Wedding Bubbles: A romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 1) (3 page)

In my defence I had absolutely no idea that Dan was at the wedding, let alone that he was here with his wife. That’s Laura for you, though. She remains friends with virtually anyone she’s ever met. She really should be more discriminating.

I turn on my heel to walk away in an attempt to hold onto the last glimmer of self-respect I still have. Which isn’t very much, let’s face it.

Could this evening get any worse?

As if in response
, Dan calls out, “Jess! I think you remember Geoff Tait, don’t you?”

With a thoroughly defeated sigh I plaster a smile on my face and turn towards Geoff.

“Hi,” I mutter meekly.

He raises his eyebrows at me and not for the first time tonight I wish I could magic myself into a little blue creature in white pants and get the Smurf out of here.

“I think you said he had a receding hairline. Is that right, Jess?” Dan asks, basking in my embarrassment.

I regard the now completely bald Geoff out of the corner of my eye, imagining he probably misses the time when he actually had a hairline. Receding or otherwise. Perhaps it could have been a happy walk down memory lane for him?

“And breath that smelt of… what was that, again Jess?” Dan continues, grinning more broadly than the Cheshire Cat himself.

“Sardines,” I reply quietly, looking awkwardly down at my hands.

“You did eat a lot of fish back then, mate,” Dan says to Geoff who’s looking very far from amused right now. “You were hell-bent on becoming the next Mr Universe, weren’t you? You’d make disgusting things like tuna smoothies and eat sardines as snacks straight out of the can.”

“Not that it did you much good,” he add
s, patting Geoff’s rotund tummy.

“Cheers, mate,” Geoff laughs and I’m momentarily thankful the uncomfortable interrogation light has been diverted away from me.

But it’s a short-lived reprieve as he turns his attention back towards me. He raises his eyebrows again towards his non-existent hairline.

“Geoff, look,” I begin, hoping to appeal to his better nature. “I was drunk.
Totally
plastered. I thought it’d be funny to make a joke about the bride’s ex. Who, in fairness, no-one in their right mind would think would actually
be
here.”

I mean really, who invite
s their ex to their wedding?

I continue. “I didn’t mean it.
Hell no
. You were great. Still are great, as far as I can tell. Really great.”

Realising I’ve probably told him how great he is a little too often I decide to wrap it up. “
No hard feelings?” I smile desperately at him.

He glares at me for what feels like a week. It’s now obvious
to me that drastic action is required.

Before I have the chance to talk myself out of it I lunge towards him and place a kiss smack bang on his lips.

Startled, he pulls away from me. “What was that for?” he splutters.

“To say sorry?” I stammer, uncertainly.

And then to my unutterable relief he appears to see the humour in my awful faux pas, his face breaking into a broad grin.

“Yeah, no worries, Jess. You’re unreal. And a total bitch.”
He smiles.

“OK,” I concede. “It wasn’t my finest hour. Let’s agree on that,” I reply.

“Just for the record,” he adds. “I only smelt like fish six days a week. I took Sundays off.”

My relief is interrupted by
a tap on my shoulder. Who can it be now? Who else have I offended? I wonder as I brace myself and turn.

“Well that was certainly an interesting speech, Jessica.”

It’s my mother, arms crossed, not looking in the least bit amused.

“Hi Mum,” I reply
weakly, preparing myself for the inevitable tirade of disapproval.

“Your speech. It
wasn’t what you practiced,” she points out.

“Ah, no,” I reply.

What else can I say? She’s absolutely right - I hadn’t practiced spraying the assembled guests with soppy sentimentality.

Or offending half
of them in the process, either.

“What were you
thinking
?” she implores.

“
Well, I…” I begin, but quickly realise my mother’s question was rhetorical. I stop trying to defend my frankly indefensible position and let her continue.

“Standing up in front of everyone, drunk as a
fish? It’s not ladylike, Jessica. And it’s
certainly
not the way you were brought up. You’ll never find a husband if you carry on like that.” She’s glaring at me and I suddenly feel five years old.

Not that I k
now that many five year old who’ve just drunk a gallon of champagne.

“Sorry, Mum,” I reply, head hung low.

The music comes to a grinding halt and we both look up to see what’s happening. I for one am thoroughly grateful for the diversion.

Ben
’s holding the microphone again and makes an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen. The bride and groom are about to depart for their honeymoon.”

Everyone cheers and I spot Laura and Kyle looking as happy as a couple of mice in a cheese factory together.

“Can we please have you all making two lines by the door to give them an awesome send off.”

Relieved that I’m no longer squirming under the spotlight I find my fellow
bridesmaid. She looks flushed from her dance floor exploits.

“Here you go, Jess.” She produces a bottle of bubbles from seemingly thin air. Not champagne bubbles this time, but rather the much less intoxicating and dangerous soap bubbles kind.

Laura has this weird thing for bubbles. She always has. We used to sit on her parents’ balcony and blow bubbles as teenagers, chatting about school, boys and other disasters. No doubt Geoff Tait and Dan Ostenberg were the topic for a while.

Fish breath and bad sex.

“You had a good night, babe?” Morgan asks me as I unscrew the cap and pull out the wand in preparation to form charming, floaty bubbles to celebrate the bride and groom’s love.

“It’s been… educational,” I reply.

“OK,” she says uncertainly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the newlyweds!” Ben announces
, to much cheering from the wedding guests. We’ve all obediently formed two lines through which the happy couple begins to walk, looking absolutely jubilant.

It’s our cue to blow bubbles, which we do with gusto. Thanks to a hundred or so enthusiastic bubble blowers the room soon resembles a shaken snow globe, the overall effect of which is quite mesmerizing.

I laugh to myself as we watch Laura and Kyle climb onto their wedding-adorned scooter and drive off into the night. Even though they both love scooters and had told me they were going to use one instead of a wedding car, I’d thought they were just joking.

We watch as
they whizz away happily into the night.

“Good work,
bridesmaid,” I say to Morgan.

“You too, MOH,” she replies, giving me a hug.

“I kind of stuffed up with my speech,” I admit to her. “But I think it worked out OK in the end.”

“One more drink?” she asks
, tactfully avoiding passing judgment.

“Nah,” I reply.  “Under the circumstances I think the safest thing for me to do is to head
back to Mum’s.”

At least there I can’t do any more damage.

Mum approaches me, coat and bag in hand. “Ready to go?” she enquires, still with an edge of displeasure in her voice.

“Sure,” I
reply. 

Having
dug myself a series of graves with my cringe worthy speech, it really is best I leave now before I manage to create any further havoc.

A
s I turn to leave I catch Dan’s eye and give him a final apologetic smile. He very graciously smiles back, giving me a small salute.

It’s been quite an evening and one I think I’d really rather forget.

It’s time to go home.

THE END

If you liked
Wedding Bubbles
, you’ll love…

Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy

Find out what Jessica gets up to after the wedding…

You can buy it here:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00K7MMIGU

Jessica Banks is dragged kicking and screaming from her fabulous and carefree London life back to her hometown of Wellington, New Zealand and into the arms of her uptight mother.

She struggles to settle back in until she finds a way to bring her own version of London glamour to her new home. Things begin to look up when she meets Scott Wright, tennis coach, and possibly the hottest man on the planet - but is it a love match? Or is someone else the right man for Jessica? Someone she thought was out of her reach?

When both her best friend suddenly disappears and her high school arch nemesis rears her perfectly coifed head, Jessica‘s new life begins to unravel. Even her dearest friend, Ben, can’t protect her from her demons. She eventually realizes she needs to face her deepest, darkest fear - the fear she’s managed to successfully drown in cocktails for the last four years.

Can Jessica overcome her past and find love and happiness in unexpected places?

With Wellington - the world’s coolest little capital city and New Zealand’s answer to Hollywood - as the backdrop, Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy is a humorous, heart warming, entertaining romp in the world of contemporary women’s chick lit romance.

Read the first chapter here…

Chapter 1

What Am I Doing Here?

It happens as I’m sitting in my old high school hall, watching my cousin prance around the stage. She’s dressed as a wartime nurse, sharing the spotlight with twenty of her schoolmates and an assortment of boys imported from the local high school.

Admittedly my interest in the musical has begun to wane, particularly once the boy dressed in a lemon polyester shirt and oversized grey suit professes his undying love for a girl who looks ten years his senior.

But it takes me by surprise nonetheless.

I, Jessica Louise Banks, of usually sound body and mind, am suddenly overcome by the quite simply terrifying realisation I’m back where I started and have achieved absolutely nothing with my life.

Zero, zilch, nada.
Nothing.

For all I’ve done in my almost three decades on this planet, here I sit, back in this familiar place, surrounded by the same old faces.

And as if it couldn’t get any worse, I’m out on a date with my mum.

I clasp my Coach handbag and realise my brain and heart are in some kind of sick race to see which one can explode out of my body first.

Had this been a scene in a Nineteenth Century novel I may have swooned gracefully with a sigh, only to be caught by a handsome suitor. We would instantly fall helplessly in love and live happily ever after.

But sadly for me, this is Twenty-first Century New Zealand and unfortunately people don’t go in for that sort of carry-on much these days.

So I simply sit in my seat, clutching my bag for support, and wonder how I’d come to be here, living in the very city I’d fled and vowed never to return to. 

***

Of course this wasn’t a new experience for me. I’d felt it in my jetlagged fog when my plane had touched down at Wellington International Airport this morning.

As Mum had driven m
e to our family home in Karori - my childhood middle-of-the-road oh-so middle class suburb - I’d gazed numbly out of the window. The city seemed so surreal - like I knew it so well, but didn’t know it at all.

“
… I swear the woman thinks she’s Karori’s answer to Kim Kardashian, dear,” Mum had complained. Evidently Lillian Schmidt’s tight, revealing ensemble at the previous night’s bridge game was a bit too racy for the suburban crowd.