Gin, Fizz & Tonic

More than a handful's a waste

Blimey. What a tall order. I am going to have to fake enthusiasm for the worst wedding gown the universe has ever produced, but I amp up my smile and take the stairs up to DonnaMarie's room two at a time, as Dylan helps the make-up artists set up chairs and equipment in the living room.

Lots and lots and lots of local businesses depend on this wedding going ahead. We can't let them down.

The bride-to-be is lying on her bed, submerged in the thick duvet and clad in the same fluffy dressing gown her mum was wearing, her dark hair streaming out behind her and her face make-up free.

The dress hangs on the back of her door, and I have to squeeze around it.

"Hey," I greet her, and she lets out a sigh as she pushes herself upright, propping herself up on her elbows.

"See, I should have asked you!"

"Asked me what?"

"What to wear!" she laments, her eyes welling up. "You always look so classy. I am going to look like a, like a fucking meringue! Like Katie Price when she married Peter Andre! I can't go through with it. Darren will take one look at me and run off with my chief bridesmaid!"

Dear oh dear. Having met the chief bridesmaid, this is not out with the realms of possibility, as she and DonnaMarie have a chequered history of shared boyfriends stroke fiancés. During my few meetings with Darren, he has made a point of holding onto my hand too long when he shakes it, and I once caught him ogling my arse as I left the room.

"And I'm fat as fuck!" DonnaMarie proclaims. "I have had to have the bodice taken out so I can fit into it. Everyone will be laughing at me behind my back! It's alright for you. You're a skinny wee skelf."

Am I? But as I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror in front of DonnaMarie's walk-in wardrobe, I realise she is right. Heartbreak, not drinking and a lot of running has stripped the flesh from my bones. Unintentional weight loss is usually cause for celebration, because by Christ the kilos never come off when you try, but I'd settle for fat and happy over this any day.

But enough wallowing in self-pity. I return to the immediate problem. Darren might not be a dream groom, but who am I to say? After that time when I caught him ogling my arse, DonnaMarie's father also noticed and pulled him aside for a 'quick chat' as he was leaving. Darren looked petrified. Before and after. Like a man who'd never commit the same crime again.

I take a seat next to DonnaMarie on the bed. "Your dress wouldn't be my choice," I say, and she glares at me. "Why, what's wrong with it?"

Ah, the illogical nature of the Bridezilla. Allowed to slag off her dress, but if anyone else dares... Something else has changed for me in the past six weeks. I'm much more truthful.

"Because it wouldn't suit me," I reply. "And it suits you, and it's the dress of your dreams, and I think you will feel incredible when you pull it on, with your make-up and hair done. The Belle of the Ball. You're not fat as fuck either. I'd kill for your boobs."

The edge of her dressing gown has fallen open, revealing a white lacy underwired bra that is working overtime to support DonnaMarie's Grand Canyon like cleavage.

DonnaMarie flicks her gaze towards my chest. "Yeah, I can see why. You must save loads of money not needing to buy bras."

"Fuck off," I reply, still in truthful mode and she grins, her pre-wedding Turkey teeth dazzling me.

"Ha! I could donate you three cup sizes and Darren would still have plenty to play with." She jiggles her boobs.

I tut. "More than a handful's a waste, remember?"