Page 11 of Always the Bridesmaid

‘This is brilliant,’ I whisper, though not quietly enough, receiving a thump on my arm from Jess. ‘Ouch!’

Sarah clears her throat, her face placid now. ‘It’s a beautiful room.’

‘It really is,’ Jess says, rightly nervous.

Resting my hand on Sarah's shoulder, I ask, ‘Shall we draw straws for the bed?’

Sarah moves her gaze from my face to my hand on her shoulder, then flicks off my touch, the way she might flick bird shit off her clothes.

‘And don’t worry about the bath,’ I add. ‘I’ve brought an eye mask for sleeping, which I can wear when you bathe. It only covers one eye but I can do a long wink with the other one.’

I can tell Jess is holding in her amusement. ‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ she says, making a swift exit from the room and closing the door behind her.

The whole time, Sarah smiles like a Cheshire cat, not at all displaying the true level of her vexation.

When we hear Jess descend the stairs, Sarah asks, ‘What will we use as makeshift straws?’

She’s cracking me up. She’s totally livid.

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘You can take the bed. Chivalry isn’t entirely dead.’

‘That’s surprisingly decent of you, thank you. As for the bathtub, there’ll be no one-eyed-peeping-Toms; I’ll ask one of the girls if I can use their shower. But you should feel free to have a soak; just be mindful that I don’t have any eyepatches.’

She winks, and I have to hand it to her: that was genuinely quite funny. At least there is one effective comedian between us because she clearly doesn’t find me entertaining in the slightest.

We unpack in silence, which for me takes less than five minutes – the length of time it takes me to put one pair of shorts, one pair of trousers, a pair of jeans, a pair of lounge bottoms, some underwear, a few tops and a shirt into a drawer. Sarah has kindly (sarcasm intended) allocated to me the smallest drawer of five in a chest, whilst she has commandeered the other four and spread her clothes, it seems, into categories of casual wear, pool wear, fancy stuff and, I assume in the smallest drawer, her underwear.

I try not to speculate what she might wear beneath her clothes, but testosterone is testosterone and I can’t help wondering if she is a silk lady or a lace lady.

I also know that my imagination is the closest I’ll ever come to finding out.

I spend most of the time we are in the room together making up the sofa bed. It’s comfy enough, I suppose. I have certainly slept in worse places in my time, from sprung mattresses and sometimes floors during my foster days to sofa surfing when I first moved to the city.

After my show last night and a day spent so far in the company of others, all whilst nursing a mild but present hangover, all I want to do is lie on the sofa bed for an hour and close my eyes. Not necessarily to sleep but just to have a moment to myself, without having to speak to or entertain anyone else. A chance to drop my extrovert façade.

I’m pleased when Sarah, with her arms full of garments and one of the four towels that have been rolled into a sausage shape and placed on the bottom of the bed, tells me she is going to take a shower.

‘I need to wash off that airplane grime and get ready for dinner. The catering company will be here in an hour and I’d like to make sure everything is to plan whilst the others are getting ready.’

‘God,’ I say with exasperation. ‘All you’ve done since we arrived is run around after the others. Don’t you need a rest?’

With a look of scorn that I have to admit looks good on her, Sarah places one hand on her hip and tells me in the way a school teacher might address a pupil, ‘I like helping others. Jake and Jess are my friends and I want this week to be as perfect as it can be for them. If arranging and overseeing the catering team helps them create special memories together, then yes, I’m very happy to run around after people.’ She makes for the door and, placing her hand on the handle, swings back around to face me. ‘Some people. Grateful people.’

With that, she leaves the room and the door slowly closes behind her, slow enough for me to hear her clearly when she says, ‘I’m assuming you take no time at all to get ready and I’ll have the room to myself when I come back from the shower.’

It isn’t a question.

The thing about me is, I don’t take orders well. Never have. Especially from those who I know will be temporary features in my life. And tonight, I’m feeling increasingly agitated. Agitation, unfortunately for Sarah, usually makes me act out.

7

SARAH

Gosh, I needed that shower. Finally free of the grime of travelling and cleansed of my increasing levels of irritability, I pad barefoot across the landing from Drew and Becky's room, carrying the clothes I have changed out of. My Japanese-style silk kimono is wrapped around my body, and I’ve twisted a towel around my wet hair.

There are oil paintings lining the ivory-painted walls, each depicting a British countryside scene. The one that grabs my attention most shows a field of golden haybales, the sky clear and bright blue in the background. A young girl wearing red dungarees and a red and white checked shirt has her back to the painter. Her long blonde hair hangs down to her sacrum and on top of her head is a red bow, tied with ribbon.

I begin to hum the tune to ‘Fields of Gold’ – Eva Cassidy’s version.

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