Chapter 1 #2
“When does the film crew arrive?” As bride and bridesmaids, these past months, we’ve already endured the cameras crashing dress fittings, cake tastings, menu trials, and even a fake ‘hen night’ the producers decided would play better on screen.
“Not till next Friday. Said they want to capture the wedding party on the day before—as the nerves amp up.” She grimaces. “To be honest, Rache, they already are.”
“It’s going to be fine.” I squeeze her hand. “We’re here.”
“I know. And I’m still glad I did it. It’s not just their money. The publicity for the refuge is worth it.”
Haley and Loreena’s charity project, a refuge that takes in women escaping domestic violence as well as their pets, is an all-consuming passion. Even so, this intrusion into Haley’s life isn’t easy for her. I draw the conversation away from the source of her anxiety.
“You’ve done well with the decorations.” I cup a delicate filigree bauble. “But I expect nothing less from the queen of Christmas.”
“Thanks. It’s taken days with the size of this place. But I loved doing it.”
The gorgeous four-poster bed and elegant decor are worthy of a luxury hotel. But the little touch of Christmas adds a homely, welcoming feel.
“And wow, this room. It’s amazing.”
I dump the laptop on the bed, covering it neatly with my favourite Prada handbag, and flop back on the luxurious duvet.
Above me, intricate plasterwork sprawls across the ceiling, gilded flowers and vines winding round the cornices and a huge central rose around a delicate chandelier, the light bouncing off the walls casting patterns and shadows.
“Yeah. The house is gorgeous.” Haley abandons the suitcase and drops onto the bed beside me. She swivels her dark head towards mine, fixing me with moss-green eyes, soft with empathy. “Thank you for doing this. The whole bridesmaid thing. I know it can’t be easy.”
I flail around for a reason to escape the pity that lurks behind her grateful eyes before she catches the storm in mine.
Sitting up, I fixate on prising the shiny black Louboutin heels off my aching feet.
Must have walked a bloody mile in these between meetings today.
Swallowing down the jagged lump in my throat, I force out the words I need to say, even though they come with a necessary lie.
“It’s perfectly okay, Haley. Why wouldn’t it be? Your happiness is absolutely the best antidote to the past couple of months.”
She sits up, resting one gentle hand on my shoulder, mouth curving in a sad little smile. “You’re the best, Rache.”
I press on. “Haley, seeing you and Christian shows me what’s possible.
My life might be fucked up right now, but there’s hope.
It won’t always be like this.” Will saying it out loud, manifesting what I want, make it come true?
I’m not normally a believer in that woo-woo shit, but desperate times and all that.
“You’ve been where I am, love. And look at you now. ”
It’s true. Only Haley was twenty-four when Jack did the dirty on her—wounded, but young, with time stretching out ahead, years to rebuild and find “the one”. I’m a decade older. For me, every year that goes by isn’t just another heartbreak survived—it’s another door quietly closing.
My reassuring words to Haley aren’t total fiction; I really do hold on to a tiny ember of hope. But it’s dimming by the day, as the clock ticks, counting the beats of a life passing me by in heavy, sombre strokes.
I think that’s what I resent most; giving Pierre some of my best years before he walked away. All that time wasted believing we’d marry, juggle our careers and a family, have it all. Instead, I’m staring down the prospect of nothing. Fucking bastard.
But I’ll be damned if I let him win. Distancing myself from my friend and her wedding because it hurts to see her have what Pierre promised me—that would only be an admission of his power over me still.
I won’t allow it. This week, the tears pricking my eyes will stay hidden.
My smile will be wide. I’ll laugh and joke like I don’t have a care in the world.
Behind closed doors, I can fall apart—but outside them, I’ll be the same old Rachel. Strong. Happy.
She wraps me in another hug, leaning her dewy cheek against mine.
This girl is the sweetest person I know, so kind and unselfish.
Christian is a lucky guy to have Haley—a fact I remind him of at every opportunity.
I wasn’t sure about him at first, but it’s obvious he loves her, and I trust him not to hurt her.
Besides, I warned him if he ever did, I’d hunt him down, and he knows it’s not an idle threat.
“I’ll see you downstairs soon. Just follow the sound of drunken laughter. We started without you.”
She pads across the polished timber floor, her footsteps muted by the most ridiculous pair of reindeer slippers. I can’t help but smile. Time spent with Haley always makes life feel a little brighter, and god knows I need people like her in mine right now.
As she opens the door, the band’s music surges up from below, louder now as if they’ve switched into high gear. Beneath the melody, the drums pound a relentless rhythm.
“Have you put a curfew on those boys?” I call after her.
“Absolutely,” she laughs. “Nothing allowed between seven and seven—that’s my rule. Don’t worry, they won’t keep you up.”
If only. I can’t tell Haley, but it won’t be the band that keeps me awake.
It’ll be the case files wedged in my suitcase, the midnight zoom calls squeezed between fittings and rehearsals, and the gnawing guilt at the double life I have to maintain—because if I don’t, my shot at the partnership vanishes.
Once the door clicks shut, I haul my suitcase onto the bed and snap the locks open. The manila folders I’d stuffed on top of my clothes spill out in a waterfall. I scoop them up quickly, tucking them into the dresser’s top drawer.
Then I unpack my laptop, finding a power point beside the bed to plug it in. As I slide it under the bed, the glowing orange eye of the charging light stares back at me accusingly. I smooth the bedcover back into place, hiding my secret in the dark.
“There we are, ladies. Next round.” Our hostess, Loreena Bunt, arrives in the lounge with an exuberant throaty chuckle.
It might be the last Friday in November, bleak winter outside, but looking at the tray set in front of us, anyone would think we’ve just landed in the Caribbean—not a stately manor in the country near Watford.
It’s laden with a rainbow of cocktails, complete with little parasols and cheerful garnishes on toothpicks.
“I’m just so excited to have you all here.” Her blue eyes, framed in enormous false lashes, twinkle with delight. “Cheers,” she says, and the five of us raise our glasses in unison, clinking them together companionably.
“I’m so looking forward to getting to know you girls better. Haley’s told me so much about you.”
I’m looking forward to getting to know Loreena better too, beyond her status as a reality-TV queen from The Real Wives of Watford.
For this wedding—hosted here in her palatial mansion next Saturday—she’s cast herself as a surrogate mother to both bride and groom.
Her husband’s auto-parts empire, built from humble beginnings, has catapulted them into the nouveau riche, but there’s nothing pretentious about Loreena herself.
I’ve only met her briefly once or twice, yet already I can see the qualities that drew Haley and Christian to her—the side of Loreena Bunt the TV cameras never capture.
But I’m not so sure about what her getting to know me better will reveal. I’m not confident in this version of me. Not when my life has become the script for a Bridget Jones movie; a sick joke.
What would I tell Loreena?
That I’m a successful thirty-five-year-old lawyer, although most people wouldn’t pick me as being over thirty. Always wearing sunscreen and religiously slathering expensive serums on my face every night has paid off.
That I’m told I’m fun to be with once you get to know me and can see past my potty mouth. Capable. Responsible. Own a nice apartment in Notting Hill; financially independent. And now, most likely doomed to be serially single.
That two months ago, my fiancé dumped me for his twenty-three-year-old PA. He claims he had the decency not to fuck her until he’d broken the bad news to me. As if I should be pleased about that.
That I’ve gone from the front of the queue for a happily ever after to languishing at the back with no prospects in sight, while I watch the people I love leapfrog past me.
My childhood best friend, Jenna, has found the love of her life in the form of my brother.
Thankfully, it happened back in my Scottish home town, out of sight, although unfortunately not out of mind, with her texts alluding to sordid details of things I’d rather not imagine my baby brother doing with her.
But he makes her deliriously happy. There’s no trace of the sad jilted bride of a few years ago. And I love my brother more for that.
Samantha, seated next to me, with her tumble of dark curls and mellow brown eyes, oozes the contentment the care of a steady man brings. Her current boyfriend has passed the nice-guy test, and six months in looks a solid bet for a long-term relationship. I’m so pleased for her.
Relaxing back in a huge armchair opposite is Liv, married to Garrett, the bass player in the band.
Lithe and blonde with the face of an angel that lights up even more the moment he walks into a room.
She’s the smiling poster child for young love between high school sweethearts blossoming into a mature and enduring relationship.