Four Bridesmaids and a White Wedding: the laugh-out-loud romantic comedy of the year!
Don’t tell the bride!
Rose, Sal and JoJo have been looking forward to their best friend Wendy’s hen party for ages. A relaxing spa break is the perfect way to escape their crazy careers, grumpy husbands and stroppy children – even if the groom’s straight-laced sister, Tamsin, is coming too.
Until they realise that there’s been a mistake in the booking and instead of sipping prosecco in fluffy white dressing gowns they’re off to bridesmaid bootcamp!
Squeezing themselves reluctantly into tiny shorts and sliding through the mud, it’s only a matter of time before secrets emerge that could change everything…
Forget about saving the date, these four bridesmaids need to save the day – otherwise will there even be a white wedding at all?
The hilariously uplifting new story from Fiona Collins, bestselling author of A Year of Being Single. Perfect for fans of Jane Costello, Helen Fielding and Fiona Gibson.
Also by Fiona Collins
A Year of Being Single
Cloudy with a Chance of Love
Four Bridesmaids and a White Wedding
Fiona Collins
FIONA COLLINS
lives in the Essex countryside with her husband and three children, but also finds time for a loving relationship with a Kindle. She likes to write feisty, funny novels about slightly (ahem) more mature heroines. Fiona studied Film & Literature at Warwick University and has had many former careers including TV presenting in Hong Kong, talking about roadworks on the M25 as a radio presenter, and being a film and television extra. She has kissed Gerard Butler and once had her hand delightfully close to George Clooney’s bum. When not writing, Fiona enjoys watching old movies and embarrassing her children. You can follow Fiona on Twitter @FionaJaneBooks.
I would like to once again thank my brilliant editor, Charlotte, without whom this book may well have been always the bridesmaid, never the bride…
And Mary Torjussen, always, for your help and support.
To Shirley. May the wine flow freely and the music always get us on the dancefloor…
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Book List
Title Page
Author Bio
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Extract
Endpages
Copyright
INVITATION
You are invited to: Wendy’s hen weekend (yes, I know she said she didn’t want one, but tough!)
When: Friday 21st to Monday 24th July
Where: The Retreat, Colcombe, Wiltshire – ‘Glamour Pamper Package’ to include ‘Party at the Lake House’ on Sunday 23rdJuly
Meet: Paddington Train Station, 6 p.m. (don’t be late – by that I mean you, Sal . . . train departs at 18.21 sharp!)
P.S. This is a sophisticated occasion – no tacky hen weekend props please!!!
JoJo x
Chapter One
Rose
Rose folded the massive, pink and gold ‘Bride’ sash into the front pocket of her overnight bag and popped the invitation that had arrived in the post two months ago – JoJo’s swirly handwriting on classy stiff white card – in the top of the main compartment. She fastened the bag and left the house.
‘Mum! Can you take me to the brow bar when you get back?’ hollered Darcie, her eldest – seventeen – from an open upstairs window, as Rose banged the front door until it shut behind her. It still didn’t close first time; perhaps during one of Jason’s fleeting visits home he could actually fix it.
‘Maybe!’ called Rose over her shoulder as she headed down the drive towards the waiting taxi. God knows what more Darcie needed to do with her brows, Rose pondered, as she tripped over her own foot but tried to pretend she hadn’t by turning it into an intentional-looking skip – the jet black, inch-thick caterpillars her daughter sported were beginning to take on a life of their own. Soon they’d need their own rooms.
‘Can you bring me back some products?’ yelled Louisa – fifteen – from somewhere behind Darcie.
Rose stopped by the taxi and looked up at the window. Louisa, her head wedged next to Darcie’s, had her hair piled up in a massive bun and was wearing a greeny-brown face mask that made her look like Hannibal Lecter.
‘Please, Mum! Serums, oils, body balms, peels? The more expensive the better? I don’t do cheap, Mum!’
‘I know!’ yelled Rose. None of them did cheap; they were costing her and Jason a bloody fortune. ‘I’ll do my best!’ She opened the taxi door, flung her bag into the back and proceeded to clamber in after it. There was a frantic rapping on the window. Katie – fourteen, and Rose’s youngest – was grinning wildly behind the glass, her wholly unnecessary orange foundation glowing in the struggling afternoon sun like the surface of Mars.
Rose wound down the window.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes, Katie?’
‘Can I use your straighteners while you’re gone? Mine are broken again.’
Rose sighed. ‘Yes, all right, if you must.’ Katie had inherited her mother’s bull-in-a-china-shop clumsiness; it left a lot of broken items in its wake. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes, Mum. Hey,’ Katie pointed out accusingly, ‘you’ve got blusher on!’
‘I have.’
‘It’s a bit cringe.’
‘Thank you, Katie,’ replied Rose sarcastically. ‘As ever. See you on Monday.’
Rose wound up the window, pulled her glittery top – saved for ‘best’; finally worn – over the slightly straining waistband of her skinny jeans – too much chocolate this week; the willpower of a slug – and the taxi pulled away from the suburban kerb of Francis Drive, Hinklesworth, Hertfordshire. It dawdled down the street, the driver tunelessly whistling the theme tune to Friends, and Rose realised she hadn’t kissed her husband goodbye. She’d hardly even said goodbye. Jason was in the study, his slightly too long dark hair flopping over his eyes as he tapped away on the laptop – no doubt emailing that bloody Susie in Hong Kong again, the one he worked with and was always banging on about. Rose had sort of called out, ‘I’m going now, bye!’ and he’d sort of called back, ‘OK, see ya!’ and that was it.
Rose did an internal shrug about it as the taxi turned onto the main road and the sun disappeared behind a cloud. She and Jason didn’t do that sort of thing any more. Kissing. Holding hands. Saying goodbye properly . . . A matey ‘see ya’ was about as good as it got. In fact, Jason had recently taken to calling her ‘mate’, a rather disconcerting turn of events by anyone’s standards. Rose was really rather jealous of close friend Wendy and her brilliant, whirlwind romance.
The Friday rush hour traffic was pretty bad as they headed very slowly to the station, but Rose wasn’t worried by it; she’d allowed plenty of time to get to Paddington, and was almost beside herself with the relief and thrill of getting out of the hou
se. A whole weekend away – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had one and, boy, she needed a break. Her three teenage daughters were driving her bananas at the moment. Not only were their ‘floordrobe’ bedrooms like bomb-hit branches of Lush – highly perfumed obstacle courses of discarded clothes, strewn toiletries and empty Costa Coffee cups – but their attitudes had been stinking to high heaven, too. There had been a lot of arguing recently, plus an annoying dose this week of what Rose called ‘argy-bargy’: prodding, poking, and mild slapping – mostly over borrowed and unreturned make-up – which had resulted in confiscated phones and ever-escalating fishwife reprimands shouted upstairs. It had been exhausting. Three nights away was going to be absolute bliss, even if it was for a hen weekend.
Rose didn’t really do hen weekends – not any more. She’d been to a whole host of them in her late twenties and early thirties, including her own rather disastrous one, where a friend of a friend she didn’t even know had got JoJo and their normally indestructible friend, Sal, so drunk on mysterious cocktails they both had to be sent home incapable in a taxi at 10 p.m., missing half the night . . . and they now just seemed so screechy. All that enforced naughtiness, the silly costumes, the traipsing from bar to bar in crippling heels, the unattractive strippers in unfortunate PVC hot pants threatening to approach and make women do things to them with whipped cream and leather accessories . . . She used to love them but she’d been there, done that: at forty-two she was too old for all that malarkey, and she’d only reluctantly ordered that sash online – plus a cheap veil - because Sal had made her.
Yet, Rose reflected, as she stared out of the window, Wendy’s hen weekend was going to be all kinds of different from the traditional hen dos Rose knew and now hated. JoJo had arranged this one, and JoJo could be relied upon to provide class, always – the Glamour Pamper Package for Wendy’s hen weekend sounded amazing. Rose was definitely in line for some serious pampering; she’d barely had time to shave her legs recently and if anyone was up for lying face down on a board for an hour while some hot, preferably Swedish, masseur pummelled bits of their body into blissful submission it was her.
She also couldn’t wait to see her old friends. It had been a while. Having met as freshers at Warwick University, back in the day, they had all spread to different parts of the country (well, different Home Counties, anyway, apart from JoJo who lived in central London) and their crazy-busy lives meant they didn’t get together that often these days. Sometimes it was only once a year, for a pre-Christmas meet-up in London, where they stayed in a five star hotel, ate loads, drank far too much Prosecco and giggled and chatted in their pyjamas until 1 a.m. But, when they did meet up, it was like they’d never been apart.
Rose, Sal, JoJo and Wendy – the oldest and bestest of friends. And they still had the ability to surprise each other, as proved with the meteoric, fast-track love story of Wendy and Frederick.
Remember Frederick? Wendy had group-messaged the girls, one night at the end of January.
Of course we do, Sal had replied. The pair of you couldn’t keep your hands off each other all night!
The four of them had met, in London, just before Christmas last year and Wendy had brought along her boyfriend of six months, Frederick, for dinner. He hadn’t planned on staying that long – he said he knew their time together was precious – but they had all liked him so much they’d begged him to stay. He was lovely. He had a ready smile, a kind and quiet manner and, despite being absolutely smitten with Wendy, shared his attention between all of them, asking just the right questions and laughing in all the right places. After they’d finally let him go, Wendy had grinned like the Cheshire cat and said he was definitely The One . . . with bells on. And she’d been right.
We’re getting married! Wendy had added, on their group chat. On July the 29th!!!!!! Save the date!!!!!!!!!!
The date had been saved, of course it had – Rose couldn’t wait – but a hen night had never been on the cards. Wendy had told them that she didn’t want one. There wasn’t really time, she said, what with the whirlwind, six-month wedding preparations for the huge white wedding at a stately home in Norfolk - some family seat of Frederick’s family - and she couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of it all. Hen dos were for the young and overexcited, she’d said, not those long in the tooth who had struggled for the best part of two decades to find someone to love. The girls had all agreed, or at least pretended to, but JoJo immediately set up a secret messaging group called ‘Wendy’s Hen Do’. A wedding required a massive girly celebration; even Rose, long world-weary of the hen do, knew that.
They bandied ideas around. Half-serious notions of party boats down the Thames, chocolate-making in a Cornish castle, and paintballing, were all suggested and shot down – Who in their right mind would ever go paintballing at any time? mused Rose – and then finally JoJo had said to leave it to her. Organised JoJo, she would know what to do, they all agreed, and when the immaculate invitation had plopped through her letter box, Rose had felt little champagne bubbles of excitement rise inside her. She was also thrilled to discover Jason was actually going to be home that weekend and she wouldn’t have to arrange for her parents to have the girls.
Thank you for the invitation, JoJo, Wendy had messaged on the ‘Wendy’s Hen Do’ chat, the same morning she’d received her invitation in the post and been duly added to the group. Erm . . . didn’t I say I didn’t want a hen do?? She’d added one of those emoji things, the one with the bared-teeth grimace and Rose remembered looking at it and thinking it strange how Wendy hadn’t been up for a ‘hen’: she loved a night out and a good old dance – she was always first on the floor for a bit of Whigfield ‘Saturday Night’ or old school ‘YMCA’ (Wendy was a sucker for those cheesy, formation dance songs) and she also adored their London nights away and any opportunity for them all to get together.
Yes, you did, but we couldn’t let such detail stop it from happening, JoJo had replied, embellishing her sentiment with three smiley faces, a thumbs-up, and a martini in a cocktail glass.
Wendy had put another grimace. Then the devil’s face. Rose, online at the time whilst taking a lunch break from fumigating the girls’ bedrooms, had pictured Wendy tapping furtively away on her phone whilst at work in her lab. Wendy was a scientist, in Kent, and did something to do with aphids none of them understood. Her massive red curls would have been contained off her face in a hairband and a rainbow scrunchie – Wendy had huge hair: think Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, sans hooker wig, and times her hair by about ten – and her ever-colourful clothes hidden, as usual, under her white coat. Rose had imagined Wendy shaking her head as she leant over the pure white, shiny scientist’s workbench and typed out a response.
Do we have to? Oh look, the scream emoji. Always a good one.
Yes! Rose had written, plonking herself down on Louisa’s nail varnish-splattered bedroom chair and interrupting their messages. It sounds brilliant! Thanks for organising, JoJo! She’d put three bunches of flowers, the tropical cocktail, the chocolate bar and the dancing lady in the flamenco dress. And, later that night, Sal, no doubt standing at the back door of her pub and enjoying a quick, sneaky shandy between covers, had rsvp’d, too with a whoop, and a woo-hoo, flagged by capitals and lots of those faces that blow a red kiss.
Wendy’s hen do was happening and it couldn’t be happening to a nicer person, Rose thought, as her taxi rumbled up Station Road, but, all the same, she allowed herself a huge, envious sigh as it came to a stop outside Hinklesworth Station and she paid the driver. Wendy was so, so lucky. This was all just the beginning for their friend, after all this time.
Rose got on the Metropolitan Line, travelled four stops, then got off at Baker Street to change for the Hammersmith & City Line. As she got off the Tube at Paddington, she mentally told herself off for sighing over Wendy and Frederick’s romance; jealousy was not an attractive trait and she was in short supply of those, these days, as it was.
‘Rose! Rose, over here!
’
She was at Paddington Station at last and there was Wendy, waiting under the departure board, her curls voluminous and three-feet wide, her tall, willowy body draped in a gorgeous, multi-print maxi dress. Rose felt so happy to see her. Ecstatic even. Those champagne bubbles of excitement filled her again as she walked over to her old friend to give her an enormous hug.
Chapter Two
JoJo
JoJo closed the door of Boutique Brides behind her and indulged in a lingering glance at its beautiful window display before she resumed her walk to Paddington Station.
Three dresses – the three most beautiful of her collection – were displayed on calico dressmaker’s mannequins: the pale ivory princess-cut gown with the sweetheart neckline and the tiny beads of diamanté hand-sewn into the bodice; the white Grecian column dress with its silky pleats and belt made of intertwined feathers; the long-sleeved, high-necked, intricate lace dress with the magnificent, breath-taking train. Each immaculately pinned and tucked and draped, each shimmering under exceptionally pretty and strategically placed white fairy lights. Even the floor the dresses’ embellished hems tumbled onto was sublime: reams of lace and silk cascaded in elegant folds to form a pretty carpet, which was sprinkled with tiny, gossamer, mother-of-pearl buttons.
She knew it was perfection; her staff knew it was perfection; all her prospective brides and their mums and their excited, supportive friends knew it too. It was the kind of shop window to elicit gasps and the occasional excited and happy tear. It was a window that said ‘come on in, sit on a pretty, jacquard silk chaise longue, enjoy a chilled glass of champagne and see all your dreams come true’.
It was a display that promised happy-ever-afters.
Boutique Brides was a beautiful shop and it was all hers. She’d just been inside to check on a few things before she set off for the weekend. She couldn’t resist – the shop in Little Venice was practically en route from her house in Maida Vale to Paddington – and, while inside, she’d attempted to follow her best friends’ instructions to lock her BlackBerry in the desk at the back of the shop, so she couldn’t take it with her on Wendy’s hen weekend. However, she’d failed spectacularly in her mission. The BlackBerry had stayed in that drawer all of five minutes.