Bridesmaids Read online

  Bridesmaids

  ZARA STONELEY

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

  Copyright © Zara Stoneley 2019

  Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Zara Stoneley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008340513

  Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008340506

  Version: 2019-04-10

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Act One – With Friends Like These

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Act Two – The Hen Party

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Act Three – The Big Day

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Also by Zara Stoneley

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  In memory of my Dad. The best friend a girl could have had.

  ACT ONE

  With Friends Like These

  Chapter 1

  ‘Oh my God! You’re kidding? Wow, that’s fantastic!!’ And just like that I’ve looked my best friend in the eye and told a whopper. I pause for breath and lean forward to hug Rachel. ‘That is absolutely amazing. I am so pleased for you!’ My words are muffled by her shoulder.

  I’m not in the habit of telling lies. I have been known to exaggerate slightly (and maybe tell the occasional little white lie), mainly to make myself feel better about my (currently) shitty life, or to make somebody else feel better about theirs.

  I mean, when cuddly Liz who runs the ‘Olde Fashioned Sweet Shoppe’ in town told me she’d lost weight, I felt duty bound to tell her she was looking amazing, even if the missing poundage was probably down to her severe haircut (think scalped-elf) or the fact she’d gone for leggings rather than jeans (think scalped skinny elf).

  Eating less and exercising more is torture, isn’t it? Specially when you spend your days staring at chocolate and boiled sugar. So, when I saw her a week later and she said she’d won the slimmer of the week award, the last thing she needed was me asking, ‘Are you sure the scales were working?’ or ‘Are you the only slimmer there, ha-ha-ha?’, wasn’t it?

  Whereas, hearing my little white lie, ‘Wow! You look fab!’ followed by, ‘I read somewhere that liquorice can really help’ was just the right incentive.

  Us girls need to stick together, don’t we? We need to present a united front and kick ass. So, if that involves smudging the truth at the edges now and then, that’s fine.

  I smudge rather a lot. But I don’t lie. Especially not to my best friend.

  Until now.

  This isn’t a smudge, this is total truth wipe out.

  I should be ashamed of myself. I am.

  I also feel slightly queasy, and I’m not sure if it’s because the whole idea of this is bringing me out in a cold sweat because of what happened to me, or because of what might happen to her. My bestie.

  If I hadn’t lied maybe things would have turned out differently.

  Maybe all this wouldn’t have happened.

  It started with the phone call.

  Well, let’s be honest, it started a long, long time ago. When we were teenagers with fragile hearts, dodgy self-confidence and far too many hormones. When we were sure that the first guy who tried to get into our knickers could be ‘The One’. When love and lust were the same thing.

  But anyhow, the lie and the big stuff started when she called me. All breathless and excited.

  I was distracted with work, knee deep in fluffy kittens, or I might have been concentrating harder, and might have had some inkling of what was to come and where it might lead us.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Thank God I caught you before you jetted off! Is it okay that I rang you at work? You are at work, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am, well, I’m not actually at work, but I am working. Will you stop that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, not you, Rach. I’m at home, but I’m trying to … sit still, please, pretty please? Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I growl, and Rachel giggles. ‘I am working, well, trying to. Shit, why are kittens so bloody bouncy?’

  ‘Kittens? You’ve got kittens?’

  ‘Three. I think. They keep moving, it’s hard to keep track, but they’re colour coded. If they’d all been black I’d be totally up shit creek without a paddle. Stop it!’

  ‘Kittens! Like, real ones?’

  ‘Definitely real.’ I untangle one from my hair. ‘Would Sellotaping a paw to the table be considered cruelty? I mean, it’s not like I’m using glue, is it?’

  ‘Oh my God that’s so brilliant! Oh, I wish you lived closer, I’d be round there!’ She’s gone a bit shouty. I am confused. I never knew she was a cat lover.

  ‘Sticky tape?’ Nobody normally considers my ideas brilliant, and it’s not like I’ve just invented the stuff.

  ‘Not the tape bit, the having kittens bit!’

  ‘Well, er, fine. I’ve not given birth to them or anything clever.’ I’m not really concentrating on just how weird she’s being, I’m too busy trying to get one to remain upright. It just keeps keeling over onto its back and doing that ‘paws up’ thing. Cute, but unhelpful.

  ‘No, but it’s brilliant, you’re moving on, that’s so ace.’ She sighs. The sigh of relief. ‘I’ve been so bloody worried about you.’

  I let go of the bundle of fluff that I’ve been holding in a ‘sit’ position and it flops over, then paddles the air with its little front paws.

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘Yeah, oh come on Jane, I’ve course I have. You’ve been so …’ she pau
ses, ‘not you since …’ She lets that dangle in the air, much like the kitten I’ve just spotted hanging from the back of a chair.

  ‘Andy?’ Andy is my ex. As in ex-fiancé. As in the man who decided he didn’t love me somewhere between going down on one knee with a ring and accompanying me up the aisle. Being dumped can leave you feeling kind of worthless, useless and totally unable to distinguish between ‘the one’ who actually loves you, and the fuckwit who didn’t at all.

  He has been ‘he who must not be named’ for quite a while now. Mainly because hearing his name led either to an irrational outburst (from me), featuring lots of swear words, and descriptions about what I’d like to do to various parts of his anatomy, or, and this was so much worse, horrible, snot-inducing tears. Don’t you hate it when that happens, when you end up inside out and can’t stop?

  ‘Er, yes, him.’ She says it hesitantly, and there is a pause. I know she’s holding her breath hoping nothing horrible is about to happen.

  ‘Oh, Rach, please stop worrying. I told you, I’m fine. Totally fine. It was ages ago, I am so over him.’ The git. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I was, but I’ve taken this one day at a time. I’ve stopped dating, because to be honest now I know my judgement is so far off it’s too scary. I’ve buried myself in work (not hard with my job) and talked a lot to the two people who mean most to me in the world: Freddie my flatmate, and Rachel.

  There are many things I love about my best mate, Rachel: 1. She’s patient; 2. She’s caring; and 3. She’s honest, top the list.

  She’s always been there for me, no questions asked. Good friends just know, don’t they? When to skirt round an issue because they know the wrong word could lead to a major incident, and when only a hug will do.

  She’s obviously decided that kittens are significant in some weird and wonderful way though, which is slightly disturbing.

  I just wish she didn’t worry quite so much. I’d always been the one looking out for both of us – as she’s so damned nice and easy to take advantage of. But lately we’d had a role reversal.

  This time I’d been the one taken advantage of, and I guess I’d crumbled before her eyes (not a pretty sight). I’ve always liked to be in control. And I’d been in total control of planning my bloody wedding. Until Andy had pulled the plug, and suddenly I felt like I hadn’t got a clue what I should be doing. Everything I thought I stood for had been tossed into the air. I’d floundered. Well, more like come to a complete halt. Scared of doing right for doing wrong.

  Then I’d woken up to the realisation that although I might not have had control over him and my love life, I did have control over the rest my life. So, with a few snivels along the way I’d pulled my socks up and prepared to kick ass. Of the work kind.

  ‘I can’t stop worrying, Jane! I love you, you know that. But this is brill, you’re committing. I’m proud!’

  ‘Proud? Committing? Stop right there Rachel.’ I hold my hands up in a stop position, even though she can’t see. Committing is not a word I want to hear. Commitment is a pathway that leads to disappointment and humiliation.

  The kitten tilts its head on one side then makes a leap for me, misses and drops to the floor. ‘It’s just a kitten, oh, shit, it’s fallen off the table! Hell, hang on, hang on while I …’ I’m down on my hands and knees. ‘Do they break easily? I’m going to be drowning in the brown stuff if I send any back damaged. Lora will kill me.’ A second one follows it, lemming style and just misses my head.

  ‘Damaged? Send it back? Who is Lora?’

  ‘The girl up the road, you know at Number 20, the one with bright red hair and a nose ring? She fosters animals for that rescue place. She lent the kittens to me and I need some bloody good pics of them, or Coral will sack me. Christ, I can’t even catch the bloody thing now, it must be okay.’

  At this point, I need to establish something, I am not an animal batterer. I love them. I especially love cats with all their haughty indifference, independence, and demands to be fed and petted when they feel like it. On their terms. They are ace. I’d quite like to be reincarnated as one.

  You may pet me now, you may feed me tuna (well, not tuna; chocolate brownies, maybe), you may tickle me just here. Here! You may go away and leave me, or I will turn nasty.

  See, cats have got life sussed.

  Cats are totally within their rights to show their displeasure by yelling or swiping. There are times when swiping would work for me.

  I realise I am about to growl, as an unbidden image of Dickhead Andy sneaks into my brain. Maybe I’m not completely fine. Anyway, I definitely haven’t forgiven him. I would so like to swipe him, claws at full stretch until he is shredded into something resembling pulled pork.

  I know I need to rise above his fuckwittery and take the moral high ground. Karma will come and bite him on the arse one day, not a cat.

  Okay, so you’re wondering what Andy did? Did he take me out for a romantic meal, then break the news that it was over? Did he walk out, and leave a ‘Dear John’ on a sticky note stuck to the fridge? Did he get cold feet when we booked a wedding date, a venue?

  Oh, no. Andy did this properly.

  I mean, what kind of fiancé tells you IT IS OVER in the middle of your flaming hen party? There I was with my leg wound round a Chippendale look-alike (as in semi-naked man, not item of furniture) when I felt a funny sensation in my lower regions. It wasn’t the over exuberant entertainment, it was my phone buzzing in my new super-tight leopard-skin trousers (yes, it had seemed a good idea at the time, they were on-trend and freebies from a photoshoot I was doing for my fashion-diva boss Coral).

  I know I shouldn’t have looked. But I did. I thought he’d be sending me a funny text message. Not the cryptic ‘this isn’t working’.

  ‘It is for me! Ha-ha.’ texted back jovially, as the Chippendale gyrated, and cast off another layer of clothing.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  This is not something Andy ever said in real life. It’s on the scale of him declaring he’d given up beer or football.

  ‘What’s up?’ I’d typed with the thumb that was holding my phone, because my other hand was otherwise engaged catching cast off clothing. I was expecting him to tell me his stag night had been cancelled or he was missing me.

  I wasn’t expecting a ‘Dear John’.

  A very long one. It definitely wouldn’t have fit on a sticky note. Not even a whole pad of them.

  That should have set alarm bells off. I mean, who sends a text that is so long it doesn’t fit on the screen? This was saga length in shorthand. But I was on a high, having fun, excited that soon I would be walking down the aisle with my One.

  Or not.

  Apparently, my darling fiancé had realised we were totally incompatible. That I didn’t need him because I was far too busy with my job. That he knew I was building my career and wouldn’t want to be a stay at home mum, which, according to Andy, was the only way to bring up kids (I didn’t even know kids were on the table, let alone a clause in the mental pre-nup – or had he been planning an actual pre-nup?). That I had to be grown up and realise it wasn’t going to work (that bit made me want to be totally un-grown-up and yell like a toddler). That he also thought I needed to spend more time cooking (like his mum did) and ironing (like his mum did) and entertaining his bloody boss (you got it). I am paraphrasing a bit here, but all this came completely out of the blue. Domestic goddess I am not, but I didn’t think I needed to be. I am the ‘licking fingers and inviting people round’ side of Nigella, not the ‘slaving over a hot stove’ side.

  I slithered down my Chippendale onto the floor, all melting and pathetic, and had to be scooped up by Rachel and helped to a chair. My bones had become all bendy and non-supporting, my brain scrambled, and my chest felt like it was fit to burst with pain.

  When I got home I tore up all the scraps of paper I’d been practicing my new signature on, in a fury, then collapsed in a soggy mess on my bed and left lots of pleading messages on his voicemail.
r />   Next morning, I was ashamed of my pathetic-ness and sent a few abusive ones.

  Then I cut his head off all my photos. And a triangle out of the crotch area. And looked if Amazon Prime supplied Voodoo Dolls. They do, just in case you need to know for future reference.

  Two weeks, lots of cancelled wedding arrangements, and a few crates of wine later I’d moved my (very) few odds and ends out of his flat and shoehorned them into my bedroom at Mum’s, rejigged all Andy’s carefully constructed playlists, sent his boss an invite to dinner at his mum’s (FORMAL DRESS! PLEASE BRING CHAMPAGNE! CABS WILL BE ARRANGED FOR MIDNIGHT!) and left iron shaped holes (to match the ones in the photos) in his best shirts. I know, it was childish, but it made me feel better for a short time.

  ‘Jane, Jane, are you still there? What’s happened?’

  I shake my head, and blink, trying to regain my inner haughty cat composure and remember what Rachel was talking about.

  ‘Sure, sure. Just trying to catch the damned thing.’ I adore cats. I just love them less when I am trying to photograph them. Never work with animals or children? Yeah, yeah, yeah, whoever said that had a point. But some of us like a challenge. Or are slightly deranged.

  Or desperate to impress the boss and rescue their job.

  I wriggle on my stomach under the chair, my head on one side, cheek plastered to the floor so that I’m all squishy faced, making ‘Here, kitty-kitty’ noises. The wide-eyed kitten backs off in a kind of weird tarantula dance on its tip toes, until it has emerged on the other side. Its little back is arched and its tail all puffed up like a loo brush and it is jigging sideways, which makes me laugh. Mistake. The noise makes it spin round in alarm and it’s off.

  ‘Are you okay, Jane?’

  ‘I think,’ my cheek is still squashed so it comes out as ‘sink’, ‘I’m stuck. Not quite sure how I got under here.’ The trouble with this apartment is, it literally isn’t big enough to swing a cat in (not that I’d do such a thing, obviously).

  ‘How bijou!’ Mum had exclaimed – poking round into every nook and cranny the day I moved it.

  ‘You mean small. Bijou suggests small but tasteful.’ I’m not kidding myself.