Читать книгу Wedding Fever - Kim Gruenenfelder - Страница 4

Prologue

Melissa

Is it a really bad sign when the bride has locked herself in the bathroom? Or is it just one of those things that all brides are secretly tempted to do right before the ceremony?

I am standing in the back room of a beautiful old church in Santa Monica wearing a sparkly satin aquamarine dress with a giant bow at the hip, dyed-to-match aquamarine pumps, and an aquamarine hat so ostentatious it could make Liberace climb out of his grave just to tell me to tone it down a bit.

Obviously, I’m the bridesmaid. An honor that currently affords me the task of knocking politely on the bathroom door of my good friend Nicole (aka The Bride) and begging her to come out.

“Nic? Honey,” I say gently, tapping lightly on the door. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she whispers to me through the locked door. “I’m an awful, selfish person who doesn’t deserve a wedding, or a marriage, or happiness. And I am going to die alone with a bunch of potbellied pigs.”

“Pigs?” I ask, confused but trying to sound understanding and sympathetic. “Why would you end up with pigs?”

“I hate cats.”

I can’t tell if she’s overreacting or not. I mean, when you think about it, a wedding is an astonishingly big leap of faith. Any ceremony that specifically mentions “sickness,” “poverty,” and “death” as part of the agreement— that should at least give a girl pause. Right?

Maybe that’s why society has encouraged women to focus more on the glittering diamonds, the gorgeous dress, the flowers, the presents, the cake. . . .

Oh . . . the cake. After this past week, I’m pretty sure the bride doesn’t even want to hear the word cake, much less look at one.

Our friend Seema, Nic’s maid of honor, opens the front door of the bridal room and backs her way in, careful to keep the door as shut as possible while she slithers through the doorway. Seema wears the same ridiculous ensemble as I, but her luminous Indian skin can handle the hideous shade of blue Nic has picked for us. And her hourglass figure easily pulls off the lacy décolletage of the V-neck top and the stupid bow at the hip.

“No, no problem at all,” Seema insists with forced cheer to someone out in the hall. “We just need a few more minutes. The bride . . .” She glances over at me as she struggles to finish her sentence. “. . . smaid!” Seema continues. “The bridesmaid is depressed that it’s never going to be her and has locked herself in the bathroom. We’ll be right out.”

Seema slams the door shut, locks it, then runs over to me, still camped out at the bathroom door. “I think I bought us a few more minutes,” Seema whispers to me hurriedly. “I don’t think anyone suspects anything yet.”

My eyes bug out at her. “Who was that?”

“The church lady. She wants to know why we’re behind schedule.”

“Why did you tell her that I was the depressed one?” I whine to her in a whisper. “Like I’m not having enough problems today. Do I really need three hundred people thinking I’m holding up a wedding because I can’t get my love life together?”

“I panicked,” Seema admits in a whisper. “Besides, it could be an excuse.”

“Did it ever occur to you to use your sorry excuse for a love life as an excuse?” I challenge her. (An outburst that is completely out of character for me but I believe well within my rights.)

“Fine,” Seema concedes, her tone of voice clearly brushing me off. “So next time, you can go out there, and use me as the excuse.” Seema begins rapping on Nicole’s bathroom door several times. “Nic, drama time’s over,” she says firmly, but ever so quietly. ( Can’t have the wedding guests hear anything in the back room, after all.) “Now come on out.”

“No!” Nic whispers back urgently through the door.

“Don’t let my whispering fool you,” Seema warns Nic. “I swear to God, I will kick down this door! Put me in an aquamarine skullcap in front of three hundred people. Oh, you will get married today! I don’t care if I have to drag you down the aisle with a chair and a whip.”

“First of all, it’s not aquamarine— it’s aqua,” Nic begins with a hint of condescension. “As a matter of fact, if we’re getting technical, I’d say it’s more of an electric blue.”

“Really?” Seema responds dryly. “This is what you want to do right now? Lecture me on your chosen bridal color palette?”

Nic whips open the door to haughtily tell Seema, “Well, you make me sound like some tacky little bride from 1984. And, secondly, it is not a skullcap. That is a lovely— vintage!—forties hat and veil.”

Nicole looks exquisite: the quintessential California girl ready for her wedding at the beach. Her sun-kissed skin glows, her emerald eyes sparkle, and her platinum-blond hair practically shimmers under her long veil. She looks flawless in her gorgeous Monique Lhuillier strapless princess A-line gown in ivory satin. A vision, ready to walk down the aisle. . . .

Until she slams the bathroom door shut again before we have the chance to ram our way in and force her to get married.

I let my head fall into the palm of my hand.

Seema tries the door, but it’s locked again.

“It’s a costume for an extra in an Esther Williams movie,” Seema yells as much as possible while speaking in a stage whisper. “Now get your butt out here!”

There’s a polite knock on the front door. I walk over to it. “Yes?” I ask through the door in the most carefree and breezy tone I can muster.

“It’s Mrs. Wickham,” the lady from the church says on the other side of the door. “People are starting to ask questions. Is everything okay in there?”

I watch Seema stand up, determinedly walk back a few steps, then run like a bull right into the bathroom door.

It doesn’t budge.

“It’s fine,” I lie. “I was . . .”

Seema grabs her shoulder in pain, and starts rubbing it. “Son of a . . .” She pounds on the door with both fists and stage-whispers, “You get out here, woman!”

I open the front door as little as possible, then squeeze through the tiny crack and step out into the hallway. As I do, I take my left hand and push Mrs. Wickham away from the door and farther out into the hallway while simultaneously closing the door behind me with my right hand. “I’ve been vomiting,” I lie. “And crying. Nic was just helping me clean up my mascara.” I grab her by the collar and whine, “Oh God, Mrs. Wickham, why isn’t it me? Why is it never me?”

Suddenly I hear a loud, rhythmic pounding inside the room. I quickly let go of Mrs. Wickham’s collar, open the door a crack, then peek in to see Seema holding a fire extinguisher and ramming it repeatedly into the locked door.

I close the door quickly to block anything unseemly from Mrs. Wickham, and force a toothy smile. “But I’m good now.”

POUND!

I continue to smile, “You go make sure the groom is okay . . .”

POUND!

My cheeks hurt, I’m smiling so hard. “After all, without a groom, we don’t have a wedding.”

POUND!

PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!

“Oh shit!” I hear Seema roar on the other side of the door.

I open the door a crack for a second time to see Seema covered in fire extinguisher goo.

I slam the door shut again, then turn around to the church lady and force myself to admit, “Okay, we might be having a little problem with Seema’s dress. We’re gonna need two more minutes.”

One week earlier. . . .