Bad Bridesmaid. Portia MacIntosh
today but I successfully kept the boys alive – something no one thought for a second that I could do, and yet they still left them with me. Never underestimate the lure of chips.
My auntie follows the boys back upstairs, eyeballing me cautiously as she leaves the room.
I don’t waste my time wondering why June hates me these days, she just does and I’m weirdly OK with it. You would think I’d be distraught by the fact that pretty much every member of my family doesn’t really like me but I’m OK with that too. I have a few theories going, most of which involve me being born to a sexy celebrity couple and ending up getting swapped in the hospital, but I made peace with them emotionally exiling me a long time ago.
I suppose I should go and do some work. As I head back to my poolside workstation I glance over the DVDs again, making a mental note that the boys should watch Reservoir Dogs next – as part of their film education, it’s called Media Studies, I promise.
Despite promising to keep working while I’m away, I didn’t get very much done today. I tried, but I was only on a roll for about ten minutes before Belle called me for dinner, and all group activities are not optional – unless they need a babysitter.
‘Bangers and mash,’ my sister informs me cheerily as I enter the dining room. I knew I was going to have trouble keeping up my diet while I was here but this is ridiculous. Still, my sister will take it personally if I don’t participate so I suppose I’ll eat the vegetables and push the rest around my plate to create the illusion that I am eating it.
‘Yummy,’ I reply enthusiastically – as you know, when it comes to sausage I am an expert at faking it.
Soon enough everyone is seated at the two tables, the grown-ups on the main table and everyone under sixteen at the kids’ table next to us. Even though not everyone is staying at the beach house, we seem to be spending a lot of time together and eating all our meals together – thanks to Bridezilla’s ridiculously strict scheduling.
This evening I am sitting between my grandma and a hard face… my Auntie June. I was expecting to be in a horrible position, with shit being flung at me from both sides, but they’re not giving me a hard time at all tonight. My gran has always had moments of indifference towards me, but my auntie is usually unrelenting. Not tonight though.
‘I hear you did a good job with the kids,’ my dad says to me from across the table. ‘Well done.’
This comment catches me off guard as I am eating a mouthful of peas, causing me to swallow the wrong way and cough a little.
‘Yeah.’ I sip my water. ‘Well, they’re good kids. I had fun.’
‘Maybe you do have maternal instincts,’ my mum says warmly.
I glance around the table and see that everyone is smiling at me.
‘Maybe,’ I reply, knowing full well that I am about as maternal as a shoe. Still, if people are going to be nicer to me for showcasing these “normal” feelings then I’m all for it. Whatever makes my stay here more tolerable.
‘You did do a good job,’ a voice that sounds exactly like my auntie’s says, but it can’t be her, can it?
I look to my right to see my Auntie June smiling at me. Yes, smiling at me, and it’s not forced or smug, it’s genuine.
‘You’ve clearly done some growing up, Mia,’ she adds.
Belle, visibly annoyed that I am getting more attention than her, attempts to put me back in my place.
‘Mia, why aren’t you eating your dinner?’ she asks angrily.
‘The vegetables are delicious,’ I lie.
‘Well, it’s your show business diet, isn’t it,’ my mum chimes in. ‘It’s a tough business. Things like that matter.’
My eyes widen. First my dad compliments me, then my auntie is nice to me and now my mum is defending me – and everyone is still smiling. I must be dreaming.
Perhaps now everyone is seeing me in a better light, this wedding might not be so bad – I might even have fun.
‘So you’re refusing to eat my sausages?’ my sister persists.
‘I don’t really eat pork,’ I reason. My sister looks angry but everyone else in the room seems fine with me until…
‘I don’t eat pork,’ a voice echoes my own. Everyone looks towards the end of the table, where the kids’ table is. Josh is grinning widely.
‘Excuse me?’ my auntie says to her son.
‘I don’t eat pork,’ he continues as he eats, much to Max’s amusement.
When I let Josh and Max watch Pulp Fiction I knew that they wouldn’t tell their parents on me, but there’s one thing I didn’t anticipate happening – something that is inevitable when you watch a Tarantino flick – they caught the quoting bug.
I glance down the table at them, pleading at them with my eyes not to take this any further, but they’re not looking at me, they’re having too much fun.
‘Why not?’ my uncle asks his son curiously.
‘I don’t eat filthy animals,’ Josh replies.
Everyone in the room is still baffled, apart from Dan’s older brother Mike who is chuckling to himself – he’s clearly a fan of the movie. If this situation wasn’t all my fault I’d probably be amused too – and impressed, Josh is nailing the delivery of these lines, and he has remembered them perfectly. It’s true what they say, children have minds like sponges.
‘They root in shit,’ Josh elaborates, clearly on a roll. ‘That’s a filthy animal.’
On hearing her ten-year-old son say shit, my auntie snaps her head to the right at an impressive speed. The smile is immediately wiped from Josh’s face when he realises how angry his mum is, and just how much trouble he’s in.
‘Where did you hear that?’ his mum asks him.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies, fooling no one.
‘Max?’ my auntie asks her son’s 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.