The Bridesmaid Pact (2 page)

December 1995

‘Have you heard the news?’ Dorrie came bursting into the champagne bar at Kettner’s, where Sarah and I were tucking into a bottle of champagne to celebrate her engagement. I was glad to see Dorrie. The tension between Sarah and me these days was nigh on unbearable. I thought she was making a terrible mistake, but when I said as much she accused me of jealousy. I couldn’t fault her on that, I was jealous that Steve had chosen her not me, but I still thought she’d regret marrying him.

As it was Christmas, the bar was heaving with partying office workers, and it took Dorrie a while to reach our table. Sarah was on an early shift and had got here first, while the photo shoot I’d been working on had descended into a pre Christmas bash, so I had escaped before I got too plastered and decided Charlie was the thing I needed in my life right now. I had enough complications as it was, I didn’t need to bring him into the equation.

‘Ooh, champagne, lovely,’ said Dorrie, squeezing herself into a spot in the corner. ‘Lucky I’m skinny isn’t it?’ She took off her faux fur black coat, to reveal a polka dot black and white vintage dress, which she’d matched with bright red boots.
With her Rachel from
Friends
haircut and her fabulous figure, it was no wonder that nearly every man in the room turned to look at her. But as usual Dorrie was oblivious to her effect on people. She really had no idea how much people adored her, which was part of her ongoing charm. She soon had Sarah and me in stitches, and any latent resentment festering between us was temporarily forgotten.

‘No Beth yet?’ Dorrie asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I did ask her but she’s been so low since Andy the bastard dumped her, I’m not sure she’ll make it.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Dorrie. ‘We should make it our next project to get Beth a man.’

‘What do you mean, our next project?’ said Sarah suspiciously – Dorrie had a habit of involving us in her schemes to make the whole world happy – flicking back her short fair hair. She always said she wore her hair short because it made work easier, but I rather suspected she’d gone for a Meg Ryan look because Steve fancied the pants off her in
When Harry Met Sally
. Which was just one of many reasons I thought Sarah was making a big mistake.

‘Doh,’ said Dorrie. ‘The Bridesmaid Pact, remember? You’re the first one to get married, so we all have to be your bridesmaids.’

‘Don’t I get any say in the matter?’ laughed Sarah.

‘Nope,’ said Dorrie.

‘You said you had some news?’ I said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Dorrie. ‘Haven’t you heard? It’s all over the papers. Charles and Di are getting divorced. Can you believe it? It’s so sad.’

‘Er, yes,’ I said. ‘There’s the small matter of his infidelity, her infidelity and all that three people in a marriage stuff.
I’m surprised after that
Panorama
interview the Queen didn’t march Di off to the Tower. All that doe-eyed blinking. They’re as bad as each other.’

‘Yeah well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Sarah muttered bitchily.

‘Meaning?’ I said.

‘Meaning I feel sorry for Di,’ said Sarah. She smiled at me sweetly, but there were daggers in her eyes.

I was about to retort that some men just couldn’t keep it in their trousers, when Beth pitched up. She looked wan and too thin, as she was wont to do. Her black hair was greasy, and she wore a frumpy grey coat that looked as if it belonged to her mother. My heart sank. She was in such a bad way. I longed to give her a makeover, but I’d tried that once before, and she’d pushed me away.

‘Hi,’ she said, shyly. Even after all this time, Beth was still timid with us. I longed for her to come out of her shell a bit more. It was unlike me to care about someone the way I did about Beth, but something about her vulnerability touched me. Maybe it was my way of feeling superior. People mostly felt sorry for me. It was nice to feel sorry for someone else for a change.

‘Congrats, Sarah. When’s the big day?’ Beth had taken off her coat to reveal a dull blouse with big lapels and a ghastly bow, and a dark skirt, which hung limply from her skinny frame. Damn, it was difficult to sit there and not suggest ways of improving the way she looked, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. A haircut would be a good start. She’d look good in a bob, I thought, though probably not the longish one I sported, which I’d modelled on Uma Thurman’s in
Pulp Fiction
. She needed to cut those lanky locks into a shortish bob that framed her pretty oval face.

‘Thanks, Beth,’ said Sarah. ‘We haven’t fixed a date yet, but we’re probably going for September ’97.’

‘Why not next year?’ I said. ‘What’s the delay? Surely you want to get on with it, just in case he changes his mind.’

‘Caz!’ Beth looked at me shocked. ‘That was a bit mean.’

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, ‘bit uncalled for.’

Sarah didn’t say anything, and glossed over my bitchy comment with, ‘I just want everything to be perfect.’

‘Did you see the news?’ said Beth.

‘About Charles and Di?’ said Dorrie. ‘I know. Isn’t it awful?’

‘Oh come on,’ I laughed. ‘Dorrie, how can you take it so seriously? Two people we don’t know and are never likely to meet are getting divorced. People do it all the time.’

‘I know,’ said Dorrie, ‘but it was such a fairytale. And now it’s gone wrong.’

‘It is really sad,’ said Beth.

‘Fairytales, schmairytales,’ I snorted. ‘There’s no such thing as a happy ending.’

‘Blimey, that’s cynical,’ said Sarah. ‘Even for you.’

‘Yeah, well,’ I said, ‘I haven’t had the luck some of you’ve had.’

I was overtaken with a sudden feeling of bitterness, and I got up to go to the loo, just to get away for five minutes. In the safety of the toilets, I stared long and hard at myself in the mirror, before leaning back against the cold tiles. I thought about Sarah and Steve and the things I’d promised never to think about again. Why did I always make such a mess of things? And now I was ruining my best friend’s special night.

‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ I admonished myself in the mirror, reapplying my bright red lipstick as a means of boosting my confidence. Face fixed, I went back to meet the world head on.

When I got back, a slightly geekish-looking bloke was sitting in my place. He was tall and gangly and wore dark specs, and was mooning over Dorrie, who seemed to be mooning back.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ I said, squeezing back into the tiny space the guy had left.

‘Oh yes, sorry. Caz, meet Darren. He’s a microbiologist and works in the next lab to mine.’

Dorrie might look like a film star, but she’s actually super bright and has a fantastically clever job in some kind of medical research that I wouldn’t pretend to understand.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Darren.

I went to shake his hand, and he pulled it away.

‘Sorry, too many germs,’ he said. ‘Do you know the average person never washes their hands after using the toilet?’

‘Well I do,’ I snapped. ‘Why don’t you carry antibacterial spray around with you and have done with it?’

‘I do,’ said Darren. ‘You never know what anyone else has been touching.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Dorrie, your friend is priceless. I shall call him Yakult Man.’

Darren blushed.

‘Don’t mind Caz,’ said Dorrie, ‘she’s not like other folk.’ She touched his arm lightly, and he didn’t pull away.

They sat staring at each other for a bit till Sarah, Beth and I felt quite awkward.

Eventually, Darren got up.

‘Best be off,’ he mumbled. ‘Places to go and all that. Have a great Christmas. Nice meeting you all.’

He walked away, back to his mates who were at the bar, looking the worse for wear.

‘Is he for real?’ I marvelled. ‘You’ve kept him quiet.’

‘There’s nothing to keep quiet about,’ protested Doris. ‘He’s a work colleague is all.’

‘Oh, is he?’ I nudged Doris. Yakult Man hadn’t made it to the bar. He had turned round and was striding purposefully back.

‘You see, the thing is…well…’ he said.

‘Well?’ said Dorrie.

‘Well, I was wondering, if you’re not too busy…I’m sure a gorgeous girl like you has got plenty of dates, but if you hadn’t…’

‘I haven’t,’ said Doris with a grin.

‘Well. If you haven’t…Did you say you hadn’t?’

‘Sure did.’

‘Oh. That’s OK then. It’s all settled. Great.’

He smiled a dopey smile and walked away again.

‘Er, what’s settled?’ she called after him. He stopped and turned around, grinning at her.

‘You, me. A date. Next week. I’ll ring you.’ He continued walking away, backwards this time, until he bumped into a couple of drunks who spilled beer all over him. Our last sight was of him rushing to the toilet, no doubt to get rid of all the millions of germs that had just been dumped unceremoniously on top of him.

‘Dorrie Bradley, how do you do it?’ said Sarah, clapping her hands over her mouth and giggling her head off. ‘That’s the nuttiest proposition I’ve ever heard.’

‘Me too,’ I said.

‘I wish someone would do that to me,’ sighed Beth.

‘Your turn will come,’ said Sarah. ‘Look at me.’

Yes, look at you
, I thought silently, but kept my mouth shut for once. This was Sarah’s night.

‘To Sarah and Steve,’ said Dorrie, raising a glass. ‘Long life and happiness.’

‘Sarah and Steve,’ we all echoed.

‘And here’s to the Bridesmaid Pact,’ continued Dorrie. ‘I can’t wait to fulfil it.’

‘One four all and all four one,’ we chorused the mantra of our childhood, before downing our drinks in one. I put my glass down and sat back and looked at Sarah. For someone who was celebrating the happiest event of her life, she looked remarkably pensive. I hoped I hadn’t done that to her.

‘I hope you and Steve are really happy,’ I said with a smile I didn’t feel.

‘Do you? Really?’ Sarah said, searchingly.

‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘Sorry I’ve been a bit of a cow about it. Just jealous that your happy-ever-after’s come along I guess. I hope you’ll be very, very happy.’

I took a sip of my champagne, and looked away. At the time, I really thought I meant it.

Caz

Now

I turned the invitation over and over in my hands, despite the feeling of nausea rising up from the pit of my stomach and the sheer panic that seeing that handwriting for the first time in what – over four years? – had engendered in me. You had to hand it to Dorrie, she certainly knew how to break the ice. Only she could have sent me an invitation to her hen weekend on Mickey Mouse notepaper.

Dorrie and Daz are finally tying the knot
, it read and I snorted with laughter. Trust Doris to make her forthcoming nuptials sound like some kids’ TV programme. I was glad she was finally getting hitched to Yakult Man. About time too. They were made for each other. I had been surprised when Mum had sneered disapprovingly that my Goody Two-Shoes friend had had a baby out of wedlock, because it seemed so unlikely. Dorrie was always capable of surprises though, so maybe she’d relaxed about doing things the right way round since we last spoke. I had no clue as to what was going on in her private life, apart from the news I gleaned from Mum. I was no longer part of the inner circle. No one confided in me any more. My fault of course.

I looked at the invitation again.
You are invited
, it said,
to Dorrie’s extra special hen weekend at Euro Disney. Fri 27Sun 29 March. Fab Four members only. One four all and all four one
. Trust Doris to remember that stupid tag line we’d had as kids. At the bottom, Doris had scrawled in her unforgettably untidy handwriting (amazing how someone as beautifully presented as Doris could have such terrible writing, but then, that was Doris all over, a mass of impossible contradictions),
Please come. It won’t be the same without you.

Doris. How could her parents have been so unkind as to give her that name? She always claimed it was because her mum was a fan of Doris Day, but it seemed like for once in her impeccably toned and manicured life, Doris’s mum had made a major faux pas. Not that Doris seemed to mind. She’d inherited the happy-go-lucky nature of her screen namesake, and took
que sera, sera
as her motto. And because she was just so bloody wonderful and fabulous, no one ever seemed to even tease her about her name. Now if it had been me…

I turned the invitation over in my hands. Should I go? It seemed to me that Doris was offering me another chance. Typical of her generosity that. And I didn’t deserve it. I felt my stomach twist with guilt and shame as I remembered how I’d treated her last time we’d met.

‘Hey Caz.’ Dorrie had turned up on my doorstep un expectedly one day five years previously, just before Beth’s wedding.

‘Hi,’ I said. I was conscious that I looked unkempt, my normally short, slicked-back black hair – styled on Trinity from
The Matrix
– a tangled mess, whereas Dorrie, as ever, was done up to the nines, immaculate in a flowery
vintage dress, black suede boots and a fabulous leather jacket.

‘Are you OK? You look a bit rough.’ Instantly Dorrie thought about me. I should have been more gracious, but I’d had a rough night in A & E with Mum. None of the girls ever knew about the humiliation of those trips to casualty, and I was too ashamed to tell them.

‘I’m fine,’ I said sharply, and saw Dorrie flinch.

‘Can I come in?’

‘I suppose,’ I said, but I didn’t really want her there, I wanted to curl up and hide from the world.

‘I just wanted to see if there’s a way we can sort all this out,’ Dorrie said as she followed me into the lounge. I knew I should be offering her a drink, but I’d never felt less hospitable.

‘All what out?’ It came out belligerently. I knew what was coming and moreover I knew Dorrie was right. I had caused a rift in the Fab Four and it was up to me to put it right.

‘Oh Caz, this business with you and Beth and her wedding,’ said Dorrie. ‘Can’t you make up with her? She really does want you to be her bridesmaid.’

‘So why isn’t
she
here asking me?’ I demanded.

‘She doesn’t know I’m here,’ admitted Dorrie. ‘Look, I’m sure I don’t know who’s right and who’s wrong here—’

‘Too right you don’t,’ I said. ‘Just leave it, Dorrie, you don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘Please don’t be like that,’ Dorrie said. ‘I know I can’t properly understand—’

‘You have no idea,’ I said. ‘It’s all right for you, with your perfect life and perfect family.’

‘If you must know, that’s not true,’ said Dorrie. ‘I’ve got problems you know nothing about.’

‘What, Little Miss Perfect has a problem? What could possibly go wrong for you?’ I knew I was being unfair, and my guilt and anger were misdirected, but as usual my mouth engaged before my brain had – the words were out before I could stop them.

Dorrie looked as if I had smacked her. ‘Sarah was right,’ she said. ‘She told me you wouldn’t listen.’

‘So you’ve cooked this up with Sarah?’ I said. ‘I might have known. I know you mean well, Dorrie, but I think you’d better go.’

‘I wouldn’t stay another minute,’ said Dorrie. She picked up her huge Gucci handbag, and got up and left the room. When she got to the door, she said sadly, ‘You’re not the only one with troubles you know.’

I didn’t stop to ask her what she meant and let her go. It was only much later that I found out how ill her dad was. I’d always loved Dorrie’s dad, who’d been so kind to me growing up. I tried to make amends, but Dorrie never returned my calls. I’ve felt guilty ever since. But now it seemed like Dorrie had forgiven me.

But what of the others? Could Beth and Sarah ever forgive me for what I’d done to them? We grew up in a culture that taught us that redemption is always possible. But I liked to think I lived in the real world and was realistic enough to know that it didn’t happen as often as our teachers told us. Besides. You need to earn redemption. To gain forgiveness, you need to be truly, truly sorry. And even now there’s a self-destructive bit of me which isn’t sure that I am…

The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport and I took a deep breath. Well, here I was. Finally. It had taken all my courage to come – I’d been tempted by a job in
Greece where a famous model was attempting a comeback shoot for M&S. It would have been a great job. Glamorous. In the sun all day, and time in the evenings for some unwinding and Greek dancing in the local tavernas. But Charlie persuaded me to go to France. Charlie was my favourite photographer on the circuit. Down-to-earth and easy-going, he had the most amazing ability to tease the best out of the subjects he shot. Working with Charlie was always a breeze. And he was fun to socialize with too. Not since that mad moment in Las Vegas that we’d ever been anything other than friends, mind. He was firmly hitched to his live-in girlfriend and, attractive as I found him, I wasn’t about to go upsetting any apple carts. I’d learnt my lesson too well last time.

I emerged blinking from the airport into the pale March Paris sunshine. I always loved coming to Paris, but it was the café culture, museums and walks along the Seine which were the usual attraction for me. Without Dorrie’s invite, I doubt I’d ever have visited Disneyland Paris, but here I was on a train out of Gare du Nord, bound for Mickey Mouseville. Doris was the only person who could have ever persuaded me to come. And I still wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing.

The shuttle service to Marne la Vallée proved surprisingly quick, and I had barely time to get my head together and think what on earth I was going to say to everyone when suddenly there I was being deposited in front of Woody’s Cowboy Ranch.
Toy Story
being Dorrie’s favourite Disney film, she’d insisted we stay here. Despite my nerves I couldn’t help but smile as Woody greeted me at the door. I could just imagine how delighted Dorrie must have been when she arrived.

My smile was only temporary though. My heart plunged to my boots as I made my way to the reception desk. Suddenly I was eight years old again, being invited for the first time to Dorrie’s mansion. It had felt like such a privilege, and yet in the self-destructive way I have, I’d pretty much blown the chance of making the most of the opportunities being friends with Dorrie and the others had afforded me. I didn’t even know if they’d want to see me again, let alone forgive me. Knowing Dorrie, I bet she hadn’t told them I was coming.

I checked in at the desk, my nerves making a mash of my schoolgirl French. The unsmiling receptionist responded in perfect English with a look of such sneery disdain and I wanted the ground to swallow me up whole. Giving up on any attempt to speak her language, I said, ‘I’m meeting friends; a Doris Bradley?’

‘Ah oui, Mademoiselle Bradley is next door to you. I will let her know you have arrived.’

I took my bags and made my way to the third floor, shaking like a leaf. Suppose I ended up ruining Dorrie’s big weekend? This had been a dreadful mistake. I was wrong to come.

I found my room, next to Dorrie’s. I swallowed hard. Should I dump my bags, freshen up and then go and say hi? Or should I bite the bullet and go straight for it?

The door to room 327 flung wide open, and there in the flesh for the first time in five years stood Dorrie. Larger than life, as ever. Welcoming me in a massive hug. I felt my worries disappear instantly. Dorrie had a way of doing that. It was her special talent.

‘Caz! You came! I’m so pleased. Come right in.’ I’d forgotten how overpowering she could be. She propelled
me into the middle of a massive room. I had a moment to take in the double bed, the cowboy-hat-shaped lampshades, the bridles and saddles decorating the walls, and the huge horseshoe over the bed, before I realized she wasn’t alone. Lounging on the bed, sipping champagne, were two faces I hadn’t seen in a very, very long time. They both looked up at me and registered their shock.

‘You never said
she
was coming.’ Sarah shot me a look of such venom, I was quite taken aback. God, did she really hate me that much still?

‘It wouldn’t have been the same without her,’ said Dorrie firmly.

‘Lock up your husbands,’ said Sarah. ‘Sorry Doz, I know you mean well, but I’m not spending any more time with her than I have to.’ She got up and stormed out of the room, pushing past me with evident hatred.

I knew I shouldn’t have come.