The One with All the Bridesmaids: A hilarious, feel-good romantic comedy. Erin Lawless

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СКАЧАТЬ eye on Cleo’s clutch bag. ‘Can I just have a look at the sort of things she’s pinning?’

      Cleo clutched said clutch bag a little tighter. ‘Sorry, it’s a secret board. You should ask your sister. She’s really not done much, er, pinning yet anyway. Honestly. We’ll all try on some bridesmaids’ dresses when we go into the shops for her wedding dress, apparently, and we’ll go from there.’

      ‘A nice sage green,’ Eileen continued, mostly to herself. ‘Or champagne. And definitely sleeves. Or those nice fringed pashminas, Alanna, you know the ones. They sell them down that market on the Kilburn High Road, I’ve seen them.’

      Cleo, paling at the thought of wearing fringed-anything, desperately tried to change the subject. ‘Are your other children coming tonight?’

      Eileen looked at her calmly, but a bit like she was simple. ‘Cillian will be along later, with that fancy piece he had at Christmas.’ Cleo could only make the assumption that Eileen was referring to her son’s new girlfriend, who she’d actually met and thought was thoroughly nice and acceptably un-fancy. ‘But no young child of mine will be setting foot in a public house. Finola has the babysitter in.’

      Cleo supressed a sigh on behalf of the no-doubt frustrated fifteen-going-on-twenty-five-year-old Fin. It had been hard enough for the others, but Fin was Eileen’s baby – an identity she would probably never be able to shed.

      ‘Mrs Dervan,’ Barlow arrived to save the day. ‘Can I get you a drink? I’ve got that sherry in that you like.’

      Eileen flushed prettily and even patted at her hairspray-armoured bob; she adored Barlow, mostly because he insisted on calling her Mrs Dervan, no matter how many times she insisted in turn that he call her Eileen. And because he always remembered to get that sherry in.

      ‘Oh, well, I think I will. It’s a celebration, isn’t it? But a small one, now, a small one,’ she smiled, knowing as well as Barlow did that this was their code that he should pour the sherries large and often until she went home. Cleo took the opportunity to slip away, feigning the need for an urgent conversation with Daisy.

      Daisy, as usual, was being DJ. Although she was secretly horrified she was such a cliché – an American named after Gatsby’s Daisy Buchanan (well, either that or Daisy Duke, and she’d never had the thighs for hot pants) – she felt she might as well live up to the trope and always throw the best parties. She had a bewildering number of Spotify playlists, each one completely appropriate for its designated mood, venue or context. She’d been working on Nora’s engagement party playlist since approximately six seconds after being told Harry had popped the question – and it was a cheesy masterpiece. Currently Geri Halliwell was wailing about not being able to find her Chico Latino, and the designated dance area had already filled to capacity with gamely salsa-ing women of a certain age (a bit like a Zumba class in heels, Daisy thought, with great amusement).

      Nora adored the sort of nineties and noughties crap that everyone secretly loves, but would never admit to and, for Daisy, it was all inextricably tied up with so many good memories, a sort of soundtrack to their friendship.

      The group that Daisy had travelled out with that year after college had one by one gotten homesick or run out of money (not to mention the one who’d gotten pregnant – talk about your souvenir to take home) and so Daisy had been alone arriving in Croatia that spring. Embarking on the coach that was to be her home for the next ten hours as they travelled overnight from Zagreb to Dubrovnik, Daisy had made the snap decision that she’d rather sit next to the already-dozing brunette who looked around her age than the human sweat-patch that was sat next to the only other empty seat.

      Ninety minutes into the journey, that brunette awoke with a start, ‘completely mortified’ that she’d been drooling on a stranger’s shoulder.

      ‘I’m completely mortified,’ the girl had apologised to Daisy.

      ‘Don’t worry about it!’ Daisy had laughed. ‘You gotta catch your Zs when you can, am I right?’ And that was all it had taken to strike up conversation. They covered the usual ground (‘You’re English, right?’/’Are you American or Canadian, or …?’) and as the night wore on and the coach fell hushed around them, Daisy’s new friend, Nora, had pulled out a battered iPod Classic and a pair of candy-pink earbuds and offered one to her. In the seven hours that remained, Daisy had had a whistle-stop tour through the delights of the cheesiest of Britpop: 5ive and the Sugababes and Busted and much, much more. And by the time the coach arrived at the coast Nora and Daisy were inseparable. They’d spent the next six months jaunting around Europe together, working for cash-in-hand pouring drinks in their bikinis or convincing fellow English-speaking tourists that they really want to go into this one particular nightclub in order to save up to pay their coach fares and their two-euros-a-night hostel bed bills.

      Returning to real life had been a horrible wrench for Daisy, and part of that was having to say goodbye to Nora, who returned to London after a thoroughly gapped gap year to pack away her tiny bikinis and take up a graduate scheme position in finance, date a succession of tie-wearing, red-wine-drinking men and generally grow up.

      When the opportunity had arrived three years later for Daisy to move across the pond to her own firm’s London branch, she had quite literally jumped at it (she blamed the fact that her great-grandparents on her father’s side were Scottish for the serious Europhile feelings she’d always had) and immediately sent Nora Dervan an excited Facebook message.

      Nora had just broken up with one of the tie/wine city men and instantly invited Daisy to stay with her in her little flat in Hoxton while she got herself sorted. The ‘sorting’ had taken a long time. Daisy had actually ended up living with Nora for years, until Harry happened. And, whenever one of them had had a shit day at work, they’d come home and put on the playlist Daisy had lovingly entitled ‘Overnight to Dubrovnik’, whack up the volume and spin and scream along with Atomic Kitten, Blue or Steps. It had never failed them.

      ‘I just love the music,’ one of Harry’s colleagues called out to Daisy as she danced past, waving a glass of rosé wine around alarmingly in time with the pumping pop beats. ‘Sooooooo ironic.’

      Daisy just laughed wryly. ‘If you like this, just wait for the wedding reception playlist.’

      Darren, who had made his appearance about twenty minutes ago, grinned at her over the head of his cider and black. ‘It’s gonna be your magnum opus, babe.’

      ‘Hey.’ Cleo appeared, greeting Darren politely before turning to Daisy. ‘Where’s Nora? Everything okay?’

      Daisy nodded over to where Nora and Bea were dancing in the centre of a small clutch of friends; Bea was already barefoot (Daisy didn’t even know why she bothered with the pretence of the heels when she went out). Nora had her tell-tale white-wine flush pinking her face and her collarbones. Daisy could hear her laughing even over the music.

      ‘All quiet on the Western Front, sir,’ she assured Cleo sarcastically. ‘Chill out. Have a drink. You’re really stressing me out.’

      Cleo shook her head. ‘I need to stay on the ball in case I’m needed for something.’

      ‘Look, the only thing you’re going to be needed for is to do the Locomotion,’ Daisy informed her archly, lining the song up on the playlist as she said it.

      Cleo groaned. ‘Maybe I will need that drink …’

      ‘It’s going to be a very long engagement if you and Sarah insist on being such bridesmaidzillas the entire time. Now fuck off and get yourself some СКАЧАТЬ