Wedding Bubbles: A romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 1)

Wedding Bubbles

A romantic comedy

- Short Story -

Book #1 in the Wellywood Series

b
y

Kate O’Keeffe

Copyright
©
2014 Kate O’Keeffe

Published by Wild Lime Books

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

So here I am, sitting at the ‘top table’ along with the rest of the bridal party. The beautiful
bride and her handsome groom, the Best Man and groomsman, and my fellow bridesmaid are all looking appropriately regal and serene.

As for me? Well, there’s an outside chance that I’m not quite living up to their example.

Despite my very best efforts the room insists on spinning around like a toppled Ferris Wheel. It’s not exactly fun.

I shake my head in an attempt to stop it. It doesn’t work. Unsurprisingly.

Eventually I close my eyes and have a shot at Zen-like breathing as a last resort. But the room just keeps on whirling around, this time in my head.

How does it
do
that?

With a sinking feeling I realise that there may be a
teensy
chance that I’ve had a bit too much to drink.

Just maybe.

In my defence I got off a long haul flight to New Zealand from the other side of the world a mere forty-eight hours ago. So perhaps it could be the jetlag? I mean it’s completely plausible that my body still thinks it’s on Greenwich Mean Time. I should be just about to face the day with my first caffeine fix in hand – most certainly not sitting in a bridesmaid’s dress a size too small for me, having drunk virtually my entire body weight in champagne.

P
erhaps my circadian rhythms are just bit confused?

But then again the empty bottle lying next to my upturned glass keeps glaring at me accusingly, as if to say, “You drank all of me almost before anyone had the chance to say ‘
to the bride and groom’
.”

So o
n further reflection perhaps it might very well be the alcohol.

Too bad I have to deliver my
maid of honour speech once Laura’s new husband, Kyle, finishes his.

Now where are my speech notes, exactly?

I’m back in my hometown of Wellington against my better judgment. Although I’d left here and vowed never to return, Laura’s one of my best friends and she made me promise on my Prada handbag that I’d be here for her wedding. Although the handbag was only a cheap knock-off from China, I was true to my word.

I guess matters haven’
t exactly been helped by overhearing my mother in the church earlier. She was complaining to another wedding guest about what a dreadful daughter she had.

“You see, Jessica’s my only child,” she’d whined to a middle-aged woman dressed in a bright green Twenties-inspired dress and white hat ensemble. From a distance she looked like a green Magic Marker.

“Oh,” Green Magic Marker replied, crinkling her forehead in sympathy, the hat bobbing up and down.

Harrumph
, I’d thought. It’s hardly my fault my parents decided not to have any more kids after they’d had me. They reached the pinnacle of reproductive success and decided to stop. That’s what my dad always said to me, anyway.

“Yes, and she doesn’t appear to even
have
a boyfriend let alone be on the verge of walking down the aisle,” my darling mother continued.

“Oh, Cynthia,” Green Magic Marker cooed in compassion.

“There she is. She’s one of the bridesmaids,” my mother stated, sounding thoroughly defeated.

Like I’d chosen not to have a boyfriend just to spite her. For the many reasons not to have a boyfriend, annoying my mother is pretty far down the list.

They both turned to look in my direction. I was with the bridal party outside the church in the brilliant summer sunshine, the official photographer bouncing around us, roaring instructions.

“Oh, but she’s gorgeous!” Green Magic Marker had exclaimed in surprise.

“No, not that one. That’s Morgan. The other one,” my mother had explained and I’d felt myself recoil into my dress in mortification, like a turtle into its shell.

“Try putting your shoulders back a bit. Chin up,” the officious photographer barked at me.

Too scared of the ramifications of not doing so I followed his commands. But, like a possum caught in the headlights I was unable to tear myself away from witnessing my mother’s disappointment in me.

Did Mum really just pull out a handkerchief and dab her eyes?

“She’s very pretty, Cynthia. In a less
obvious
way than the other bridesmaid,” Green Magic Marker had consoled her. “And even though she might be getting on a bit I’m sure she still has time.”

‘Thank you, Prue. You’re very kind,” my mother replied, smiling weakly.

“I’m only twenty-six!”
I’d felt like screaming. This isn’t the Nineteen-Fifties, you know. Women are
allowed
to have an education, careers, lives.

Adding further insult to injury Green Magic Marker then asked, “Surely there must be someone out there willing to marry her?”

She then proceeded to scan the wedding guests, on the look out for potential husband material for me.

“Oh, I do hope so, Prue. I really do,” Mum had replied, shaking her head. She’s such a martyr.

To make matters worse, not only does it appear that I’m an utter disappointment to my mother, but I’m also the only sad and single member of the bridal party. 

My fellow
bridesmaid and wonderful friend, Morgan, has been living with her boyfriend Dave for a while now; the Best Man Ben, also recently arrived from London, is here with his Amazonian beauty of a girlfriend, Amber; and Glen, the groomsman, is married to a nice, homely woman by the name of Carla.  And then of course there’s the bride and groom. All of them in their happy little love bubbles.

Really, losing myself in a large quantity of lovely, bubbly booze seemed to me like the perfect way to take my mind off my current predicament. Which is why I gave it a jolly good
shot.

“So without further ado, would you all please raise your glasses to toast the beautiful
bridesmaids,” Kyle says expansively into the microphone, smiling in Morgan’s and my direction as he raises his glass.

“The
bridesmaids,” the wedding guests repeat eagerly as they too raise their glasses, all eyes in the room swivelling towards us.

We’re seated next to one another in our matching
bridesmaids’ dresses. Of course Morgan looks incredible, as always, the red of the glamorous, empire-line dress complimenting her blonde locks and olive complexion perfectly. That said she could manage to look hot in head-to-toe Amish get-up - or even a burqa at a push.  She’s gorgeous and sexy, which has resulted in many an otherwise normally functioning man to suddenly develop a stammer and drool problem. Nice for some.

I had heard that your chances of meeting your future husband at a wedding are increased exponentially if you’re a
bridesmaid. Consequently I have what you might call a certain level of
expectation
about tonight’s events. But I regret to report that the bridesmaid’s dress doesn’t have quite the same effect on yours truly. The orange-red colour only serves to exacerbate my flushed face and the cut, although quite stunning on my slimmer figure before I moved to London, now makes me look rather like a large, shiny red brick. 

Not quite
the look I was going for.

I glance at the
bride, my wonderful friend Laura. Being the product of a former All Black dad and TV presenter mum, who were
the
New Zealand celebrity power couple in the Eighties, she’s a total babe. The genetic lottery had been very kind to her. She’d got her dad’s beautiful mocha complexion and dark curly hair, which she wears in a gamine crop
a la
Halle Berry; and her petite, elegant figure and delicate features from her mum.

Why do I insist on having such good-looking friends, I wonder? Do I have some sort of inferiority complex that needs a constant diet of ‘
ugly duckling
’ servings? OK, so I’m never going to compete with the likes of Morgan and Laura, but I can hold my own, thank you very much.

Still, bursting at the seams as I am in my dress tonight, I definitely feel like the plain Kate Jackson of the Charlie’s Angels bridal line up.

Or even the Bosley.

I clutch at my champagne flute and raise it to my lips, realising too late in a rush of embarrassment that I’m holding it upside down. I clunk the bottom of it painfully against my front teeth, forcing me to wince. Hoping no one has noticed I attempt a gracious smile, acknowledging the audience’s admiration of the
bridesmaids with a benevolent nod in their general direction.

Well, that’s my goal, anyway.

It’s at this point Morgan elbows me painfully in the ribs.

“Owww! What was that for?” I question loudly as I rub my battered side with my free hand.

There’s a general snigger from the wedding guests and I look up to see Kyle offering me the microphone in his outstretched hand. How long he’s been holding it there is anyone’s guess.

I rise unsteadily,
reluctantly take it from him. He darts me an encouraging look, assuming I’m wobbling because I’m just nervous. He’s clearly not fully aware of my current state of intoxication.

Well that won’t last
,
I think as I turn to face the roomful of people dressed in appropriate black tie, awaiting my enlightened and entertaining speech.

More fool them.

“Testing, testing, one two three,” I say in a deep voice into the microphone, before bursting into self-induced laughter.

I’ve always wanted to pretend I’m a roadie setting up for a band. I thought it might be really quite hilarious to do it right here and now. Thankfully some people laugh. 

I hope it’s at my joke rather than at me.

Feeling encouraged, I do one final skim over the table for my notes. Unable to locate them and probably incapable of reading them even if I did, I launch into what I hope is a true facsimile of the speech I’d painstakingly prepared earlier.

“Hellooooo!” I say once I’ve regained my composure. “I’m Jess, Laura’s maid of honour.”

Several kind-hearted
people nod encouragingly at me.

I try to blink away my intoxication, but I suspect all I do is make myself look like a dog having a particularly dynamic dream about chasing cats.

“I’m the express delivery from London, back here in Wellington. Here for one night and one night only!” I’m beginning to enjoy the freedom not reading from my notes has afforded me.

“Oh yeah, I know!” I exclaim in excitement, suddenly remembering what I’d planned to say. “I’ve been best friends with Laura since we were, like,
kids
.”

Regaining a trace of my composure I feel elated that my speech is flooding back to me. I can almost see the words dancing in front of my eyes now.

But as I turn to look at my friend, seeing her glowing with happiness in her graceful bridal dress, the words begin to merge, as I’m overwhelmed with emotion.

“Wow, Laura,” I gush. “You look so beautiful tonight. I just have to say that I love you just so, so much. You’re the most amazing person in the world. More amazing than anyone I’ve ever, ever,
ever
known.”

She smiles sweetly at me, clearly flattered by my heartfelt words.

I then spot Morgan sitting next to her, watching me with a mixture of alarm and humour.

“Oh, and you too, Morgs. You’re like
so
amazing too. Really,
really
amazing.”

I wipe my eyes with my stiff table napkin, which serves only to smear my mascara down my face.

“You two girls are the best.” I’m almost howling now and my words come out more like “Doo doo gurl zarr da vess,” as I indulge myself in my drunken sentimentality.

I spy Kyle, who is undoubtedly regretting handing me the microphone a few moments ago. I’ve known Kyle for years, ever since he and Laura first started dating when we were all best friends in high school. And I adore him. He’s warm, funny, and clever. He’s the perfect match for my amazing friend.

So I decide to tell everyone how I feel about him too.

“Kyle,” I sigh, beaming at him indulgently.
“Kyle, Kyle, Kyle.”

I pause as I recall the time we went to the Wellington Rugby Sevens Tournament last summer. It’s a fancy dress event so Morgan, Laura and I went as saucy Snow Whites, in short dresses and brunette wigs. Kyle
, Ben and their mates were pretty sexy gladiators - Russell Crowe had nothing on them, I tell you.

“You are a top guy. The tops. I mean the abso-bloody-lutely
toppest
of the tops. And you and Laura together? The best couple
ever
. You two are so,
so
amazing.”

I turn to Laura, hand on my heart. “I’m so happy you married him, Laura.” I smile broadly at them, tears welling once again in my eyes, as they appear to squirm visibly in embarrassment.

“Oh my God!” A sudden thought elbows its way through my intoxicated brain and into my consciousness. “What if you’d married that guy you dated when we were sixteen? Before you started dating Kyle. You know the one, friends with Dan Ostenberg?”