Bridesmaids Page 8

  Finally, I creep over and try to murmur to Charlotte without attracting too much attention from anyone else.

  ‘Are you okay in there?’ I ask.

  ‘Wait! Don’t come in!’ she says, slightly hysterically.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t going to. I was just wondering how you were getting on. You’ve been an awfully long time.’

  Suddenly, the boutique door flings open and it’s Grace, looking slightly dishevelled and out of breath as usual.

  ‘How’s the rabbit?’ I ask.

  ‘Rooney? Well, the vet says he’s going to have a sore bum tomorrow,’ she says. ‘But we’ve managed to avoid major surgery. How’s things?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, walking over so I can talk to her privately. ‘We’re just waiting for Charlotte to come out, but I think she’s determined to stay behind that curtain until the wedding is over.’

  Grace flashes me a knowing look. Just as I’m about to go and check again if Charlotte is okay, we hear a scream. Oblivious to the fact that someone is still in there–it has been nearly quarter of an hour now–the assistant has whipped back the curtain. And I’ve never seen such a terrible look on anyone’s face in my life.

  Chapter 29

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she’s saying to Georgia, her lip trembling. ‘I really am sorry.’

  At first I can’t work out what Charlotte is trying to apologise for. But then, as I follow her eyes downwards, all becomes clear. She was right about the extra half-stone. Charlotte’s dress is now so tight that if she even attempts to breathe she’s going to do herself a serious injury.

  ‘Charlotte,’ says Grace, trying to fill the excruciating silence. ‘You look really, er, nice.’

  She’s immediately embarrassed by her own insincerity. And just as I’m trying to think of something appropriate to say myself, I notice that there are tears spilling down our friend’s face.

  ‘Charlotte, why are you crying?’ I say tenderly. ‘It’s okay, honestly. You’ve got nothing to be upset about.’

  She tries to open her mouth, but nothing is coming out. I put my arm around her as the others rush over to her too.

  ‘Come and sit down here,’ says Georgia, beckoning her towards a velvet footstool.

  The tears are streaming down Charlotte’s cheeks now as she walks across the room, guided by Georgia. I try to think of something profound to say, something meaningful enough to make her obvious pain go away.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I ask, realising it’s not quite what I was looking for.

  She shakes her head silently. As she goes to sit down on the footstool, the room takes on a strange quietness. All six of us are watching her, her eyes red and swollen, her face almost bereft of expression.

  It is perhaps because of the intensity of the moment that we can hear the tear before her backside even hits the seat. Or maybe it’s just because the resulting hole is so big. Either way, the sound of Charlotte’s dress ripping as she sits down on a footstool is heart-stopping.

  And it’s not just me who thinks so either. Grace and Georgia have their hands over their mouths. Valentina and Beth are both wide-eyed to the point of looking like cartoon characters. Gina’s jaw seems to be only several inches away from the floor. And the dressmaker, quite simply, looks as if she’s about to faint.

  Almost robotically, Charlotte stands up again to look at the evidence in the mirror. It’s spectacular–a foot-long rip running like a gaping wound right down the middle of the bodice. It’s not even on the seams, but the bodice itself–and the sheer impossibility of fixing it is making everyone’s head spin.

  ‘Let me see,’ squeals the dressmaker, and she grabs Charlotte by the arm to turn her around. But just when we thought things couldn’t get any worse, as Charlotte’s waist twists, there is another loud rip. Now the tear is a foot and a half long.

  ‘Argghhh!’ says the dressmaker.

  ‘Oh God,’ says Georgia.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ I add.

  Chapter 30

  There is something about being British that makes us ascribe to a simple cup of tea the sort of healing properties you wouldn’t even demand from a Harley Street psychiatrist.

  It doesn’t seem to matter what disaster befalls us, whatever death or destruction throws itself in our path, the reaction is always the same: ‘I’ll put the kettle on then, shall I?’

  ‘Would anyone like another?’ says one of the assistants, popping her head around the door.

  ‘Can you make sure it’s Assam this time,’ says Valentina, handing back her cup.

  The thing is though, it somehow works. At least, it has on Charlotte. Although, admittedly, it might not just be the PG Tips that have done it. Charlotte has spent the last half-hour revealing some of her innermost thoughts to myself, Georgia, five other bridesmaids, and a dressmaker who clearly thinks that if she’s going to have to fix that dress, she at least wants to hear all about what was behind its undoing.

  The thoughts Charlotte has revealed are ones that she’s never, ever told us about before, which is unbelievable really, given that our relationship has lasted longer than the average marriage.

  With hindsight, they are thoughts that I probably shouldn’t have been surprised about. But the fact is, I was surprised. I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d confessed to having a secret career as Alan Titchmarsh’s private lap dancer.

  It turns out that lovely, soft-spoken Charlotte–Charlotte who, ironically, never sees anything but good in people–can see nothing but bad in herself. And behind the shyness that I’d always assumed was just in her nature lies a self-esteem so low it defies gravity. Charlotte, it appears, doesn’t like her milkmaid curves and gorgeous rosy cheeks. In fact, she despises them.

  ‘I know I’ve never really said anything, but I have always felt like this,’ she says as she sips her tea, her hands still shaking slightly. ‘I was teased at school for the way I look, and although people don’t say anything to my face any more, I know what everyone thinks about me.’

  ‘Charlotte,’ I say, shaking my head, ‘what people think of you is that you are a fantastic, lovely person who—’

  ‘Well, that’s all fine,’ she interrupts. ‘But don’t pretend that even you, even my best friends in the whole world, don’t look at me sometimes and think: What a blinking mess she is.’

  ‘Actually, Charlotte, I don’t thin—’ I begin again.

  ‘I’m not having a go at any of you,’ she interrupts. ‘I mean, how could I? I am a mess. I’m overweight, I don’t know how to dress properly and I’ve never put on lipstick in my life. I wouldn’t even know how.’

  ‘We always just thought you were just…comfortable…with the way you look,’ says Grace.

  ‘No, Grace, I’m not,’ she says. ‘I hate myself.’

  ‘It does have an effect on your confidence when you feel that you don’t look your best,’ sighs Valentina. ‘I don’t want to leave the house sometimes when my eyebrows are overdue.’

  Everyone ignores her.

  ‘The point is,’ Charlotte continues, ‘I know happiness isn’t necessarily about being slim and gorgeous, but I have enough experience of being fat and plain to know it’s not about that either. I’d love to look as nice as any of you.’

  I am about to repeat my reassurances when it strikes me that, actually, she may be right. At least partly. If looking better would make our friend more confident, then why on earth wouldn’t we help her do that?

  ‘Listen, Charlotte,’ I say, ‘I love you just the way you are and so does everyone else here. But if you really feel this strongly about it, we’ll help you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks.

  ‘I mean we’ll give you a makeover.’

  She looks sceptical.

  ‘Seriously,’ I continue, ‘we’ll help you to get fit, we’ll help you to do your hair and your make-up, we’ll help you pick your clothes–and anything else you want help with, for that matter!’

  ‘Charlotte,’ gasps
Valentina, ‘I’ll introduce you to the director at Andrew Herbert if you like! He’ll have you looking like Jennifer Aniston in no time. Oh, this is so exciting!’

  ‘I’m sure it can’t be that easy,’ she says.

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Grace. ‘You’ve got a lovely face, but everyone looks better with some make-up.’

  ‘I actually think the biggest problem is my weight,’ she says.

  ‘Right then, you can sign up to WeightWatchers,’ I suggest. ‘In fact, we could all go to give you some moral support. You’ll love it, Valentina.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just start throwing up instead?’ says Valentina, pulling a face. ‘It did wonders for Princess Di.’

  I tut.

  ‘Do you really think this sort of thing would help?’ asks Charlotte.

  ‘Yes!’ we all say in unison, and she starts giggling.

  ‘Oh God, but what about this dress?’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry, Georgia, I really am.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ Georgia says firmly. ‘It’s challenges like this that dressmakers thrive on–isn’t that right, Anouska?’

  ‘Sure, no problem,’ replies the dressmaker begrudgingly. ‘We’ll get another one ready in time. No problem. Yeah.’

  Charlotte suddenly has a sparkle in her eye and, later, when I catch her by herself I can’t resist seizing the moment.

  ‘You’ve just got to promise me one thing,’ I tell her. ‘If we succeed in pulling off this makeover, you’ve got to start putting in some effort with Jim.’

  This time she laughs out loud.

  ‘Fine!’ she says in mock exasperation. ‘Whatever you say, Evie. Whatever you say!’

  Chapter 31

  Liverpool city centre, Saturday, 24 March

  I only know one person who would even consider getting married in a cowboy hat and feather boa, and that is my mother.

  ‘I think it’s quite fun, don’t you?’ she asks, posing in front of the full-length mirror.

  ‘You look like J.R. Ewing in drag,’ I tell her.

  She pulls a face. ‘How did you ever get to be so conventional?’

  ‘All kids have got to rebel against their parents,’ I say. ‘Being conventional was the only option open in my case.’

  She ruffles my hair, something she’s done for as long as I can remember and will probably still be doing when I’m collecting my pension. It used to drive me insane, but now it’s just one of a long list of my mother’s unique characteristics and, given that it’s one of the less eccentric ones and that it doesn’t attract too much attention from upstanding members of the public, I’ve decided I can live with it.

  ‘Have you thought about something a bit more demure,’ I ask, thinking back to what the magazines in the bridal shop said. But the second I’ve said it, I wonder why I bothered. She doesn’t do demure, my mum. Demented maybe, but not demure.

  ‘You mean boring,’ she says, continuing to look along the rail. ‘Oh, this could be nice.’ She picks up a traditional-looking floor-length dress. My hopes rise momentarily.

  ‘I wonder if they’d do it in gingham?’ she muses.

  My mum is getting married later this year to Bob, whom she has been dating for six years. To say they’re made for each other is an understatement. Because while I’d previously considered my mother to be a one-off, she and Bob couldn’t be more suited if they came as a matching pair.

  He is a bearded philosophy lecturer who is permanently clad in Jesus sandals so unfashionable only the Almighty Himself could carry them off. She is a yoga teacher with a fondness for clothes that come in such an alarming array of colours I’m sure some people must risk having a fit if they look at her for too long.

  Both of them have a permanently chilled-out expression on their face that always makes people think they’ve been smoking dubious substances. While I can’t testify to what they got up to in the seventies, I strongly suspect that in both cases they were just born like that.

  I’ll never think of Bob as a father, but I’m glad he and my mother are getting married. She deserves to be happy and he’d do anything for her–so long, of course, as it doesn’t involve anything that might challenge his vast list of ethical views on everything from the pollution of Formby beach to the treatment of moon bears in China. Not that my mum would ever challenge those–her own list is long enough to fill the Yellow Pages.

  But as I’ve grown up, I’ve come to realise that, despite her feeding me more lentils as a child than can be good for anyone’s digestive system–I was twelve before I had my first Wagon Wheel–and the fact that her idea of a family break was six nights camping at Greenham Common, Mum is undoubtedly one of the good guys in life.

  My dad, on the other hand, whom she met on an Indian ashram in 1972, disappeared when I was two. I sometimes think I can remember him, but then wonder whether what’s in my head are just ideas about him that have been pieced together from old photos and snippets of information I’ve picked up over the years.

  I wouldn’t say my mum exactly shies away from talking about him, but the subject rarely comes up and I certainly don’t push her on the issue. It can’t be easy, having the father of your child simply leave the house one day and never turn up again. He had apparently popped out to buy some LSD, which tells you all you need to know about him. Other people go out to buy a pint of milk and don’t come back. My father couldn’t even run away respectably.

  ‘Do you know,’ she says, frowning at the rail, ‘I don’t think I’m going to go for a wedding dress at all. I’d just look silly in any of these. They’re not me.’

  ‘You haven’t even tried any on yet,’ I say, getting worried now. ‘Oh God, you’re not thinking about wearing your usual gear, are you? I’m telling you, Mum, if you wear one of your purple mohair jumpers and painted clogs, I’m boycotting this wedding.’

  ‘Don’t be horrible,’ she says, but she’s smirking.

  ‘You need something special,’ I insist.

  ‘It’ll be special no matter what I wear,’ she says. ‘Who cares what I’ve got on, really? Besides, I’ve left it very late now. They probably couldn’t even get one ready for me in time.’

  ‘I’m sure they could,’ I say. ‘Go on, just go and try a few on. For me. Please.’

  She pulls a face like a sulky teenager whose iPod and mobile phone have been confiscated and grabs a handful of dresses from the rail before wandering off behind a curtain. The shop assistant looks at me in the same sympathetic way I’ve seen people look at Grace when Polly is playing up.

  My mum tries on five dresses and by the time she has decided to abandon the sixth one I start to think she may be right. They’re all lovely on the rail, but somehow they don’t look right on her. They all look weird. By which I mean normal. And, quite frankly, normal isn’t her style.

  ‘Shall we just have a little break?’ she says hopefully. ‘Oh, go on, Evie. Please?’

  Chapter 32

  For proximity’s sake, we settle on one of the cafés in the Met Quarter, although given that you can’t move for trendy executives, footballers’ wives and designer junkies in here, I’ll admit that we look a little out of place.

  I go for my usual cappuccino while Mum orders a herbal tea that looks and smells as if someone has washed their socks in it. She opens her newspaper, the Guardian, which she buys every day even though she has complained about it ‘going too right-wing’ for the last fifteen years. She also buys the Daily Echo religiously, though I suspect from the fact that she asked recently whether we’d given much coverage to a newly-released book of Afghan poetry that she doesn’t actually read it all that often.

  I pull a copy of one of Grace’s old wedding magazines from my bag and turn to the inside back page, where there’s a list of things we should have done so far. The reception is booked, so that’s one tick at least. Sort of, anyway. The wedding party is being held in a field near Mum’s house, and Wendy, her friend who runs a health-food shop, is doing the catering. It will be a sumptuous feast of nettle so
up and mung bean falafels. I can’t wait.

  ‘I suppose I’d be wasting my time asking whether you’ve ordered the flowers yet?’ I say.

  ‘You don’t need to do that yet,’ she says. ‘There are three months left.’

  ‘Two and a half,’ I correct her. ‘And, anyway, according to this you do. Mind you, this says you’re meant to have sent out cards telling people to expect an invitation soon. What’s the point in that? Why don’t you just invite people?’

  ‘Capitalism,’ she says knowingly. ‘They want you to buy two sets of cards. Anyway, we don’t need cards. I thought I’d just mention it to people when I bump into them.’

  My heart sinks, and not for the first time today.

  ‘Mum,’ I say, trying to stay calm, ‘you can’t do that. I know you don’t want things to be too formal, but I’ve been to better organised sixth-form parties.’

  ‘You worry too much,’ she says. ‘It’ll be fine. If you want to send out cards, then do. But I’m not bothered and Bob certainly won’t be either.’

  I can see that being a bridesmaid at this wedding is going to involve significantly more than it did for Grace’s wedding–although it isn’t as though I haven’t got plenty of people to share the burden with.

  As well as myself, my mother has asked nine other people to be bridesmaids, including Grace (who could probably do without the hassle), Georgia (who was looking forward to some wedding-free time), Charlotte (who is traumatised enough with the preparations for Georgia’s wedding) and Valentina (who’s thrilled–she has a star part again).

  ‘I take it you haven’t invited anyone else to be a bridesmaid recently?’ I ask.

  ‘No, I haven’t actually,’ she says. ‘Although I don’t know why you’re so bothered about it. It’ll be nice. The more the merrier.’