Bad Bridesmaid. Portia MacIntosh
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partner in crime, but he’s frozen still and completely silent.
‘Josh, tell us where you heard that,’ my uncle demands, sounding angrier and angrier as he says each word.
Just keep your mouth shut, Josh. This will all blow over.
‘It’s Pulp Fiction,’ Mike says in an attempt to diffuse the situation. Little does he know, he has just sealed my fate.
‘Where have you seen…’ my auntie’s voice trails off as she turns to face me, this time her movements are slow and sinister. ‘You!’
My auntie points at me with her knife, and whether she just happens to have it in her hand or she’s actually planning to stab me, I decide not to take any chances and jump up from my seat. I move around the table as I try and explain.
‘You let my son watch a “fifteen” rated film,’ she shrieks as she tries to chase me around the table.
‘I think it’s an “eighteen”,’ Mike unhelpfully chimes in, which only makes my auntie angrier.
I’m too busy trying not to get stabbed to notice what everyone else in the room is making of this, but I know for sure that no one is doing anything to intervene.
‘It’s a classic,’ I reason.
‘A classic that’s full of swearing,’ my auntie yells.
‘It isn’t gratuitous swearing, it’s all in context,’ I insist.
‘Actually, I think it features over two hundred and sixty uses of the F word,’ Mike muses.
‘Piss off, Wikipedia,’ I snap, which provokes an unimpressed reaction from everyone in the room. Everyone but Belle, that is, who looks delighted that universal balance has been restored. Everyone hates me again.
‘I’m not saying you’re not likeable,’ my sister explains as she admires her underwear-clad body in my bedroom mirror. ‘Just that you need to try harder to make people like you.’
I lie back on my bed and exhale deeply. Dan’s back is still bad so he’s still stuck in bed. I assumed that was why Belle asked me if she could try on her bridal underwear in my bedroom, so he didn’t see it. In actual fact this is her not so subtle way of telling me that I need to try harder to “make people like me” – which, in my opinion, is as good as telling me that I am not likeable.
‘What do you think of the shoes?’ Belle asks. OK, so I’m here for a lecture and to watch my sister prance around in her underwear and a pair of white ballet pumps.
‘They’re nice,’ I reply. Personally I would have gone for something with a heel, but with my sister usually opting for ugly, clumsy, flat mules no matter what the weather, I’m lucky she isn’t forcing a pair on me to go with my bridesmaid dress. The wedding ceremony is taking place on the beach, so the outfits have been tweaked accordingly.
‘I can’t wait to see what my dress looks like with the shoes and the veil,’ she says to herself as she wiggles her hips in front of the mirror with a level of narcissism not unlike that of Patrick Bateman when he’s shagging those hookers in American Psycho. ‘The clothes should have been delivered by now.’
Right on cue there is a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ Belle calls out, still admiring her figure. It’s great that despite being a bit overweight she’s still so full of self-confidence. I know that when I was fat I wouldn’t ever have felt comfortable showing as much skin around other people – even when I was alone I didn’t like catching the sight of my own podgy reflection.
Uncle Steve walks into room with an armful of garment bags.
‘Here’s the first lot,’ he starts, before clapping eyes on a nearly naked Belle and stopping in his tracks.
‘Thanks, Uncle Steve,’ she squeaks as she takes the clothes from him. As Belle dumps the clothes down on the floor and begins ripping into them, my uncle sidles over to me.
‘Are you trying anything on?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I laugh.
‘You should, I can give you a male perspective.’
‘Aw, thanks, uncle,’ Belle interrupts. ‘Can you go get the rest of the clothes first?’
Worried he might miss something while he’s gone, my uncle dashes out of the room.
‘Right, if you want me to try anything on we’re doing it now, before Uncle Sleaze gets back,’ I hurry my sister.
‘Hey, I’m the bride, me first,’ Belle complains. ‘Not everything is about you.’
I exhale deeply. Steve trying to catch sight of me in the nip is very much about me, but there’s no reasoning with Belle at the moment. Whether I have to try anything on or not, I suddenly feel very naked around my uncle in the super-short, hot pink, tiny nightdress I slept in last night.
Belle finds her dress, hops into it and demands I zip her up.
‘Wow,’ I exclaim.
‘I know, right?’ my sister replies as she twirls around in front of the mirror.
Lucky for me, Belle took my exclamation as one of delight rather than one of horror. Make no mistake though, I am horrified.
In addition to her white stockings and white ballet pumps, my sister has slipped on a strapless, white tutu dress. She looks like a little girl about to perform Swan Lake with the rest of her ballet class, but if I tell her as much she will no doubt act as moody and stubborn as a bratty little diva.
‘So you like it?’ my sister asks.
‘It’s…’ I pause to think carefully about what I’m going to say. ‘Is it a bit short for a bridal gown?’
‘I’m getting married on the beach – duh! It has to be short or it will get covered in sand. All the outfits are short, even the men’s trousers. We’re going for a sort of casual formal look.’
As my brain tries to process exactly what a casual formal look is, I feel a headache coming on.
‘So, what’s my dress like?’ I ask, suddenly terrified.
‘All in good time,’ my sister says. ‘I’m trying to figure out how this veil goes on.’
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