I would like to say it’s just the wedding that has prompted today’s pandemonium, but this scene is a microcosm of Grace’s life over the last five years. During that time, her stress levels have been not just through the ceiling, they’ve been through three floors, a well-insulated loft and a roof as well.
The onset of this hysteria coincided with her return to full-time work after her daughter Polly was born four years ago. It graduated to a terminal case when baby number two, Scarlett (which is the colour of Grace’s face at the moment), came along last November.
The contents of Grace’s bag are chucked onto the floor one by one before she eventually locates her stockings.
‘I really must be careful with these,’ she says.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she tears open the packet, removes one, and puts her toe into the foot of it with all the delicacy of a bricklayer pulling on a pair of Doc Martens. Predictably, her foot goes straight through the end of it with a rip that makes my hair stand on end.
‘Oh fff…’ she begins, but as four-year-old Polly walks in from the bathroom, she just about stops herself from saying
something she’d regret. ‘God! God! God!’ she goes on. ‘They were my only pair. And they cost eighteen quid!’
‘What?’ I am incredulous. ‘For eighteen quid they shouldn’t just be toe-proof, they should be able to withstand a nuclear explosion.’
Twenty-six minutes left. I may be a novice but I know enough to be aware that we should have made more progress than this. The whole place is starting to take on the air of an episode of
ER
.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘What can I do to help?’
‘Er, Polly’s hair,’ Grace shouts, sprinting into the bathroom in search of her necklace.
‘Come on, Pol,’ I say brightly. But the prospect of smearing Molton Brown moisturiser into the carpet seems more appealing to Polly.
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I repeat, trying to sound firm and friendly, as opposed to desperate. ‘We really need to do your hair.
Really
.’
There is barely a flicker of recognition as she starts on the naran ji handwash.
‘Right, who wants to look like a model?’ I ask, searching for something–anything–that might persuade her to oblige.
‘Me!’ she exclaims, jumping up. ‘I want to be a model when I grow up!’
I can barely believe my luck. Last week she wanted to be a marine biologist.
I tie Polly’s soft blonde curls into two bunches, add a variety of sparkly clips, and look at the clock. Twenty-three minutes to go. My own dress is still hanging on the back of the door and all I’ve managed to do with my make-up is cover up the spot on my chin with some Clearasil.
Deciding that my best tactic is to do a rush job on myself so I can then get the bride into her dress, I go into the bathroom and, perching on the edge of the luxurious roll-top bath, I start to apply my make-up with all the precision of a three-year-old in an Expressionist painting competition.
When it is done, I grab my dress from the back of the door and pull it painstakingly over my head, taking care not to leave any deodorant snowdrifts down the side. Then I look in the mirror and survey the results.
Not bad. Not exactly J-Lo, but not bad.
The dress flatters my figure and that’s always a bonus when nature has bestowed on you a classically English build. It’s not that I’m fat. In fact, taken overall, my weight is near enough average. It’s just that the top half of my body (flat chest) and the bottom half (big bum) somehow look like they should belong to two different people.
My shoulder-length hair is mousy by nature but has been borderline blonde for several years, courtesy of an early
Sun-In
addiction which has graduated these days to full-blown highlights.
Today, it has been painstakingly curled–sorry,
tousled
–into a ‘natural’ look that took precisely two and a quarter hours and enough high-definition hair products to bouffant a scarecrow. And despite the haphazard application of my make-up, as well as the lingering annoyance of that zit, I’m starting to feel like I’ve scrubbed up pretty well today.
I’m just about to leave the room to attend to Grace, when I spot my bag at the side of the sink and realise I’ve forgotten something. Something crucial. Something that will finish off the look like nothing else. My ‘chicken fillet’ boob enhancers.
More dramatic than a Wonderbra and–at £49.99–significantly cheaper than surgery, I’ve been dying for a suitable occasion to try these out. I shove them down the front of my dress and wiggle them into position, before I turn to look at the results.
I can’t help but smile.
I still wouldn’t make much of a
Nuts
cover girl, but it’s an improvement on what nature has bestowed on me. (Or not bestowed, should I say.) I’m just about to show my new assets off to Grace when I hear a yell coming from the adjacent room.
The bride is having a showdown.
‘The chocolate favours have WHAT?’ shrieks Grace, gripping the hotel phone furiously.
‘Melted?’ she asks, her face growing redder. ‘How can they have melted?’ She puts a hand on her forehead.
‘Okay, how bad are they? I mean, are they still heart-shaped?’ There’s a pause.
‘Arrrghhh!’ She slams down the phone. Ouch.
‘So they’re not still heart-shaped?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Apparently they now look like something you’d find in a litter tray,’ she says, forlorn. ‘I haven’t got a bloody clue where my tiara is. Has anyone seen my tiara? Oh God, now I’ve lost that too.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ I say, trying to induce some calm. ‘It’s bound to be around here somewhere.’ Although we will need a satellite navigation system to begin to know where.
‘Mummy,’ Polly announces, ‘I’ve got no knickers on.’
Grace slumps onto the bed. ‘This is
great
,’ she says. ‘I’m getting married in about fifteen minutes. I’ve got a hole in my stockings, I can’t find my tiara, I’ve just found a fake-tan streak on my knee, and now it seems I’m incapable of getting my daughter out of the room with any underwear on. Not
only am I now at risk of being carted off by social services but I am also, officially, the worst bride in the world.’
I sit on the bed and put my arm around her. ‘Cheer up, Grace. You just need to put things in perspective. It’s only the biggest day of your life,’ I joke.
She wails. Look, I’m trying.
‘I’m meant to be walking down the aisle looking as elegant as Audrey Hepburn,’ she says. ‘At the moment, I feel about as elegant as…as…
Peggy Mitchell
.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ I say. ‘You’re at least three inches taller than Barbara Windsor.’
I see the faintest trace of a smile.
‘Look, what is the point in panicking?’ I continue. ‘It’s not like Patrick won’t wait for you. So what if you’re a bit late? And besides that, whatever you may think, you look
gorgeous
.’
‘Do I?’ She sounds sceptical.
‘Well, you will do soon,’ I say, looking at her dressing-gown. ‘Come on, it’s time to step things up a gear.’
And then I go into bridesmaid-overdrive, assaulting Grace with her toupe tape, nail polish, bronzing balls, lip gloss, bronzing balls (again), then, finally, the dress, which it takes both of us–plus Polly–to squeeze her into.
Just when I think we’re all done, with time to spare, it becomes clear that the drama is not over yet.
‘Oh bugger!’ Grace shouts suddenly. ‘I left my earrings downstairs with my mum. Evie, I’m so sorry but you’re going to have to go and find her.’
I look at the clock again. I feel exhausted.
By the time I’ve located Grace’s mum, secured the earrings and am heading for the stairs, I note that there are about four and a half minutes to go. But as I start dashing up
the stairs, something–or should I say
someone
–stops me in my tracks.
He is quite simply one of the most stunning-looking men I’ve ever seen. ‘Ruggedly handsome’ is the phrase that springs to mind–as in, gorgeous but not so perfect he’s dull or pretty. He’s got smooth and tanned skin, chiselled features and eyes the colour of warm treacle. His nose is slightly crooked but it hardly matters. He’s got a body so tight he’d make Action Man look like he’d let himself go.
My pace slows as I walk up the stairs, and my heart-rate quickens as I realise he’s looking right at me. Brazenly, I find myself holding his gaze as we step closer to each other. Then, as our paths are about to cross, the most incredible thing happens.
He looks at my breasts.
It’s only for a split second, but there is no doubt that it happens. In fact, it’s so blatant I’d almost describe it as
a gawp
. His eyes widen conspicuously and I even detect a faint intake of breath. As he drags his eyes away and continues on his way downstairs, I can’t help shaking my head in disbelief.
Part of me is appalled at how deeply Neanderthal this otherwise god-like creature turned out to be–and I remind myself of my personal vow never to judge a person on their looks. The other part of me is quietly pleased at the apparent effectiveness of my recent John Lewis purchase.
It is therefore with a slight spring in my step that I open the door to the bridal suite.
‘Ta da!’ I say. ‘One set of earrings.’
Grace turns around to look and gasps–before collapsing into hysterical giggles.
‘What?’ I ask, bewildered.
‘I’m not having you in my wedding photos looking like that,’ she cackles, barely able to contain herself.
‘Like what?’ I ask, pleased that I’ve done something to make her relax at last. But as I look down, the cause of her mirth becomes horribly apparent.
My cleavage has been attacked by two rogue jellyfish. At least, that’s what it looks like. My chicken fillets, the ones I was so very chuffed about, clearly felt restricted inside my dress–and have ridden up to make a break for freedom.
In fact, they nearly made it: my two ‘completely 100 per cent natural-looking’ breast enhancers are now poking out of the top of my dress for all the world to see. Or should I say, for him–Action Man–to see. Which feels rather worse than just
the world
.
‘I don’t believe this,’ I say, furiously yanking both fillets from my cleavage. In the absence of a barbecue, I chuck them in the bin.
‘Just think of it as God’s way of saying you were born flat-chested for a reason,’ Grace tells me kindly.
‘I’m glad you find it amusing,’ I say.
‘Sorry.’ Grace is clearly trying not to snigger. ‘But you must admit it’s
quite
amusing.’
I look across the room and see that Charlotte, Grace’s other grown-up bridesmaid, is back–having spent most of the morning sorting out flower arrangements–and even she is trying to suppress a smile. Which means it must be bad,
because Charlotte is possibly the sweetest person in the known universe.
‘Don’t worry, Evie,’ she comforts me. ‘I’m sure nobody noticed. They may have just thought they were part of your dress.’
I resist the temptation to tell Charlotte that the one person who did see it couldn’t have noticed more if they’d jumped out and slapped him on both cheeks.
‘No, you’re right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Charlotte.’
I feel a stab of guilt for not having found some time to help her get ready for today. It isn’t that Charlotte’s not pretty, because she most definitely is. She’s got skin that I’d kill for–smooth and clear like a baby’s, with gorgeous rosy cheeks–and eyes so big and gentle they could belong to Bambi. I remember thinking when I first met Charlotte–years ago now–that she reminded me of an eighteenth-century milkmaid: gloriously soft and round and wholesome.
But while Charlotte does have natural assets, it’s fair to say she doesn’t make the most of them. To be horribly blunt, there are contestants at Crufts who will have spent longer on their hair than she has today. And although Charlotte wouldn’t be Charlotte without her ample curves, she never dresses to flatter them. Her bridesmaid dress today is so tight, it looks dangerously close to cutting off her circulation.
‘It’s nearly time,’ I say, holding Charlotte’s hand and squeezing it.
‘Yes,’ she replies, looking utterly terrified.
Grace thrusts a bouquet into my hand.
‘Right, you two,’ she says. ‘We can’t stand around discussing Evie’s cleavage all day. We need to get down that aisle–and quick.’
It is difficult not to get caught up in the magic of a day like today.
Even someone as prone to cynicism as I am can’t help but dwell on all things
uncynical
at such a time. Like how incredible it must be to love someone so much you want to grow old and incontinent with them.
Because it’s not just the spray tan that has given Grace the glow she’s got today. It’s Patrick, the man she’s about to marry. And the fact there isn’t a doubt in her mind that he’s the man for her, for ever.
‘What’s the matter?’ whispers Charlotte as we wait outside the main room for the ceremony to start.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Why?’
‘You sighed, that’s all,’ she replies.
‘Did I?’ I whisper, a bit surprised.
She smiles. ‘Don’t worry, Evie,’ she says. ‘You’ll meet someone special one day.’
You’re more of an optimist than me, Charlotte.
As I follow Grace down the aisle to ‘What a Wonderful World’ sung by Louis Armstrong, I spot Gareth among the guests and my thoughts swing back to the last time I saw
him, sniffing into his napkin as I told him our relationship was no more.
I attempt a ‘no hard feelings’ smile but he pointedly turns away to concentrate on his Order of Service. I bite my lip for a second. What’s wrong with me exactly? Gareth wasn’t that bad.
None
of them were that bad.
I glance over to my left and another of my exes, Joe the TV producer, catches my eye and winks. Okay, maybe
he
was that bad. Smug as ever in his Paul Smith suit and sunbed tan, I can smell the four litres of Aramis he’s probably bathed in from the other side of the room.
I haven’t seen Peter the musician–the third of my failed relationships–here today, but I know he’s somewhere, playing with his tongue ring and rattling the ubiquitous key chain that I’m convinced is welded to him.
Grace and Patrick meet at the front and exchange nervous looks. I suppose even if you have spent the last seven years together, signing up for potentially the next seventy is enough to make anyone’s stomach do a few back-flips.
The pair met when they were trainees at the same law firm and, even though that was years ago now, Grace’s friends knew as soon as we met him that Patrick was the man for her. There was an immediate connection between them–and two kids and three mortgages later, it’s still obvious to anyone who meets them.
The registrar is an eccentric-looking woman in an A-line skirt that probably wasn’t very fashionable in 1982 when I suspect she bought it. It looks like the sort of thing Trinny and Susannah would spit on then set fire to. As she introduces the first reading, it suddenly strikes me that there was one person I hadn’t spotted as I walked down the aisle.
He of the deep brown eyes and chiselled jaw.
Action Man
.
No, this is good news. This means that one of the most monumentally cringeworthy incidents of my life is something to which I need never give a second thought. Because the only person who witnessed it isn’t even a guest at the wedding. I can forget it now. Completely.
I think about the definition in his features and the smooth skin that just got better as I moved closer towards him. And as I remember his smell–a heady combination of sultry aftershave and clean skin–I find myself slumping in my seat. Like hell this is good news.
Action Man, where are you?