Bridesmaids (24 page)

I think the others first started to wonder about the nature of this wedding when my mother announced that we were all to just bring our own bridesmaid dresses. There were no fittings, no months of wading through bridal magazines, nothing more in fact than a simple instruction: wear purple–if you like.

I warned Mum at first that there were so many of us, we were in danger of looking like a walking bunch of grapes. But it’s only now we’re all here that I realize just how many shades of purple actually exist. In fact, we are a veritable rainbow of colours, ranging from Avon Lady pink to the sort of maroon you’d find on the upholstery of a 1982 Cortina.

Still, some of us don’t look half-bad.

There was something about Jack being here today as my official steady boyfriend that prompted me to make what Valentina referred to in amazement as ‘an effort’. I’m talking manicure, hair done by a half-decent stylist and a dress that has sent my overdraft into freefall.

Charlotte, meanwhile, is also a revelation in the dress–
the size 12 dress
–I helped pick out with her. Grace looks nice, if slightly dishevelled because she was in such a rush
this morning. Although she’s not pleased that Valentina has spent all morning offering her Eye Rescue Treatment.

Valentina is sporting her usual look–footballer’s wife meets high-class call girl–and is already dazzling everyone in sight with the blingiest ring outside a P Diddy video.

That said, given this event involves my mum’s friends too, I can’t say with any conviction that the standard of dress here today is averagely high. From Gloria with her 1970s maternity smock to Penelope with her culottes, if the fashion police turned up today, some of this lot wouldn’t just be convicted, they’d end up on Death Row.

Still, nobody will be surprised about this when they see what the bride herself is wearing. As we reach the front of the register office, I sit down with the other bridesmaids and the guests have the opportunity to see Mum’s wedding dress in all its glory.

Bob turns towards her and smiles as if she is the most beautiful person in the world. I’ve always known he was slightly mad and this has just confirmed it. Because everybody else just gasps.

The most striking element of the bride’s dress is that it is green and when I say green, I mean she could start traffic with it. As for the design, the bottom half is fine–full-length, swirly–but the top has a peculiar neckline that involves both a halter neck–an alarmingly low-cut halter neck–
and
collars. It is the sort of thing Margot Ledbetter of
The Good Life
would have worn to a swingers’ party. The look is embellished further by a headdress made from a single enormous peacock feather which could have been raided from a Museum of Native American culture.

The registrar, an aged gentleman who, judging by his
tweed jacket, clearly isn’t a fan of experimental fashion himself, looks almost shell-shocked by the vision before him and has to compose himself before beginning.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he says meekly. ‘May I start by welcoming you here on this very special day. Today, Sarah and Bob are here to offer each other the security that comes from legally binding vows, sincerely made and faithfully kept. You are here to witness this occasion and to share the joy which is theirs.

‘But before we begin the main part of the ceremony, there will be a short reading by, er, Ms Gloria Flowerdew.’

Gloria nearly knocks everyone out with the overpowering pong of patchouli oil as she walks past.

‘Er, hi, everyone,’ she says, holding up her fingers to make the peace sign, and begins to recite the words to some poem.

It all sounds strangely familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on where I’ve heard it before. It’s only when she reaches the main body of the text that I actually realize what she’s reading.

‘Thank you, Gloria,’ says the registrar, at the end. ‘That reading was an extract from, ah, “Baby Light My Fire” by The Door Knobs.’

There is a smattering of giggles.

‘The Doors,’ I whisper to him. ‘Just The Doors.’

‘Oh, ah, right–just The Doors,’ he corrects himself, embarrassed.

The poor guy looks as if he’s spent a lifetime marrying people. But I’ll guarantee he’s never encountered anything like this before.

Outside the register office, the sun is shining and the mood is one of general elation.

‘You look really happy,’ I tell my mum affectionately.

‘I
am
really happy,’ she says, looking surprised as I lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

‘What was that for?’ she asks.

I shrug. ‘I’m just really happy for you too.’

God, I’ve turned soppy lately. Even though my mother looks as if she’s been playing with the contents of a dressing-up box, when she and Bob were saying their vows earlier, I actually had a tear in my eye. What that’s all about, I don’t know. Well, maybe I do.

As the guests start pouring out of the register office, we find ourselves in a blizzard of confetti which is, my mum spends a long time reassuring everyone, 100 per cent biodegradable.

‘They’re a lovely couple,’ says Charlotte, appearing at my side.

‘They are,’ I agree. ‘But speaking of lovely, you’ll be getting a lot of compliments today. You look amazing.’

‘Thanks, Evie,’ she says, grinning. ‘I never knew I could look like this, I really didn’t.’

‘Well, you deserve it, Charlotte,’ I tell her. ‘You must have done more sit-ups than Private Benjamin.’

Not only does Charlotte now spend more time at the gym than at home, but in the space of a few months she’s also learned all those things that in most cases it takes a lifetime for women to accumulate: how to wax legs without the need for an epidural, how to apply lip-liner without looking like Boy George, how to paint the nails on your right hand without covering your whole arm in polish. Today is the culmination of all this. She looks slim, beautiful and–most amazingly of all–confident.

There are throngs of people on the tiny driveway and it’s clear that it would be best for everyone concerned not to hang about here too long.

‘Mum,’ I say, grabbing her arm, ‘you need to throw your bouquet before we go.’

‘Ooh, right you are,’ she says.

It’s funny how women seem to have an instinct for these things. Within seconds of Mum getting into position to throw the flowers, a group of female guests start gathering with the sort of expressions you’d see on a pack of Cocker Spaniels at the mention of some doggie chocolate drops.

To my surprise, someone is missing. Valentina is still talking to Edmund and Jack on the other side of the drive and hasn’t even noticed what’s going on.

‘Valentina!’ shouts Grace. ‘You’ll miss this if you’re not careful!’

As the bouquet flies through the air, narrowly avoiding an entanglement in my mother’s headdress, there is a surge forwards. Some good-humoured but determined nudging
begins. But nobody here has the athleticism–or determination–of Valentina.

Having heard Grace shout, she has hitched up her skirt and is sprinting towards us, elbowing guests out of the way. Grace’s mum’s powder-blue hat is knocked off, Cousin Denise’s bouquet flies out of her hands, Gloria’s kaftan ends up over her head. And, finally, looking very like an Olympic volleyball player, Valentina dives for the bouquet. Somehow, miraculously, everyone manages to get out of her way at this crucial point. Well, everyone but one person. Me.

With Valentina flying through the air, it is almost in slow motion that I can see her engagement ring getting closer, like a small comet heading straight for a crash landing…on my face. As it makes contact with an excruciating thump, squarely in the socket of my eye, it takes my breath away. Sharp and searing, the only thought that is going through my head as I am flung to the ground is that I have never felt anything like it in my life.

Sitting on the ground, it takes me a second to work out what has happened. Slowly, I become aware of the blood dripping down my nose, and the deep throbbing in my eye-socket.

Just as I’m wondering whether I have cartoon-character stars whirling around my head, something else strikes me. Nobody has even noticed what has happened to me. They are all too busy looking at the flowers. Watching, dazed and confused from my vantage point on the car park floor, I can just about see through the crowds.

Patrick is there–dressed far more casually today than he was at his own wedding to Grace–and is grinning at Charlotte.

‘You must be next down the aisle, sweetheart,’ he teases
gently, as he puts an arm around her shoulder. He points at the flowers her hands are gripped around, having beaten Valentina to them seconds earlier.

‘Have you been keeping someone secret from us?’ he says, laughing softly.

Charlotte looks up at him, blushing so much that her cheeks look like they’ve hit 200 degrees Fahrenheit. Her delight at catching the flowers couldn’t be more obvious, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smiling more widely in all the years I’ve known her. I decide to try to stand up to go and congratulate her.

But it’s at this point that I pass out.

‘You really ought to go and see a doctor, you know,’ says Jack, dabbing a piece of damp cotton wool on my eye.

‘I don’t need a doctor,’ I say miserably. ‘I need a paper bag to put over my head.’

He stifles a smile.

‘It’ll be fine in no time,’ he says. ‘Honestly, I know the swelling’s bad now but these things tend to go down really quickly. It’ll surprise you.’

I’ve had rather enough of surprises. Like the one I saw when I looked in the mirror just now. Having spent the entire morning tarting myself up for Jack’s benefit, my face–courtesy of Valentina’s crystal ball of a ring–now looks as if I’ve just done ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

Okay, so she has apologized. In fact, she was so shocked by what she’d done, she did look genuinely sorry–for at least a second. But that doesn’t change the fact that my eye is so black and swollen I can barely see out of it, and I have now had the indignity of my boyfriend insisting on wiping the crusty blood away from my nose.

‘You still look lovely,’ he says, and as he kisses me on the lips I feel like crying. And it’s not just because my head, even
after enough painkillers to anaesthetize a shire horse, feels as if someone is jumping up and down on it.

Jack and I have now been together for exactly eight weeks. Under other circumstances I might have considered this an achievement, which it undoubtedly is, given my past history. But I’m just not thinking about it in those terms. Hitting the eight-week mark has happened so effortlessly that I can’t imagine not hitting the ten-week mark, twenty-week mark, or any other mark after it.

It’s not just that I’m not sick of him. It’s that my heart leaps when I see the soap bag he now keeps in my bathroom. It’s that when we wake up on a Sunday morning and he suggests we spend the day together–
again
–I can barely contain myself. It’s that when he phones me at work and mentions that he can’t wait to see me that night, it’s the highlight of my day.

In short, I am cured. My relationship issues are a thing of the past. The only down side is that it’s taken me until today to realize just how much I’ve abandoned other people in my life. Outside work, the only person I’ve spent much time with lately has been my mum, and this was largely out of necessity, given how haphazard her wedding planning has been.

Still, with the exception of her daughter looking like she’s been brawling in the street, things haven’t worked out too badly. The reception is being held in a field near her house, which sounds horrendous but actually isn’t that bad in practice. Okay, so the marquee doesn’t have organza curtains and chandeliers–because it’s a former cider tent from the Reading Festival. And okay, so there’s not much in the buffet if you have a particularly strong liking for red meat–but if you like mung beans and dried papaya, you’ll be in heaven.

No, it’s not really my mum I’m concerned about. It’s Grace. She’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember, and she doesn’t need to spell it out for me to know something’s going on between her and Patrick. When I say ‘something’, that is about as specific and scientific as I can get at the moment, because she’s not given a great deal away aside from the odd moan.

If there’s one thing I am determined to do today, it is to broach this subject. And, as difficult as it is to tear myself away from Jack, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Right now.

I suppose it had to happen. I knew it had to happen. I’d just pushed it to the back of my mind to try to pretend it wouldn’t. But Gareth is the sort of person who just can’t help himself. Much as I bloody well wish he would.

‘Evie!’ he shouts, as I’m heading towards Grace on the other side of the marquee.

My heart sinks as if it’s attached to a boulder.

‘I was trying to catch your eye during the ceremony,’ he tells me, ‘but…God, what’s happened to you?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, touching my eye, but I feel like asking the same question of him. Gareth’s skin is now so bad it looks like he’s been exfoliating with a cheese-grater.

‘Are you…all right?’ I ask.

‘Of course I’m all right,’ he replies, picking at one of the drier bits on his chin and flicking the resulting debris to the ground. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I don’t know, you just don’t look terribly well, that’s all,’ I dare to say.

‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘On top of the world. Anyway, how are you? You never did phone me like you said you would, did
you? Still, I won’t hold it against you. Have you been wearing those earrings?’

The earrings he gave me in the Jacaranda are currently burning a hole in the bottom of my chest of drawers as if they’re made of Kryptonite. I don’t want them there, I just don’t know what to do with them. I’m certainly not wearing them, but throwing them away seems a bit callous.

And, despite the fact that bumping into Gareth again is about as pleasant as a session of electric shock therapy, a part of me can’t help feeling bad about the effect me dumping him has clearly had.

‘You shouldn’t have bought me the earrings, Gareth,’ I say, trying my best to sound firm and kind, as opposed to bossy and slightly irritated. ‘I know you meant well but you shouldn’t anyway.’

‘But you wanted them, didn’t you?’

‘That’s not the point,’ I say.

‘What
is
the point then?’ he asks, scratching the left side of his chin so hard it looks like it’s about to draw blood.

‘The point is, we’re no longer together,’ I tell him gently. ‘And we’re not going to get back together either.’

‘Not
yet
,’ he reminds me.

Before I get the chance to disabuse him of this fantasy, Bob appears. It was Bob who first introduced me to Gareth and I can’t help but feel immensely relieved that someone else is now here to share the burden of his presence.

‘Bob, congratulations!’ says Gareth, patting him on the back with such force he nearly knocks him over. ‘How are you keeping?’

‘Er, fine, yes,’ coughs Bob. ‘How are you? Have you found a new job yet?’

I frown. I had no idea Gareth wasn’t still working with Bob at the university.

‘Oh, I’ve got lots of irons in the fire, put it that way, Bob,’ he replies, glancing at me nervously.

‘When did you leave?’ I ask.

‘Oh, a few weeks ago,’ he says. ‘I, er, decided it was no longer for me.’

Now Bob is frowning.

‘Anyway,’ continues Gareth, ‘I’m going to go and tuck into some of that lovely food. Catch you later, Evie, Bob.’

As he heads off towards the marquee, I turn to my stepfather.

‘What was all that about?’ I ask.

‘Hmm, funny business really,’ Bob says. ‘He wasn’t exactly sacked, but the rumour is that the Vice Chancellor and he came to a mutual agreement that he would leave and never darken their door again.’

‘Why?’ I ask. Gareth may be as much fun to be around as a plague of dust mites at the moment, but I never had him down as the type to be sacked.

‘It’s not exactly clear,’ says Bob. ‘All I know is that they’ve been trying to get rid of him for ages. He’s a very difficult person to work with, by all accounts. A bit…well, sneaky, they tell me. But what the exact circumstances of him going were, I’m not exactly sure, except that he had a huge row with one of our media professors–a nice lady called Deirdre Bennett. Big bottom and terrible teeth, but nice. Anyway, he just seemed to go after that. No one misses him much, I must say.’

‘Oh well, remind me never to rely on you to introduce me to eligible men in future,’ I say.

He looks over at Jack, who’s talking to my mum inside the marquee, and nods.

‘It doesn’t look much like you’ll need it in future, does it?’