The Bad Girls' Club (3 page)

‘
I’m not having an attack.’

‘
It could be arranged.’

‘
Grown-ups do things they don’t want to.’

I pouted, still not convinced.
‘I laddered my stockings.’

‘
You don’t need stockings. Stockings are for grandmothers. Now sit still while I do your hair.’

‘
I wish you were going with me,’ I told him.

‘
I know you do, but we aren’t Will and Grace.’

I was half an hour late getting to the Happy Occasions reception centre. Yo
u’
d have thought ther
e’
d have been someone to show me to the table, but no such luck. Instead, I had to skulk around the room looking for a poppy-shaped place card with my name on it.

I was about to give up when I noticed the old maids and freaks table at the back of the room. Don
’t know how I missed it really with old Aunt Flossie’s bracelets and charms jangling away. God, when Aunt Flossie said she’d be somewhere with bells on the whole family groaned. You never knew whether to take it literally.

Surely Poppy wouldn
’t be bitch enough?

I turned toward the door, hoping to sneak out and cut my losses, when Aunt Flossie called out.
‘Yoo-hoo, Beth. Over here.’ It was about then that I started imagining Poppy on a spit roast with an apple in her mouth.

‘
Just squeeze in here, Beth girl. Us old maids have to stick together. Not that I would have a bar of any of ‘em anyway. Wouldn’t even have Brad Pitt if he asked me.’

‘
Yeah, Aunt Floss,’ I said with a smile. Hadn’t heard that one before.

She turned to me in a conspiratorial whisper.
‘Watch out. Arthur is down the end of the table.’ Hell. Uncle Arty. Uncle Farty we called him as kids. Aunt Floss might be bad but at least she could hold a relatively lucid conversation. I hadn’t planned on drinking but this sudden awareness of my genetic potential made me grab the nearest bottle of wine and a poppy-decorated wine glass. What was with all these poppy motifs anyway? How tacky. My wedding would have been so tasteful. My wedding. Damn. I took a big gulp of Chablis.

Sitting across from me was Imogen, Poppy
’s personal assistant. She smirked when I sat down then went back to adjusting her bra strap. Imogen was unkempt, in an icky Ally-Sheedy-in-The-Breakfast-Club-before-the-makeover kind of way. You know, that greasy hair over the face, staring at the floor kind of thing. She wore one of those big shirts that shop assistants describe as ‘figure flattering’. As if anything would flatter a blob like that. It was so gross, the way she hooked her fingers into a roll of flab to get that bra untangled. With boobs that size, I guess she needed some kind of horrible industrial bra. Anyway, I hoped that bra strap was enough to keep her occupied for a while. We’d had a bit of an altercation at the engagement party. I am not going to drink instant coffee even if it is that ‘really good Moccona stuff’.

Next to her was Julia or Jessica or something like that. I think she was a friend of Poppy
’s from kindergarten. I’d met her at the engagement party, the shower, and numerous other Poppy-centric occasions but the name was a blank. She’d probably look okay if she made a bit of an effort. If I were her, I’d put a few blonde highlights through that mousy hair and straighten out the frizz a bit. But then again, if I were her, I wouldn’t be seen dead in that dress. Even Aunt Flossie’s dress was more hip. Didn’t she realise nobody under fifty ever wore a
frock
?

They were both so clueless and wrong.

They whispered together and I knew they were talking about me but I didn’t care what they had to say.

I got through the over-sauced and under-prawned Seafood Cocktail and the dried-out chicken without too much pain. Well, except when Aunt Flossie asked me to
‘check out the best man’s lunch’ as he was giving his speech.

‘
Do you reckon he likes older women?’ she asked me.

I wondered if I could hack off my arm with the dinner knife. Surely, an emergency dash to the casualty ward had to be better than this. But she did redeem herself when she asked, rather loudly, if I thought it was appropriate Poppy getting married in white. Aunt Flossie might be a bit daft but she was on the ball when it came to things like that. Poppy had never fooled her.

After dinner, I thought I’d better make my presence felt with the aunts so they could report back to Mum and keep her happy. I washed down my pride with another glass of wine and went to find them.

Aunt Gertrude told me that
‘I wasn’t getting any younger and what was I saving myself for anyway?’, while Uncle Bill suggested that ‘maybe I didn’t like boys, hey, hey, you know what I mean…’ then elbowed me in the ribs and spilt half his beer down my sleeve.

I was in the bathroom sponging it off when Auntie Jean walked in. She told me I looked fabulous and made me keep a lookout while she had a smoke. No one else in the family knew she smoked and she sure as hell needed one after being the mother of bridal-Poppy all day. She was a darling and didn
’t once mention potential husbands or more fish in the sea or anything awkward like that. Then again, she didn’t mention anything about coffee machines for Christmas either.

Aunt Mildred grabbed me and forced me to kiss her powder-encrusted cheek. I
’d be spitting out Max Factor Dewy Face Finish for weeks. Of course, she reminded me to get up close for the bouquet. ‘Can’t hurt, can it dear?’ I knew that already – after all, Auntie Nell, Uncle Jimmy and about five cousins had told me the same thing.

‘
I remember your mother’s wedding, now she was –’

‘
Sorry.’ Poppy interrupted. ‘I’ve got to borrow Beth for a moment.’ She grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the bathroom. ‘OK, Beth, here’s the deal. You stand to the extreme left when I throw the bouquet. That way you have the best chance of catching it.’

I glared at her.
‘What makes you think I want to catch it anyway?’ I didn’t want her pity bouquet. If she was going to give out married-woman-to-poor-single-cousin favours, she could at least introduce me to that dreamy best man.

‘
Well, that’s what everyone has been telling me – make sure you throw the bouquet to Beth, the poor girl needs it. Now keep watch for me. I need a fag.’

Poppy squeezed the layers of her Marianna Hardwick dress into a cubicle and shut the door behind her while I checked myself out in the mirror. Her cigarette lighter flicked in the silence of the bathroom.

‘What’s the idea of shoving me up the back with Aunt Flossy and Uncle Drools?’ I asked her. ‘Thanks a lot.’

I wet a wad of paper towel and rubbed at a mascara smudge under my eye.

‘Where would you rather be? Next to Mildred and Gertrude? They’d have nagged you to death.’

She had a point. Damn her.

‘Anyway, dinner’s over, so stop your whinging.’

‘
What’s with those girls anyway? Do they even own mirrors?’

‘
Hell, Juliette has always been a dag but we’ve been friends forever. If I didn’t invite her out occasionally, she’d never have any social life. As for Imogen, I don’t get it. I mean, her mum’s so glam. Can you check the back of my dress?’

Poppy swivelled around. Although there was nothing I
’d love more than seeing her walk out with it tucked up into her knickers, she looked fine.

‘
What’s with Imogen’s mother?’ I asked.

‘
Her mum. She was in Vogue last month. She’s famous for being a business woman or something. I dunno. But she’s got the most fab house and –’

‘
Samantha Wilson?’

‘
Yeah. That’s the one.’

‘
Samantha Wilson. Business Woman of the Year, Samantha Wilson? No way.’ What was I doing wasting time in the bathroom? This was my big chance. I was one step away from the Business Woman of the Year.

‘
God, Beth. Stop gushing. It’s no big deal. I mean Imogen works for me. You don’t gush over that.’

‘
Whatever. Got to go.’

As I walked out, Poppy called after me.

‘Beth, don’t you dare say anything to Imogen.’

I turned back, rolling my eyes.

‘I mean it. Seriously, she’ll go mental. She hates her mother.’

When I got back, waiters cleared the table and everyone had taken off except Imogen and the other girl. They sat fiddling with their place cards and not talking.

‘Great wedding, hey?’ I smiled at Imogen.

She looked up and grunted then went back to tearing her place card into strips.

‘So, anything exciting happening in your life?’

That got a snarl out of her.

‘My mum called the other day. She was all excited because the local Farmers’ Gazette wanted to run an article on her. It’s great when your mum gets acknowledgement like that, isn’t it?’

She stared at me for a moment, as though I
’d gone insane then turned away. Maybe I should have been nicer to her at the engagement party instead of getting into an argument over the coffee.

I poured myself another glass of wine from the bottle on the table and checked my watch. Just as I thought my life could not possibly get any worse, the band played the Chicken Dance and Aunt Gertrude tried to coax me up to the
dance floor.

As I checked my watch for the third time, Imogen leaned over to me.

‘How the fuck does she do it?’

I looked at her. Who was she talking about? Her mother? Aunt Flossie? Aunt Gertrude on the dance floor flapping her wings? I cringed. Why did my family have to be like this in front of Samantha Wilson
’s daughter?

‘
Poppy, I mean. How does she do it? Always done whatever she wanted. Staggered into work straight from some guy’s apartment half the time, not even remembering his name. She’s had more pricks than a second-hand dartboard. She’s bad, really bad and she lands a guy like him.’ Imogen stabbed the air with a fork as though she was gouging the Poppy-on-a-spit I had been imagining earlier. I guess being Poppy’s personal assistant was making her snap.

I looked at the groom. The babelicious Daniel. Babelicous in a total sexy, floppy-fringed, cheeky-smiled Hugh Grant kind of way. Imogen had a point. How the hell did Poppy get away with it?

I shook my head. ‘She’s always been like it. As a kid, she’d break windows or steal booze out of Nan’s cupboard or play strip poker with the boys and, as soon as an adult appeared, she’d be all sweetness and light.’

Imogen screwed up her face.
‘Looks like things are still the same, don’t you think?’

I had to agree. Imogen sprawled across the table. Her bra strap had slid down below her sleeve now and she slurred her words. But I was warming to the topic. If there was one thing I could rant about for hours it was how life was too damn kind to cousin Poppy.

We ran through it all. Her habit of always being half an hour late unless you were late yourself and then she’d be on time and make the biggest fuss about being kept waiting; her asking of ‘tiny little’ favours that took up your whole day; her need for quiet if ever you had the most interesting piece of news. Damn, she was a bitch and I guess Imogen suffered from it more than anyone did.

‘
I guess it pays to be a bad girl,’ I said.

‘
It sure does,’ Imogen replied. ‘Bad girls don’t run other people’s errands. Or spend their lunch hours tracking down every poppy-motifed piece of tableware in the city.’

‘
Bad girls don’t have to go to their damn cousin’s boring poppy-themed wedding.’ I scrunched up one of the paper poppy flowers looped around the table and threw it into the poppy table centre.

‘
Bad girls don’t spend the night packing up equipment and driving the van while the lead singer gets wasted and shags bimbo groupies,’ added Imogen as she slumped down further on the table.

I sighed.
‘Bad girls don’t cook dinner for their mangy fiancé and wait around in a twin set and pearls like Betty frigging Crocker while he’s blending the Frost and Toss girl’s smoothie machine.’

‘
Bad girls don’t even own a twin set. They don’t own cardigans or comfortable shoes or sensible “in case you get hit by a bus” underwear.’

Suddenly a voice piped up.
‘Bad girls don’t even wear underwear.’ Julia or Jessica or whatever her name was had finally spoken. I had forgotten she was sitting at the table.

Imogen and I both turned to her.

‘Hey, sometimes Poppy annoys me too,’ she said, then looked away embarrassed. ‘At least you two aren’t her
sympathy
friend.’

Imogen lurched up, banging her hands on the table. She looked at us both and declared,
‘excuse me. I’m going to become a bad girl.’

Did she mean what I thought she meant? Shit, she did. She stood up and, in one discreet movement, slid off her knickers without even hoiking up her skirt. She held the red and white cotton underwear aloof for our inspection. I giggled nervously, hoping none of the formidable aunts had seen her.

‘Whoa! I’m a bad girl now,’ Imogen said.

She laughed and I looked at Julia or Jessica for her shocked reaction but she wasn
’t paying attention. She’d moved her chair back behind a big pot plant and, with her shoes placed on the carpet beside her, wiggled in her seat.