Bridesmaids Page 5

  I wonder if what I’ve just said would convince anyone.

  The look on his face would tend to indicate not.

  Chapter 17

  Common sense tells me I really ought to stop drinking after that little display, but the glass of champagne Grace has just poured for me is about the only thing I’ve got to take solace in at the moment. Besides, sobering up is never a good tactic at a wedding. Not when everyone else is doing the direct opposite with such conviction.

  ‘So you think Charlotte’s okay now?’ asks Grace, when I’ve brought her up to date.

  ‘Who knows?’ I say. ‘I dragged her to the ladies straight after it happened, but she didn’t really want to talk about it, no matter how much I tried. She just kept saying she was fine. Obviously, I could tell she wasn’t, but you know what Charlotte’s like when she closes up: I don’t think even the SAS could get any information out of her when she’s made her mind up not to talk.’

  I pick up a handful of peanuts from the bowl in front of us and as I start to eat them, become aware that Grace is suddenly distracted. I look up and see why: her new husband’s lips are attached to her cheek.

  ‘Hello, wife,’ says Patrick, looking suitably loved-up–and a little bit squiffy.

  ‘Husband. How the hell are you?’ she asks, smiling.

  ‘All the better for being a married man,’ he tells her, kissing her on the lips.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I complain. ‘I know you’re newlyweds, but you’re putting me off my peanuts.’

  ‘We’re married now, so if we want to snog in public we can,’ Patrick replies. ‘It’s all official.’

  ‘You’re not meant to snog in public when you’re married,’ I tell him. ‘You’re meant to argue in public–didn’t anyone tell you?’

  Patrick sits down to join us.

  ‘So how do you feel?’ I want to know. ‘Different?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks.

  ‘I mean,’ I say, ‘now you’re a married man, do you feel different from yesterday–when you were young, free and single?’

  ‘I was still thirty-four yesterday,’ he says. ‘But in answer to your question, I’m not sure exactly. I don’t think so–not yet, anyway. Although ask me tomorrow–I might thoroughly regret the whole thing.’

  Grace digs him in the ribs.

  ‘Do you feel different?’ he asks Grace, obviously not certain about what he wants the answer to be.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Good different.’

  He leans over to kiss her again. They look totally and utterly in love.

  When Grace had a schoolgirl crush it was on the dashing-but-dangerous Han Solo, not the nice-but-not-as-interesting Luke Skywalker. So in some ways it wasn’t a surprise that she ended up with Patrick and not with any of the men she’d been out with before. Her previous ‘serious’ boyfriends–one in sixth form and one at university–both lasted for over two years, but it was obvious that neither was ‘the one’.

  It’s not that they weren’t nice. They were probably too nice. Patrick has an edge about him and, in all honesty, that was far more of an attraction.

  What that meant in practice was that–well, put it this way, he had played the field. Patrick had dated so many women before he met Grace that he made George Clooney look like the Pope.

  Which is and always has been heartening for someone like me. Because if Patrick, former confirmed bachelor and committed Lothario, can fall in love, have two children, stay faithful for seven years and even get married, then there must be hope for someone as hopeless as me.

  ‘Doesn’t look like this wedding’s going to be consummated tonight,’ Grace tells me later, looking over at Patrick as he sways slightly while talking to some guests.

  ‘But it’s your first night as man and wife,’ I argue. ‘It’s got to be a toe-curler. Those are the rules.’

  ‘I’ve never seen him so drunk,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I don’t think even my new Agent Provocateur undies are going to be sufficient tonight.’

  ‘I thought those things came with a certificate guaranteeing a shag,’ I say, but as Patrick’s swaying becomes more pronounced, I believe she could be right. The only thing that’s going to spark him into action tonight is a defibrillator.

  ‘Mummy, will you come and dance with me?’ asks Polly, tugging at Grace’s skirt.

  ‘When the disco starts, I promise I will,’ she says. ‘I’ve still got to say hello to some people.’

  ‘It’s starting now, Mummy,’ she insists.

  ‘Have you asked Daddy?’ Grace wants to know.

  ‘Yes, but he’s too drunk,’ says Polly.

  Grace isn’t really in a position to argue.

  ‘You know she’s right,’ I tell her, nodding towards the dance floor.

  ‘What, about Patrick being drunk?’ says Grace. ‘Oh yes, I think we’ve established that.’

  ‘No, I mean about the disco starting,’ I correct her. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be up there for a first dance?’

  Putting her champagne down, Grace grabs Patrick by the hand. I follow them to the edge of the dance floor, as the other guests gather around and the music for their first dance starts.

  ‘Evie, will you dance with me?’ Polly pleads, tugging at my skirt now.

  ‘I can’t, sweetheart,’ I tell her. ‘It’s your mummy and daddy’s first dance. Nobody else is allowed to join in.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That’s just the way it is,’ I reply, realising that this isn’t a very philosophically constructed argument.

  ‘That’s stupid,’ she says sulkily. ‘Muuummm!’ she shouts. ‘I want to dance too!’

  The guests next to her start chuckling. It’s a good job she’s cute.

  Patrick pulls Grace towards him dramatically and swings her down so her back is arched à la Scarlett O’Hara. It’s only the fact that he nearly drops her that betrays his state of intoxication. In some ways it adds to the display, although I suspect from Grace’s expression that she’s concerned he’s going to break her neck.

  The guests are certainly lapping it up, and the clapping and cheering get louder as Patrick swings Grace across the dance floor, obviously reckoning he’d give Fred Astaire a run for his money.

  I look down and suddenly realise I’ve lost Polly. I’m not overly concerned as she’s been running around all day, but I am surprised that she’s given up on finding a dance partner so easily.

  However, as I look back at the dance floor, I soon spot her little figure.

  She’s found someone to dance with.

  Chapter 18

  Jack has lifted four-year-old Polly up by the waist so that her shoes are three feet off the ground, and he has her arm held out in a waltz position.

  He’s gently spinning her around, but containing their movements to a small corner of the dance floor, obviously to make sure they don’t upstage the bride and groom. But to be honest, that’s a bit difficult. Because the eyes of virtually every woman in the place are glued on him.

  They’re mesmerised by the ripple of Jack’s biceps as he keeps tight hold of Polly, on the wide, smiling eyes and the sensuous curve of his buttocks, now tantalisingly defined after his jacket has been discarded.

  At least, I imagine that’s what they’re mesmerised by.

  ‘Look at that bum!’ gasps some woman next to me. I can only assume she isn’t referring to the one belonging to the hefty middle-aged waiter laying out the buffet.

  ‘Come and join us!’ shouts Grace, beckoning Jack and Polly into the centre of the dance floor with them.

  Polly looks as if all her Christmases and birthdays have come at once, as Jack twirls her around and around in the centre of the dance floor while she giggles uproariously, loving the attention. When the song finishes and Jack puts Polly down, I make a decision. I’m going to go and talk to him.

  I know he’s with Valentina. I know I’ve made a complete idiot of myself today. I know I’ve got three ex-boyfriends hovering about. But it do
esn’t matter. I have got to talk to him, if only for one reason: to prove to myself that my instinct was right. That the very fact of him being here with Valentina makes him as dim-witted and shallow as everyone else she’s ever gone out with. Regardless of whether he’s an Oxford-educated chief executive. Of a charity.

  I take a deep breath and start walking towards him. But suddenly, there is a tap on my shoulder and I spin around.

  ‘Evie, we’ve got to talk.’

  Oh, no.

  ‘There’s still so much we need to say to each other.’

  No, no, no, no, no. This is getting ridiculous.

  ‘Somehow, we’ve kept missing each other all day,’ Gareth tells me, with an expression so pained he looks constipated. ‘I don’t know how. But anyway, I’ve caught you now. So we can talk properly.’

  ‘Gareth,’ I say, ‘I know we need to talk. I know.’

  ‘So, how about it then?’ he asks.

  ‘Now just really isn’t a good time.’

  ‘I’m starting to get the impression that you’re avoiding me, Evie,’ he says, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘Me?’ I am a picture of innocence. ‘Honestly, I’m not. It’s just that…I need to go and choose some music.’

  He screws up his face. ‘But they’ve hired a disco,’ he objects.

  ‘Oh no, the disco man’s not hired,’ I say. ‘He came free with the hotel. They threw him in with the chicken drumsticks. The problem is, he’ll only play Neil Diamond tracks unless you tell him otherwise. I mean, I love “Cracklin’ Rosie” as much as the next person, but sometimes you just need a bit of Britney. So I’ve got to go. Sorry.’

  ‘Wait,’ he says, and grabs my hand. ‘I wanted to give you something.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, a familiar feeling of dread washing over me.

  ‘It’s a symbol of our relationship, Evie,’ he says, looking worryingly profound.

  ‘Er, right.’ I am torn between trying to imagine what he’s talking about and really not wanting to know at all.

  ‘A symbol of everything that went wrong,’ he continues. ‘A symbol that shows how much I’m prepared to change.’

  It’s at that very moment that it dawns on me exactly what he’s about to give me, and it sends a shiver down my spine. He’s got an engagement ring, I just know it! He has that demented glint in his eye.

  ‘Oh Gareth, no,’ I gulp, as he reaches into his inside pocket. ‘I mean, I’m just not ready. I’ll never be ready.’

  He grips my arm and looks deep into my eyes. ‘I know, Evie,’ he says softly. ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you. I know you weren’t ready.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  As he pulls something out of his inside pocket and starts to unwrap it, it soon becomes clear that it isn’t an engagement ring.

  In fact, it’s the only thing I’d rather see less than an engagement ring.

  It’s the underwear.

  The underwear he bought me from Hot and Horny magazine. The black rubber underwear with two holes in the chest. The underwear that should have Perve Magnet written across the front.

  The blood drains from my face as he whips it out of his pocket like a matador.

  ‘I mean this,’ he says. ‘This is where I went wrong. No matter what you said before, I just know it, and this is proof to you that I’m willing to change.’

  Chapter 19

  It’s 12.05 a.m. and I’m self-righteously sober. Actually, that’s not strictly accurate. I’m nothing like sober. But compared with a number of the other guests I am a bastion of ladylike virtue and sobriety. Which is a miracle, really, when you consider the earlier shenanigans with Gareth.

  As we’d stood there in the middle of the marquee, he brandishing Hot and Horny’s finest as everybody else bopped around to ‘Sweet Caroline’, I can honestly say that I have never been more acutely aware of my surroundings.

  There was really only one thing for it.

  I snatched the underwear from Gareth’s hand, turned around and ran out of the marquee as fast as my legs could carry me–until, that is, I crashed straight into Auntie Sylvia and Auntie Anne.

  They took one look at what I was holding and appeared to come close to simultaneously passing out. The offending item is now stuffed into a sanitary-towel bin in the ladies cloakroom, which is hopefully where it will stay until someone wearing protective clothing comes to take it away to be incinerated, along with everything else in there. Which I can’t help thinking feels like a fitting end for its existence.

  Anyway, I have been laying low for the last couple of hours. Which means that, not only have I managed to give Gareth the slip, but it’s also allowed me to quietly witness a number of alcohol-induced highlights elsewhere in the party.

  Valentina has been the star of the show. In fact, courtesy of her newfound friends Moët & Chandon, she has provided more entertainment in the last hour or so than a travelling circus. As I sit at a table at the side of the dance floor, perfectly happy to have some solitude, I watch in amusement as she high-kicks her way around Uncle Bob.

  ‘Can I join you?’ someone says behind me.

  I turn around and my pulse quickens. It’s Jack. With whom, by now, I’d completely given up on ever engaging in conversation.

  ‘Yes. Sure. Absolutely. Why not?’ I gabble, sounding about as cool as the average school nerd.

  As he pulls up a chair, our eyes are drawn back to the dance floor, where Valentina has now moved onto the Can-Can.

  ‘I think you may have stolen the show before with your dancing,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I think we can safely say it was Polly who stole the show,’ he smiles. I’m not so sure. ‘Anyway, I believe you’re a reporter at the Daily Echo?’

  I take a sip of my drink and nod, and then look to see what his reaction is. Some people, believe it or not, don’t like journalists.

  ‘The reason I ask is that I’ve been in the Daily Echo myself a couple of times,’ he goes on.

  ‘You’re not a convicted criminal, are you?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no,’ he laughs. ‘At least, they’ve not caught me yet.’

  ‘So why have we featured you?’

  ‘I work for a charity called Future for Africa,’ he explains. ‘We create sustainable projects in the third world–helping farmers to help themselves–as well as running some refugee camps. Your paper did a fantastic feature about us just over a year ago. It was a double-page spread. We were really struggling at the time and I can’t tell you how much it helped. We just couldn’t have bought the publicity.’

  I don’t know why, but this surprises me. The closest Valentina’s ever been to going out with someone with a social conscience before is when she tried to seduce a trainee vicar she met in second year at university.

  And as the two of us start talking, by the intimate glow of a single tea light and with the disco feeling like it’s miles away, I discover a lot that surprises me about Jack.

  His background, for a start. Despite his now high-flying job and hard-to-place accent, he went to a comprehensive where the average GCSE grade would only get you a job asking, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ a hundred times a day.

  He was the first person in his family to go to university, and that university happened to be Oxford, where he got a First in History. He travelled all over the world in a gap year, before finally landing a job with the charity at which he has now risen to the rank of chief executive.

  These days, he loves kids but loves African kids the most and says he wants to adopt at some point in his life. He is a lapsed vegetarian (the smell of bacon after a night out saw the end of it) who reads about two books a week–everything from Dickens to Lee Child.

  The only thing he watches on TV is old episodes of Frasier, and instead he listens to so much radio that he’s embarrassed to say he knows exactly what is happening in The Archers in any given week. He is obsessed with sport, and he loves spicy food (especially Thai), expensive red wine and tortilla chips.

 
Oh yes, and he’s recovering from a broken heart.

  Chapter 20

  The details about Jack’s break-up are relatively thin. It happened recently. They’d been together a while. There’s no chance of them getting back together.

  I sit and nod, taking it all in, looking as if I empathise thoroughly, as if I know exactly what he’s going through. But, obviously, nothing could be further from the truth. I haven’t got the foggiest what he’s going through, since the closest I’ve ever been to having a ‘serious’ relationship is with the woman who has highlighted my hair for the last five years.

  The fact is, this is a subject to which I have virtually nothing to contribute. At least, not without admitting to my appalling track record in the romance stakes–and I’m not about to do that in a hurry.

  Why not? Well, I just don’t want him to know that I’m about as good at relationships as I am at intergalactic travel.

  Anyway, I shouldn’t give the impression that the conversation has only been about him. Far from it. I have found myself telling him about everything–from the dad I can’t remember, to my pursuit of a great journalistic career, and the fact that I’d only had time to shave one leg before we walked down the aisle. (I don’t know why I let that one slip. I regretted it immediately.)

  ‘What’s it like, being at a wedding where you hardly know anyone?’ I ask him.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it. You soon get to know people. There’s you, for a start,’ he says, and I can’t help noticing that my heart is pounding faster again. ‘And Pete and I have become friends for life tonight. I’ve never met anyone before who’s quite as obsessed about rugby as I am.’

  ‘Do you play yourself?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, I do. I know being wrestled to the ground by fifteen blokes every Saturday isn’t everyone’s idea of fun, but I love it.’

  I can’t work out whether it is prompted by this image, or by the fact that I have finally drunk too much champagne, but I do feel very hot all of a sudden.

  ‘You two–together again! Humph. I’m shtarting to think I should be getting jealous!’