Книга - Four Bridesmaids and a White Wedding: the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy of the year!

Four Bridesmaids and a White Wedding: the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy of the year!
Fiona Collins


‘Pure unadulterated fun. A joy to read.’– Rachel’s Random Reads (top 500 Amazon reviewer)Don’t tell the bride!Rose, Sal and JoJo have been looking forward to their best friend Wendy’s hen party for ages. A relaxing spa break is the perfect way to escape their crazy careers, grumpy husbands and stroppy children – even if the groom’s straight-laced sister, Tamsin, is coming too.Until they realise that there’s been a mistake in the booking and instead of sipping prosecco in fluffy white dressing gowns they’re off to bridesmaid bootcamp!Squeezing themselves reluctantly into tiny shorts and sliding through the mud, it’s only a matter of time before secrets emerge that could change everything…Forget about saving the date, these four bridesmaids need to save the day – otherwise will there even be a white wedding at all?The hilariously uplifting new story from Fiona Collins, bestselling author of A Year of Being Single.Perfect for fans of Jane Costello, Helen Fielding and Fiona Gibson.Praise for Four Bridesmaids and a White Wedding:‘Pure unadulterated fun. A joy to read.’ – Rachel’s Random Reads (top 500 Amazon reviewer)‘A fun and fabulous read!’ – Jessica Bell (NetGalley reviewer)‘A sizzling, hilarious, saucy and sexy book. Simply the perfect read for this summer.’ – Sparkly Word‘Funny, light-hearted and fabulous!’ – Karen Whittard (NetGalley reviewer)‘Brilliant and fabulous… this book reminds me of Sex and the City!’ – Rebecca Stacey (NetGalley reviewer)







Don’t tell the bride!

Rose, Sal and JoJo have been looking forward to their best friend Wendy’s hen party for ages. A relaxing spa break is the perfect way to escape their crazy careers, grumpy husbands and stroppy children – even if the groom’s straight-laced sister, Tamsin, is coming too.

Until they realise that there’s been a mistake in the booking and instead of sipping prosecco in fluffy white dressing gowns they’re off to bridesmaid bootcamp!

Squeezing themselves reluctantly into tiny shorts and sliding through the mud, it’s only a matter of time before secrets emerge that could change everything…

Forget about saving the date, these four bridesmaids need to save the day – otherwise will there even be a white wedding at all?

The hilariously uplifting new story from Fiona Collins, bestselling author of A Year of Being Single. Perfect for fans of Jane Costello, Helen Fielding and Fiona Gibson.


Also by Fiona Collins (#ulink_25229ccd-e157-5683-b5e6-ca7c5adc5b04)

A Year of Being Single

Cloudy with a Chance of Love


Four Bridesmaids and a White Wedding

Fiona Collins







FIONA COLLINS

lives in the Essex countryside with her husband and three children, but also finds time for a loving relationship with a Kindle. She likes to write feisty, funny novels about slightly (ahem) more mature heroines. Fiona studied Film & Literature at Warwick University and has had many former careers including TV presenting in Hong Kong, talking about roadworks on the M25 as a radio presenter, and being a film and television extra. She has kissed Gerard Butler and once had her hand delightfully close to George Clooney’s bum. When not writing, Fiona enjoys watching old movies and embarrassing her children. You can follow Fiona on Twitter @FionaJaneBooks (https://www.twitter.com/FionaJaneBooks).


I would like to once again thank my brilliant editor, Charlotte, without whom this book may well have been always the bridesmaid, never the bride…

And Mary Torjussen, always, for your help and support.


To Shirley. May the wine flow freely and the music always get us on the dancefloor…




Contents


Cover (#u1bd18c70-71e0-523c-a7bd-ec9b29011182)

Blurb (#u46a41de1-4e5a-5ddf-b29a-bf07a549ca55)

Book List (#ulink_a762c51c-eb99-57d6-a6b0-9b8addf2fe48)

Title Page (#ue4ecfafa-d1d3-58ef-b08d-b4bdc5dc6672)

Author Bio (#u2dc5c8ef-2980-5758-b0d7-456ebc2497a2)

Acknowledgements (#ue716f347-9770-5b68-87ce-f63d45eadc40)

Dedication (#u90980f87-a043-5da4-ac68-8043996425c1)

Chapter One (#ulink_abfbd0ea-2dde-511c-a87d-71ac11adabbd)

Chapter Two (#ulink_3ff3ac0b-9e70-51cb-bc0f-82e0a1ebcd9f)

Chapter Three (#ulink_56877d3d-c013-5cb6-b6d6-54c05b6179e4)

Chapter Four (#ulink_d3956c56-b4b3-5bf0-bb64-803574b391f0)

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Extract (#u4e16e91a-3b8b-540d-b1ce-03a6463bbd92)

Endpages (#u5cea48ce-dd83-5261-a8b1-716f670d3147)

Copyright (#ulink_35dcb3e1-144f-573b-b48d-8b3a22c3d83e)


INVITATION

You are invited to: Wendy’s hen weekend (yes, I know she said she didn’t want one, but tough!)

When: Friday 21st to Monday 24th July

Where: The Retreat, Colcombe, Wiltshire – ‘Glamour Pamper Package’ to include ‘Party at the Lake House’ on Sunday 23rdJuly

Meet: Paddington Train Station, 6 p.m. (don’t be late – by that I mean you, Sal . . . train departs at 18.21 sharp!)

P.S. This is a sophisticated occasion – no tacky hen weekend props please!!!

JoJo x


Chapter One (#ulink_92cd69bb-5698-515c-b0bf-3b2f29a334fb)

Rose

Rose folded the massive, pink and gold ‘Bride’ sash into the front pocket of her overnight bag and popped the invitation that had arrived in the post two months ago – JoJo’s swirly handwriting on classy stiff white card – in the top of the main compartment. She fastened the bag and left the house.

‘Mum! Can you take me to the brow bar when you get back?’ hollered Darcie, her eldest – seventeen – from an open upstairs window, as Rose banged the front door until it shut behind her. It still didn’t close first time; perhaps during one of Jason’s fleeting visits home he could actually fix it.

‘Maybe!’ called Rose over her shoulder as she headed down the drive towards the waiting taxi. God knows what more Darcie needed to do with her brows, Rose pondered, as she tripped over her own foot but tried to pretend she hadn’t by turning it into an intentional-looking skip – the jet black, inch-thick caterpillars her daughter sported were beginning to take on a life of their own. Soon they’d need their own rooms.

‘Can you bring me back some products?’ yelled Louisa – fifteen – from somewhere behind Darcie.

Rose stopped by the taxi and looked up at the window. Louisa, her head wedged next to Darcie’s, had her hair piled up in a massive bun and was wearing a greeny-brown face mask that made her look like Hannibal Lecter.

‘Please, Mum! Serums, oils, body balms, peels? The more expensive the better? I don’t do cheap, Mum!’

‘I know!’ yelled Rose. None of them did cheap; they were costing her and Jason a bloody fortune. ‘I’ll do my best!’ She opened the taxi door, flung her bag into the back and proceeded to clamber in after it. There was a frantic rapping on the window. Katie – fourteen, and Rose’s youngest – was grinning wildly behind the glass, her wholly unnecessary orange foundation glowing in the struggling afternoon sun like the surface of Mars.

Rose wound down the window.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes, Katie?’

‘Can I use your straighteners while you’re gone? Mine are broken again.’

Rose sighed. ‘Yes, all right, if you must.’ Katie had inherited her mother’s bull-in-a-china-shop clumsiness; it left a lot of broken items in its wake. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Yes, Mum. Hey,’ Katie pointed out accusingly, ‘you’ve got blusher on!’

‘I have.’

‘It’s a bit cringe.’

‘Thank you, Katie,’ replied Rose sarcastically. ‘As ever. See you on Monday.’

Rose wound up the window, pulled her glittery top – saved for ‘best’; finally worn – over the slightly straining waistband of her skinny jeans – too much chocolate this week; the willpower of a slug – and the taxi pulled away from the suburban kerb of Francis Drive, Hinklesworth, Hertfordshire. It dawdled down the street, the driver tunelessly whistling the theme tune to Friends, and Rose realised she hadn’t kissed her husband goodbye. She’d hardly even said goodbye. Jason was in the study, his slightly too long dark hair flopping over his eyes as he tapped away on the laptop – no doubt emailing that bloodySusie in Hong Kong again, the one he worked with and was always banging on about. Rose had sort of called out, ‘I’m going now, bye!’ and he’d sort of called back, ‘OK, see ya!’ and that was it.

Rose did an internal shrug about it as the taxi turned onto the main road and the sun disappeared behind a cloud. She and Jason didn’t do that sort of thing any more. Kissing. Holding hands. Saying goodbye properly . . . A matey ‘see ya’ was about as good as it got. In fact, Jason had recently taken to calling her ‘mate’, a rather disconcerting turn of events by anyone’s standards. Rose was really rather jealous of close friend Wendy and her brilliant, whirlwind romance.

The Friday rush hour traffic was pretty bad as they headed very slowly to the station, but Rose wasn’t worried by it; she’d allowed plenty of time to get to Paddington, and was almost beside herself with the relief and thrill of getting out of the house. A whole weekend away – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had one and, boy, she needed a break. Her three teenage daughters were driving her bananas at the moment. Not only were their ‘floordrobe’ bedrooms like bomb-hit branches of Lush – highly perfumed obstacle courses of discarded clothes, strewn toiletries and empty Costa Coffee cups – but their attitudes had been stinking to high heaven, too. There had been a lot of arguing recently, plus an annoying dose this week of what Rose called ‘argy-bargy’: prodding, poking, and mild slapping – mostly over borrowed and unreturned make-up – which had resulted in confiscated phones and ever-escalating fishwife reprimands shouted upstairs. It had been exhausting. Three nights away was going to be absolute bliss, even if it was for a hen weekend.

Rose didn’t really do hen weekends – not any more. She’d been to a whole host of them in her late twenties and early thirties, including her own rather disastrous one, where a friend of a friend she didn’t even know had got JoJo and their normally indestructible friend, Sal, so drunk on mysterious cocktails they both had to be sent home incapable in a taxi at 10 p.m., missing half the night . . . and they now just seemed so screechy. All that enforced naughtiness, the silly costumes, the traipsing from bar to bar in crippling heels, the unattractive strippers in unfortunate PVC hot pants threatening to approach and make women do things to them with whipped cream and leather accessories . . . She used to love them but she’d been there, done that: at forty-two she was too old for all that malarkey, and she’d only reluctantly ordered that sash online – plus a cheap veil - because Sal had made her.

Yet, Rose reflected, as she stared out of the window, Wendy’s hen weekend was going to be all kinds of different from the traditional hen dos Rose knew and now hated. JoJo had arranged this one, and JoJo could be relied upon to provide class, always – the Glamour Pamper Package for Wendy’s hen weekend sounded amazing. Rose was definitely in line for some serious pampering; she’d barely had time to shave her legs recently and if anyone was up for lying face down on a board for an hour while some hot, preferably Swedish, masseur pummelled bits of their body into blissful submission it was her.

She also couldn’t wait to see her old friends. It had been a while. Having met as freshers at Warwick University, back in the day, they had all spread to different parts of the country (well, different Home Counties, anyway, apart from JoJo who lived in central London) and their crazy-busy lives meant they didn’t get together that often these days. Sometimes it was only once a year, for a pre-Christmas meet-up in London, where they stayed in a five star hotel, ate loads, drank far too much Prosecco and giggled and chatted in their pyjamas until 1 a.m. But, when they did meet up, it was like they’d never been apart.

Rose, Sal, JoJo and Wendy – the oldest and bestest of friends. And they still had the ability to surprise each other, as proved with the meteoric, fast-track love story of Wendy and Frederick.

Remember Frederick? Wendy had group-messaged the girls, one night at the end of January.

Of course we do, Sal had replied. The pair of you couldn’t keep your hands off each other all night!

The four of them had met, in London, just before Christmas last year and Wendy had brought along her boyfriend of six months, Frederick, for dinner. He hadn’t planned on staying that long – he said he knew their time together was precious – but they had all liked him so much they’d begged him to stay. He was lovely. He had a ready smile, a kind and quiet manner and, despite being absolutely smitten with Wendy, shared his attention between all of them, asking just the right questions and laughing in all the right places. After they’d finally let him go, Wendy had grinned like the Cheshire cat and said he was definitely The One . . . with bells on. And she’d been right.

We’re getting married! Wendy had added, on their group chat. On July the 29th!!!!!! Save the date!!!!!!!!!!

The date had been saved, of course it had – Rose couldn’t wait – but a hen night had never been on the cards. Wendy had told them that she didn’t want one. There wasn’t really time, she said, what with the whirlwind, six-month wedding preparations for the huge white wedding at a stately home in Norfolk - some family seat of Frederick’s family - and she couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of it all. Hen dos were for the young and overexcited, she’d said, not those long in the tooth who had struggled for the best part of two decades to find someone to love. The girls had all agreed, or at least pretended to, but JoJo immediately set up a secret messaging group called ‘Wendy’s Hen Do’. A wedding required a massive girly celebration; even Rose, long world-weary of the hen do, knew that.

They bandied ideas around. Half-serious notions of party boats down the Thames, chocolate-making in a Cornish castle, and paintballing, were all suggested and shot down – Who in their right mind would ever go paintballing at any time? mused Rose – and then finally JoJo had said to leave it to her. Organised JoJo, she would know what to do, they all agreed, and when the immaculate invitation had plopped through her letter box, Rose had felt little champagne bubbles of excitement rise inside her. She was also thrilled to discover Jason was actually going to be home that weekend and she wouldn’t have to arrange for her parents to have the girls.

Thank you for the invitation, JoJo, Wendy had messaged on the ‘Wendy’s Hen Do’ chat, the same morning she’d received her invitation in the post and been duly added to the group. Erm . . . didn’t I say I didn’t want a hen do?? She’d added one of those emoji things, the one with the bared-teeth grimace and Rose remembered looking at it and thinking it strange how Wendy hadn’t been up for a ‘hen’: she loved a night out and a good old dance – she was always first on the floor for a bit of Whigfield ‘Saturday Night’ or old school ‘YMCA’ (Wendy was a sucker for those cheesy, formation dance songs) and she also adored their London nights away and any opportunity for them all to get together.

Yes, you did, but we couldn’t let such detail stop it from happening, JoJo had replied, embellishing her sentiment with three smiley faces, a thumbs-up, and a martini in a cocktail glass.

Wendy had put another grimace. Then the devil’s face. Rose, online at the time whilst taking a lunch break from fumigating the girls’ bedrooms, had pictured Wendy tapping furtively away on her phone whilst at work in her lab. Wendy was a scientist, in Kent, and did something to do with aphids none of them understood. Her massive red curls would have been contained off her face in a hairband and a rainbow scrunchie – Wendy had huge hair: think Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, sans hooker wig, and times her hair by about ten – and her ever-colourful clothes hidden, as usual, under her white coat. Rose had imagined Wendy shaking her head as she leant over the pure white, shiny scientist’s workbench and typed out a response.

Do we have to? Oh look, the scream emoji. Always a good one.

Yes! Rose had written, plonking herself down on Louisa’s nail varnish-splattered bedroom chair and interrupting their messages. It sounds brilliant! Thanks for organising, JoJo! She’d put three bunches of flowers, the tropical cocktail, the chocolate bar and the dancing lady in the flamenco dress. And, later that night, Sal, no doubt standing at the back door of her pub and enjoying a quick, sneaky shandy between covers, had rsvp’d, too with a whoop, and a woo-hoo, flagged by capitals and lots of those faces that blow a red kiss.

Wendy’s hen do was happening and it couldn’t be happening to a nicer person, Rose thought, as her taxi rumbled up Station Road, but, all the same, she allowed herself a huge, envious sigh as it came to a stop outside Hinklesworth Station and she paid the driver. Wendy was so, so lucky. This was all just the beginning for their friend, after all this time.

Rose got on the Metropolitan Line, travelled four stops, then got off at Baker Street to change for the Hammersmith & City Line. As she got off the Tube at Paddington, she mentally told herself off for sighing over Wendy and Frederick’s romance; jealousy was not an attractive trait and she was in short supply of those, these days, as it was.

‘Rose! Rose, over here!’

She was at Paddington Station at last and there was Wendy, waiting under the departure board, her curls voluminous and three-feet wide, her tall, willowy body draped in a gorgeous, multi-print maxi dress. Rose felt so happy to see her. Ecstatic even. Those champagne bubbles of excitement filled her again as she walked over to her old friend to give her an enormous hug.


Chapter Two (#ulink_c29d236c-84e9-58d2-bd59-4ca20017f466)

JoJo

JoJo closed the door of Boutique Brides behind her and indulged in a lingering glance at its beautiful window display before she resumed her walk to Paddington Station.

Three dresses – the three most beautiful of her collection – were displayed on calico dressmaker’s mannequins: the pale ivory princess-cut gown with the sweetheart neckline and the tiny beads of diamanté hand-sewn into the bodice; the white Grecian column dress with its silky pleats and belt made of intertwined feathers; the long-sleeved, high-necked, intricate lace dress with the magnificent, breath-taking train. Each immaculately pinned and tucked and draped, each shimmering under exceptionally pretty and strategically placed white fairy lights. Even the floor the dresses’ embellished hems tumbled onto was sublime: reams of lace and silk cascaded in elegant folds to form a pretty carpet, which was sprinkled with tiny, gossamer, mother-of-pearl buttons.

She knew it was perfection; her staff knew it was perfection; all her prospective brides and their mums and their excited, supportive friends knew it too. It was the kind of shop window to elicit gasps and the occasional excited and happy tear. It was a window that said ‘come on in, sit on a pretty, jacquard silk chaise longue, enjoy a chilled glass of champagne and see all your dreams come true’.

It was a display that promised happy-ever-afters.

Boutique Brides was a beautiful shop and it was all hers. She’d just been inside to check on a few things before she set off for the weekend. She couldn’t resist – the shop in Little Venice was practically en route from her house in Maida Vale to Paddington – and, while inside, she’d attempted to follow her best friends’ instructions to lock her BlackBerry in the desk at the back of the shop, so she couldn’t take it with her on Wendy’s hen weekend. However, she’d failed spectacularly in her mission. The BlackBerry had stayed in that drawer all of fiveminutes.

‘Not a workaholic, not a workaholic at all.’ Tinks, her eminently capable assistant, had smiled as she’d watched JoJo pull the BlackBerry back out of the drawer and slip it into her embroidered carpet bag.

‘Bang to rights.’ JoJo had grinned. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. I couldn’t possibly leave this baby behind.’ She’d patted the side of the bag and smiled sheepishly, but not that sheepishly. She didn’t care, actually – the shop was her second baby and babies needed close monitoring, didn’t they?

‘Boutique Brides will be absolutely fine without you for a couple of days, you know,’ Tinks had added, with a warm but business-like shaking of her head. ‘You can trust us.’

‘I know I can. You’re all amazing. You and Josie and Ayda are all brilliant.’ They were; her assistant and Tinks’ assistants were all fantastic at their jobs. She’d been very, very careful when she’d hired them; the interview process for each of them had gone on for days.

JoJo had smiled and pulled the belt of her Burberry raincoat tighter. There had been light summer showers all day, so far, but with any luck they would clear for tonight, at least in Wiltshire – she quite fancied a wander around The Retreat’s boating lake at some point this evening. She’d leave her BlackBerry in the room for that, definitely, of course she would . . .

‘No need to even have your phone on.’

‘It’s on vibrate.’ She had both a phone and a BlackBerry, which was better for emails.

‘Right. And don’t rush back on Monday.’

‘I’ll try not to.’ The return train to Paddington was booked for 10.31. JoJo and her friends would be back in London for 11.45 and she was planning on heading straight to the boutique.

‘You didn’t need to come in at all today.’ Tinks straightened up the appointments book and smoothed down the skirt of her navy shift dress.

‘I know,’ said JoJo. She’d settled her sister, Millie, into her Maida Vale mews and had kissed her daughter, Constance, goodbye, several times. She should have gone straight on her way.

‘Have a great time,’ Tinks had said, with a note of finality. It appeared she had been actually ushering JoJo to the door. ‘You deserve it. And try not to think about work. Boutique Brides will still be here when you get back.’

JoJo got it. She needed a break and she should enjoy that break without thinking about work all the time, but Tinks was kidding herself that was going to happen. JoJo was always thinking about work. JoJo loved work; second only to Constance, she lived for work. She was fiercely proud of what she had built up and what she had achieved – what was there not to love? As she stood outside the shop and continued her lingering glance at the window displayand her beautiful dresses, all she could feel was immense pride.

The little bell of the shop door rang and Tinks poked her head round it. ‘You still here? The shop really will be fine without you, you know.’

‘Sorry!’ said JoJo, with a start. ‘I’m going!’ And she set off down the street, her heels clacking on the now-drying pavement. She must try to make a concerted effort to forget all about the shop. She had booked something so lovely for herself and her friends; she should now focus all her energies on the weekend ahead and ignore that BlackBerry already burning a hole in the bottom of her bag.

JoJo had browsed and booked the hen weekend one lunchtime, in between brides. She hadn’t had much time, and the phone had kept going, but it hadn’t taken her long to find The Retreat, in the heart of Wiltshire and not far from the historic National Trust village of Laycock, which Constance reliably informed her was where parts of the Harry Potter movies were filmed. The Retreat was quite pricey, but it looked so worth it. Wendy deserved a wonderful hen do. Their wild and crazy Wendy . . . she, the first to kick off her shoes and dance on the tables in restaurants; the one to wear the brightest, clash-iest colours and make Helena Bonham Carter look like a conservative dresser; who danced the longest and laughed the loudest and had the craziest hair . . . It had taken Wendy so long to find Frederick, and they needed to celebrate her upcoming marriage in absolute style.

JoJo thought about her good friend as she walked. Wendy had met Frederick at a scientist convention in Maidstone: she was representing the destruction of aphids, or whatever it was she did; he was a corporate lawyer representing one of the big research firms. Wendy had told them that he’d approached her at the Morning Mingle, where they drank coffee and discussed science-y things in white coats, and that he’d ‘had her at molecular phylogenetics’. It made for a lovely story. Then she, Sal and Rose had met him last Christmas, when he’d joined them for dinner on their weekend away before leaving them to it for dancing and more cocktails. They’d all liked him enormously. He was quietly spoken, but with a lovely sense of humour. He was extremely polite. He rocked a very nice white, unbuttoned shirt and smart trouser combo. His build was lean, his face was handsome and he was, undoubtedly, a catch.

‘He’s very straight,’ Sal had observed, as he slipped off politely and quietly into the night and they’d finished their third round of Cosmopolitans. ‘In the old fashioned sense of the word, I mean. Posh, too. I doubt he’s the swinging from the chandelier type,’ she added, winking at Wendy, ‘but he’s straight and steady and polite and really, really nice. I like him.’

‘Me too,’ Rose had said.

‘Oh, me three!’ chimed in JoJo. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

‘You’d be surprised, actually . . .’ Wendy had smiled, raising her glass for an impromptu, celebratory chinking of them round the table ‘. . . about the swinging from the chandeliers thing . . .’ This was met with a rather raucous cheer. ‘But thank you for your kind words, all of you. I’m punching way above my weight, I know. He’s far too good for me. But I’m so excited about him! He’s perfect!’

And now Wendy was marrying her perfect man, mused JoJo, walking onto the concourse at Paddington Station and making her way to the departures board, and she didn’t have to wait much longer to do so. The wedding was next Saturday. All that remained was to have the most brilliant weekend, starting now – the perfect girly send-off for their fabulous friend, who deserved the very best before she sailed off into the sunset with Mr Right.

JoJo sighed with happiness; she saw so many women off into the sunset with their perfect men, and in the perfect dresses . . . nothing gave her more pleasure, actually. She’d just check her BlackBerry to see if Lucy Stoker, the girl who worked at Hamleys, was still coming in on Monday afternoon for her final fitting. There was a little work yet to be done on that beaded hemline and the darts at the back of the dress might need adjusting slightly . . .

‘Put that down! Right now!’

‘Step away from the BlackBerry!’

Wendy and Rose were under the departures board, grinning their heads off and holding giant bags. Wendy had one of those wheelie cases, like air hostesses have. She was also wearing a giant pink and gold sash that said ‘Bride’ in big black letters, and a comedy veil. So much for JoJo’s instructions! She could have sworn she’d said no tacky props! Still, Wendy looked like she didn’t mind one bit; she was positively glowing and giving a little twirl for the benefit of passers-by. An old man gave her a bit of a wolf whistle and said, ‘Good luck, darlin’’ and Wendy beamed.

‘All right!’ said JoJo, ‘I’ll step away from the BlackBerry.’ She shoved it back in her bag and approached her two friends for a hug. ‘How are you both?’ she asked, giving them a squeeze. ‘It’s so lovely to see you. It feels like absolute ages . . . And where the hell is Sal?’


Chapter Three (#ulink_fb6a3742-2715-5693-a4b4-cad463f4189a)

Sal

Sal was late. Novelty hen items were falling left, right and centre out of her badly zipped-up overnight bag and spilling onto the pavement outside her pub. She bent down and scrabbled to retrieve a pink fluffy set of handcuffs, a pair of inflatable penis deely boppers and some glitter L-plates. The MAMIL (Middle-Aged Man in Lycra) she’d just turfed off the premises, sitting astride his orange and black road bike in three-quarter-length socks and what looked like an over-tight, neon-pink mankini, sat back on his razor blade saddle and looked on in amusement.

‘Yes, I have handcuffs and penises,’ muttered Sal, trying to pretend the afternoon drizzle wasn’t ruining her hair and that it was perfectly normal to be grubbing around on the ground for wayward hen props. ‘Have a good look. But you brought a pushbike into a pub! Who does that?’

‘It’s not a “pushbike”,’ scoffed the man, looking down on Sal as she stuffed the L-plates back into her bag. ‘I told you in there. It’s a Carbon-Fibre Endurance Special Edition Speed Machine with Direct Mount Brakes . . . and I have an extremely high-tech computer attached to Nigel – I can’t get it wet.’ He patted the black box between the handlebars. He’d spent the ten minutes since she’d chucked him out of the pub covering it lovingly with what appeared to be a sandwich bag and an entire roll of Sellotape.

‘Nobody calls their bike “Nigel”!’ exclaimed Sal. ‘And don’t ever try to bring him, it, whatever, into my pub again or I’ll have you barred!’

The man adjusted his tackle indignantly and squeezed a ridiculous cap onto his balding head. ‘It was always all right in the Old Grey Goose,’ he said sniffily, as he taxied off slowly down the road.

‘Well, my pub is the New Grey Goose!’ called Sal after him. ‘So leave the bike outside next time! And maybe have a wash before you come in.’

Nigel’s owner had obviously been on a very long cycle that afternoon, before he felt the need to stop for refreshment, as he had tainted Sal’s pub with horribly smelly armpits. After he’d parked his massive bike against the pub’s newly restored, gorgeous inglenook fireplace, blocking it completely, he’d deposited himself on a nearby armchair and raised both arms in an exaggerated backwards stretch, inflicting said armpits on the room and causing Sal to come rushing over with a can of Febreze and a few choice words. He’d also placed a revolting sports drink on one of her nice new tables and it had spilt sticky, orange hideousness everywhere.

What was it with men who liked to dress in restrictive, Day-Glo clothing and pretend they were permanently taking part in the Tour de France? Sal wondered, as she squeezed her bag into a shape that allowed the zip to be yanked up. She really could have done without the time-consuming eviction of man and machine this afternoon; she wasn’t exactly super-fit and had struggled wrestling a carbon-fibre frame with two giant, over-thin wheels – plus an indignant six-foot-four man with his middle-aged spread tucked into his spandex – over the threshold. Still, she hadn’t spent the last two months doing up her precious pub for it to be overrun with muddy wheels and less than savoury armpits.

Sighing, Sal hauled her bag over her shoulder and marched off down the pavement in the direction of the bus stop. She really should have got ready earlier, she reflected, as she did have quite a long journey ahead of her. Bus to Woking Station, then a train to Waterloo and then the Underground to Paddington. Sal was cutting it pretty fine now and JoJo was going to be mightily disappointed in her if she was more than her customary ten minutes late.

She arrived at the bus stop. The New Grey Goose, still just in view, was looking fabulous, she had to admit. Sal had done a lot of work to the pub: a typical, Tudor English pub with a low-slung roof and wonky beams. When she’d acquired it, parts of the roof were falling off and the white paintwork between the beams was grey and flaking. No more. The roof was now fully tiled and weather-proof; the exterior walls an attractive, soft pistachio green and punctuated by hanging baskets and a shiny black door. Inside, she’d swapped threadbare, flocked 1980s carpet for honeyed oak floors; burgundy, peeling wallpaper for smooth, cream walls; and brasses and horseshoes and dreadful wall-mounted beer towels for tasteful, black and white Surrey pastoral views. The New Grey Goose was now a very nice pub.

A bus miraculously arrived, thank goodness, and Sal climbed aboard. As she walked down the central aisle, she spied her biking adversary cruising leisurely back down the street, his bum high in the air atop that painful-looking saddle and his suspiciously smooth calves taut. He raised one hand from the handlebars to give her a cheery wave. Cheeky git, she thought. But she couldn’t worry about him now. Martina, her manager, would have to deal with him if he came back. Sal was escaping for three nights and it felt really good, despite having to leave some good stuff behind.

‘All right, Sal?’ An elderly lady in a red raincoat, sitting at the front of the bus, greeted her with a smile.

‘Yes, good thanks, Mrs Ross. You?’

‘Very well, thank you. Lovely steak and mushroom pie I had in your place the other night.’

‘Thank you.’

Grinning to herself, Sal headed for the back of the bus just like she’d always done at school. She was pleased the new menu – and the new chef – was going down such a treat. Sitting down in the middle of the back row of seats, with a bit of a shove she tucked her overnight bag, stuffed with the contraband hen accoutrements, underneath. They were not really her thing, actually – she didn’t especially like the clichéd hen do, the wearing of tutus and pink cowboy hats and the dancing round a pile of handbags in a nightclub – but she was a rebellious sort of person who’d started buying them as soon as JoJo said they were banned.

She also hadn’t been to a hen weekend for years, but had been invited to quite a few in her time. Some good, some bad, some hysterical; Rose’s had been quite memorable . . . She was relieved, too, she thought, as the bus pulled away, there was going to be no nightclubs this weekend. Sal was a pub girl, not club, always had been. She’d worked behind the bar at university and had never really left.

‘Is this seat free?’

A young man, holding one of those tiny, ridiculous dogs that celebrities used to carry around, came and sat down beside Sal. Really? There were about forty other seats! The dog immediately started sniffing at Sal’s hand and she swiftly moved it away, bristling. She really hoped she didn’t smell of dog when she got to The Retreat, though it would probably get blasted away with a lemon and saffron infused laser, or something.

Glamorous pamper party, the invitation said, or along those lines. It wasn’t really her bag either. She wasn’t into grooming, having her nails done, all that stuff. She was more of a soap and water woman, and she knew she’d feel uncomfortable with strange ladies in white tunics prodding and poking her, and having to lie face down with her face in a hole in a bed, and all that enforced pampering – but she should be looking forward to it. She needed some time off from the pub, everyone had told her so.

Even Niall.

‘A break from all this bedroom action,’ he’d said earlier that afternoon and with his customary sexy grin, under that mop of sexy tousled hair and above that impressive set of attractive tattoos. ‘I imagine you in a pink cowboy hat, on one of those bucking bronco things, in a bar,’ he’d added. It had been after a particularly amazing session in Sal’s double bed, in the pretty beamed bedroom above her pub.

Always the pink cowboy hats . . . ‘It’s not going to be that sort of thing,’ she’d replied, gazing at his gorgeous head as it lay on one of her pillows. She still couldn’t believe it kept finding its way there. ‘It’s going to be dead classy. If you knew JoJo like I know JoJo, who booked it, then you’d be in no doubt.’

‘JoJo the wedding dress designer?’ Niall said, propping that gorgeous head up on one elbow and staring at her with those ridiculously sexy green eyes. ‘Well, the thing is, of course, that I don’t know her at all. I’ve never met any of your friends.’

He hadn’t. She and Niall weren’t really at the ‘meeting friends’ stage. They were still at the ‘shag each other senseless’ stage, the ‘we don’t know where this is going but we don’t currently care’ stage.

‘No, you haven’t, not yet.’

‘And will I?’ He turned to face her, his green eyes, framed by impossibly thick, dark brown lashes, sparkling with merriment and unabashed lust.

‘Yes. Probably. One day.’ Niall meeting her friends would make him real. It would also make it real that she was sleeping with her chef – he of the magnificent pies – and had been for two months. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about that, beyond the sheer, exciting thrill of actually doing it; although she knew, logically, it was certain to go nowhere, once she had discovered what was wrong with him.

‘And Rose, the put-upon mother of three will be there?’

‘Your words not mine, but yes.’

‘And you’re meeting Wendy’s sister-in-law-to-be for the first time?’

‘Tamsin, yes.’ After they’d received their invitations Wendy had said she was Frederick’s only sister and he’d suggested they should invite her. It was fine by Sal. Sal just wanted Wendy – who had once miserably declared she was going to end up spinster of her parish and wandering round with a load of meowing cats – to be happy.

Sal glanced back at Niall. He was clearly not thinking about Tamsin, or anyone else. He had that foxy grin on his face again and his left eye was closing into the saucy wink she was beginning to really look forward to, usually at about this time of the day.

‘So,’ he said, ‘have we got time for another go? Another dose of afternoon delight? I can get the playing cards out again, to get you in the mood . . .’

‘Ha. No!’ she’d protested, but not that strongly, and she definitely didn’t need a round of Chase the Ace to get her in the mood. She’d let him pull her back onto the bed for another, very enjoyable romp. Hence the real reason for her lateness. Hence the fact she was now pelting it from Paddington tube station to Paddington railway station (not that great a distance but possibly a step too far when a woman has to navigate escalators and people who refuse to stand on the right and a pair of new, unaccustomed-to heels, which would inevitably turn out to be a mistake . . .) as fast as she could and a full twenty minutes late.

The new ankle boots were already a mistake, actually. They were pinching her toes and she could feel the beginnings of a blister on her left heel. She’d only bought them yesterday, along with a couple of dresses, in the clothing aisles of Sainsbury’s, for those posh evenings at The Retreat’s and that promised party at the lake house on Sunday night. If glam was required, glam could be rustled up.

Sal skidded round the corner and came to a stop with a grin. There they were, under the departures board: JoJo, immaculate and fresh in a smart, beige raincoat, shaking her blonde head and tapping her watch in mock consternation; Rose, in jeans, iridescent top and black court shoes, grinning like a loon and trying to re-attach something to the back of Wendy’s head; Wendy, all red curls and swathes of brightly coloured material, laughing as she let a scratchy-looking polyester veil get clamped to her hair. Behind them, Sal spotted a group of Chinese tourists trying to take sneaky photos: the Great British Hen Do was obviously quite a sight.

‘What time do you call this?’ hollered JoJo.

‘Come on, Sal!’ shouted Rose. ‘We’ve been waiting ages.’

‘We’ve only got a blooming train to catch!’ called Wendy. ‘Leg it, woman!’

So Sal did. She laughed and dashed towards them. Her friends. The friends she adored. She was so happy to see them. Forget the throbbing blister, the fear of pampering, Niall with the green eyes and the sexy tats, even forget the bloody pub, she thought. She was spending three nights with her old, beloved friends and this was going to be a fantastic weekend.





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