Always the Bridesmaid

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said, giving me a smile. ‘You didn’t kill him.’

  I gasped. ‘Oh my God, did someone kill him?’

  ‘No, I just meant … it’s a figure of speech.’ Tom cut himself off with a sigh. ‘He had a heart attack years ago. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I mean, I’m not sorry for killing him or anything, just sorry in general anyway how about this party.’

  My second ever meeting was going brilliantly. Almost as well as the first.

  ‘Tell me about your mum,’ I said, clearing my throat and aggressively crossing out the note ‘dead dad’. I smiled sweetly at my prospective client. ‘What sort of stuff does she like?’

  ‘Um, mostly mum stuff,’ he offered unhelpfully. ‘Cake, flowers, John Nettles, Poirot. Oh, and snooker. She really likes snooker.’

  Visions of Steve Davis jumping out of a green baize cake ran through my mind.

  ‘You want a snooker party?’ I asked. ‘Because I think we can get Ronnie O’Sullivan for a fair price.’

  ‘Interesting suggestion, but no − I was thinking just a nice, regular party,’ Tom said. ‘Fancy cake, all her friends, presents, gin, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Gin I can definitely help with,’ I replied, flipping my pen between my fingers. ‘It sounds like you’re after something relatively simple, though. At the risk of getting fired, do you really think you need an event organizer for this?’

  He reached an arm behind his head and massaged the back of his neck, the fabric of his shirt straining round his bicep as he squeezed. And very nice biceps they were too. Biceps it was perfectly acceptable for me to objectively notice as a woman with eyes. His fiancée was a lucky woman.

  ‘I know it’s not as big a deal as a wedding,’ he said, ‘but I’m so busy with work right now I haven’t the time to do it properly, and I want it to be genuinely special. She deserves something wonderful.’

  ‘Then let’s do something wonderful,’ I said, softening.

  I’d sat beside Shona for long enough to know this wasn’t something we’d usually take on. Our events were expensive show-stoppers, not afternoon tea for Mum and her mates. But how could I say no to that face? He looked like a giant puppy. A really tall, good-looking puppy with big brown eyes you could get lost in. Again, objective observation only.

  With one eye on the clock and the knowledge that I needed to clean up, make the bed and shave my legs before Will could come over at eight, I took Tom through our basic presentation, skipping over the firework displays, water features, ice sculptures and chartered yachts as quickly as I could, pretending I couldn’t see his face getting whiter and whiter as we went along.

  ‘If there’s anything you like the sound of, just stop me,’ I said, pausing as he chugged a big glass of water. ‘Or if you’ve got any questions?’

  ‘Did you really get an animatronic dragon for that birthday party?’ he asked.

  ‘I got three,’ I replied. ‘They actually breathed fire. It was a Game of Thrones theme. Does your mum like dragons?’

  He shook his head. ‘We don’t need dragons.’

  ‘No fire-breathing dragons,’ I noted. ‘That’s going to make finding a location much easier.’

  ‘Is that the most mental thing you’ve done?’ Tom asked, leaning forward across the desk. ‘The dragons?’

  ‘I wish.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Where do you want to start? Recreating the goblin ball from Labyrinth? Dressing little people up as cherubs then hoisting them up over the aisle for an entire wedding ceremony? Mermaids?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  I clicked my mini remote control to the next page in our presentation.

  ‘Behold the underwater kingdom of King Triton.’

  ‘Christ almighty.’ He stared at the screen. ‘That’s incredible. How long have you been doing this?’

  ‘Ten years nearly,’ I said, clicking through a decade of my life. The Secret Garden birthday, the Harry Potter bar mitzvah, the nudist wedding. ‘Although I was an assistant until, well, today actually.’

  ‘Am I your first client?’ he asked with bright eyes.

  ‘Second,’ I said. ‘If the first ones actually sign my proposal. Which they might not. So maybe.’

  ‘Well, that’s exciting,’ he said, the exact opposite reaction to the Dickensons. ‘What was the worst party you’ve done?’

  ‘Worst?’

  ‘Most disastrous,’ he expanded. ‘The one you would like erased from your memory for all eternity.’

  ‘We did a Breakfast at Tiffany’s birthday party once. Very glam, very sophisticated.’ I pressed my hands against my eyes. It hurt to even think about it. ‘But the sister of the birthday girl got very jealous and very drunk and decided she wanted to give a speech where she explained to everyone that it was a much more appropriate theme than they realized because Holly Golightly was a heartless whore and so was her sister.’

  ‘Wow,’ he breathed.

  ‘Yeah,’ I nodded. ‘Turned out she really was a prostitute. Lovely party, though. She gave everyone a present from Tiffany’s.’

  Tom laughed. ‘Maybe I’m in the wrong business.’

  ‘Exactly what I said,’ I agreed. ‘I’d be making more money and getting a shag out of it.’

  Tom stopped laughing with a squeak and his face flushed beet-red.

  Hmm. Maybe I’d taken it one tiny baby step too far.

  ‘But I digress.’ I closed the presentation and held out my hands. ‘Next steps would be for you to give me some dates and an idea of budget, then for me to send over a proposal and we’ll go from there.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ he said, combing his hands through his hair. ‘I just want to do something nice for her. She always does things for other people − she’s worked so hard all her life.’

  ‘Not as hard as the hooker,’ I assured him. ‘That party cost two hundred grand.’

  ‘As far as I know my mother has never turned tricks,’ he said, sliding his diary back into his briefcase. ‘So we can lower that budget somewhat.’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing a mum would mention, is it?’ I replied. ‘Not that I’m saying your mum was ever a prostitute.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Tom stood up. ‘You’d never put your foot in your mouth like that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I repeated. ‘Can I get the presentation to you by Monday?’

  ‘That’s fine.’ As he picked up his briefcase, he was so tall he looked like a giant holding a handbag. ‘Any exciting plans tonight?’

  I watched while he shrugged on his jacket and considered my answer. I was doing something nice: I was seeing Will, but it felt wrong to talk about him to Tom. Whatever their issues were with each other, I needed to keep things professional and not fuck up this job.

  ‘Yes.’ I waved my notebook at him and strode past purposefully to open the meeting-room door. He blinked twice and then shook his head. ‘Well, I’ve got your email. I’ll get back to you with the proposal and you can tell me what you think.’

  I stood in the doorway and waited for him to leave. But he didn’t. He just stood there, looking at me.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll email you tomorrow.’

  ‘Great.’

  He paused for a moment before sticking out his hand. I looked at it for a moment before I realized he expected me to shake it.

  ‘You want me to shake your hand?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s traditional,’ he replied. ‘But never mind.’

  With that, he legged it out of the meeting room and straight down the stairs.

  And that was Wednesday.

  ‘I was thinking …’

  Will had been at my flat for an hour, we’d already done it twice, and were now enjoying a post-coital Papa John’s in bed. I was basically in heaven.

  ‘Maybe we could go out for dinner on Friday.’

  I wasn’t sure if it was the double-sexing or the stuffed-crust pizza, but for some reason I was feeling
very brave.

  ‘I might have to work late, but yeah,’ he replied, stuffing three potato wedges into his mouth at the same time. So hot. ‘Sounds nice.’

  ‘We could do Saturday?’ I suggested, running through my weekend plans in my head. I’d scheduled a hair and make up trial for Lauren, but that was in the afternoon; dinner would be OK. ‘If you have to work Friday?’

  ‘Friday’s better.’

  What was he doing on Saturday? What was he doing on Saturday?

  ‘Friday it is,’ I said. ‘There’s one of those cool pop-up restaurants above the pub near my office. I could try to get a reservation there?’

  ‘I like this restaurant a lot,’ he said, popping a wedge into my mouth. I smiled and chewed, trying not to choke on the dry potato. ‘You’ve hardly eaten anything.’

  ‘Not that hungry,’ I said, covering my mouth with my hand. It was such a lie − I was starving when I left the office, but as soon as we ordered that pizza I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat it. He was the best diet: as soon as I was near him, I completely lost my appetite. Who needs to eat actual food when you’re feasting on hormones and compliments?

  ‘Did you have a good day?’ I asked.

  ‘Shit day.’ Will picked up the pizza box and dropped it onto my bedroom floor. ‘You don’t want to hear about it.

  ‘Yes I do,’ I argued. I did. I wanted to know about all of it − who he liked, who he hated. I wanted to know who broke the photocopier and who always brought the same sandwich in for lunch every day. I wanted to know everything. I wasn’t hungry for pizza, but I was ravenous for Will.

  ‘No,’ he said again, correcting me with a little kiss on the nose. ‘You don’t.’

  So learning the names of his colleagues could wait.

  ‘Mine was a bit stressful,’ I said, pulling his arm underneath me and resting my head on his shoulder. Because I could do that, because he was my boyfriend. ‘Actually, you know your friend Tom, who was an usher at the wedding?’

  He rubbed his stubble against my forehead in that way that men think is adorable but actually just makes your face a bit sore. ‘I wouldn’t call him my friend, but yeah?’

  ‘He came in today.’

  I pulled the covers up over my bare legs and stroked the black fuzz on his flat belly. How could someone eat almost an entire pizza and still have abs?

  ‘To your work?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Why?’

  I looked up at him. Was that a hint of jealousy I heard? Please God, let it be a hint of jealousy. I was not a mature person. I needed it.

  ‘He wants me to organize a party for his mum,’ I said. ‘It’s her sixtieth.’

  ‘But you’re a wedding planner?’ Will said, stretching until his toes tapped the end of my Ikea bed frame.

  ‘I’m an events organizer,’ I clarified. ‘I don’t just do weddings.’

  It’s an easy mistake to make; even my parents didn’t really understand what I did. And I was sure he was doing something very boring on Saturday, which is why he couldn’t tell me exactly what he was doing.

  Not that I was thinking about that at all.

  ‘Isn’t his mum dead?’ he asked, his forehead creased with the effort of remembering. ‘I thought he was the full Harry Potter?’

  ‘No, that’s his dad,’ I said. ‘He’s not an orphaned wizard.’

  Will shrugged and settled back down against my clean pillowcases. ‘Whatever. He’s such a geek,’ he replied. ‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’

  ‘It’s only work,’ I said as his hand wove its way into my hair and my skin started to prickle. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose,’ he said, kissing my neck. Even though the room smelled like pizza, he smelled like heaven. Sweaty, post-sex, lingering hint of some expensive aftershave heaven.

  ‘What aftershave are you wearing?’ I asked. I was all about the important questions in life. ‘You smell so good.’

  ‘I’ve got a ridiculously early meeting in the morning,’ Will said as his hands busied themselves underneath the covers instead of answering my question. ‘So I can’t stay over.’

  ‘Really?’ I closed my eyes and tried not to sound too disappointed. ‘But I’ve got leftover pizza for breakfast.’

  ‘No you haven’t, I’m taking it with me,’ he replied. ‘But dinner on Friday, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed, melting into the pillows as he went for third time lucky. ‘Dinner on Friday.’

  Two planned dates in one week. I was this close to adding him on Facebook.

  This.

  Close.

  One of the most exciting stops on your bride’s journey will be the day she finds The One – no, not her husband, her dress! Whether it’s a precious family heirloom or an exquisite new gown, many will tell you the wedding dress is what transforms a woman into a bride.

  If you are already married, paste a photo of your wedding dress below. If you have yet to take that magical step, clip out a picture of a gown you love or sketch your dream dress in the space below!

  12

  Saturday June 13th

  Today I feel: Very, very tired.

  Today I am thankful for: Red Bull and Sky Plus.

  ‘I don’t believe you don’t like any of the dresses,’ I said, clutching the powder-blue wedding ring binder to my chest. ‘This is insane, Lauren.’

  ‘I thought I’d know when I saw it,’ Lauren said as she did a twirl on the raised dais in the middle of the room and frowned at her beautiful reflection for the fifteenth time that afternoon. ‘But something’s off with all of them.’

  Me, Sarah and a very tired-looking sales assistant were standing in the middle of a divorcée’s worst nightmare, surrounded by some of the most extravagant wedding dresses in the world while Lauren frowned at herself in a floor-length mirror.

  ‘Let’s work out what you do like about this one,’ Carol, the incredibly patient assistant, suggested. ‘You liked the sweetheart neckline of the first one and the ball-gown fit of the second one. What is it here that you like?’

  ‘I like that it’s simple,’ Lauren said, staring at herself. ‘I like that it makes me look really skinny.’

  ‘And what don’t you like about it?’

  ‘It looks too much like a wedding dress.’

  Carol the assistant turned to give me a look of death. I’d had to pull several strings and sell the soul of my first-born to get Lauren an appointment at this boutique on a Saturday afternoon in June. I was certain she’d walk in and buy the first dress she tried on − there were dozens of dresses in her wedding binder, she’d done her research, and yet here we were surrounded by hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of designer gowns and she’d suddenly decided she didn’t want her wedding dress to look like a wedding dress.

  ‘If we killed her, we could just stuff her body in a bin bag and all our problems would be solved,’ Sarah whispered. ‘I don’t mind sticking some crystals on it if that would help.’

  ‘You know, it can be fun if you let your bridesmaids pick a couple of dresses out for you,’ Carol said, helping Lauren off the platform in her borrowed four-inch heels. She hadn’t even chosen shoes yet, and Lauren loved shoes. ‘My bridesmaid actually chose my dress. It can be helpful to get someone else’s perspective.’

  ‘I guess.’ Lauren mooned at the mirror. ‘I had such a clear idea of what I wanted.’

  ‘Sometimes your friends know your style even better than you do,’ Carol said with a smile. It was a smile that said, ‘Why don’t you go and pull out ridiculously heavy frocks that she’s never going to buy while I have a sit-down, you bastards.’

  ‘Don’t think too much,’ she instructed us. ‘Grab whatever you like the look of and bring it back to the dressing room while I get our bride out of this one.’

  Sarah and I leapt to our feet, excited to be standing again after nearly two hours on a very hard-on-the-arse sofa. Wedding dress salons are such strange places. Blindingly white, eye-wateringly expensi
ve and full of women screaming. I wondered if the government had considered bringing terrorists here for questioning.

  ‘You know in Return to Oz when she’s walking through that room full of decapitated heads?’ Sarah said, running her hands over the dresses as we walked. ‘I’d rather be doing that.’

  ‘Let’s just pick two and get this over with,’ I said, pausing in front of an especially frothy confection of a frock before moving on. Too poufy, too sparkly, no sweetheart neckline. ‘I’ve been here before − she’s not going to choose one today.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ Sarah asked, pulling out a skin-tight mermaid dress with crystal detailing all over the boobs. I shook my head and she put it back.

  ‘I’ve done this a million times,’ I said with a sigh. ‘When a woman really wants to find her dress, she finds it. It’s the one thing she wants to get locked down, and yeah, all these dresses seem totally different, but in reality they aren’t. You know what shape you want, you know what fabric you want. Lauren hasn’t decided on a single thing and she’s tried on, what, twelve dresses?’

  Sarah stopped, pulled out a simple A-line lace dress with a silk sash at the waist and held it up for me.

  ‘Too basic,’ I replied. ‘Actually, it looks a bit like your—’

  Cockitywankbollocks.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell.’ I grabbed Sarah’s own wedding dress out of her hands and tossed it onto the chair behind me. ‘I can’t believe they still have that.’

  ‘Banana,’ Sarah said, frozen. ‘Does the safe word still work? Banana me, Maddie.’

  ‘Do you want to go outside?’ I asked, poised to catch her in case she collapsed. ‘Do you want to leave?’

  ‘I do,’ she said with wet eyes. ‘But I can’t seem to move at all.’

  ‘How about a sit-down?’ I suggested, pointing over to a pink, puffy sofa. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think I’ll just do the floor if that’s OK with you,’ she said, her legs folding up underneath her. ‘Banana.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, dropping down beside her and pulling her head onto my shoulder. ‘We should never have asked you to come. I’m an idiot.’