Читать книгу A Beautiful Day for a Wedding: This year’s Bridget Jones! - Charlotte Butterfield - Страница 10

The blonde middle-aged woman was sat opposite Eve on the train again, wearing a half-heart locket. They never failed to make Eve smile. Half a heart. Meaning that someone, somewhere had the other half. Who was it? A lover heading off on his travels? A best friend declaring their unbreakable bond? It was amazing how many people all around you at any given time were in love with someone, whether the other person knew it or not. Eve almost missed her stop again, jostling through the wall of disgruntled suits to the train’s beeping doors to a soundtrack of tuts and sighs from her fellow commuters, who shifted the minimum of millimetres required for her to squeeze her body through.

‘Morning gorgeous. How’s my favourite redhead this morning?’

Eve smiled at the familiar greeting that the greying cockney security guard at her office building gave her every morning, before giving her standard response.

‘Morning Clive, fabulous day for it.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Morning Clive, fabulous day for it.’

It wasn’t really a fabulous day, it was grey and slightly drizzling, Eve had just forked out an exorbitant amount for a hotel room she hadn’t slept in and Tanya hadn’t returned any of her calls or texts, but none of that was Cockney Clive’s fault. Feeling the need to cheer herself up, Eve opened up a new word document on her screen and started typing into her diary. It had become a sort of therapy for her that she’d started during those dark first few months in New York with nothing but her thoughts for company. By writing down her most cynical observations and feelings, it stopped her saying them out loud.

Hen do games. Three words to strike terror into the heart of any woman. And man. Men are not exempt from the horror of a group of inebriated women, particularly as so many of the ‘fun’ and ‘hilarious’ hen do games involve getting random things off unsuspecting men. Like underwear. What sober woman would think that running up to a strange man in a supermarket and demanding his boxers would be an acceptable form of discourse? But put a group of prosecco-sodden women together in a pub, tie some unicorn horns onto their heads and suddenly, it’s ‘wa-hey random bloke I’ve never met before, pass me your pants!’

What about the mandatory Mr and Mrs quiz? Imagine the scene. Ten or fifteen well-heeled hens, an ageing mother, the mother of the groom, a couple of aunties thrown in for good measure. ‘So, bride, what’s your husband’s favourite position?’ A couple of seconds of pensive consideration pass. ‘Probably the Spork,’ she replies. ‘Where he positions his body at a ninety-degree angle to get a deeper thrust action.’ ‘Oh, good guess Enid, but that’s wrong unfortunately – Jeff said CEO.’

No good can come of hen do games. Ever.

‘Good weekend?’ Kat asked brightly as she shook off her jacket and hung it on the back of her office chair.

‘Yes and no,’ Eve replied honestly, minimising her diary on the screen before Kat could see it. After the tumbleweed had blown away from around the pool and the hens started bonding over wine and unicorn horns, it had been really fun; but the radio silence from Tanya suggested she might think otherwise. ‘I think I may be demoted from my bridesmaid status at some point this week.’

‘Wow, that bad?’ Kat chuckled.

‘Let’s just say that the bride is suffering from a sense of humour failure at present.’

‘Don’t they all?’

It was true; at some point in the lead up to every wedding the bride, even the most laid-back, fun-loving bride imaginable, would have a major meltdown over the hue of their napkins. Eve had received enough anxious letters over her two-year tenure at the magazine to vouch for that. The only bride that showed signs of getting through the run-up unfazed and unflappable was Becca, but that too could change as her date loomed closer.

Over the other side of the open-plan floor, her editor’s office light was on. Fiona was always the first one in, setting a good example for everyone else, and enabling her to tut at any latecomers. Now would be the perfect chance for Eve to speak to her quietly without lots of eyes and ears around. Eve took a deep breath and headed over.

‘Is now a good time for a quick chat, Fiona?’ Eve said, sticking her head around her boss’s door.

‘Please tell me you’re not resigning.’

‘I’m not resigning.’

‘Good. Ok then, come in.’

That was a hopeful start; asking for a pay rise after your boss had virtually called you indispensable was the stuff dreams were made of. Eve heard herself bumble around the topic, talking about the rising costs of public transport in London, rent charges, electricity costs, as reasons why she deserved more money.

‘I’m sorry Eve, my hands are tied. We’re on austerity orders from the powers that be; no more new hires and no pay rises. I’m hopeful that at the end of the year we may all get a small Christmas bonus, but there’s no money in the pot as of now. I promise, as soon as the money tree starts shedding its leaves, you’ll be the first to know. You are incredibly valued though, if that helps.’

Being valued was nice, but it didn’t pay for her flat. Or her credit card. Everyone assumed that she was so much better off than she was, and no one knew that each month she was relying more and more on that little piece of plastic burning in her purse.

Eve headed back to her Dear Eve inbox which was always bursting at the seams on a Monday morning. It was mid-May, wedding season was in view just around the corner and brides up and down the country were slowly melting from the stress of it all. Eve sighed and took a large gulp of her coffee before opening the first one. The subject line said ‘HELP!’ In any other job, Eve would have paid more heed to this, she might even have got the authorities on standby, but being a wedding magazine agony aunt meant she knew that this type of dramatic upper case yell for assistance was probably not life-threatening.

Dear Eve

I’m at my wits’ end. My fiancé is insisting on wearing a navy blue tie instead of the pale blue one that I’d picked out to match the bridesmaid dresses, and it’s going to look so wrong. He just laughs at me when I cry about it, and says that it’s his wedding too, but the whole theme is going to be ruined, HELP!

Sarah, Birmingham

Hi Sarah,

You are kidding, aren’t you? What sort of colourblind heathen are you marrying? I’d seriously rethink because if he’s happy to make this kind of monumental faux pas on your wedding day, what’s he going to do in the future? You deserve to be happy, Sarah. I would reconsider whether this joker is going to last the distance.

Eve smiled to herself before pressing delete and retyping:

Hi Sarah,

Congratulations on your big day, how exciting! You have chosen the perfect colour palette for your wedding as pale blue thankfully goes with everything, and navy and light blue is a classic combination that works beautifully. Maybe think about incorporating some more navy into the scheme so that it blends in even better. How about tying your bouquets with navy ribbon? Or having touches of navy on your table place cards? Have a super day!

Eve xx

Eve opened up a new email and started writing.

Hi Tanya,

I’m a dick, I’m sorry. I should have been more on top of the timings and arrangements and less about the fun. I feel really bad I let you down, and want to make it up to you in any way I can. If there is any last minute arranging that you need help with for the wedding then lay it on me, I’m here to serve.

Eve xx

That should do it. If there was one thing Tanya loved more than sulking it was writing To Do Lists. Eve busied herself for the rest of the morning researching her latest feature on registry gifts for the couple that had everything. So far, she had a tandem bike, because no one actually had one of those and it sounded fun to yomp around Hyde Park on one every Sunday morning, and a monthly subscription for a case of specialist wine. If she was going to fill three double page spreads, she’d need more than that. There was a current trend for couples asking guests to contribute towards their honeymoon by paying for different activities or meals out – a tapas meal for two; a paragliding session; a couple’s massage on a beach. That was actually a great idea. Gone were the days when two people moved from their parent’s homes to a shared marital home and needed everything to set them up for life. Most couples now came to a relationship with two sets of crockery, two microwaves, two irons and more furniture than could possibly fit into one house, so crowdfunding for an all-singing, all-dancing honeymoon was perhaps the future of the gift registry. It would certainly provide enough fodder for at least two of the pages.

An email from Tanya broke Eve’s concentration.

Hi.

Eve noted the full stop at the end of the greeting. That wasn’t a good sign.

Obviously it wasn’t the hen party I’d envisioned, but there’s no point wallowing about it when there’s so much still to do. As you know, the wedding is twelve days away, and there are lots of loose ends that are still bothering me, so if you mean it and you do want to help, here are some things you can be getting on with:

1. Book five minibuses to take people from the church to the reception.

2. Find some of those iron-on strips that hem fabric, I need about 45 metres of it.

3. Pick up the fabric from me and hem all the fabric that will be suspended from the ceilings.

4. Find one of those machines that polishes wooden floors. I visited the venue yesterday afternoon after getting back from the hen weekend early, and the floor is a state.

5. The day before the wedding, go to the venue before the rehearsal at the church and hang the fabric up and polish the floors.

Eve stopped reading. This wasn’t a list of loose ends, this was penance. She might as well fashion together a bunch of willow stems and self-flagellate for her sins. Polish the floors? Hem the curtains? Tanya had lost the plot. This wasn’t even the end of the list.

6. The day after the wedding, polish the floors again, it’s bound to have stuff spilt on it and we need to get our deposit back.

7. Luke left it too late to book Coco in at the kennels for our honeymoon, so can you have her for the two weeks? You can stay at ours as it’s probably easier than her being in your flat, and we live nearer your work than you do. Becca can come too if she likes. Don’t make a mess though.

8. Please tell me you picked up your bridesmaid dress from the tailors and it fits?

I think that’s everything for now, but there might be more, will let you know when I think of something else. You’re a star.

Tx

When I think of something else. Not if. When. This punishment had the potential to go on and on, Eve thought. She wished that she was the type to simply refuse, to write back that she could book the minibuses but that was it. Possibly buy the iron-on hemming stuff, once she googled what that was, but she was absolutely not going to iron them on.

Unless she had the time.

But on no account was she going to polish the floors. Who did Tanya think Eve was, Mrs bloody Mop? They did made it look so easy on Sixty Minute Makeover though, and it would be amazing for the biceps, she imagined, which would please her trainer Juan.

But looking after a dog for two whole weeks? She could barely keep the pot of basil next to her sink alive. But then again, it would be good to have a shorter commute for a fortnight. She could actually walk to work from Tanya’s, rather than contend with the tube. And the weather was lovely at the moment. And since moving back, she hadn’t made many other friends yet so really needed to hang onto the ones she already had.

Ok, she typed back. Am on it. And yes, picked up dress, fits like a glove.

A very tight glove that stops the blood circulating round your body.