Beauty and the Bridesmaid

Chapter One

“Yes, it’s me!” she squeals.

“It’s…good to hear from you,” I say conversationally. But really I’m wondering why the hell she’s calling now.

“We must catch up some time!” she says in a posh English accent.

Here’s something you should know about Lela Henry: she may act like she’s superior to everyone around her but really she grew up on a council estate in Wakefield and speaks with the commonest Yorkshire accent you can think of.

“Sure!” I falter with excitement.

“Actually Jade, I’m calling to tell you something really important.”

I hold my breath. Lela’s idea of important is getting her nails done, or getting whichever rich boyfriend she’s with to buy her a pair of Jimmy Choos.

“I’m getting married!”

Lela was always one of those girls who played weddings in the school playground and bought bridal magazines, knowing exactly where she wanted to get married and what sort of dress she wanted to wear before she’d left her teenage years. All she needed was a groom to slot somewhere into her perfect plans. And now it looks like she’s found one.

“I know we haven’t seen each other in a while,” she continues, “but you’re my oldest friend and I can’t think of anyone who I’d rather have as my head bridesmaid. It would be maid of honour but since you’re not married yet…” she trails off, letting her little dig eat away at me.

Another thing you should know about Lela: she can’t help but put everyone else down.

“That sounds great,” I lie. I’m struggling to think of anything worse than being in charge of a wedding for Lela, a girl who had quite clearly established herself as a bridezilla long before her first boyfriend. And doing all this in a puffy, frumpy dress designed to make me look horrible in comparison to the glowing bride.

“Can you do lunch tomorrow?” she asks, again adapting her voice to sound posh.

“Aren’t you in York?” She can’t expect me to travel forty miles to listen to her go on about canapés and chair covers.

“No, silly!” She giggles. “I moved back home last year after things started hotting up with Ash. And look where I am now! Getting married!”

My ears focus on only one word of what she’s just said. Ash. Ash? Surely she doesn’t mean my ex-boyfriend Ash. It must be someone else. Please God, be someone else.

Ash must be a pretty common name. Maybe there’s an Ash somewhere who’s willing to marry Lela. There must be. My Ash wouldn’t marry her. He never even liked her. Not that he’s mine anymore. Not that I care who he wants to marry.

Just please not her.

“So are you free for lunch?” she asks again, a little impatiently.

Tomorrow is Sunday. Lela being Lela will choose the sort of expensive restaurant that doubles its prices on a Sunday. Obviously that won’t matter to her. The Ash she’s engaged to is probably a property tycoon, or maybe he’s a rich businessman in corporate finance. He probably pays for her to ‘do lunch’ on a regular basis, along with paying for her hairdressing bills, new clothes and the fabulous pair of Louboutins she’s going to totter around in tomorrow.

Why do men who enjoy spoiling women always go for girls like Lela? Just for once can’t a nice, sensible girl like me end up with a millionaire and not a stuffy tight-ass like Carl?

 I sigh quietly enough that she can’t hear me. “Where did you have in mind?”

On my salary, I’m hoping for McDonalds, or maybe I could afford somewhere like Pizza Express but Lela says, “Oh I’ve made reservations at the Cinnamon Lounge.”

I know I’m in the minority but I hate Indian food. They always have English dishes on the menu but do people actually order them? Or would I look a massive idiot if we sat down, listening to authentic Indian music whilst the authentic Indian waiter took my order of omelette and chips?

Here’s a third point about Lela: no matter how many times you tell her something, like your personal tastes, the likelihood of her remembering it is about the same as winning the lottery twice in the same week.

What I should do right now is hang up on Lela, turn my phone on silent so I can pretend not to know about it when she rings me back, and change my number as quickly as my phone company allows. But that sounds like an awful lot of hassle to go through just to avoid a curry, doesn’t it?

“I’d love to come for lunch,” I tell her. “What time shall I see you?”

When I’ve finished the conversation with Lela, I don’t quite have the guts to toss down £11.49 all in small change. So I end up handing over fifteen quid, of which I expect Carl to work out the exact change I’m due but he must think it’s a tip or something and presses the fresh-from-the-ATM notes neatly into the little wallet holding the bill.

On the way out, he tells me that he’s had a great night but he’s not really looking for a relationship right now, which is what men say when they’re just not that into you. Fucking brilliant. Even Calculator Carl has rejected me.