Bad Bridesmaid. Portia MacIntosh
grabbing his shoes and scuffling out of the room.
‘I’m watching you, Mia,’ my auntie warns me.
I give her my friendliest smile as she leaves the room and closes the door behind her. Do I think my uncle actually fancies me? Of course not, but he does seem to get some sort of weird kick out of flirting with me. I think it’s weird for him, because we weren’t close before my image transformation, so it’s like he sees me as this entirely different person now – one he can be mates with, instead of playing uncle to.
Finally alone, I pounce onto my bed in a way not too dissimilar to the way my uncle did, only my intentions are far purer. The plan is to have a quick nap, have a shower and then dress in something pretty for dinner, ready to make a good impression in front of the group.
Lying face down and horizontally across my bed, I struggle to find the energy to move. I need to though, if only to remove my dress and my face-full of makeup before I fall asleep on these white sheets. Just five more minutes and then I’ll sort myself out.
After hours of sitting still, first on a plane and then on a train, my entire body feels tense. I arch my back and stretch my arms and legs out as far I can but with no relief. I’ll probably feel better when I get this dress off, and if I have a bath after my nap that will probably help to ease my stiff muscles too – that’s if I have time.
Still face down on my bed, I grab my phone. I check the time to make sure I can fit in everything I have planned before the family dinner at seven o’clock, but something isn’t right. I rub my weary eyes and look again – that can’t be right. My phone seems to think it is quarter past seven already.
I jump to my feet with the intention of finding another clock, but I am halted by the state of my bed. Foundation, bronzer, black eye makeup and red lipstick stains are smeared all over the top of my previously beautiful white quilt cover.
I glance around the room for a clock, convinced something has screwed up my iPhone clock when it tried to change itself to UK time, but I can’t find one. I step out onto the balcony and look for the sun, deluded in thinking I’ll be able to figure out the time from its position in the sky. I humour the idea for about five seconds before accepting that I’m no Girl Scout. It is then that I spot a man walking his dog along the beach.
‘Excuse me,’ I call out at the top of my lungs.
‘Yes?’ the puzzled-looking man calls back.
‘Do you have the time, please?’
The man, still confused, does as he is told and looks at his watch.
‘It’s twenty past seven,’ he shouts.
‘Is that in the p.m.?’ I ask.
The man laughs at me and replies, ‘Yes, that’s in the p.m.’
I shout a quick thank you before running back into my bedroom and plucking up the courage to look in the mirror. My beautiful curls are all messy and flat, my dress appears to have twisted three hundred and sixty degrees around my body, and my makeup is so crazy and smudged all over my face it looks like I’ve been getting off with an evil clown.
I spend thirty seconds that I don’t have trying to figure out what will make Belle the angriest: I could smarten myself up and be even later for dinner (that I was supposed to be down for twenty minutes ago) or I can hurry downstairs now, looking like this. There’s only one thing for it – I grab my face wipes from my bag and begin taking off some of my makeup – but not all of it, because I won’t have time to apply any more and there’s no way I’m going down without it.
As I hurry down the stairs I try and fluff up my hair a little before yanking my dress back into place, just seconds before I burst into the dining room. As I enter the room everyone stops eating and stares at me in total silence.
‘Hello,’ I say cheerily.
‘We thought you weren’t coming so we started without you,’ my mother informs me.
‘Sorry, I must have fallen asleep,’ I explain, although anyone with half a brain can probably figure that out just by looking at me.
‘We were going to just shove you on the kids’ table,’ my sister says, like it’s some kind of punishment. The truth is I would much rather sit with the kids than the adults. ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘someone injured my fiancée’s back and he’s in bed indefinitely, so you can sit here next to me.’
While my sister didn’t straight up announce to the room that it was me who broke her prince, judging by the unimpressed faces surrounding me I can hazard a guess that she has already filled them in.
I take a seat at the table and begin eating the spaghetti bolognese that is laid out for me. Normally I wouldn’t eat something like this, but now doesn’t seem like the right kind of time for a conversation about carbohydrates. I’ll eat enough to be polite and make sure I work it off tomorrow.
‘So you’re the movie maker,’ Dan’s mum says, and judging by the tone of her voice she is either seriously unimpressed with my line of work or she believes I intentionally tried to harm her son.
‘I am. I write romantic comedies,’ I admit, just in case anyone in the room doesn’t know or believe that I am capable of such a thing.
‘Anything we might have heard of?’ a woman who I have not yet been introduced to asks.
‘The Unhappy Couple, Battle of the Bridesmaids, Nate From Next Door…’ I start reeling off a list of the most well-known films I have worked on. ‘I have a film in the cinema at the moment called For Better, For Worse.’
‘Well, isn’t that impressive,’ Dan’s mum says, not even sounding the slightest bit sincere.
I glance over at my parents to see what they’re making of this conversation but they hardly look up from their meal. It’s not that I feel like I need their approval, it would just be nice to feel like they were proud of me.
‘You’ll have to write a movie based on my wedding,’ Belle says excitedly. ‘Just make sure you make my character much thinner and prettier than me.’
This is one of those things that my sister says – but doesn’t really mean – so that everyone in the room will shower her with compliments. As expected, everyone tells her how pretty she is and how slim she’s looking.
‘You used to be quite fat, didn’t you, Mia,’ Belle’s best friend (and my former bully) Nancy announces to the whole room. ‘If Belle wanted to feel more confident about her shape I’m sure you could offer invaluable advice… unless you do it the Hollywood way and stick your fingers down your throat.’
Everyone laughs at Nancy’s charming little joke about eating disorders, because we all know eating disorders are hilarious.
‘Well, my sister does look great,’ Belle starts, ‘and I just seem to be gaining weight all the time.’
My sister sounds glum and embarrassed that the over-dinner conversation is all about her weight.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ I say to try and make her feel better. ‘I work in a place where people wrongly think that skinny and success go hand in hand, so it’s easy to do what everyone else is doing. If I worked in a bakery like you, I’d probably gain weight.’
‘So you think I just eat cakes all day?’ my sister asks me angrily.
‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ I insist – because I didn’t. ‘All I meant was that if I had your job, and I was surrounded by sweet stuff all day, I would probably eat more than I do in my office where all they lay out is fruit.’
‘You think I eat too much and that’s why I’m fat,’ my sister concludes, pushing her plate away.
Once again, everyone’s eyes are on me.