Read The Runaway Bridesmaid Online
Authors: Daisy James
The Runaway Bridesmaid
What a girl wants…
Squeezing herself into a frothy, flouncy, bubble-gum pink dress, Rosie Hamilton thinks that being a bridesmaid for her spoilt little sister Freya can’t get any worse. But discovering her boyfriend in bed with the bride, ten minutes before Freya is due to say ‘I do’, is the icing on the sequinned wedding cake – and Rosie’s cue to pack her bags.
Swapping her Louboutins for Wellingtons, Rosie throws her bridesmaid bouquet in the air and flies from bustling New York to sleepy Devon. Her late Aunt Bernice’s cosy countryside cottage is the only place that’s ever felt like home. Now, for the first time in her life, and with the help of her beloved Aunt’s diaries, Rosie must put herself first for a change – and decide what
she
really wants…
The Runaway Bridesmaid
Daisy James
Daisy James
is a Yorkshire girl transplanted to the north east of England. She loves writing stories with strong heroines and swift-flowing plotlines. When not scribbling away in her peppermint-and-green summerhouse (garden shed), she spends her time sifting flour and sprinkling sugar and edible glitter. Her husband and young son were willing samplers of her baking creations triple-tested for her debut novel,
The Runaway Bridesmaid
. She loves gossiping with friends over a glass of something pink and fizzy or indulging in a spot of afternoon tea – china plates and teacups are a must.
Daisy would love to hear from readers via her Facebook page or you can follow her on Twitter @daisyjamesbooks, especially if they have given any of the recipes in her book a whirl… photos are very welcome.
Contents
To Les and Ben,
for their love, encouragement and support…and their infinite capacity to taste-test my recipes!
‘What in the name of Christian Dior possessed your sister to choose this vomit-inducing shade for her bridesmaids’ dresses?’ huffed Lauren, flicking the sides of her sleek auburn bob behind her ears. ‘There’s not a person on this Earth who can pull off cotton-candy pink successfully!’
‘Don’t worry,’ giggled Rosie as she watched her friend’s perfectly outlined cupid’s bow upend in a grimace of disgust at Freya’s audacity in insisting they wore such a confection of fluff on her wedding day. ‘Haven’t you heard that pink taffeta is the new black?’
Lauren slipped the dress over her slender body where it ballooned her delicate proportions to twice their size so that she resembled an over-blown meringue. The insipid colour immediately drained her naturally pale complexion, bestowing her with a gaunt, grey appearance. ‘Only a lavish application of the extensive range of products from the Clarins beauty counter can even begin to rectify this tragedy of taste! Bring on the fake tan!’
Rosie had to agree with her best friend. From a kaleidoscope of choices in the spectrum of pink – fuchsia, cerise, Barbie – Freya had chosen a saccharine-sweet shade of bubble-gum pink so Rosie and Lauren resembled a pair of nervous flamingos as they loitered on the Juliet balcony of the hotel bedroom suite waiting for the bride to grace them with her presence. Their eyes met and they spluttered into fits of laughter – a welcome sensation that released the helix of tension which had been festering in Rosie’s chest all morning. She was grateful for Lauren’s support, and their joint humiliation, but – to her distress – her eyes brimmed.
‘It’s Freya’s day, Lauren. Whilst I have otherwise been solely responsible for the organisation of the Bennett-Hamilton wedding circus, all sartorial choices have been made by her, as I hope to repeat regularly throughout the day to anyone who will listen! On the issue of bridesmaid gowns she would brook no suggestions, no guidance, no pleas for elegance over outrage from me. But I have to admit, it
is
one of the ugliest dresses I have ever been ordered to wear, and as you know, I am something of an expert.’
‘You are! What number are you up to now?’
‘Seven; lucky for some.’
‘Maybe next time you’ll get to be the bride. And handsome, charismatic Mr Giles Phillips the groom!’
‘What planet do you live on, Lauren? Marriage is the last thing on Giles’ mind. Or mine for that matter. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have a serious relationship one day, especially with a guy like Giles, but whilst I’m loving dating him I’m not sure it’s anything more than two people enjoying each other’s company. We do have a lot in common. Anyway, in the metropolis of Manhattan, all the sane guys are either married to a spouse or their career, or are gay - you have to grab the exception when you can! Now come on, let’s get ready to present the lucky residents of Stonington Beach with the most spectacular wedding they have ever had the privilege to attend.’
Lauren gifted Rosie a roll of her emerald eyes. ‘What, in this dress? More like an impromptu performance of an eighties musical revival!’
Lauren was right, Rosie thought, they did look ridiculous clad in a froth of pink flounces, more Folies Bergère show girls than twenty-first century bridesmaids at an elegant Connecticut wedding. They both appeared incongruous next to the elegant A-line splendour of the bride’s Augusta Jones-designed wedding gown, with ivory lace, an off-the-shoulder bodice and pleated organza skirt. But, of course, that was the whole point.
Upstaging by the bride was vital.
Nothing was ever enough for her little sister – always scrounging for more no matter whose toes and dreams she squashed to achieve her self-focused goals. With no friends of her own in New York, she had supplanted herself into Rosie’s circle of friends, who – unbeknown to Rosie – tolerated her only because she was Rosie’s sister. Of course, Freya had struggled to find willing applicants to fill the position of bridesmaid for her forthcoming wedding and had demanded that Rosie ‘persuade’ Lauren to accede to the honour. With her sharply-drawn, freckled features and graduated auburn bob, Rosie’s best friend and colleague could grace any professional photographer’s lens and met with Freya’s aesthetical demands for her wedding photography.
Lauren had been adamant that, unlike Rosie, she was no doormat and would not deign to bow to Freya’s demands. Why on earth would she want to be her bridesmaid, she had argued. She wasn’t Rosie – willing to perform the supporting nuptial role at least once every six months for a procession of former school friends and colleagues. Lauren’s own spectacular wedding to her college boyfriend, Brett, in the Terrace Room at the Plaza had been the most recent of Rosie’s ‘best supporting bridesmaid’ opportunities a mere four months ago.
However, Lauren had relented when Rosie had pleaded with her to do this for her, if not for her sister, sadness at Freya’s predicament clouding her amber-flecked eyes. But Lauren would not allow her friend to forget her sacrifice. She continued with her monologue on Rosie’s doormat tendencies and her sister’s self-centred, ever-escalating demands.
‘Okay, okay, so your mom died when Freya was only eight years old. But she was your mother too, Rosie. How about Freya supporting you for a change, just once thinking of someone else other than herself? Did she rush to your aid last year when Carlos ditched you? Does she even realise that her monopoly on your time may have played an integral part in that? No, instead she just continued to chase around Europe, floating from one handsome guy to the next gullible girlfriend, or any acquaintance willing to offer her a sofa and a good time. Jacob is the best thing that’s ever happened to that girl – like, ever! And she doesn’t even appreciate her good fortune. Someone needs to have a serious talk with that little madam. She’s about to become a married woman – it’s an opportunity for you to make sure she knows how lucky she is. It can’t go on, Rosie!’ Lauren’s face flushed with annoyance.
As she cowered from the arrows of blame slung by her best friend’s words of wisdom, Rosie felt like she had been kicked in the head and the solar plexus at once. Then she began to quail in her pearl-and-sequined stilettos as she watched Lauren’s eyes, the colour of Irish luck, narrow.
‘If you like, I’ll do it. I’ll tell her how grown-ups are supposed to act. You’re too soft on her gallivanting and selfishness. I’m sorry, Rosie, you’re a wet blanket when it comes to baby-blue-eyed and supposedly-innocent Freya; butter wouldn’t melt in that rosebud mouth. She does not deserve the sacrifices you’ve made, are still making, for her. She’s an adult now – twenty-two for God’s sake. She can take care of herself – and if not, Jacob can. It’s your turn, Rosie, to make a life for yourself outside Freya’s orbit.’
Lauren’s mischievous glint returned, but her eyes softened. After all, she put in the same hours at Harlow Fenton as Rosie did. Of anyone, she understood the pressures of keeping all the plates spinning in the air when the vagaries of the world’s stock exchanges ate into their family or leisure time.
‘Stop taking responsibility, Rosie. It’s not healthy. For either of you.’
Rosie gifted Lauren with a watery smile as she moved over to the sash window where white gauze curtains floated like a bride’s veil in the light breeze. Pale tendrils of sunshine breached the horizon as she took in the pristine gardens, battling to calm her emotional demons. Serenity would play for the opposing team on this her beloved sister and Jacob’s wedding day, and for that she was saddened. Not only were there a myriad of things that could go awry, despite her meticulous attention to detail in the arduous preparations for this auspicious day, but Lauren was right – Freya’s demands
had
increased to scatter-gun proportions since her arrival the previous evening for the rehearsal dinner.
That morning as she had dragged herself from the single bed of her childhood, her limbs stiff and her head pulsating, nausea had twisted knots into her stomach. Her baby sister’s wedding day! She should be suffused with joy but, with a jolt of guilt as she stepped into the freezing relief of the shower, she recognised that in the place where happiness should be, loneliness lodged. She was ten years older than Freya and she’d had to almost beg Giles to be her date for her sister’s wedding.
Rosie made a huge effort to shake off her melancholy and allowed her shoulders to relax. In her chosen wedding dress and with her loose platinum waves rippling down her back, Freya had presented every inch the Princess Bride image she had coveted since her teenage years. And Lauren, her only true ally, was there to bolster Rosie’s flagging spirits and don her matching, saccharine-sweet bridesmaid’s dress.
Rosie smiled when she thought back to the impish smile of her best friend, so bohemian in her own choice of attire, at the final dress fitting. Lauren eschewed the emulation of the images distributed in the magazines and fashion corridors of Manhattan of the supposedly-perfect female form. She never counted calories nor fell under the spell of the latest designer-inspired craze. Her idea of a perfect girly afternoon was to trawl the thrift shops on Second and Third Streets, delving into the racks of vintage clothing she could up-cycle. She frequently unearthed pieces of jewellery she could dismantle and reuse. Even her engagement and wedding rings had been ‘previously loved’, much to Brett’s delight. His fire fighter’s salary would never stretch as far as Tiffany’s.