‘How is it that there are ninety guests here today and I manage to be put next to Valentina and her trophy boyfriend?’ I ask. ‘Did I torture kittens in a past life or something?’
Charlotte tries to stop herself from smiling. ‘She’s not that bad,’ she says. ‘I think she might be insecure.’
We both look over in Valentina’s direction.
‘Kelly Brook?’ she’s saying loudly to one of the ushers. ‘Oh, that’s funny, because most people tell me I look like Angelina Jolie…’
‘I
know
she’s not that bad,’ I say, ‘but insecure? She couldn’t be more secure if she were padlocked and guarded by MI5.’
Charlotte giggles.
‘Anyway, let’s see who’s on your table. Oh, lucky you!’ I say, nudging her.
Charlotte has been put next to Jim, Grace’s favourite cousin. He’s a trainee cameraman with the BBC, who has been roped into doing the wedding video today. Although he’s a year or two younger than us, he is one of the nicest people you could ever hope to meet. Secretly, I have always thought he would make a perfect partner for Charlotte.
‘Jim’s lovely, you know,’ I tell her, not very subtly.
Charlotte blushes and looks away. She does this all the time–often for little apparent reason–and I know that she despairs of this trait, as with one rush of blood to the head, her entire thoughts are laid out for the world to see. In this case, if I know Charlotte, I can see very plainly that she’s got a crush.
‘What’s up?’ I say softly. ‘You have been introduced to Jim, haven’t you?’
‘Er, yes,’ she replies. ‘I’ve met him once or twice before.’
‘Don’t you think he’s nice?’ I add.
‘Hmm,’ she says, her cheeks now the colour of a particularly full-bodied Valpolicella.
‘You could do worse, you know,’ I tell her.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she says, fiddling with the strings on her satin bag.
‘Charlotte, you don’t have to hide these things from me,’ I say, holding her hand. But she still looks like a teenager during a parental chat about contraceptive methods.
‘I’ll drop a few hints if you like,’ I offer when she doesn’t reply.
‘No!’ she says immediately. ‘Please, Evie,
no
.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I say, deciding it’s time to back off. For now. I know only too well that if Charlotte gets herself too worked up, she’ll go out of her way to avoid ever speaking to Jim again. The poor girl definitely needs my intervention somewhere along the way, I don’t doubt that. Charlotte has only ever had one boyfriend–Gordon, a damp-proofing specialist–who was uniquely lacking in a single interesting feature. His one talent was that he could tell you everything you never wanted to know about the differences between dry and wet
rot, which, believe me, are many and varied. That was years ago, however, and Charlotte is more than overdue another romantic liaison.
Before we sit down to eat, I go to powder my nose and triple check for stray boob enhancers, cabbage in my front teeth, and that I haven’t accidentally tucked my skirt into my knickers. Then I take a deep breath and head back to the marquee to locate table five. Jack is already there by himself. I contemplate making a diversion so I’m not left talking to him alone, but he sees me and raises his eyebrows casually in recognition.
Oh no–help me, someone. I’m stuck with Valentina’s eye candy already.
‘It’s the bridesmaid with the big voice,’ says Jack cheerfully as I approach our table.
I should be relieved that he’s chosen that, and not the earlier incident, to remind me of, but I still can’t help sounding slightly irritated.
‘Am I not going to be allowed to forget that?’ I ask.
‘I won’t mention it again, I promise,’ he grins. ‘So, how do you know the bride?’
I’ve chit-chatted with enough of Valentina’s beaux over the years to know that the next couple of hours are likely to be as excruciating as a dodgy Brazilian wax. But I tell myself to be polite. I don’t suppose it’s his fault if he’s as bright as a 5-watt pygmy bulb.
‘We went to Liverpool University together,’ I say, before realising he appears to be waiting for me to elaborate. ‘We shared a house in the last two years.’
‘But you’re not from Liverpool originally?’ he asks, studying my accent.
‘Not far away,’ I say. ‘About forty-five minutes north.’
‘It’s a great city,’ he says. ‘I love it.’
‘So you don’t live there yourself?’ I ask, annoyed with myself for wanting to know.
‘I’ve just moved there,’ he says. ‘With work.’
Under other circumstances, I’d pursue this as a line of conversation, but the last thing I want is for him to think I’m interested.
‘I didn’t know Valentina had a new boyfriend,’ I say instead, wondering immediately why I’m bringing this up.
‘We’ve only actually been out together once before,’ Jack tells me. ‘I’m a member of her tennis club.’
I look up to see Valentina flouncing towards us as if she’s at Paris Fashion Week, before sitting down and putting her hand conspicuously on Jack’s knee. Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt.
‘I’m really not sure about this dress,’ she muses, inching the hem up. ‘Jack, what do you think? I can’t decide whether it shows off too much leg.’
She crosses her legs slowly–to show exactly how much leg there is. Jack’s eyes are drawn to them momentarily, before he looks away. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I could detect a slight sense of embarrassment.
The other guests on our table start to arrive, beginning with two of Grace’s aunts. Auntie Sylvia and Auntie Anne are both lovely, tiny women who are dressed today as visions of dusty pink and powder blue, respectively. They both have huge hats, candyfloss perms and meticulously co-ordinated outfits that look like the sort of thing you’d find in a catalogue distributed with the
Mail on Sunday
.
Their husbands, Uncle Giles and Uncle Tom, have spruced themselves up just as much as their wives, although without quite the same panache. Uncle Tom has made a daring attempt at a comb-over, with just a handful of straggly
hairs clinging to his scalp for dear life. I’m finding it difficult to tear my eyes away from it.
‘Ay up, love,’ says a voice I recognise immediately.
I leap up and hug Georgia, another of my old university friends, who is here with her new fiancé, Pete.
Georgia is by far and away the wealthiest individual I know, but to the untrained ear you’d never guess it–the accent is more Daphne Moon than Princess Di.
Georgia’s dad grew up in near-poverty in Blackburn and is a self-made man whose company is now the largest manufacturer of plastic bags in Europe. It is perhaps because of his background that Georgia and her family are the most down-to-earth millionaires you could ever hope to meet. She’d be the first to admit she loves to spend, but she’s also exceptionally generous and sometimes gives the impression of not being entirely comfortable with her wealth.
‘So, how’s your practice-run as a bridesmaid been, Evie?’ she asks.
‘Good,’ I tell her. ‘I might even have worked out what I’m meant to be doing by the time it’s your wedding.’
When we left university, Georgia was one of the few who didn’t remain in Liverpool and, although we stayed in touch, the rest of us didn’t see nearly as much of her as we would have liked. That’s all changed in the last couple of months since the preparations for
her
wedding really got underway. We have had to meet up for so many dress fittings I’m starting to imagine what it must feel like to be a shop dummy.
‘I love your outfit, by the way,’ I tell her.
Georgia always looks fantastic. Today she is wearing a cream suit which I’d guess is YSL–her favourite–and a simple but beautiful diamond necklace.
‘Oh, cheers, love,’ she says. ‘It was from Top Shop.’
I smile. If that suit is from Top Shop then I’m a world champion Sumo wrestler. But I’m not going to be the one to ‘out’ her.
When our first course arrives, Jack turns and asks if I could pass the pepper. But as I reach over for it, Valentina interrupts.
‘Don’t worry, Evie, I’ve got one here,’ she says, touching Jack’s arm as she hands it to him. ‘You know,’ she says, lowering her voice and closing in on him, ‘I’ve read somewhere that pepper is supposed to be an aphrodisiac.’
I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel a bit ill.
‘Tell me, Pete,’ says Valentina to Georgia’s fiancé. ‘Are you interested in tennis at all?’
‘I’m what you’d call an armchair fan,’ Pete responds, flashing a grin at his future wife. Georgia splutters into her drink.
‘What he means is that the last time he played he was so unfit he nearly ended up in Casualty,’ she says.
‘Thanks for your support, love, it’s touching,’ he jokes. ‘You’ll be telling people I’m a crap shag next.’
‘I’d be delighted to give you a lesson,’ says Valentina, handing over one of her trademark red business cards. ‘I’ve done some fabulous work on Jack’s forehand, as I’m sure he’ll tell you. Not that Jack’s forehand wasn’t above averagely skilled in the first place,’ she adds, flashing a suggestive smile.
We’re onto the dessert course when it registers that Jack and I have barely exchanged a single word since we sat down. No tragedy as far as I’m concerned–obviously–although I am starting to question Valentina’s sanity these days.
He has turned to me on several occasions, only to be hauled back as if she’s got him on a set of reins. So far, she’s asked him to check whether her lipstick is smudged no less
than four times, and I suspect she’d prefer to fake her own sudden death rather than let him enter into conversation with anyone other than herself.
The sole exception to that is Pete, with whom Jack has been allowed to share a brief discussion about their passion for rugby. It ended abruptly, however, when Pete suggested he join him in an executive box next weekend. The invitation was for a single spare place only.
The only significant drawback to all this for me is that I am stuck with Uncle Giles to my right. I should stress that I have nothing at all against Uncle Giles, who is, to all intents and purposes, a lovely man. But if I hear another word about his collection of nineteenth-century shotguns I may have to ask if I can borrow one to put myself out of my misery.
‘Shotguns have been my thing since I was a teenager, you see,’ he tells me.
‘You’d get an ASBO for that these days,’ I joke, but he just frowns and moves on to the enduring qualities of British craftsmanship.
I take the opportunity of this interlude to have a peek at what Charlotte is up to on table 14, and am pleased to see that she and Jim are deep in conversation. At least, Jim is. Charlotte is shredding her napkin nervously and is now surrounded by so many bits it looks as if she’s just come in from a blizzard. Still, it’s a start. And I must say, he looks promisingly interested.
Grace’s dad looks so relieved to sit down after his speech you’d think he’d just addressed Wembley Stadium. It was the shortest, quietest speech in the history of wedding speeches, but we all laughed at his one joke anyway and clapped furiously at the end.
Next up is Patrick, who is used to public speaking and looks significantly more comfortable than his new father-in-law did. He straightens his jacket–the tails he desperately didn’t want to wear today–and runs a hand through his thick blond hair. Grace looks up at him proudly.
‘May I say on behalf of both myself and…
my wife
,’ he begins, grinning at Grace’s new title, ‘how delighted we are that so many of you have made it here today. Grace and I have been together for the last seven years, and I can honestly say that every day I think to myself how lucky she is to have met me…’
The room collapses into laughter at what turns out to be the first of many of Patrick’s acceptably lame quips.
Only when he is nearing the end of his speech do I sense someone looking at me. I glance around at Jack and our eyes meet for the third time that day. Even as it’s happening, I
know it’s a ridiculous thing to do. His date is sitting right next to him and I’ve already decided I’m not interested. Definitely not interested.
But I can’t help myself studying his undeniably beautiful face as the hint of a smile, a smile I’d almost call flirtatious, appears on his lips. The room erupts into rapturous applause as Patrick finishes and Jack and I snap out of…
whatever the hell it is we’re in
.
As the clapping dies down, Valentina has a momentary lapse in concentration and Jack seems to seize the opportunity.
‘Have you been a bridesmaid before?’ he asks me.
‘Never. Have you?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he smiles. ‘I was a pageboy once, but velvet culottes and a dickie bow aren’t a good look when you’re fifteen. I didn’t enjoy it much.’
I find myself laughing. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘it
is
the rule at weddings that everyone else involved in the ceremony has to look rubbish so that they don’t upstage the bride.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘So what went wrong with you?’
Before I can even contemplate an answer to this, Valentina grabs him by the hand and whisks him up from the table.
‘You still haven’t met the bride and groom properly,’ she says firmly.
It’s amazing how she can sound like a cerebrally-challenged Bunny Girl one minute and a Victorian schoolmistress the next. Jack has little choice but to go with her, although I’m certain I detect a slight frown as he does so.
‘So, Evie,’ says Uncle Giles, interrupting my thoughts. ‘You were asking about barrels earlier.’
Was
I?
I spend the next ten minutes trying to get away from Uncle Giles and when I eventually do, I head straight for the ladies, where I know I’m safe. Grace is already in there and we go into adjacent cubicles.
‘Jack’s a bit of all right, isn’t he?’ she shouts over.
I hesitate. What’s the right way to approach this question, I wonder. Jack’s definitely a bit of all right, but there is one major problem with him.
‘He’s very much Valentina’s type,’ I say dismissively.
Grace pauses. ‘What, you mean stupid?’ she asks. ‘I don’t think he is, actually. Val says he got a First at Oxford and is now the chief executive of some charity or other.’
I unravel some loo roll silently. Okay, so he’s been to a posh university and has a good job. That just means he falls into the ‘no commonsense’ category.
‘Evie?’ Grace says.
‘Yeah?’ I reply.
‘Oh, you’d just gone quiet, that’s all.’
We come out of our cubicles simultaneously and she looks at me, narrowing her eyes accusingly.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘You fancy him,’ she says.
I take on the indignant air of someone wrongly accused of farting in a lift. ‘I do
not
!’ I say, and march over to the sink to wash my hands.
‘Look, don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Just don’t tell Valentina, for God’s sake. She’s had enough of a mouth on her because I didn’t make her a bridesmaid. You getting off with her date would send her over the edge.’
‘Grace, I have absolutely no intention of
getting off
with
anyone,’ I say, slightly exasperated. ‘Unless it’s escaped your notice, you managed to invite three of my ex-boyfriends to this wedding, so it would hardly be appropriate even if it were true.’
‘I’m not apologising for that,’ she says. ‘Only one of them was an ex when we drew up the invitation list. You’ve managed to get through two others since then.’
‘Well, look, Mrs Smug Newly Wed,’ I say. ‘Just because you’ve found a gorgeous, intelligent bloke you fancy enough to spend the rest of your life with doesn’t mean it happens quite so easily for all of us.’
‘So none of the men you’ve ever been out with have been good-looking or intelligent then?’
I frown. She knows she’s got a point.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘Maybe you just need to alter your expectations a bit. The initial romance wears off in any relationship.’
‘Faster in mine than most though,’ I say, feeling thoroughly depressed now.
She smiles and raises her eyebrows. ‘Anyway, if you did fancy Jack…’ she says.
‘I don’t!’ I interrupt.
‘Well, I’m just saying
if
you did…I wouldn’t worry about Valentina too much. You know how many men she gets through, and he’s apparently just split up with his long-term girlfriend–which I’m guessing means the Valentina thing is his way of getting over it. She’s a consolation shag, I bet you.’
I pause for a second, determined not to give too much away. Grace’s words get me wondering though.
‘So,’ I say idly as we head back, ‘you do think they’re shagging then?’