The Bridesmaid Pact. Julia Williams

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       Chapter One

       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.’

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