Bridesmaids Page 3

  I relax–slightly–and try again. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ I reply, attempting to brazen out the fact that I haven’t felt more embarrassed since…well, since I saw him on the stairs an hour ago, actually.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he says, laughing. ‘Although I admit not all the girls take your approach.’

  My face gets hotter. ‘Okay, I admit it,’ I confess. ‘I’m embarrassed.’ I don’t know why I’m telling him this, when he can already see that my cheeks look like they’ve got third-degree sunburn.

  ‘Don’t be,’ he says, nodding over to the doors. ‘It’s done the trick.’

  The guests are pouring onto the terrace.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ I sigh.

  ‘Is this what being a bridesmaid involves these days?’ he adds. ‘I didn’t think you had to do anything other than stand around looking pretty.’

  ‘Looking pretty is really my main duty for the day,’ I agree. ‘That and deafening the guests.’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘may I say you do both exceptionally well.’

  I try to stop myself grinning. ‘Thank you,’ I say instead. ‘I’m Evie. Very pleased to meet you.’

  I offer my hand to shake and he reaches out and holds it firmly. But before he gets the chance to introduce himself, we are interrupted.

  ‘Evie, you naughty thing! I hope you’re not trying to steal my date!’

  Valentina is pretending that she’s joking, but she now has hold of Action Man’s arm in the sort of grip that could get her a job as a parole officer.

  ‘I was just introducing myself to your friend,’ he says, turning back to me. ‘I’m Jack. Lovely to meet you. And hear you.’

  Before I can think of anything to say, Valentina beats me to it.

  ‘Jack, there’s someone you’ve just got to meet,’ she says, pulling on his arm and giving him little choice in the matter.

  So off they go. Action Man and the Amazon.

  Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.

  Chapter 10

  What a disaster. In fact, the worst outcome I could have dreamed of. I’d have preferred to discover that Action Man–sorry, Jack–was a trainee monk having just taken a strict vow of celibacy. Or that he was gay. Yes, gay would have been nice. I could have lived with gay.

  Instead, aside from the most obvious issue, i.e. that he’s here on a date with someone else, the fact that that someone else is Valentina is catastrophic. Because, put simply, being a boyfriend of Valentina’s is not exactly a good character reference. I haven’t met a man she’s been out with yet who doesn’t fit every one of the following criteria.

  Must be obsessed with looks–both his own and hers–to a deeply unhealthy degree.

  Must hang on her every word.

  Must remember to make a flattering comment involving her resemblance to some starlet or other as often as possible.

  Finally, and most crucially: Must be as intellectual as the average episode of Teletubbies.

  Action Man, Jack, Whatever Your Name Is: you can be as ruggedly handsome as you like, but unfortunately that’s now about the only positive thing I can say about you.

  I look over to the bar and realise to my horror that Joe, Gareth and Peter are huddled together talking, apparently having formed an Ex-Boyfriends’ Club. Oh deep joy. I can only imagine what the conversation must be. They’re probably comparing voodoo dolls.

  ‘You haven’t seen Grace, have you?’ asks Charlotte, her soft voice snapping me out of my trance. ‘The photographer is waiting for her.’

  ‘I’ll go and look for her,’ I say, glad of a distraction.

  I finally find Grace in the marquee where the wedding breakfast is being prepared.

  ‘Why can’t everything run smoothly?’ she frets. ‘I should be the world authority on wedding etiquette by now, I’ve read so many bridal magazines, but things are still going wrong.’

  My friend is holding a champagne glass in one hand and rocking Scarlett with the other.

  ‘What now?’ I ask.

  ‘There has been a mix-up with the table plans,’ she says, blowing a stray bit of hair from her face. ‘When I faxed them over to the hotel last week, the machine apparently chopped off the edge of the top table, including where Patrick’s mum and dad were meant to be sitting. Now they’ve not set up a table big enough to accommodate them and they can’t change it without dismantling the whole thing.’

  ‘Didn’t they wonder where the groom’s mother and father were?’

  ‘I think they assumed they were dead,’ she says.

  Neither of us can help laughing.

  ‘Well, why don’t Charlotte and I just step down from the top table?’ I suggest. ‘The staff can easily slot us both onto other tables. That way, Polly can still be up there with you, and there will be enough room for Patrick’s mum and dad.’

  ‘Don’t you mind?’ she asks, looking relieved.

  ‘Of course not,’ I tell her. ‘Rather that than spark a diplomatic incident with your new in-laws.’

  She grabs me and kisses me on the cheek.

  ‘You’re a star, Evie,’ she says. ‘Remind me to ask you to be a bridesmaid at all my future weddings!’

  Only after the photos have been taken do I get to have a look at the amended table plan and realise exactly what I’ve let myself in for.

  They’ve put me next to Jack and Valentina.

  Chapter 11

  ‘How is it that there are ninety guests here today and I manage to be put next to Valentina and her trophy boyfriend?’ I ask. ‘Did I torture kittens in a past life or something?’

  Charlotte tries to stop herself from smiling. ‘She’s not that bad,’ she says. ‘I think she might be insecure.’

  We both look over in Valentina’s direction.

  ‘Kelly Brook?’ she’s saying loudly to one of the ushers. ‘Oh, that’s funny, because most people tell me I look like Angelina Jolie…’

  ‘I know she’s not that bad,’ I say, ‘but insecure? She couldn’t be more secure if she were padlocked and guarded by MI5.’

  Charlotte giggles.

  ‘Anyway, let’s see who’s on your table. Oh, lucky you!’ I say, nudging her.

  Charlotte has been put next to Jim, Grace’s favourite cousin. He’s a trainee cameraman with the BBC, who has been roped into doing the wedding video today. Although he’s a year or two younger than us, he is one of the nicest people you could ever hope to meet. Secretly, I have always thought he would make a perfect partner for Charlotte.

  ‘Jim’s lovely, you know,’ I tell her, not very subtly.

  Charlotte blushes and looks away. She does this all the time–often for little apparent reason–and I know that she despairs of this trait, as with one rush of blood to the head, her entire thoughts are laid out for the world to see. In this case, if I know Charlotte, I can see very plainly that she’s got a crush.

  ‘What’s up?’ I say softly. ‘You have been introduced to Jim, haven’t you?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ she replies. ‘I’ve met him once or twice before.’

  ‘Don’t you think he’s nice?’ I add.

  ‘Hmm,’ she says, her cheeks now the colour of a particularly full-bodied Valpolicella.

  ‘You could do worse, you know,’ I tell her.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says, fiddling with the strings on her satin bag.

  ‘Charlotte, you don’t have to hide these things from me,’ I say, holding her hand. But she still looks like a teenager during a parental chat about contraceptive methods.

  ‘I’ll drop a few hints if you like,’ I offer when she doesn’t reply.

  ‘No!’ she says immediately. ‘Please, Evie, no.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I say, deciding it’s time to back off. For now. I know only too well that if Charlotte gets herself too worked up, she’ll go out of her way to avoid ever speaking to Jim again. The poor girl definitely needs my intervention somewhere along the way, I don’t doubt that. Charlotte has only ever had one boyfriend–Go
rdon, a damp-proofing specialist–who was uniquely lacking in a single interesting feature. His one talent was that he could tell you everything you never wanted to know about the differences between dry and wet rot, which, believe me, are many and varied. That was years ago, however, and Charlotte is more than overdue another romantic liaison.

  Before we sit down to eat, I go to powder my nose and triple check for stray boob enhancers, cabbage in my front teeth, and that I haven’t accidentally tucked my skirt into my knickers. Then I take a deep breath and head back to the marquee to locate table five. Jack is already there by himself. I contemplate making a diversion so I’m not left talking to him alone, but he sees me and raises his eyebrows casually in recognition.

  Oh no–help me, someone. I’m stuck with Valentina’s eye candy already.

  Chapter 12

  ‘It’s the bridesmaid with the big voice,’ says Jack cheerfully as I approach our table.

  I should be relieved that he’s chosen that, and not the earlier incident, to remind me of, but I still can’t help sounding slightly irritated.

  ‘Am I not going to be allowed to forget that?’ I ask.

  ‘I won’t mention it again, I promise,’ he grins. ‘So, how do you know the bride?’

  I’ve chit-chatted with enough of Valentina’s beaux over the years to know that the next couple of hours are likely to be as excruciating as a dodgy Brazilian wax. But I tell myself to be polite. I don’t suppose it’s his fault if he’s as bright as a 5-watt pygmy bulb.

  ‘We went to Liverpool University together,’ I say, before realising he appears to be waiting for me to elaborate. ‘We shared a house in the last two years.’

  ‘But you’re not from Liverpool originally?’ he asks, studying my accent.

  ‘Not far away,’ I say. ‘About forty-five minutes north.’

  ‘It’s a great city,’ he says. ‘I love it.’

  ‘So you don’t live there yourself?’ I ask, annoyed with myself for wanting to know.

  ‘I’ve just moved there,’ he says. ‘With work.’

  Under other circumstances, I’d pursue this as a line of conversation, but the last thing I want is for him to think I’m interested.

  ‘I didn’t know Valentina had a new boyfriend,’ I say instead, wondering immediately why I’m bringing this up.

  ‘We’ve only actually been out together once before,’ Jack tells me. ‘I’m a member of her tennis club.’

  I look up to see Valentina flouncing towards us as if she’s at Paris Fashion Week, before sitting down and putting her hand conspicuously on Jack’s knee. Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt.

  ‘I’m really not sure about this dress,’ she muses, inching the hem up. ‘Jack, what do you think? I can’t decide whether it shows off too much leg.’

  She crosses her legs slowly–to show exactly how much leg there is. Jack’s eyes are drawn to them momentarily, before he looks away. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I could detect a slight sense of embarrassment.

  The other guests on our table start to arrive, beginning with two of Grace’s aunts. Auntie Sylvia and Auntie Anne are both lovely, tiny women who are dressed today as visions of dusty pink and powder blue, respectively. They both have huge hats, candyfloss perms and meticulously co-ordinated outfits that look like the sort of thing you’d find in a catalogue distributed with the Mail on Sunday.

  Their husbands, Uncle Giles and Uncle Tom, have spruced themselves up just as much as their wives, although without quite the same panache. Uncle Tom has made a daring attempt at a comb-over, with just a handful of straggly hairs clinging to his scalp for dear life. I’m finding it difficult to tear my eyes away from it.

  ‘Ay up, love,’ says a voice I recognise immediately.

  I leap up and hug Georgia, another of my old university friends, who is here with her new fiancé, Pete.

  Georgia is by far and away the wealthiest individual I know, but to the untrained ear you’d never guess it–the accent is more Daphne Moon than Princess Di.

  Georgia’s dad grew up in near-poverty in Blackburn and is a self-made man whose company is now the largest manufacturer of plastic bags in Europe. It is perhaps because of his background that Georgia and her family are the most down-to-earth millionaires you could ever hope to meet. She’d be the first to admit she loves to spend, but she’s also exceptionally generous and sometimes gives the impression of not being entirely comfortable with her wealth.

  ‘So, how’s your practice-run as a bridesmaid been, Evie?’ she asks.

  ‘Good,’ I tell her. ‘I might even have worked out what I’m meant to be doing by the time it’s your wedding.’

  When we left university, Georgia was one of the few who didn’t remain in Liverpool and, although we stayed in touch, the rest of us didn’t see nearly as much of her as we would have liked. That’s all changed in the last couple of months since the preparations for her wedding really got underway. We have had to meet up for so many dress fittings I’m starting to imagine what it must feel like to be a shop dummy.

  ‘I love your outfit, by the way,’ I tell her.

  Georgia always looks fantastic. Today she is wearing a cream suit which I’d guess is YSL–her favourite–and a simple but beautiful diamond necklace.

  ‘Oh, cheers, love,’ she says. ‘It was from Top Shop.’

  I smile. If that suit is from Top Shop then I’m a world champion Sumo wrestler. But I’m not going to be the one to ‘out’ her.

  When our first course arrives, Jack turns and asks if I could pass the pepper. But as I reach over for it, Valentina interrupts.

  ‘Don’t worry, Evie, I’ve got one here,’ she says, touching Jack’s arm as she hands it to him. ‘You know,’ she says, lowering her voice and closing in on him, ‘I’ve read somewhere that pepper is supposed to be an aphrodisiac.’

  I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel a bit ill.

  Chapter 13

  ‘Tell me, Pete,’ says Valentina to Georgia’s fiancé. ‘Are you interested in tennis at all?’

  ‘I’m what you’d call an armchair fan,’ Pete responds, flashing a grin at his future wife. Georgia splutters into her drink.

  ‘What he means is that the last time he played he was so unfit he nearly ended up in Casualty,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks for your support, love, it’s touching,’ he jokes. ‘You’ll be telling people I’m a crap shag next.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to give you a lesson,’ says Valentina, handing over one of her trademark red business cards. ‘I’ve done some fabulous work on Jack’s forehand, as I’m sure he’ll tell you. Not that Jack’s forehand wasn’t above averagely skilled in the first place,’ she adds, flashing a suggestive smile.

  We’re onto the dessert course when it registers that Jack and I have barely exchanged a single word since we sat down. No tragedy as far as I’m concerned–obviously–although I am starting to question Valentina’s sanity these days.

  He has turned to me on several occasions, only to be hauled back as if she’s got him on a set of reins. So far, she’s asked him to check whether her lipstick is smudged no less than four times, and I suspect she’d prefer to fake her own sudden death rather than let him enter into conversation with anyone other than herself.

  The sole exception to that is Pete, with whom Jack has been allowed to share a brief discussion about their passion for rugby. It ended abruptly, however, when Pete suggested he join him in an executive box next weekend. The invitation was for a single spare place only.

  The only significant drawback to all this for me is that I am stuck with Uncle Giles to my right. I should stress that I have nothing at all against Uncle Giles, who is, to all intents and purposes, a lovely man. But if I hear another word about his collection of nineteenth-century shotguns I may have to ask if I can borrow one to put myself out of my misery.

  ‘Shotguns have been my thing since I was a teenager, you see,’ he tells me.

  ‘You’d get an ASBO for that these days,’
I joke, but he just frowns and moves on to the enduring qualities of British craftsmanship.

  I take the opportunity of this interlude to have a peek at what Charlotte is up to on table 14, and am pleased to see that she and Jim are deep in conversation. At least, Jim is. Charlotte is shredding her napkin nervously and is now surrounded by so many bits it looks as if she’s just come in from a blizzard. Still, it’s a start. And I must say, he looks promisingly interested.

  Chapter 14

  Grace’s dad looks so relieved to sit down after his speech you’d think he’d just addressed Wembley Stadium. It was the shortest, quietest speech in the history of wedding speeches, but we all laughed at his one joke anyway and clapped furiously at the end.

  Next up is Patrick, who is used to public speaking and looks significantly more comfortable than his new father-in-law did. He straightens his jacket–the tails he desperately didn’t want to wear today–and runs a hand through his thick blond hair. Grace looks up at him proudly.

  ‘May I say on behalf of both myself and…my wife,’ he begins, grinning at Grace’s new title, ‘how delighted we are that so many of you have made it here today. Grace and I have been together for the last seven years, and I can honestly say that every day I think to myself how lucky she is to have met me…’

  The room collapses into laughter at what turns out to be the first of many of Patrick’s acceptably lame quips.

  Only when he is nearing the end of his speech do I sense someone looking at me. I glance around at Jack and our eyes meet for the third time that day. Even as it’s happening, I know it’s a ridiculous thing to do. His date is sitting right next to him and I’ve already decided I’m not interested. Definitely not interested.

  But I can’t help myself studying his undeniably beautiful face as the hint of a smile, a smile I’d almost call flirtatious, appears on his lips. The room erupts into rapturous applause as Patrick finishes and Jack and I snap out of…whatever the hell it is we’re in.