Kindle

“We have plenty of time”

Without a word, she revolved in place with hands on hips, elbows jutted and lips puckered. As her eyes glared down at our bodies adorned with lingerie and filigree, I imagined her brain firing up all over again. The blasé comment was a fatal mistake, offered up by the trust fund teenager, in a moment far from optimistic. If the teenager had taken a second to read the room, she would have understood that the fire - her cousin - was already smoking and didn’t need any more poking. The careless comment was another catalyst, another spark to re-ignite the rage. From the corner of my vision, I saw a few of the others flinch. She was triggered; that was for sure. Her body was soft and plump, but her stance was solid like a stake and all we could do was watch her face begin to flush, rippling with red. We watched and waited for an impending explosion to assault our ears…

Someone hammered on the closed suite door. The fire snapped her head sideways, startled by the disruption.

Makeup’s here; came a cry from the other side of the door, redirecting the attention away from us and dousing the atmosphere with relief.

Nobody moved for a second, unsure if the heated moment had truly passed and afraid that any rash movements would set her off again. But she looked back at us and told the nearest party member to; “Answer it, goddamn it” confirming the end of temper tantrum no. 11. It was only 9:27am; with just under two and half hours to go, we did indeed have plenty of time. But even the truth was highly offensive to my Spanish best friend on the one day in her life where she had to be the centre of everyone’s world whether they liked it or not. Period.

The makeup artists descended into the suite wheeling trunks of silverware cases and every kind of lighting known to man. The arrival of the calvary brought a new kind of buzz to the room and I was grateful for a moment that my obligations to my best friend as her honourable maid was suspended whilst she plopped down in a chair to have her face beat. She’d had a close eye on me even with her gaze on her own half-naked reflection commentating miserably on how the dodgy tan, she’d had done nufhts before, highlighted all her “lumps” and unattractive bits. I’d been keeping my distance all morning, busying myself with odd jobs; anything to keep her fire neutralised. I’d known Valentina long enough to know how to keep her sweet. We’d been friends for years and nobody in that room knew Valentina like I did – not even the teenage cousin who had already committed several cardinal sins.

As the professionals replaced our makeup stations with their own, I noticed the cousin had made a stealthy bold move, hidden by the dazzling lights and extra bodies, towards the drinks cart in the corner. No one was to touch the drinks; not until Valentina had had her first glass of champagne anyway. And as maid of honour, I’d been assigned the responsibility to make sure Valentina’s wishes were respected by enforcing the law.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

The cousin hadn’t seen me coming. She picked up a glass anyway.

“Says who”; she retorted, and her piggy nose flared, with an air of entitlement as she looked me up and down. We hadn’t really spoken at all. We’d been introduced at Valentina’s bridal shower, a few weeks before.

I wanted her sister; Valentina had whispered into my ear at the shower, but she’s having a damn baby. Can you believe it? Of all the years to get impregnated! I can’t have her belly outshining me in the photos, no way Hosea; and then she’d muttered bitterly; even her big pregnant belly looks better than me in my dress…

“It's not even 10 yet” I hissed at the cousin, although I suspected nobody would have heard our little dispute. Valentina was occupied, shouting in Spanish on the phone, to the well-wisher on the other line “And you heard what Valentina said…”

The teenager scowled, rolling her dark eyes. She had the same blonde hair as her auntie and perhaps the attitude ran in the family too. I pulled on the glass, but she held firm.

“This whole thing is a joke”; she huffed, shaking her head furiously. No kidding: I thought but didn’t give her the satisfaction.

I told her to get a grip and she gaped at me. I wasn’t afraid of her. She was a spoilt brat; she needed to be put in her place.

She told me to go to hell.

Charming.

We glared at each other. I tried twisting the glass out of her hand, but she was stronger than I thought. Her face was set, she seemed determined to get past me to purposefully create drama and inflict further aggravation on the day. I couldn’t tell if she was just mad at being forced to be a stand-in for her sister or me too, for inhibiting her from drowning her sorrows with spirits.

Let it go; I warned her steadily. I wanted to be reasonable, take hold of the situation and diffuse it – quickly. Valentina was already saying her goodbyes; she didn’t need to see this.

Just do your job; I told myself; just keep the peace and get through today.

“Make me”; my opponent jabbed the glass towards me, as though we were jousting, thrusting it into my ribs. She didn’t even know me. But she wanted me to suffer.

One of the other bridesmaids suddenly came into view, waddling in her dress that wouldn’t go past her thighs. She spotted me and immediately stopped short. She was another family member, but not Valentina’s. Apparently, she was the groom’s adoptive sister, but everyone thought we were related. Yes of course we’re related because we’re the only black chicks in this whole celebration…

“I really need to talk to you”; my “sister” flapped at me. Her eyes were half done – gold eyeshadow, no lashes or liner; “I really need your help. Like right now….”

Well, as you can see “Sis”, right now I’m kinda in the middle of something…

But Sister didn’t even seem to notice the hostility of the situation she’d just barged in on; she was too busy trying to stay hidden, presumably from Valentina. Her unwanted presence did, however, distract the teenager long enough for me to gain the upper hand and yank the glass away from my body, disarming my opponent. My chest was burning; the flimsy bedazzled lilac satin gown we’d all been instructed to wear whilst we got ready, had done nothing to protect me. Miraculously the glass was still intact and hadn’t cut any flesh or spilt any blood. I took a deep breath, set the glass back down, flexed my wrist and smiled at the girls in front of me.

We’re all finished here; I told them both. Teenager pursed her lips, but she didn’t move, so neither did I. Instead, I leaned back against the cart, arms out behind me, hands flat on the top and stuck my branded chest in Teenager’s face until she got the message.

Nobody was getting past me. No, not today.

Without another word, the brat turned on her shoeless heel towards the door and thrust it open to exit. I let her go, grabbing the door handle to slow the closing until it clicked shut softly. No noise, no commotion. Everything was just fine. I had it all under control.

“Help a sister out?”

“Excuse me? “I turned back around and was hit with the other bridesmaid’s perfume.

She gestured down to the burgundy pool of lace, now piled around her ankles, like a toppled wedding cake. The same pool of lace that had been custom designed and fitted and hand-sewn seven months ago at a specialist boutique in Valencia. The same pool of lace that each maid had received by courier mail inside a box with a matching bow wrapped in more crepe than an art project, with strict instructions to keep it stored in a moist-free place until the big day. My head started to swim. I could see the tiny but distinctive evidence of illegal tampering, a confetti of dressmakers’ pins. I didn’t want to hear what had happened; my throat suddenly started to burn; my mouth tasted like acid. Without looking back up at Sister, I could already imagine that she might have felt safer just disintegrating on the spot rather than facing Valentina and the inevitable backlash. I felt sorry for Sister - but only slightly. She was clearly not only deluded in thinking that this was the right day and moment to announce such a tragedy but also incredibly irresponsible for not owning her mess and dealing with it weeks ago.

Sure, I was the maid of honour. But I certainly wasn’t a fairy godmother. Or the damn seamstress.

But I was Valentina’s right-hand girl. And I promised myself to get through the morning, keep my best friend happy and put out all the little fires competing with her own…

*

I spent the next half hour, half in and half out of the smallest of the two bathroom’s doorway, covering for Sister whilst she squatted on the tiled floor, like an African Auntie pounding yams, and went to meticulous work, fumbling and praying over the dress stitches with a stolen pair of eyelash scissors.

We had made an agreement. I would keep watch for her only if brought all my drinks later at the reception – I told her she’d need her credit card because by the time I was done, she’d be maxed out. After this morning was over, I’d need some sweet relief.

“You Jordan? Maid of Honour?” A man I’d not noticed before, asked whilst almost colliding with me as he backed up with a camera pressed to his eye. He peered into the bathroom over my shoulder and started aiming his camera as though he wanted to take a shot. Don’t you dare...

I blocked the lens with my palm and with the other hand, slammed the door on Sister’s shame. No one needed to see photographic evidence of the mess that was this bridal party. I started to wonder what I had done wrong to deserve such a disastrous appointment.

Yes; I replied, silently wishing I no longer held the honour.

The photographer took a sneaky photograph of my unimpressed pout instead and then glowed down at his handiwork.

You’re being summoned; he told the screen, thumbing back in the direction where Valentina was re-establishing her dominion over her subordinates.

Move your suitcase; we heard my best friend bark over the whirling of hairdryers and a playlist of lively Latino music; it’s blocking my set-up.

Geesh

I stepped out of the sheltered comfort of the shadows and re-joined the centre of the room, where the hot spotlights haloed the bride’s freshly curled head of thick dark hair. Valentina was still seated, perfectly poised enjoying all if the attention, but she had her foot on someone’s suitcase. The suitcase belonged to the most glamorous and arguably most difficult bridesmaid – the daughter of Valentina’s father’s business partner.

Valentina and Bianca used to be tight, like sisters. They took French class together when they were in nursery school and violin class together in primary school; they were inseparable. But then, according to Valentina; the childhood friendship soured, spoilt by Bianca’s “vain” mother, who made an “obnoxious” comment about Valentina’s weight when she failed to get into the gymnastics class alongside her petite friend. She technically called me a fatty; Valentina had recalled when she finally told me the whole story. I’d noticed her attitude shift and her body stiffen, tensing in the beautiful emerald gown she wore to her shower; She called me “una gordota” and Bianca - Bianca just stood there and laughed at me…

I’d held up my hand to stop my friend from creating a catalyst. I’d tried to intervene and remind Valentina, with a mischievous laugh, that her fiancé doted on her, and her curvy body. But Valentina hadn’t seemed to hear me. Her eyes just stared straight through me, distant with the memory of that horrible comment and her rejected childhood self...

Valentina gave the initialled suitcase, balancing precariously on a footstool, a little nudge with her foot and locked eyes with her ex friend. It was Valentina’s father’s idea to include Bianca in the wedding party; “To patch up old wounds, and let bygones be bygones” Valentina had scoffed to me at her bridal shower. Bianca had strutted around the intimate event, ignorant of the privilege she held as a bridesmaid, in a purposefully super fitted dress. It wasn’t lost on me that Valentina, my beautiful full-figured best friend, who was every inch the red-bloodied Spaniard, fought with her emotions as she watched Bianca all night. At the sight of her, Valentina had taken a bottle of champagne, muttered an inaudible curse under her breath and shut herself in the ladies bathroom.

*

Valentina didn’t even greet me as I approached the illuminated stage from the sidelines, narrowly avoiding electrical cables and a series of mini bulldog clips cluttering the cream carpet. She simply tested Bianca’s nerve again, threatening to topple the suitcase if the bridesmaid didn’t get rid of it. Immediately.

In comparison, Bianca’s response was cool and condescending.

Pipe down Valentina; she smirked and threw her loose hair over her shoulder, just in time for the videographer who had been recording the whole time. Gorgeous; the videographer said, appealing to Bianca’s vanity, and she knowingly gave him more of what he wanted.

As soon as Valentina’s face started to redden at the sight of Bianca and the power and attention she exploited with her beauty, I recognised the classic cocktail of jealousy and anger beginning to brew and decided I needed to intervene. But Valentina knew me as well as I knew her. And she chose violence. She made her move before I did and with a short sharp thrust of her heel, she managed to sock Bianca’s case

*

Valentina’s mother arrived, an hour later, expecting to get her own makeup done and find her only daughter dressed. But instead of an excited bride, she turned the corner of the hotel corridor in her limited-edition Manolo heels and walked straight into a frenzy.

Where’s my daughter; she demanded, with alarm, looming over our dishevelled figures.

We were all on the floor. Outside of the suite, on the wrong side of the door and the passionate bride.

No one spoke up. Instead, everyone - the makeup artists, the videographers and one remaining bridesmaid (not counting Sister, who was still hidden in the bathroom, unbeknown to Valentina) - looked straight at me.

But I had no more words and no more strength to face another heatwave.

I’d failed as the maid of honour.

I’d set myself the task of keeping the peace. I’d accepted Valentina’s invitation to be her maid of honour believing I was the only one who could handle her and her antics. We were best friends, but the truth was, I was her only friend. It dawned on me, as the irate gazes held me accountable for the humiliating turn of events, that no one in the wedding party (sans relatives) was invested in this day and in Valentina the way I was. No one was here by choice. The half-dressed, emotionally exhausted strangers pacing up and down the corridor were a crowd of hired hands and they were all on the verge of packing up and leaving. The wedding was fraying at the seams because I’d allowed Valentina to sabotage her own big day and literally alienate the people who she needed to make it happen.

Bianca and Valentina had fought so hard after the suitcase saga that blood had been drawn and the party came to an official end when security was notified of the disturbance and came swarming in to separate the two. Sister’s mess of a dress was nothing in comparison to what was left of the other dresses and the set-up both girls had somehow managed to destroy with their own thrashing hands and sparring bodies at some point during the showdown.

I couldn’t stop it. I’d sensed Valentina’s temper coming, but I was helpless to stop it – that was a struggle I couldn’t douse.

I may have known Valentina better than everyone. But I hadn’t known her when she was that fourteen-year-old girl; I hadn’t been there the moment her confidence went up in flames and her whole world – Bianca – just stood back with her mean mother and watched it burn. A fire, that I realised as I stood outside the locked door of the suite, had been smouldering for years, slowly gaining until it found an outlet, the tiniest insignificant trigger. On the most meaningful and emotionally charged morning of Valentina’s entire life. Was it really a surprise that it had ended like this?

Valentina’s mother asked me for the time. She had removed her shoes and her face was clammy with sweat and fear.

We’d been hammering on the locked door for over half an hour, begging Valentina to let us in. But she was done.

After security had removed the catalyst from the room, Valentina had taken a bottle of champagne, cursed us all and locked us out of the suite.

“It’s eleven minutes past twelve” I announced. And shivering in the flimsy gown, I grieved for my best friend.

Her mother swore.

“She was never going to make it anyway” someone admitted bluntly.

No kidding: I thought sadly, but didn’t give them the satisfaction.