Page 4 of Bad Influence
I sighed. ‘Nope. We should have gone to a gallery or a matinée, she wouldn’t have had to suffer all my bad suggestions then. I mean, can you believe I had the audacity to suggest she try wearing a shade of yellow?’
‘Not very her.’ He smiled.
‘She’d have looked great, if only she’d given it a go. And it’s bang on trend.’
He smirked. ‘Did she at least buy you lunch?’
We were interrupted by my phone buzzing. Lucy.
‘Amber, I’ve been waiting for you to call. How did it go with Mum?’
I paused. I knew full well what she meant.
‘Am?’
‘I’m here. I literally just walked through the door.’
‘So, did you do the deed?’
My silence told her the answer.
‘Oh Amber, this is theonlything I’ve asked you to do so far. And, as my maid of honour, you kind of have to do it. We only have eight Eurostar tickets and I’ve invited everyone. I can’t tell one of my best friends that they can’t come anymore. It’s only a couple of weeks away. What are we going to do?’ The ‘we’ made me flinch – such a friendly but loaded word.
‘I’m sorry, Luce, there wasn’t a good moment,’ I replied, feeling irked that my main duty as maid of honour appeared to revolve around delivering bad news, rather than knocking back champagne whilst giving a second opinion on the wedding flowers. Lucy seemed to have conveniently forgotten that I had successfully steered heraway from the horrendous tulle wedding gown, which came with a stitched-in suspender-belt, that she would have ended up in if left to her own devices. Surely that was a big tick under my MOH duties? Telling the excited mother-of-the-bride that she was barred from her own daughter’s hen do shouldn’t be a prerequisite for the role, if you ask me.
‘Perhaps we should just get another ticket?’ I offered, meekly.
Lucy recoiled. I could sense it through the phone.
‘No,’ she said, measuredly.
She was right, of course. But I was angry that she had let Mum believe she was invited, leaving me to do the dirty work.
Lucy could be bossy at the best of times, but her wedding run-up had been a marathon – and there were still four months to go. I felt horribly disloyal even thinking it, but I wasn’t looking forward to my own sister’s hen. To compound matters, she was also starting to make noises that the Pronovias gown I helped her choose –andat a fifteen per cent discount, thanks to my fashion connections – was giving her nightmares because she thought it made her back look like she ‘wrestled for a living’. Naturally, being a stylist, I was to blame for this imagined situation; when in reality the champagned-coloured sensual ‘mermaid’ gown with rippling sequined effect, plunge back, and a neckline with exquisite beaded edging, was going to make the most breathtaking bridal look for the bride who insisted she couldn’t wear white.
‘Don’t panic. I’ll talk to Mum in the next couple of days,’ I muttered, to get her off the phone.
‘Okay, great, let me know when it’s done.’ She sighed. ‘And don’t forget Nora’s birthday next Friday. Come any time after six as she’s having a party with her school friends first. Expect a sugar high, but it would be lovely to see you. I’ll save you some cake.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there.’
When I had hung up, I pulled my sweater sleeves down over my hands and sucked in my cheeks.
‘She’s going to be devastated,’ I said, flopping onto the sofa beside my boyfriend. ‘Rob …?’ I said, louder.
‘Not wedding drama again?’ He was squinting at his laptop.
‘You need to get your eyes tested. How do I phone Mum and tell her she’s not going to her daughter’s hen do?’
‘Get it over with. Blame a mix-up over numbers, it’ll be done by the time I’ve made you a mug of tea.’ He leant forward and passed me my phone from the coffee table.
‘Thank Christ for that!’ Mum exclaimed once I had broken the unfortunate news that due to a computer glitch somewhere between here and King’s Cross, we seemed to be one Eurostar ticket short for a sold-out train, and, as maid of honour, I didn’t want to have to ask Lucy to let one of her oldest friends down, so it was either her or me.
‘Pleasedon’t tell your sister, but I think a Paris hen do is more for you lot, rather than me,’ she said, sounding upbeat.
‘Are you absolutely sure, Mum?’
‘Darling, I’ve never been surer. To be honest, I’d much rather stay at home. I was going to talk to you about it today, but there wasn’t a good time.’
