I snatch the phone from Kimmie’s hands and inspect the photo more closely, trying to see what all the fuss is about. Sam is OK-looking, but nothing out of the ordinary, and definitely not my type.
‘You really think he’s hot?’ I ask.
‘Um, yes,’ Stella says. ‘He can impregnate me anytime.’
The three of them cackle away like Macbeth’s witches.
‘I thought you didn’t do gingers,’ I say.
‘Never say never,’ Stella replies.
‘Does he have any brothers?’ Mikey asks hopefully.
‘No. He’s an only child.’
‘Is he nice?’ Kimmie asks. ‘He looks nice.’
‘To be perfectly honest, he’s kind of a try-hard.’
I tell them about getting home from school on Wednesday and discovering Sam sitting at the kitchen table with Mum, helping her cut out fondant snowflakes for yet another Frozen cake.
‘Well, it must be weird for him, living with someone else’s family all of a sudden,’ Kimmie says.
‘Weird for him?’ I say. ‘What about me? I’m the one who’s had to give up my bedroom.’
‘Um, not exactly. It was Grace’s bedroom all along,’ Stella points out.
‘So? It’s still rude of them to just turn up practically unannounced and expect everyone to shift around and make space for them both. Did I tell you about the bed?’
‘Only about twelve times,’ Stella says.
A brand-new double bed arrived on Thursday while I was at school. When I got home the mattress was propped up against the wall in the hallway, covered in plastic. Assembled, the bed takes up nearly the whole of Grace’s room.
‘I’ve been asking for a double bed for years,’ I say.
Stella mimes playing a violin. I stick my tongue out at her.
‘So, when can we meet him in the flesh?’ Mikey asks.
‘He’ll be at the wedding, I suppose.’
‘But that’s ages away!’
‘Are you really that desperate to meet him?’
‘I am now that I’ve seen his photo,’ Mikey says.
More cackling.
I check the time. It’s not even 1 p.m.
I love my friends, I really do. But sometimes they totally do my head in.
I blink and open my eyes. At first all I can see is the sky – clear and perfect, the only interruption the crisscross of plane tracks, white against cornflower blue. Then a shadow in the form of Mikey’s sunburnt face looms over me, and the picture is ruined.
‘Mia,’ he barks, spittle landing on my cheek. ‘Phone for you.’
Frowning, I take it from him. ‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Where are you?’ Grace sounds annoyed.
‘Why are you calling me on Mikey’s phone?’
‘Because I couldn’t get hold of you on yours. I’ve been ringing and ringing.’
‘Why? What time is it?’ I ask, rubbing my eyes.
‘Four o’clock. You were meant to be here half an hour ago.’
With my spare hand I fish my own phone out of my tote bag. Five missed calls from Grace, two from Audrey, two from Mum.
Shit, shit, shit.
‘Sorry, I was asleep, I didn’t hear it ring. I’m coming now.’
‘Well, you’d better hurry, the shop closes at five.’
I hang up and struggle woozily to my feet.
‘What’s going on?’ Stella asks, shielding her eyes from the sun.
‘I have to go,’ I say, looking around for my flip-flops.
‘But why?’
‘Remember that bridesmaid dress appointment I told you about?’
She nods.
‘Well, I’m totally late for it,’ I say, balling up my towel and forcing it into my bag. ‘And that was Grace, being super-pissy about it.’
‘Oooh, are you trying on dresses?’ Kimmie asks, clapping her hands together.
‘Meant to be.’
She lets out a little squeal.
‘Ring us when you’re done?’ Stella asks.
‘I’ll try.’
I yank on my shorts and head for the exit, my good mood well and truly shattered.
13
Twenty minutes later I burst through the door of Reflections Bridal Boutique. The woman behind the counter, immaculate in a crisp white shirt, her hair swept into a silky chignon, looks up in faint alarm. When I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind her, I sort of understand why. I look a mess. My hair is even bigger than usual, glittery red heart-shaped sunglasses marooned in the mass of frizzy curls, my face damp with sweat from basically sprinting the entire way from the lido.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, clearly convinced I’ve stumbled in here by accident.
‘I’m with them,’ I say breathlessly, pointing towards the back of the shop, where Mum is standing on a small plinth in her wedding dress, a woman with a mouthful of pins kneeling at her feet. Grace and Audrey are to her right, sitting on a white chaise longue. Mum and Grace are both shaking their heads at me, practically radiating disappointment.
After all the squealing and splashing at the lido, this place is bookshop-quiet in comparison, barely audible pan-pipe versions of classic love songs soundtracking my walk of shame towards my family. Pretty much everything in here is white. I swear, it’s like being trapped inside a marshmallow. As I make my way across the pristine carpet, it is as if my very presence is contaminating the dresses one by one, staining them dirty yellow as I pass.
Grace tuts loudly as I sink down on the chaise longue between her and Audrey. I ignore her and try to focus my attention on Mum.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say.
Mum sighs. ‘Well, you’re here now, Mia, that’s the main thing.’ Her eyes drift down to my shorts. She frowns. ‘Is that a new swimsuit?’
I look down; the tie sides of my bikini are sticking out over the waistband of my shorts. ‘No,’ I say quickly, tucking them in. ‘I’ve had it for ages. You look really gorgeous by the way.’
Even though I’m totally trying to distract her with the compliment, I do actually mean it. Mum looks incredible, the strapless off-white dress with its beaded bodice and fishtail skirt showing off her slim figure perfectly. She spends most of her life in jeans, T-shirt and apron, so it’s fun to see her dressed up for once.
She puts her hands on her hips and twists her torso back and forth. ‘You don’t think I’m too old and saggy to go strapless?’
‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘You look well foxy. Dad’s eyes are going to pop out of his head on stalks when he sees you coming down the aisle like this.’
Mum laughs and I know I’m off the hook. Not that Mum is in any danger of looking old or saggy anytime soon. She’s only thirty-seven. Both she and Dad are younger than all my friend’s parents by miles.
‘Right, I think we’re all done here,’ the woman with the pins says, standing up and helping Mum off the plinth. ‘Let’s get you changed, and then we can move on to the bridesmaids.’ She gives us a wink and escorts Mum behind a white curtain.
‘Hey,’ Audrey says in a low whisper, pressing her shoulder against mine.
‘Hey,’ I murmur back, pulling my mobile out of my bag. I scroll through the photos I took at the lido today, changing the filters and uploading the best ones to Instagram, secretly hoping Jordan might see them and mourn what he’s missing. According to Stacey Khan, a girl in my year whose cousin goes to Toft Park, Hattie and Jordan are officially going steady now.
Mum, back in her denim skirt and vest top, emerges from behind the curtain.
‘OK, girls, you’re up,’ she says. ‘Grace and Audrey have already picked out a few styles they like,’ she explains to me. ‘So if you want to try something different you’re going to have to grab them quick.’
Originally we were going to buy bridesmaid dresses off the high street, but now Grace is back earlier than planned and we have her big old pregnant belly to factor in, Mum thought we may as well go the whole hog and have proper froufrou bridesmaid dress
es made up especially. I went online earlier in the week to check out the selection and quickly identified the dress I want the three of us to wear. It’s crimson red and falls all the way to the floor in gorgeous silky folds. With its high neck and low scoping back, it shows just the right amount of skin, and is without doubt the most beautiful piece of clothing I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I showed Audrey online the other day and even she admitted it was lovely.
I head to the rack where all the bridesmaid styles are kept and reach for it, holding it up against me. It’s even better in real life, the material smooth and luxurious against my bare legs.
‘Don’t you want to try on anything else?’ the sales assistant asks.
To keep her happy, I select another couple of dresses at random and join Grace and Audrey in the changing area. We get dressed, one by one shuffling out from behind the curtain and lining up opposite the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
Mum is already grinning. ‘My gorgeous girls,’ she says, clasping her hands together.
Stuck between Grace and Audrey, I feel short. ‘Can I get some heels?’ I ask the sales assistant.
She locates me a pair of size fives. They’re white satin with jewels on the toe – proper wedding shoes. I slip them on and instantly feel better, striking a model pose, hands on my hips. My dress is by far the nicest in every possible way; I look like a proper grownup in it – womanly and sophisticated. Audrey’s choice is a pale blue shift dress with embroidered flowers round the neckline. It’s cute but nowhere special enough for a wedding, especially next to my red. She looks uncomfortable in it, one hand hanging limply across her body, the other tugging at the hem, the whole time her eyes looking anywhere but the mirror.
Grace has selected a lilac empire-line design with cap sleeves and a knee-length chiffon skirt. The only thing that stops it from looking like a little kid’s party dress is the neckline; it makes her boobs look massive, like they’ve been inflated with air and might pop any second.
‘So, what do you think?’ I ask Mum eagerly.
‘It doesn’t matter so much what I think,’ Mum says. ‘I just want to find something all three of you will be comfortable wearing on the day.’
‘In that case, I need to speak up now and say there’s no way I can wear the one Mia’s got on,’ Grace says.
‘Why not?’ I ask.
‘Well, it’s backless for a start. How are you supposed to wear a bra with it?’ She turns to Mum, who is sitting down on the chaise longue. ‘Mum, please tell Mia that it’s totally inappropriate for me to go braless right now.’
‘You don’t have to go braless,’ I say. ‘I already checked online and they can add an extra panel of material at the back if you want.’
‘She’s right,’ the sales assistant says. ‘It’s really not a problem.’
I smile at her gratefully.
‘That’s all well and good, but where exactly am I supposed to put this?’ Grace asks, patting her baby bump.
‘Isn’t that the whole point we’re here?’ I ask, appealing to Mum. ‘To get made-to-measure dresses?’
Grace gives me a withering look, like I’m the most idiotic person on the planet. ‘That’s not quite how it works, Mia,’ she says. ‘It’s obvious just from looking at that dress that it would never work as a maternity style. I’ll be nearly eight months gone by the wedding, remember?’
‘At least try it,’ I say. ‘It might look OK.’
But she just ignores my suggestion, harping on about Audrey now instead. ‘Your choice is way too mature for her anyway. She’s only thirteen,’ she says.
‘Exactly. It’s not like she’s a little kid any more. And it’s not slutty or anything, it’s really sophisticated. Right, Auds?’
We don’t get to hear Audrey’s stammered answer because Grace totally speaks over her.
‘Mum said we all need to be comfortable and I’m not going to be comfortable wearing that in a million years. The end.’
‘You haven’t even tried it on!’ I cry, throwing a desperate look at Mum, who is frowning up at us.
‘I don’t need to.’
‘But, Mum, that’s not fair!’
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ Mum says. ‘But Grace is right. You’re going to be in these dresses for over twelve hours, so you’ve got to feel comfortable. All three of you.’
I glare at Grace. If it wasn’t for her making such a fuss, I just know I could have won Mum over.
Mum clocks my face and laughs. ‘There are plenty of others to try,’ she says, gesturing at the remaining dresses hanging up.
But I don’t want any other dress. I had my heart set on this one. I pull a face, which everyone seems to ignore, and stamp back behind the curtain.
We spend the next half an hour clambering in and out of boring dress after boring dress, my head pounding the entire time. I don’t think I’ve drunk enough water today.
In the end the final choice seems to come down to Grace’s bump. And of course, the only dress that satisfies her requirements is her favourite – the kids’ party dress number. The sales assistant manages to find two more in the stockroom so we can try them on altogether.
The second we line up, Mum bursts into tears and I know my lilac-chiffon fate is sealed. I’m stupid for thinking the outcome would be any different. Pregnant belly or no pregnant belly, Grace would have got her way no matter what obstacles were in her path.
‘Fantastic,’ the sales assistant says, clearly relieved a decision has been made. ‘In that case, let’s get measuring. If we’re fast we can get all three girls done before closing time.’
‘Wonderful,’ Grace says, smoothing down her skirt and smiling serenely in the mirror. ‘I knew we’d get there in the end.’
It takes every ounce of self-restraint I have not to punch the glass with my fist.
I’m annoyed for the rest of the day. Mum notices on the drive home, asking me why I’m in ‘such a grump’ in the rear-view mirror, with Grace making some little dig about me always being in a grump, which isn’t even true. Things were going fine until she turned up and ruined it all. It’s Mum’s oblivion that pisses me off the most. There’s no point trying to explain, though. If I try to articulate why I’m fed up, I’ll only sound petty. They’ll think it’s just about the dress.
‘Which dress did you like best?’ I ask Audrey as we’re getting ready for bed.
‘I don’t know,’ she replies, releasing her hair from its ponytail and pulling a brush through the tangles. ‘I’m not really into that stuff.’
‘I know that,’ I say, adjusting my silk hairwrap. ‘But if you were in charge and had to pick, which one would you have gone for?’
‘Um, they were all OK,’ she says unconvincingly.
‘But which one was the most OK?’ I ask, leaning forwards.
‘I don’t know. The one we ended up getting? The purple one?’
My shoulders slump. ‘You mean Grace’s choice?’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, OK. Well, yeah, that one, I suppose.’
Wrong answer.
I get in bed, pulling the covers over me and switching off my lamp.
‘Are you OK, Mia?’ Audrey asks, her voice quavering.
‘Fine,’ I mutter.
14
The following morning I sleep through my alarm. I’m late to work, where I’m forced to surrender an hour’s wages to smug Jeremy. To make matters worse, it tips it down the entire shift and we’re left with masses of sausages. Bye-bye, bonus.
My mood lifts momentarily when I get home and smell roast chicken. We haven’t had a roast dinner in absolutely ages – ‘too much of a palaver’ according to Mum, who is always absolutely knackered by the time Sunday rolls round.
I’m hanging up my damp denim jacket on the peg in the downstairs loo when I hear Frankie’s voice coming from the kitchen.
Frankie used to be Audrey’s swimming coach until he retired last year and scary Steph took over. Even though Steph is a former
Olympian and apparently an incredible coach, I know Audrey misses Frankie like crazy. Before he retired, he was a regular fixture at our breakfast bar, putting the world to rights with Mum and Dad over endless cups of tea.
I follow the smell of roast chicken to the kitchen. The entire family is sitting around the table, Frankie at its head.
‘Hey, Mia,’ he says, waving. ‘Looking lovely as always.’
‘Cheers, Frankie,’ I reply.
I vaguely remember Mum mentioning his visit now. He can’t make the wedding because his niece or nephew or someone is getting married that same weekend, but he wanted to wish Mum and Dad well and give them their present in person. A box wrapped in shiny silver paper sits at his elbow.
My eyes drift to the pile of dirty dishes next to the sink and a stripped chicken carcass sitting on a wooden board.
‘Wow, thanks for waiting for me,’ I say.
‘Don’t be silly. There’s a plate for you in the fridge – you just need to pop it in the microwave,’ Mum says before turning her attention back to Frankie.
I frown and open the fridge. Behind me, Frankie continues telling everyone about the house he’s having done up in the Lake District.
‘I’m so jealous,’ Mum says.
‘I’m not going to lie,’ Frankie says. ‘I’m absolutely loving it, even though the place resembles a bomb site right now. No running water, no electricity. I’m basically camping.’
I peel the clingfilm off my plate. ‘Mum?’ I say.
She swivels round in her chair, looking annoyed at the interruption.
‘Mia, we’re talking,’ she says.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter, poking at one of the potatoes on my plate.
‘What is it?’ she asks, sighing.
‘I don’t have a Yorkshire pudding.’
‘Really? I could have sworn I made enough for one each.’
‘Oops!’ Grace says. ‘I think I took two by accident. Sorry, Bean was hungry!’ She pats her tummy smugly.