Scarlett whines for her next spoonful while banging plastic bricks on the table of her high chair. But, although so much is going on in this place you barely know where to look, I can’t help focusing on one person. Patrick. Patrick is the only one who is silent, and as he listens to who
ever is on the other end of the phone, he remains so, his face growing so white he soon starts to look like Christopher Lee.

Eventually, he puts the phone down.

‘Who was that?’ asks Grace.

‘Evie,’ he says, ‘I think you’d better leave. I need to speak to Grace about something. I need to speak to her alone.’

Knowsley Hall, Saturday, 21 July

Valentina is dressed from head to toe in the most expensive bridal couture money can buy, and she is wearing a tiara that would out-dazzle a Buckingham Palace chandelier. But something is not quite right: the bride isn’t smiling.

‘I don’t know what I expected from the
High Life!
magazine team,’ she pouts, as we pose for the first photographs of the day, ‘but it wasn’t one decrepit old slime ball taking the photos and a seventeen-year-old work experience girl doing the interviews.’

We’re in the sweeping grounds of Knowsley Hall, one of the most impressive ancestral piles in the North of England and where–except for the church service–most of the action is taking place today.

‘She is eighteen, apparently,’ I tell her.

‘Who?’ asks Valentina.

‘The interviewer. We were chatting earlier. She’s called Drusilla–Drusilla von Something. Her dad’s a Count somewhere in Europe who knows the magazine’s owner.’

But Valentina isn’t interested in Drusilla von Something’s dad.

‘Now listen,’ she is saying to the photographer, ‘how about one of me getting into the carriage with my bridesmaids close by?’

‘Dear,’ he snarls, ‘you concentrate on looking pretty and I’ll look after the pictures. Then we’ll both get on just fine. Now, I think one of the bride and her father before they leave for the church would be nice. Where is your father exactly?’

‘I am ’ere,’ says Federico, sidling up to Valentina and putting his hand around her waist.

‘You are
not
my father,’ she tells him. ‘He is
not
my father,’ she tells everyone else.

‘I know I am not
usually
,’ says Federico, ‘but I thought just for today, just for ze ’ere and now, zat’s what I am to be.’

‘You’re giving me away, that’s all,’ she hisses. ‘That doesn’t alter the biological fact that you and I have nothing whatsoever to do with each other. You are here to decorate my arm, okay?’

‘Okay, okay,’ he says, holding his hands up. ‘I get ze idea. You are so ’arsh sometimes, Valentina. But I like zat in a woman.’

Insistent that
High Life!
magazine has sent him with a list of instructions–including returning with a picture of the bride and her father–the photographer forces a reluctant Valentina to pose for a photo with Federico. The latter slings his arm low around her waist again in a pose that somehow doesn’t look very paternal, given the proximity of his palm to the top of her buttock.

There is no doubt about it, Valentina has put some truly spectacular finishing touches to this wedding. The cake has been handcrafted in white Belgian chocolate and, at over
five foot, it makes Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones’s effort look like something from Marks & Spencer.

The dress cost so much there are semi-detached houses in parts of the country you could buy for less. And the look, according to Valentina, is elegant, but also sexy enough to ensure Edmund’s pulse is just the right side of coronary failure the moment he sees her.

Of all the finishing touches though, none is more jaw-dropping than the one we’re standing in front of now: her Cinderella carriage. Embedded with crystals and with four white horses at the front, I’m afraid Valentina’s sense of taste has in this particular case been railroaded by her equally well-developed sense of exhibitionism. The idea was that it would befit a proper society wedding. In fact, it looks like the sort of thing Elton John might run around in, if he lived in Disneyland.

‘It’s quite a carriage,’ says the photographer, and for a split second Valentina almost looks like she might change her view of him. ‘I did Jordan and Peter’s wedding and they had one just like it.’

‘
Idiot
,’ she huffs.

As the bridesmaids–with the exception of Grace–wait in the background, I take Charlotte to one side at the first opportunity I get.

‘Was that you who phoned Patrick earlier?’ I demand.

Her face flushes, but she looks defiant.

‘Yes,’ she says, gripping her bouquet.

‘What did you say?’ I ask.

‘I told him that you knew,’ she says. ‘I told him that I’d told you everything.’

I frown.

‘I had to,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t risk you telling Grace first.’

‘I told you I wouldn’t, didn’t I?’ I whisper. ‘At least not until after the wedding.’

She sniffs and shrugs.

‘Whatever happens now happens,’ she says, ‘he knows how I feel. The ball is in his court.’

I shake my head, unable to even contemplate what could be happening at Grace’s house at this moment in time.

‘Ah, excuse me, ah,’ says Drusilla, the
High Life!
journalist, stepping forward.

‘Ah, do you think I could do my, ah, interview, yet?’ she says.

‘Absolutely,’ says Valentina briskly. ‘Fire away.’

‘Ah, yah, well, okay,’ she says. ‘So, did you and Mr Barnett meet at a party?’

‘He was best man at another wedding, actually,’ Valentina tells her. ‘That of two of my dearest friends, Grace and Patrick. That might be too much detail, but you don’t have to mention them by name if you don’t want. However, it might be nice if you did mention that I have many friends. Many dear, dear friends.’

‘Ah, yah, okay,’ says Drusilla, taking down shorthand notes at a rate of about six words per minute. ‘And, ah, now, ah…do you like parties?’

‘Well, yes,’ says Valentina. ‘Of course I do–who doesn’t?’

‘Right,’ says the girl. ‘And what kind of parties do you go to?’

‘Well, all sorts of parties,’ Valentina continues. ‘But what have they got to do with my wedding?’

‘Oh, ah, well, I’m not sure really,’ says Drusilla. ‘But my Editor said I should always ask about parties. She said if I make sure I ask about parties I won’t go wrong.’

‘You’re not aiming for a Pulitzer Prize with this article then,’ says Valentina.

Georgia is starting to look a bit concerned. But not, I suspect, as concerned as I am.

‘When do we need to head off to the church?’ she asks.

‘Not for another hour,’ I say. ‘Has Grace turned up yet?’

‘Erm…’ Georgia glances up to see whether Valentina is listening.

‘You mean
no
, don’t you?’ Valentina shrieks. ‘You’d think on today of all days she might have made the effort to turn up on time.’

‘I’m sure she won’t be long,’ says Georgia. ‘You know what she’s like. She’s always late–but she always makes it in the end.’

‘That may be,’ says Valentina. ‘But there’s
no way
Andrew Herbert is going to be able to do her hair in this amount of time. The man may be a genius with colour, but time travel is not one of his skills, as far as I’m aware.’

‘Look,’ says Georgia, ‘why don’t you come inside and have a glass of champers with the rest of us?’

‘Fine,’ says Valentina, marching off towards the main house. ‘I’d had enough of David Bailey and his intrepid reporter anyway.’

When we reach the drawing room, we each take a glass of champagne and it’s not long before everyone starts to relax. Even Valentina. And even me. And soon, the place takes on the hint of merry excitement that every wedding should have. As I sip my champagne and look across at Valentina, glowing with happiness and about to commit herself to one man for the rest of her life, I feel compelled to say something.

‘Right,’ I find myself announcing. ‘I’d like to propose a little toast.’

Everyone stops what they’re doing and looks over at me.

‘Well, Valentina,’ I say, ‘we’ve all known you for over six years now and, like any friendships, there have been ups and downs. But there’s little doubt that you are one in a million. And luckily, you’ve found a man who’s one in a million too. Someone who absolutely adores you and someone who’s determined to never let you go. And that is one of the most…well, it’s one of the most amazing things in the world.’

My throat goes dry and I suddenly feel ridiculously emotional, with thoughts of Grace and Patrick and Charlotte, but above all Jack, whirling through my head.

I look upwards and pretend to check my mascara as tears well up in my eyes. A vivid image of Jack’s wide, generous smile flashes into my head and I’m furious with myself for feeling so weepy.

‘Are you all right, Evie?’ asks Georgia, but as she puts her hand on my arm, it just seems to make the tears welling in my eyes even more determined to make their break for freedom.

‘Yes, yes,’ I say, pulling myself together. ‘Now raise your glass, everyone.
To Valentina
!’

‘
To Valentina
!’ everyone shouts, clapping as she laps up the limelight.

‘Oh look,’ says Georgia, glancing out of the window. ‘Here’s Grace now.’

‘Well, thank God for that,’ says Valentina. ‘Although I hope she knows she can’t leave her car there in the middle of the driveway. I don’t want an Audi on the wedding photos. Especially not one that’s three years old.’

But as Grace’s footsteps approach the room less than a minute later and the door bursts open, it’s quite obvious for all to see that the wedding photos are the last thing she’s interested in right now.