Bridesmaids Page 12

  Which would have been fine, except she tried to do it in the dark and in her new, slightly too long Barbie nightgown. By the time she reached the bottom stair, she was actually unconscious. Patrick, obviously, phoned for a paramedic and, although she had come round by the time they arrived, they decided to take her into hospital to check her over. In the event, she didn’t break a single bone, which apparently makes her some sort of medical miracle.

  ‘I bet you had a shock,’ I say to Patrick.

  ‘You better believe it,’ he says, shaking his head.

  ‘At least Scarlett slept through the whole thing,’ he adds, nodding over at the baby in her portable car seat.

  The baby is a vision of peace and contentment, fast asleep with only her little dummy moving as she sucks it.

  ‘I’m sorry we rowed,’ Grace says softly.

  ‘Me too.’ And Patrick leans over to kiss her on the forehead.

  I sense my presence is no longer wanted.

  ‘Anyone fancy a coffee?’ I ask. ‘I’m sure there’ll be a machine in here somewhere.’

  I do a complete tour of the hospital–twice–before I manage to locate a coffee machine. In the event, it runs out of coffee after I’ve only bought two of them and leaves me with a chicken soup I suspect went in there in powdered form in 1972.

  When I get back, Polly is still having a final, precautionary X-ray and, to my disbelief, Patrick and Grace appear to be having another domestic.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I think one of us needs to get Scarlett home,’ Patrick is saying. ‘She’s going to want to be fed if she wakes up.’

  ‘I’m sure the hospital will let us borrow a little bit of formula milk to keep her going,’ says Grace.

  ‘You can’t ask them to do that,’ he replies.

  ‘Why not?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, because it’s a hospital. They can’t just go giving handouts to visitors.’

  ‘I’m not a visitor,’ says Grace. ‘I’m the parent of a patient that’s just been admitted.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘Scarlett isn’t the patient, Polly is.’

  ‘Look, I’ll pay them for it if need be,’ she says impatiently. ‘I’m sure they’re used to this sort of thing.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not being ridiculous,’ she says.

  ‘Look, you two!’ I leap in, and they both turn to look at me. ‘I’ve brought you some coffee.’

  I hand them over, glad at least that I’ve managed to shut them up.

  ‘Sorry if they look like the contents of a washing-up bowl,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ says Grace. ‘I’ll drink anything that’s warm and wet at the moment.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Patrick, sipping his and pulling a face. ‘Well, it’s definitely wet.’

  ‘Listen, I’m going to get going,’ I say. ‘You don’t need me hanging around.’

  ‘Oh, Evie, thanks so much for coming with me,’ says Grace. ‘You’re a real friend.’

  ‘No problem,’ I reply. ‘If you ever hear of any four hundred-metre races in which the runners have to wear high heels, sign me up.’

  ‘Sorry as well that you had to leave Jack behind,’ says Grace. ‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself there.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ I say, trying to look on the bright side. ‘I’m just glad Polly’s okay. Anyway, there’s always Georgia’s wedding. That’s not long now.’

  ‘No,’ says Grace. ‘Not long. See you, Evie.’

  ‘See you,’ adds Patrick.

  Why do I suspect I’m just leaving them behind to start on Round Two?

  Chapter 44

  Daily Echo newsroom, Wednesday, 4 April

  Now here’s a journalistic dilemma: how do you make a page 23-nib about plans to extend the opening hours of an NHS walk-in centre interesting?

  I sit and study the press release, the newsroom alive with activity around me. Jules, to my right, is bashing out the splash–a breaking story about a terrorism plot, centred around a Liverpool chippy, which police uncovered only this morning. Laura, opposite, is on the phone to the emergency services, getting a quote for her page 1 anchor piece about a four-car pile-up on the M56. Even Larry, the twenty-two-year-old work experience guy, is finishing off the caption for the front-page picture.

  ‘It’s with you!’ shouts Jules, dashing over to the newsdesk, as Simon, the News Editor, opens up his story–ready to give it a quick-fire once-over before it is pinged to the sub-editors.

  I look at my press release again and sigh. I can’t remember when Simon last asked me to write something for that day’s edition–something to get my adrenaline pumping. In fact, I can’t remember when Simon last asked me to write something that would prompt anything other than a sudden onset of narcolepsy.

  ‘It’s with you!’ shouts Simon, as the Chief Sub picks up the story, ready to lay it on chapter 1 and slam a headline onto it.

  I am still searching for some inspiration, but can’t help thinking I’d be more inspired watching a job-lot of Dulux dry.

  ‘Right, Evie Hart,’ Simon shouts to me after he’s sent the last story through. ‘Get over here.’

  My heart leaps. Maybe I had him all wrong. Maybe he’s about to give me a breaking story for the next edition. Maybe I’m about to have my name on chapter 1 today, after all. I dash over to the newsdesk, my notepad and pen poised in anticipation.

  ‘Right, Hart,’ he says, managing to look down my top and as if he’s about to kill me at the same time. ‘I wonder if you could explain something to me.’

  I hesitate. ‘Yes?’ I say.

  ‘How you were scooped.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I ask, every story I’ve written in the last two weeks racing around my mind. ‘I mean, which story?’

  ‘Our four-legged friend,’ says Simon.

  ‘Sorry, Simon,’ I repeat. ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘The pig!’ he snaps, with an expression that tells me I’m about as likely to be handed a hot exclusive today as I am the title of Miss World. ‘The pig that spoke Italian.’

  ‘It was French, actually,’ I say, but I can sense as soon as I’ve said it that he considers this about as relevant as its favourite colour.

  ‘I don’t give a fucking toss if it was Swahili,’ he screams, slamming a paper down in front of me. ‘It’s in the Daily Star.’

  I gulp as I come face to face with the picture of Lizzie the Gloucester Old Spot and her owner. I don’t know which one of them looks more smug.

  ‘I thought you said that piece was holdable?’ he says.

  ‘I thought it was,’ I splutter.

  ‘Didn’t you ask whether he was speaking to the nationals?’

  I cast my mind back to my conversation with the farmer and consider for a second whether there is any point in trying to lie here. Morally, I have no qualms whatsoever about trying to pull a fast one over Simon, who I am starting to think has all the charm of a sewer rat. It’s just that lying isn’t exactly my forte. In fact, I’m about as convincing a liar as I am an Olympic javelin contender.

  ‘He did mention that,’ I admit eventually, hating myself for being so sheepish. ‘But, I’ve got to confess, I didn’t believe him. I never thought the nationals would be interested, short of the pig reciting every verse of the Marseillaise.’

  Simon shakes his head and I feel like I’m standing in front of the Headmaster for the fourth time this week.

  ‘Listen, girly,’ he says, glancing down my top again. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn about recognising a story. And let me tell you this, in case I’ve not made myself clear: a talking pig is a good story in anyone’s book. Particularly since it’s got a better grasp of languages than half the GCSE students in this country. Now, get out of my sight.’

  When I get back to my desk my eyes bore into my computer screen and I quickly become a seething mass of resentment, imagining all the things I could have said to Simon…but didn’t.

  Oka
y, so I messed up. Catastrophically, according to the News Editor. But Daily Star or not, this is a story about a talking pig. It’s not going to bring down governments or halt the spread of global warming. Besides, I wrote the thing weeks ago. I might have said it was holdable, but I didn’t mean until Christmas 2009.

  Picking up my press release, I make a vow to myself. I am going to get a chapter 1 exclusive for this paper if it’s the last bloody thing I do.

  Chapter 45

  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.

  Chapter 46

  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.’