Bridesmaid Blitz (7 page)

She smiles. “Go on, Beans. Just one more. Please?”

I shake my head. “You’re one sick puppy.”

“Brains lets me pop the whiteheads on his back. Now that
is
fun.”

“You squeeze your boyfriend’s spots?” I squeal in disgust. “Gross! TMI. Too Much Information.”

When she opens her mouth to say something else, I press my hands over my ears and hum “Dancing Queen” to myself.

Clover’s nothing if not persistent, and grabbing my hairbrush, she jumps on my bed and starts belting out, “Squeezing Queen, feel that zit splat the window screen.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Clover, that’s disgusting.”

But she continues, “Squeezing Queen, wipe the gunge off with Windolene, oh, yeah.”

She’s about to start on a second verse when Mum walks in, her hands on her hips. “Keep the noise down, girls. Evie’s asleep. What are you pair up to?” She looks suspiciously from Clover to me and then back again.

Clover shrugs. “Nothing, sis.”

Mum doesn’t look convinced. I hide my throbbing face with my hand. Earlier, I asked her about squeezing my spots, and she said that unless I wanted to scar my face for life not to touch them. But the one on the side of my nose was so revolting it was practically flashing like an emergency beacon — I couldn’t just leave it there! So when Clover came over to go through yet more wedding plans with Mum, I asked her for advice. At the time, I had no idea she actually gets a kick from fiddling with other people’s pores; I thought she was just being helpful.

“Well?” Mum demands, determined to get a proper answer. She’s very stubborn, my female parental.

“Sylvie, stop with the questions,” Clover jumps in, climbing down from the bed. “It has something to do with your hen night, and that’s all I can divulge at this moment in time.”

“I keep telling you, Clover,” Mum says. “I’m not keen on hen nights. And I refuse to go anywhere near Temple Bar or wear a tiara or have anything to do with chocolate willies. And speaking of wedding plans, I can’t believe you invited Monique over behind my back.”

“Someone has to make you see sense,” Clover says. “Your wedding day’s hurtling toward you, Sylvie, at warp speed, and you’ve done
nada
. If I can’t get through to you, maybe Monique can.”

Like I said, Monique is Mum’s best friend. She’s an actress — sorry, actor. (She doesn’t like the term “actress,” says it’s sexist. You don’t use a different word for a female writer or singer, she says, so why for an actor?) Monique’s 50 percent French, 100 percent deranged. Clover and I call her Mad Monique. Mum and Monique have been best friends forever, although when I was little she wasn’t around that much. I don’t think she and Dad saw eye to eye. They certainly don’t now, not after the divorce and all that business with Dad and Shelly sneaking off to get married and everything.

But Monique was amazing when Mum and Dad split up and Dad moved into an apartment in town. She came to stay with us for a while on account of Mum — who was practically turning into a zombie, wandering around the house in her dressing gown, sighing all the time, not washing or even bothering to brush her hair. She was a right mess.

Monique made dinner every night and forced Mum to eat — crêpes, roast chicken, casseroles, all with loads of garlic, of course. (Monique has a thing about garlic, says she’d be dead if it weren’t for her bulb a day.) She was lovely to me too and used to read me stories at bedtime when Mum was too sad to do it.
Tracy Beaker
and anything by Roald Dahl. Her favorite was an old French book with pictures called
Madeline
. It was about a boarding school in Paris. I still remember bits of it even now: “In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.”

I’m not sure we would have coped without Monique.

Right on cue, there’s a bang on the door, and Evie starts wailing.

Mum sighs. “That must be Monny. I’ll have to settle Evie. Will you get the door, Clover?”

“Coola boola. Coming, Amy?”

I follow her down the stairs. It’s definitely Monique — I can see her tall, slim profile through the glass panels at the side of the door. There aren’t too many women who are over six foot. Clover pulls the door open, and sure enough, there stands Monique beaming at us. “Clover,” she coos, lunging forward and planting a smacker on each cheek before turning to me. Grabbing my arms, she pulls me toward her bony chest.

I’m practically asphyxiated by her signature perfume — it’s so strong I can taste it at the back of my throat. I don’t know what it’s called, but it smells warm and spicy, like a Christmas candle.

“Aw, my little darlings. So delightful to see you again. And where is Sylvie?”

“Settling Evie,” Clover says.

“Ah, we have things to discuss . . . and if Sylvie is busy upstairs, this may be to our advantage, no?”

“Shh,” Clover whispers and pulls the two of us into the living room.

Once inside, Monique kicks off her red ankle boots and sprawls on the sofa — her cream cigarette pants and buttoned shirt stand out starkly against the navy blue of the cushions, like a star in the night sky.

Clover sits next to her and takes a folder out of her bag. “Wedding clippings,” she says, slapping its cover with her palm. I hover on the arm of the sofa nearest Monique — Clover’s scary when she’s in full planning mode — while Monique sits up a little at the sight of the folder. “What has Sylvie sanctioned so far?” she asks.

“Very little,” Clover admits. “She’s agreed to a cupcake wedding cake, a pink tea-rose bouquet —”

Monique puts up her hand. “Wait, just tea roses?”

Clover nods. “She’s determined to keep everything simple.”

“Simple, bah!” Monique tut-tuts, then asks, “Venue?”

Clover sighs. “I’ve made a few suggestions, but she’s refusing to commit.”

“Church or registry office?”

Clover shakes her head. “No decision yet.”

Monique makes a guttural noise at the back of her throat, like she’s being strangled. “Has she even organized the marriage license?”

“That’s Dave’s department. Can you check that for me, Amy?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll ask him about it tomorrow. He’s at work now.”

“I bet he’s got it under control,” Clover continues. “Unlike Sylvie, Dave’s quite excited about the whole thing. He’s even booked his morning suit and arranged his best man — Dr. Dan. And he’s roped in the guys from his old band as ushers.”

“Cool,” I say. “Dan’s lovely. He’ll be fab as best man.”

Dan is married to Dave’s sister, Prue. We spent two weeks with them over the summer in a shared holiday house in West Cork. (That’s where cute Kit was the gardener.) The holiday was interesting, to say the least. Prue’s very American-soccer-mum — all snow-white Keds and velvet hairbands. She feeds her mini-Prues organic porridge and homemade hummus and won’t let them watch cartoons ’cos she claims they’re too violent. I think she found Mum’s more laid-back child-rearing style baffling. They spent most of the holiday bickering about it. By the end, they had just about buried the hatchet, but Mum still wrinkles up her face whenever Prue’s name comes up.

“At least Sylvie’s three bridesmaids are all set for her big day,” Monique says, squeezing Clover and me on the arms. “I can’t wait. Any excuse for a party. There’s a bit of a man famine in the drama world, so I’m hoping Dave’s musician friends will be fabulous fun.” She smiles dangerously.

“But we do need dresses,” I point out. “I’ve said it to Mum a few times, but she just changes the subject.”

Monique and Clover swap a loaded look. “Now that the hour is almost upon us, I think we should let her in on the secret, Clover.”

Clover nods. “Amy,” she says slowly, “have you ever been to Paris?”

“You know I haven’t. There’s actually a school trip there next week, but it’s only for the French students, and unfortunately Mum thought I’d find Spanish easier.”

Monique scowls in disgust. “Reeeeeaaaaaaaaally?” she says, doing that French rolling thing with the “r” and drawing the vowels out like a snake. “French is a wonderful, vibrant, sexy language — I feel deeply betrayed. But you would still like to visit Paris, yes?”

“
Absolument.
It sounds amazing.”

“Meet your fairy godmother.” Smiling, Monique waves her hand in the air like a wand and says, “
Ding!
Cinderella, you will go to Paris. Two weeks from today, in fact.”

I stare at her in disbelief. “What? I don’t understand.”

Clover smiles at me smugly. “Monique and I have been planning a bridesmaids’ trip to Paris for months. And last week I finally managed to persuade Saffy to run a piece on the most romantic city in the world. She’s arranged two free flights and two free hotel rooms and everything.”

“And I’m covering the other two flights,” Monique explains. “Dave knows about it, but Sylvie doesn’t. So not a word, understand?”

I’m grinning from ear to ear and making huffy “Ha, I don’t believe it” noises.

“Say something, Amy,” Clover urges.

“I can’t,” I manage at last. “I’m in shock.”

Monique looks a little concerned. “You are happy, yes?”

I beam. I’m practically dancing inside, I’m so happy. “Yes! Yes! Yes! But why didn’t you tell me?”

Monique shrugs. “Clover thought you might accidentally tell Sylvie. We want it to be a complete surprise — a weekend away from the babies, with her favorite girls. And a little shopping thrown in for good measure. I have a dear friend who is a dress designer — Odette. She makes such beautiful, beautiful dresses, and she’s such a darling; I want you all to meet her.”

“Clover!” I glare at her. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” But I can’t be angry for long; I’m too excited. “We’re really going to Paris?” I ask.

Monique nods.

“You’re
so
my fairy godmother, Monique.”

“Paris, here we come!” Clover says. She pulls me down across Monique and onto her knees and starts to tickle me.

“Ow, get off, Clover,” I squeal. “I’m not three. Stop it!”

The living-room door opens. “What’s going on in here?” Mum walks in and stares at us.

“Nothing,” Clover says innocently, letting me go. I slide onto the floor beside her and rearrange my T-shirt while she opens the wedding folder. “Ready to look at fairy lights, sis? I’ve found hearts, stars, moons, red chilies —”

“Why would I want red-chili fairy lights at my wedding reception, Clover?” Mum asks.

“To represent your and Dave’s passionate and hot
luurrve
,” Clover says in a deep movie-trailer voice.

Mum sighs and shakes her head. “Plain white ones will be just fine.”

The following morning, while Mum’s dressing Evie upstairs, I corner Dave by the stove. (Alex is playing trains under the kitchen table. As I walk into the kitchen I can hear him whoo-whoo-ing.)

“Fancy a fried egg?” Dave says, swishing an over-easy around in at least an inch of oil.

“No, thanks. And don’t set the pan alight again, or Mum won’t be pleased.” I pause for a moment. “Dave, can I talk to you for a sec?”

“No news on Polly yet, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not that . . . it’s about something else.”

He turns around and rests his back against the kitchen counter. “I’m listening.”

“Clover was asking about your marriage license,” I say. “Is it sorted?”

“All in hand.”

“Cool. And Clover and Monique let me in on the Paris secret last night. Are you sure you’ll be OK with the babies for the weekend?”

He grins. “So they finally got around to telling you. Isn’t it a brilliant idea? Sylvie’s not herself at the moment, and a weekend away with you lot might just snap her out of her bad mood — stop her going on at me. You’re excited about the trip, right, Amy? First time in Paris, huh?”

I smile. “No kidding.” In fact, I was up most of last night thinking about the timing. It was only after Clover and Monique had left that I’d realized the implications of being in Paris in two weeks’ time.

Following a lot of cajoling from me and Polly, Seth has finally agreed to go on the school trip. Which means that for two brief days, Seth and I will be in Paris AT THE SAME TIME! What are the odds?! It’s fate!

And then this insane plan started bubbling away in my head: wouldn’t it be amazing if I didn’t say a word to him and just jumped out somewhere romantic, like the top of the Eiffel Tower, and yelled, “Surprise!”? The more I thought about it, the more the idea took hold, until I was practically squirming with excitement and anticipation. Imagine Seth’s face!

So saying I’m excited is an understatement.

“I can’t wait,” I add. “Monique’s going to show us all her favorite Parisian haunts. Oh, and I should warn you, she has wicked plans for your musician friends at the wedding.” I grin and wiggle my eyebrows.

Dave laughs. “Does she, now? She hasn’t seen them yet. Hope she likes beardy men —”

Suddenly, there’s an ear-piercing beeping noise.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP
. It’s the fire alarm! Flames have started leaping from the frying pan, and a cloud of intense black smoke is filling the room.

Dave grabs the handle and whips the pan off the ring. “Open the back door, Amy,” he hollers. “Quick!”

As soon as the door is open, he runs outside and douses the flames with the garden hose. I look around for Alex, to make sure he’s all right, but I can’t see him. I’m just getting worried when he reappears from the hallway, holding his red fire truck.

“I Fireman Sam,” he shouts in his little toddler voice, running toward the back door. “I save you, Daddy.”

I laugh so hard I give myself a stitch.