Page 32 of Wanting Mr Black

“I’ll see you later,” he calls over his shoulder.

I can hear Sarah’s loud voice booming down the corridor before I even arrive at the bridal suite. The door to the room is ajar, and as I step inside, I see her lounging back on the bed and chugging back a glass of Bucks Fizz. She’s already dressed with her hair curled, wearing a full face of make-up.

“Hi,” I say sheepishly, unable to avoid the fact that I’m the last to arrive.

Lucy looks up from the cream rococo-style dressing table, where she sits as the stylist brandishes a set of curling tongs as she finishes off her hair. She gives me a small smile, and I’m pleased to see she looks relieved to see me rather than pissed off at my lateness.

“Here she is!” cries Sarah.

“Sophie!” Geraldine, Lucy and Sarah’s mum, leaps up from the bed and rushes towards me, pulling me into a warm embrace.

I allow myself to be enveloped by the hug and the distinct smell of lily of the valley perfume.

“How nice to see you.” She releases me and casts a disapproving look in the direction of her eldest daughter. “Sarah, will you please slow down? You need to be able to walk down the aisle in a straight line,” she snaps, tugging at her peach bolero jacket.

“Nice to see you, Geraldine. I’m sorry I’m late. I got held up,” I apologise.

Lucy raises her eyebrows at me through the dressing table mirror as the stylist fluffs her curls around her shoulders.

“Held up in bed, shagging that gorgeous boyfriend of yours,” she complains.

“Lucy!” Geraldine cries in disgust. “Must you lower the tone? Today of all days.”

It never ceases to amaze me how Lucy and Sarah have grown up into the gregarious, loud individuals they are, given they’ve such a prudish mum.

Sarah’s eyes light up at the mention of a man. “Ooh, how long have you been seeing him then?”

I hesitate because I can’t quite believe it myself. “Seven weeks.”

The stylist steps back and admires her handiwork in the dressing table mirror, tilting Lucy’s head left and then right. A crystal-encrusted tiara is perched on her head, and her golden hair has been styled into soft, romantic waves that fall across her shoulders.

An unexpected ball of emotion wedges in my throat as I look at my best friend, and I can barely speak. “You look beautiful, Luce.”

“Don’t,” she warns, giving me a look that tells me she’s in danger of welling up too.

“Sarah, will youpleasestop drinking?” Geraldine’s sharp tone cuts through our moment.

Lucy holds her cream silk dressing gown more tightly around her and gets out of the chair, giving me a decisive nod. “You’re next.”

Sixteen

I’m shoved into the chair while the stylist sorts out my hair, straightening it and applying goodness knows how many different sprays and balms so that it falls sleek and straight. A soft brown eyeshadow is applied along with a few false eyelashes and a nude lip and blusher. It’s more make-up than I usually wear, but the "oohs" and "aahs" coming from the stylist convince me that I look okay.

Lastly, I step into the blush-pink chiffon dress. The material is ruched around the chest into a plunging V and pulls in at the waist. There’s a thigh-high split in the floor-length dress, and the material is so light and soft that I feel as if I were floating on acloud. It won’t meet Art’s approval, but I don’t care because it’s stunning.

By the time I’ve finished slipping on my dress, Lucy’s wearing hers. It’s been months since I went with her to choose it, and I forgot how stunning it was. The off-the-shoulder ivory fishtail gown is adorned with pearls and crystals and shows off her curvaceous figure beautifully. That ball of emotion is back in my throat as I admire her.

Geraldine is faffing with the train of the dress, and Lucy gives me a frown. I know she’s losing patience.

“It’s fine, Mum,” she moans. “Why don’t you and Sarah go downstairs? The guests are arriving.”

“I do hope your father hasn’t been at the bar,” Geraldine grumbles, tweaking the train straight across the burgundy carpet.

“He might not have been, but I will be.” Sarah wobbles over to the door in her strappy gold sandals and peers down at the cardboard box containing the bouquets.

“Sarah, please don’t drink any more until after the ceremony. I don’t want you making a scene on your sister’s big day,” Geraldine instructs.

I also hope Sarah doesn’t drink any more. I’ve got to walk down the aisle with her, and if she goes down, there’s no way I’m going to be able to save her.

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