Bridesmaids (3 page)

Our friend Valentina is giving the reading. It’s only meant to be a one-and-a-half-minute speech, but you’d be forgiven for thinking she was about to collect an Oscar. She glides to the front and, as she steps onto the platform, conspicuously lifts the hem of her crimson chiffon dress to reveal more of her never-ending bronzed legs than were already on show.

Valentina has been part of our circle of friends since she latched onto Charlotte in Freshers’ Week at Liverpool University. They made as unlikely a twosome then as they do now. Poor Charlotte was the desperately shy girl who’d hardly been out of Widnes. Valentina was the exotic-looking Amazon who’d been everywhere, done everything, and all in all was about as shy and retiring as the average
Penthouse
centrefold.

Valentina tried her hand at various careers when she left university–personal shopper,
Hollyoaks
extra, upmarket restaurant hostess–before settling on one of the things at which she genuinely does excel. She is now a professional tennis coach and apparently making quite a name for herself. Although I’m told that’s at least partly because she wears skirts so short they’d make a gynaecologist blush.

If you asked me my opinion of Valentina, I’d say that, deep down, she’s a decent cove. But that’s not a universally held opinion, since her idea of a great conversation is other people listening to how she is always being mistaken for Angelina Jolie.

As Valentina puts her notes on the lectern, she looks up to check that the Best Man has been taking notice and, judging by the appreciative look on his face, there is little doubt of that. With a pout and flick of her dark glossy hair, she prepares to address her audience.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, before I start my reading, can I just say how
overwhelming
I personally have found it, that two of my closest friends are getting married today,’ she gushes.

‘When they persuaded me to do a reading I really couldn’t have been more pleased to play such a
significant
part in the most momentous day of their lives.’

Grace and Patrick exchange looks. Far from needing any persuasion, Valentina had sulked so much when Grace explained that she wanted to keep the bridesmaids to a minimum that Grace had only agreed to the reading to shut her up.

‘The blessing I am about to read is one which has been used in Native American weddings for centuries,’ she continues. ‘You may be interested to know, however, that the author of it is actually still unknown. It’s a beautiful piece of prose and I hope that when you hear it, you’ll agree that it is truly fitting for a day like today.’

She composes herself dramatically as the registrar looks at her watch.

‘
Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be the shelter for the other.’

She pauses for effect.

‘Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be the warmth for the other
…’ Et cetera.

After Valentina’s performance (and it is a performance) the service seems to pick up speed and in no time at all, Grace and Patrick are walking back down the aisle as man and wife, to the loud applause of their guests. Polly and I are next in the procession, holding hands as she skips along. Charlotte skulks somewhere behind us.

I try to avoid smiling at the guests, given that there seems to be an ex-boyfriend wherever I look. But just as I am attempting to keep my eyes fixed firmly ahead, something draws my attention to the far corner of the room.
He’s
standing by a window which overlooks some of the most beautiful scenery in the country. But he makes an unbeatable view all by himself.

My pulse starts racing and I grip Polly’s hand tighter. It’s Action Man. And he’s looking right at me.

My face flushes as our eyes meet and I turn away in embarrassment, my mind whirling with thoughts of those bloody chicken fillets. I bend down to whisper to Polly.

‘You were such a good girl during the ceremony,’ I tell her, more to give the impression that I’m preoccupied than anything else.

She looks at me as if to say: ‘What
are
you on about?’

I can still feel his eyes burning into me as we almost reach the door. Sod the chicken fillets, Evie, I think,
just look at him
. The applause is ringing in my ears as I turn slowly towards him. He’s clapping enthusiastically, and when he sees me look over, he smiles. It’s a soft, friendly smile–one that is completely, utterly confident.

Which is the last thing I feel at the moment.

Ridiculously, I look away again, without smiling back, without holding his gaze, without
anything
. My eyes focus on Grace’s dress and I feel like kicking myself. The fact that I’ve just noticed I’d done two of her ivory buttons up wrong is the least of my concerns.

When we reach the drawing room, Grace and Patrick kiss while champagne corks pop and the guests pour through to
congratulate the happy couple. I grab a glass of bubbly from a passing waiter and only just stop myself from knocking it back in one as I monitor the door, which he’s going to have to come through sooner or later.

Not that I know what I’ll do when he does.

The drawing room is soon a riot of people and it’s difficult to keep track of who has come through the door as there are so many of them. But as I sense someone by my side, my heart leaps.

Grace is looking no less stressed than she did
before
the ceremony.

‘Evie, listen,’ she says, ‘I need your help again. Can you get everyone outside? We’ve got to start doing the photos.’

I look around at the guests tucking into a lavish champagne reception in a cosy drawing room filled with roaring open fires. My task, if I choose to accept it, is to get them all out–even the ones in strappy high-heeled sandals–onto a wind-swept terrace in February.

‘You give me all the best jobs, Grace,’ I say. ‘I think it might take me until next weekend.’

In the absence of knowing where to start, I pick the group of people next to me.

‘Er, hi,’ I say. ‘Er, could I please ask you all to make your way into the garden for the photographs? Thanks. Thanks so much.’

I move on to the next group and say the same.

Five groups later I realise that this ever-so-polite technique is getting me precisely nowhere. I’d get more response talking to the wedding cake. So I decide to start tapping people on the shoulder as well.

‘Er, yes, hi, hello,’ I say. ‘Really sorry to interrupt, but do
you think you could make your way into the garden? The photographer’s ready.’

Nothing. I cough–my aim being to be polite but authoritative. In other words, to get people to start doing as they’re bloody well told.

‘The photos are about to be taken,’ I say, with a definite firmness now. ‘Could you make your way into the garden…
please
?’

This is starting to get really annoying. I am either invisible or people are more interested in the booze and smoked salmon blinis than standing outside for half an hour being told to say ‘chocolate biscuits’.

Hmm. Okay, so I knew it was going to be a challenge. I need to get bossy. Very well–I can do bossy. I resist the temptation to stand on a chair, but decide to give it all I’ve got anyway.

‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,’ I bellow, aware that all I’m lacking is a bell and a town-crier’s outfit. ‘PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY OUT INTO THE GARDEN AS THE PHOTOGRAPHS ARE ABOUT TO BE TAKEN.’

The whole room stops talking and turns to look at me as if I’m a stripper who’s been booked as the star turn at a Women’s Institute meeting. Obviously, I was rather louder than I thought.

I suddenly realise that I was so close to the poor bloke next to me that I just might have punctured his eardrums. He’s visibly cringing, and I hadn’t known what that looked like until now. He turns around slowly with the clear intention of discovering the source of this outburst and I realise that I’ve got nowhere to run.

The second I see his face, my heart sinks. At least nobody could accuse me of not knowing how to make a first impression.

I decide that there’s only one way to redeem this situation–and that’s to say something funny. To make Action Man think, Okay, so this woman has twice acted like she’s just escaped from the local asylum but, my goodness, isn’t she just the wittiest, most amusing individual I’ve ever met? That would at least go some way to remedying this disaster.

I try to conjure up my best, most side-splitting line, to lighten the atmosphere and ideally make him want to take me home immediately.

‘Er, ah! Er, erm…’ I splutter. ‘Sorry about that.’

Move over
Monty Python
.

He smiles. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘You’ve got an impressive set of lungs, that’s for sure. Although don’t take that the wrong way, will you?’

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.

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.