The One with All the Bridesmaids: A hilarious, feel-good romantic comedy. Erin Lawless
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fringe. ‘Fair enough!’ Even though that year he was knocking on the door of thirty, Eli persisted on modelling his look on boybands-of-the-day; he’d had frosted spikes as a kid, greasy curtains as a teenager and now had some sort of floppy, asymmetrical ‘do that meant it took him twenty minutes to style it so it looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. He tended to date equally irritatingly coiffured women; the last one had a severe undercut dyed in an elaborate leopard-spot pattern. Daisy had got so shit-faced once she’d tried to stroke her. ‘Cole and Sarah?’ he queried.
‘Apparently Sarah has a doctor’s appointment today, or something. Jesus. Look at this,’ Bea tutted from the depths of the so-called goodie bag. ‘Mixed messages much? I’ve got a box of gourmet truffles in here, and a leaflet that gives me my first month free at Slimming World.’ She looked up. ‘What have you got?’
Eli rummaged through his (helpfully colour-coded blue) bag. ‘Ooh, truffles too; nice. Er, discount vouchers for wine at Majestic; very nice. Austin Reed catalogue. Erm.’
‘So no subtle signals that you are a fat, hideous creature and that you should starve yourself until your wedding day, then?’
‘Nope.’ Eli grinned and popped one of the truffles into his mouth. ‘Now come on, you fat, hideous creature, let’s get on with it.’ Bea allowed him to push a truffle through her lips, managing to stay atop of the urge to nip at his fingertips. Just. ‘Have you got the checklist open?’
‘I’m just saying, I think it’s better that we go sooner rather than later.’
‘I appreciate that, love, I do. It just seems a little bit drastic. We’ve only been trying for a couple of months, after all.’
Sarah stared at her handsome, stupid husband. ‘I came off the pill when we got engaged, Cole. It’s been seventeen months. Seventeen cycles.’
Cole winced away. ‘Jeez, do you have to say ‘cycles’? It’s so clinical. What the hell happened to let’s just have fun, have sex; let’s just see what happens. You promised me you wouldn’t turn into one of these nut-job women charting their temperatures and testing the consistency of their cervical mucus.’ He pulled a face of utter disgust. Sarah, who had been doing exactly those things secretly by way of an app on her phone for almost a year now, struggled to regroup her thoughts.
‘Cycles, months, whatever. Whatever wording you want me to use, I think it’s obvious that we have a fertility problem. And we need to see a doctor about it.’
‘How can we have a fertility problem?’ Cole blustered. ‘You only went for that test you have to do this year, and you said it all came back fine?’
‘Cole, a smear test is nothing to do with fertility,’ Sarah snapped. ‘And besides, why do you automatically assume any problem has to be with me?’
The set of her husband’s jaw was mutinous. ‘Hey, don’t pile this on me. I’m doing my bit.’
‘Your bit?’ Sarah repeated, incredulous.
‘You know what I mean,’ Cole snapped, refusing to take the apology bait. ‘Don’t be like this. God, I don’t remember you being half so over-the-top when we met.’ He grabbed up the navy Superdry hoodie he’d thrown over the back of their armchair. ‘And as you’ve taken it upon yourself to tell my friends that we’re too busy to help them with their wedding planning, I’m going to give Harry a call and see if I can do anything. I’ll see you later.’
And that was that. Cole pulled the front door closed a little harder than was strictly necessary. Sarah sank into the armchair, pulling her feet up underneath herself like a child. She’d known that he was going to be on the defensive like this – she’d practically scheduled in this fight after all, clearing their weekend for it – but the row still echoed through her all the same, for all it was the same old story: Cole could do no wrong; ‘their’ friends became ‘his’ friends; she was taken to task for not being the same person she’d been when they met, like he was thinking of going to Trading Standards and demanding a refund because his carefree, twenty-something girlfriend had become his thirty-something wife: a dress size or two larger, a hell of a lot more stressed and always ever-so-slightly behind with her waxing.
And perhaps with redundant ovaries to boot.
Sighing, Sarah reached for her phone. Although she didn’t know who she was planning to call. Her mum and the rest of her family were all the way over in Wales and her old school and uni friends were now just people on Facebook with new surnames and fat-faced babies as their profile pictures. She could call Nora, or one of the other girls, she supposed, but – as Cole had been very quick to remind her – they were all foremost his and never just for her.
So instead she spoke to Siri.
‘What’s the ideal weight a woman should be to help with conception?’ she asked, ruefully.
Gray gave a low whistle as he got out of the car. ‘You sure now how to treat a guy, Miss Adkins.’
Cleo couldn’t help but stare too, sliding her sunglasses down from where they were perched atop her pinned-back fringe; she had to – it felt like the crenelated turret of Withysteeple Hall was touching the sun. ‘Christ. Nora would love this for sure. Ooh la la. Very Downton Abbey.’
‘Completely,’ Gray agreed. ‘Why hasn’t she come out to see it?’
Cleo made a face. ‘She’s had to go see a venue with her family. Don’t ask. Long story. Involves God and her overbearing Irish-Catholic mother, who I believe has more power than the former. She said she’d come out here to meet with the wedding coordinator if I reported back it was worth the meeting.’
‘Well, if she’s looking to get married in the splendid manner of a Jane Austen heroine, then I already think, yeah, it’s worth the meeting,’ Gray laughed. ‘This place couldn’t be more stunning!’
Cleo hadn’t had Gray pegged for a regency-romantic – she smiled, filing that piece of information away – but she couldn’t help but agree with him. The manor house sat atop a gentle, natural mound – like it needed to look more impressive, Cleo thought, amused – beatifically crowning a thick carpet of surrounding meadow: fat columbines and forget-me-nots and creamy cow parsley, so dense you couldn’t see the grass.
Okay, so it wouldn’t be so gorgeous come the winter – perhaps it might even be a little gothic for some tastes – but Cleo could already imagine the tall windows of the house lit up with firelight from within, the swollen-globe lights that strung the path from the car park at the gates to the front door glowing comfortingly, perhaps even a few shining flakes of snow swirling gently down from a starry sky. The four bridesmaids, each with fat fur stoles across their shoulders. Nora, all in white, glowing in the half-light of a winter afternoon. Amazing. She hadn’t even seen the inside yet and she was pretty sold.
‘Ooh, the café is open,’ Gray interrupted her reverie, having clocked the delightfully renovated stables selling cakes and concessions off to one side of the main building. ‘I could murder a scone.’
Cleo laughed. ‘I did basically insist you drive me out to the countryside with fifteen minutes’ notice on a Saturday morning – a scone would be the least I could do! But really, thank you,’ she insisted. ‘You saved my arse. I really need to learn how to drive.’
Gray cocked a smile. ‘But then how would I keep in scones?’
‘Well, there is that,’ Cleo nodded. ‘I can’t believe my luck that you had nothing better to do!’
‘What