Bridesmaids (8 page)

Alderley Edge, Cheshire, Saturday, 17 March

Another Saturday, another dress fitting. But this time, it’s for the wedding of Georgia and Pete. And this time, the budget is so big it should be listed on the Stock Market.

‘How much is this wedding costing exactly, Georgia?’ asks Valentina idly as she examines a rail of dresses which, tellingly, don’t even have price tags.

‘About two hundred grand at the last count,’ says Georgia, immediately looking like she wished she hadn’t let it slip. ‘I mean, not that it matters what it’s costing. We could be getting married in Chorley Register Office, for all I care.’

‘Thank God it’s already booked,’ mutters Valentina.

The reality is that Georgia’s big day couldn’t be
less
like a session at Chorley Register Office. In fact, the ceremony is happening in the Isles of Scilly and is on course to be so lavish, it will make the average royal wedding look like something out of
Coronation Street
.

Georgia is having six bridesmaids and we’re all here today for fitting number two, in a boutique so upmarket that even the dummies in the window have attitude. Actually, that’s
not strictly true. We’re all
supposed
to be here, but Grace, typically, is late following a domestic crisis caused by Polly having fed the rabbit some leftover chicken jalfrezi.

Georgia’s two younger cousins are also here and today is the first time we have met them. Beth and Gina are both in their early twenties and are so pretty you could mistake them for younger sisters of Catherine Zeta Jones. Valentina could barely hide her disappointment when they arrived.

Then, of course, there is Charlotte, who looks about as cheerful at the prospect of being a bridesmaid again as the average Death Row prisoner.

‘You okay?’ I ask, as she sits down next to me on a velvet stool.

She nods and attempts a smile.

‘It’s not really your sort of thing this, is it?’ I whisper.

‘Not really,’ she says. ‘I’ve put on at least half a stone since Grace’s wedding. I’ve not weighed myself, but I know I have. Only my Evans cords would fit me this morning.’

I put down the bridal magazine I’ve been flicking through and place a supportive arm around her. Then, the curtain is pulled back and Georgia emerges in her wedding dress, smiling from ear to ear.

‘What do you think, girls?’ she asks, twirling around as her gorgeous silk skirt skims the floor. She does look amazing and even Valentina joins in our cacophony of approval.

‘Well, I’ve got to admit it,’ I tell her. ‘You scrub up well.’

‘Do you think so?’ she says, grinning excitedly.

‘Absolutely. I think you should have gone for more frills though judging by some of these,’ I joke, nodding at my wedding magazine. ‘Some of the dresses in here look like those little dolls my grandma used to put over her toilet roll.’

‘Are you excited, Georgia?’ asks Charlotte softly.

‘Hysterical might be a better word,’ Georgia replies. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do once it’s all over though. It’s taken a year and a half to organise this wedding. I’ve forgotten how to talk about anything other than bloody tiaras and calla lilies. My conversational skills are destroyed.’

‘Apparently,’ says Valentina, fixing an enormous, elaborate tiara onto her head, ‘some couples, once they’re married, struggle to find anything in common because all they’ve talked about beforehand are things to do with the wedding.’

I roll my eyes.

‘It’s a
well-known fact
,’ she says indignantly. ‘It’s fully recognised by the psychology profession. I read it somewhere–
Glamour
magazine, I think. Now, what do you reckon?’ She turns away from the mirror to show us her tiara.

‘Lose the tan and you’d look like the White Witch,’ I tell her.

She narrows her eyes.

‘Just joking,’ I say.

But something has been bothering me about the way Valentina’s behaving today, something I’ve been trying to put my finger on since we got here–and have only just done so. It’s been a full twenty minutes and she hasn’t mentioned Jack yet.

Charlotte has the look of someone five seconds away from their first-ever bungee jump. In fact, all she’s been asked to do is go behind the curtain with the dressmaker to try on her dress.

‘Why don’t you go next, Evie,’ she says, her eyes imploring me to take the pressure off.

‘Yeah, okay, no problem,’ I say.

Our dresses are called ‘Peony Dream’ and are strapless, calf-length and as obscenely expensive as everything else to do with this wedding. As I pull mine on, the fit is, mercifully, near enough perfect–which means that unless I develop a craving for pasties and Big Macs between now and the wedding, I won’t have to have another fitting.

‘There,’ I say, pulling back the curtain to the same round of applause that Georgia, Beth and Gina have all had.

‘You don’t think that’s a bit saggy at the bust, do you, Evie?’ Valentina asks in an innocent tone. ‘Not everyone can get away with that sort of cut.’

‘It fits perfectly,’ Georgia jumps in diplomatically. ‘Evie, you look fabulous.’

When I’ve changed back into my jeans I sit myself down next to Charlotte.

‘You know Jim’s going to be at the wedding, don’t you?’ I whisper. ‘Georgia liked Grace’s wedding video so much she’s asked him to do hers.’

‘I believe so,’ she says.

‘So, are you going to talk to him this time?’ I say, nudging her gently. ‘Or just spend the entire afternoon talking about teabags or something equally fascinating with Auntie Ethel?’

She giggles.

‘Oh, do you like Jim, Charlotte?’ Valentina is like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to gossip. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me? I hate being the last to know these things.’

Charlotte blushes. ‘So Evie thinks,’ she says.

Valentina ponders for a second.

‘He’d look a lot better with a couple of inches off that hair, you know,’ she tells Charlotte. ‘You might want to ask him to consider it if you end up going out with him.’

‘I didn’t even say I liked him,’ she protests, going redder still.

‘I think we need a plan of action to get you two together,’ Valentina decides.

I groan.

‘Georgia, why don’t you put them next to each other on the seating plan?’ she continues, apparently oblivious to how uncomfortable she’s making Charlotte feel.

‘Er, do you want me to, Charlotte?’ Georgia asks hesitantly.

‘No,’ she says. Then: ‘Well, yes, okay. I mean, if you like. It makes no difference to me.’

Valentina gasps as she picks up a floor-length Vera Wang number and holds it against her body to admire herself in the mirror. I use the distraction to lean over to Charlotte again, this time whispering so quietly I’m certain nobody can hear.

‘Sorry about that.’

‘It’s okay,’ she says.

‘But the thing is,’ I continue, ‘I only mentioned it because I think he might fancy you.’

She frowns.

‘He virtually said so at Grace’s wedding,’ I add.

Okay, so I might have slightly embellished the conversation, but it’s all for a good reason.

‘Fancies me?’ she asks.

‘Well, he said you were lovely,’ I whisper. ‘And the way he said it, it definitely amounted to the same thing.’

‘So, Georgia,’ Valentina says loudly, cutting short my conversation again. ‘The guests at your wedding–are many in your sort of social circle?’

Georgia smirks. ‘I obviously socialise with them,’ she says. ‘If that’s what you mean.’

‘Yes, of course,’ says Valentina, pausing. ‘I suppose what I mean is do they have a similar sort of, well, standing?’

‘Standing?’ echoes Georgia.

‘
Financial
standing,’ says Valentina, begrudging the fact that she’s had to spell it out.

‘Ah,’ says Georgia. ‘You mean are there any filthy rich, eligible men? Loads, love, loads. I promise.’

Valentina grimaces. ‘Oh Georgia,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe you think I’d be so crude as to only be interested in someone for their money.’

I can’t let this conversation go without exploring what’s behind it.

‘Are you single again then, Valentina?’ I ask, trying to look like I’m only vaguely interested.

She pouts. ‘At the moment, yes,’ she says. ‘I decided I
ought to be concentrating more on making some “me time”. Plus, Jack was very nice and everything, but not really my type.’

‘When did this happen?’ I ask.

‘Oh, I let him know the day after Grace’s wedding,’ she says.

‘Right,’ I say nonchalantly.

‘You’re more than free to go after him, Evie,’ says Valentina smugly. ‘I mean, he was very upset when we split up, obviously, but you never know–he might be after a meaningless fling with someone to get over it. And I know you’re good at that sort of thing.’

Valentina doesn’t bother closing the curtain to get changed.

She just unzips her dress and lets it drop to the floor so she is completely naked except for a pair of satin high heels and a thong so small it looks like you’d need a microscope and a pair of tweezers to get it on.

Okay, so her body is perfect in every way–high breasts, neverending legs, and a backside so pert an airbrush couldn’t improve it. But I think everyone would feel more comfortable if she behaved a little less like someone who’d just checked into a Swedish nudist colony.

Turning her head to admire herself from behind in the full-length mirror, she runs a hand slowly across one of her buttocks.

‘I hope I’ve not put any weight on since last time,’ she says. ‘I haven’t been going to the gym as much as usual lately.’

‘It must be terrible to have to live with all that cellulite,’ I tell her. ‘There are support groups for people afflicted as badly as you, you know.’

She tuts and turns around to let the assistant help her get her dress on. As I continue flicking through a magazine, Charlotte nudges me.

‘Do you like Jack?’ she breathes.

I think about this for a second, then find myself smiling.

‘It goes against all my principles, given that he’s been out with Valentina,’ I say. ‘But, yes, I think I do.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’ she asks.

‘Good question,’ I reply, the implications of what I’ve heard only just dawning on me.

‘Valentina’s the only link between us,’ I continue. ‘Perversely, now they’ve split up, I can’t think of any obvious opportunities to see him again. Short of becoming a stalker, that is, and I don’t think I’m capable.’

‘Thankfully,’ she giggles.

But the smile is soon wiped off Charlotte’s face. Because there is only one more person left to try on their dress, and that’s her. As she heads behind the curtain, she pulls it back right to the end, checking that there are no gaps anyone could see through. The assistant goes in to try and help her, but is sent away–and for a good ten minutes, there is nothing but silence coming from behind the curtain.

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.

‘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.