My Fake Wedding(46)

Naturally, George finds his tongue first.

‘Good God,’ he ejaculates. ‘She’s not taking any chances, is she? Wants to make sure you look a complete dog all right. How much does one get paid for this bridesmaid lark? Whatever it is, it isn’t worth it.’

‘George,’ I warn him.

Janice is on the verge of chucking a massive tantrum. Her face is thunderous. Any minute now, she’s going to hurl herself, Scarlett O’Hara style, on the bed and start drumming her heels and howling.

‘Try it on,’ I soothe. ‘Perhaps we can make a nip and a tuck here and there. Trim the bow down a bit.’

‘No point,’ George comments with all the subtlety of the Hammersmith flyover. ‘She’s going to look like Ten Ton Tessie whatever you do to it. Christ Almighty, darling, Kate Moss would look like a block of bloody Trex in that get-up. Janice’ll be able to get a part in the Titanic remake.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say calmly. ‘I think it’s more nineteen eighty-two than nineteen twelve.’

‘I meant a non-speaking part.’ George can’t help winking at me. ‘As the bloody ship.’

‘Come on,’ I say sharply, before Janice actually bursts a blood vessel. ‘It’s the bride’s prerogative to make the bridesmaids look dreadful. Poppy wouldn’t want you upstaging her on her own wedding day, would she? It wouldn’t be fair.’

‘Darling, she couldn’t upstage a pot-bellied pig in that dress,’ George interjects.

‘Thank you, George, for that,’ I say. ‘Come on, hon. Give it a go. It can’t be that bad, can it? Actually,’ I hold my breath—will she buy it or not?—‘I think the colour really suits you. And it isn’t physically possible for you to look that ugly. Not with your hair. And your gorgeous figure.’

Janice looks a bit happier.

‘I have got better tits than her, haven’t I?’

‘Exactly. And no one can take those away from you. Just try it on,’ I plead.

‘You won’t laugh?’

‘We won’t,’ I say firmly. ‘We promise. Don’t we, George?’

‘Yes,’ he says in a small voice that means he’s actually clamping his teeth shut to stop himself guffawing.

Janice steps gingerly into the gaudy creation and allows me to zip her up.

‘OK,’ I say, cringeing as I do so at my stupid children’s TV presenter voice. ‘Gissa twirl then.’

She obeys, for once.

‘Ohmigod,’ shrieks George. ‘You look just like one of those loo roll holders.’

After George has delivered his last blow it takes a lot of coaxing and persuading for Janice even to get off the bed. In the end, we miss our train at Paddington and have to wait an hour for the next one. Janice sits miserably on the bench outside Burger King, reading Brides magazine in preparation for her own imaginary big day, stabbing her finger at pictures of alternately gorgeous, flippy, flirty and sophisticated little numbers at intervals and saying bitterly, ‘She could have let me wear that. I’d look bloody gorgeous in that.’ While she does that, George bemoans the perils of public transport. I feel like a careworn mother dragging two ungrateful teenagers away on a day trip. The way I feel, I’d make a damn good understudy for Pauline Fowler. And I’m a bit blooming pissed off about it. After all, I’m the one who needs pampering. I’m nervous. This is my future career we’re talking about. My reputation is riding on today.

‘My greatest fear, darling, trains,’ George whittles, looking fearfully up at the departures board. ‘Full of cheerful families eating farty egg sandwiches and shouty people wearing baseball caps and Bermuda shorts.’

‘There’s no smoking here,’ a woman opposite, eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, points out, as George lights himself a violet-coloured cigarette, crisscrosses his legs and exhales ostentatiously.

George glares at her. ‘I don’t object to your eating convenience food and wearing a purple shell suit, do I?’ he demands. ‘No. And do you see me wearing a “No dodgy home perms” T-shirt? I think not. So I don’t expect you to object to my smoking. I’ll smoke where I bloody well like, thank you. I certainly won’t be dictated to by the likes of you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I rush to apologise. ‘He’s dangerously schizophrenic. We’re taking him back to hospital now. You don’t know which platform the Bath train leaves from, by any chance?’

‘Platform three,’ Purple Shell Suit informs me icily, picking gherkin out of her Quarter Pounder and tossing it to the ground.