Daisy James - The Runaway Bridesmaid

Lauren had been adamant that, unlike Rosie, she was no doormat and would not deign to bow to Freya’s demands. Why on earth would she want to be her bridesmaid, she had argued. She wasn’t Rosie – willing to perform the supporting nuptial role at least once every six months for a procession of former school friends and colleagues. Lauren’s own spectacular wedding to her college boyfriend, Brett, in the Terrace Room at the Plaza had been the most recent of Rosie’s ‘best supporting bridesmaid’ opportunities a mere four months ago.

However, Lauren had relented when Rosie had pleaded with her to do this for her, if not for her sister, sadness at Freya’s predicament clouding her amber-flecked eyes. But Lauren would not allow her friend to forget her sacrifice. She continued with her monologue on Rosie’s doormat tendencies and her sister’s self-centred, ever-escalating demands.

‘Okay, okay, so your mom died when Freya was only eight years old. But she was your mother too, Rosie. How about Freya supporting you for a change, just once thinking of someone else other than herself? Did she rush to your aid last year when Carlos ditched you? Does she even realise that her monopoly on your time may have played an integral part in that? No, instead she just continued to chase around Europe, floating from one handsome guy to the next gullible girlfriend, or any acquaintance willing to offer her a sofa and a good time. Jacob is the best thing that’s ever happened to that girl – like, ever! And she doesn’t even appreciate her good fortune. Someone needs to have a serious talk with that little madam. She’s about to become a married woman – it’s an opportunity for you to make sure she knows how lucky she is. It can’t go on, Rosie!’ Lauren’s face flushed with annoyance.

As she cowered from the arrows of blame slung by her best friend’s words of wisdom, Rosie felt like she had been kicked in the head and the solar plexus at once. Then she began to quail in her pearl-and-sequined stilettos as she watched Lauren’s eyes, the colour of Irish luck, narrow.

‘If you like, I’ll do it. I’ll tell her how grown-ups are supposed to act. You’re too soft on her gallivanting and selfishness. I’m sorry, Rosie, you’re a wet blanket when it comes to baby-blue-eyed and supposedly-innocent Freya; butter wouldn’t melt in that rosebud mouth. She does not deserve the sacrifices you’ve made, are still making, for her. She’s an adult now – twenty-two for God’s sake. She can take care of herself – and if not, Jacob can. It’s your turn, Rosie, to make a life for yourself outside Freya’s orbit.’

Lauren’s mischievous glint returned, but her eyes softened. After all, she put in the same hours at Harlow Fenton as Rosie did. Of anyone, she understood the pressures of keeping all the plates spinning in the air when the vagaries of the world’s stock exchanges ate into their family or leisure time.

‘Stop taking responsibility, Rosie. It’s not healthy. For either of you.’

Rosie gifted Lauren with a watery smile as she moved over to the sash window where white gauze curtains floated like a bride’s veil in the light breeze. Pale tendrils of sunshine breached the horizon as she took in the pristine gardens, battling to calm her emotional demons. Serenity would play for the opposing team on this her beloved sister and Jacob’s wedding day, and for that she was saddened. Not only were there a myriad of things that could go awry, despite her meticulous attention to detail in the arduous preparations for this auspicious day, but Lauren was right – Freya’s demands had increased to scatter-gun proportions since her arrival the previous evening for the rehearsal dinner.

That morning as she had dragged herself from the single bed of her childhood, her limbs stiff and her head pulsating, nausea had twisted knots into her stomach. Her baby sister’s wedding day! She should be suffused with joy but, with a jolt of guilt as she stepped into the freezing relief of the shower, she recognised that in the place where happiness should be, loneliness lodged. She was ten years older than Freya and she’d had to almost beg Giles to be her date for her sister’s wedding.

Rosie made a huge effort to shake off her melancholy and allowed her shoulders to relax. In her chosen wedding dress and with her loose platinum waves rippling down her back, Freya had presented every inch the Princess Bride image she had coveted since her teenage years. And Lauren, her only true ally, was there to bolster Rosie’s flagging spirits and don her matching, saccharine-sweet bridesmaid’s dress.

Rosie smiled when she thought back to the impish smile of her best friend, so bohemian in her own choice of attire, at the final dress fitting. Lauren eschewed the emulation of the images distributed in the magazines and fashion corridors of Manhattan of the supposedly-perfect female form. She never counted calories nor fell under the spell of the latest designer-inspired craze. Her idea of a perfect girly afternoon was to trawl the thrift shops on Second and Third Streets, delving into the racks of vintage clothing she could up-cycle. She frequently unearthed pieces of jewellery she could dismantle and reuse. Even her engagement and wedding rings had been ‘previously loved’, much to Brett’s delight. His fire fighter’s salary would never stretch as far as Tiffany’s.

She truly hoped that Freya had met her Prince Charming and that this was the fairy tale wedding she had wished for. She prayed that she had lost her heart to Jacob, a guy fifteen years her senior; or was she settling for a convenient companion with the means to support her in the manner to which she had become accustomed?

A strain of music floated on the air and her eyes picked out the string quartet – originally a five-piece but now minus the cellist who’d reportedly downed a bottle of Jack Daniels after an exhilarating performance at the Met the previous evening – as they struck up the first chord of a rendition of Dangerously in Love by Beyoncé, Freya’s favourite artist.

A wave of exhaustion threatened to buckle Rosie’s knees and she collapsed onto the kidney-shaped stool at the dressing table. Insomnia had plagued her for as long as she could remember but it had been especially potent last night, as the tortuous hours stretched before daybreak. Her perpetual lack of sleep ensured the retention of the dark smudges under her gold-flecked eyes. With a sigh, she realised there would be no rest this weekend either, with the ceremony and then partying until the small hours of the morning to the live band Freya had demanded at huge cost.

As she shook her freshly-teased caramel curls from her eyes, she thought of Giles – the handsome, charismatic, sexy man in her life. At last, she allowed a smile to play around her lips as she anticipated a whole weekend on his arm, showing him off to her father and Dot and Arnie who had been so supportive of the family after… after…

Thankfully, the continuation of Rosie’s reverie was spliced into by a frantic hammering on the bedroom door, followed by the urgent gravelly tones of her father’s voice.

‘Rosie? Rosie? Have you seen Freya? The hairdresser needs her and it seems she’s done one of her disappearing acts again.’

Chapter Two

Rosie caught Lauren’s eye-roll as she rushed to open the door to admit her father. Her heart hammered against her ribcage as a spurt of nausea tickled at her throat. Typical Freya! Hadn’t she spent every spare moment of the last three months of her life organising Freya’s wedding so that it would run with the military precision she was famed for at the office? All Freya had to do was slip into her dress, plaster a smile on her face and turn up on time! So where was she?

‘You didn’t tell her about Aunt Bernice, did you?’ asked her father. As he leant in to kiss her cheek, Rosie caught a whiff of the baby shampoo her father still used, delivering a painful jolt of nostalgia to her nostrils.