Bridesmaids by Jane CostelloBridesmaids by Jane Costello


byJane Costello

Paperback | May 6, 2008

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It's a happy day for everyone except the bridesmaid ...

With less than an hour to go before her best friend, Grace, is to walk down the aisle, Evie is attempting to fulfil her most important bridesmaid role: to deposit the bride at the start-line at the appointed time. But with a bride famed for her chaotic sense of time, and the bride's daughter busy mashing Molton Brown into the expensive hotel carpet, minus underwear, the odds are stacked against her.

Evie is twenty-seven; a sparkly, down-to-earth journalist. She has never been in love and has started to fret that she never will be. Small wonder, then, that the prospect of being bridesmaid at no less than three impending weddings is one that fills her with trepidation. But then she meets her friend Valentina's date, Jack. Valentina is beautiful, shallow and self-obsessed. Her dates tend to be mirror-images. Which can mean only one thing: Jack can't possibly be as good as he seems. Can he?

Full of warmth, fun and laughter, Bridesmaids is a novel to devour!

Details & Specs

Title:BridesmaidsFormat:PaperbackDimensions:432 pages, 7.8 × 5.08 × 0.04 inPublished:May 6, 2008Publisher:Simon & Schuster UKLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:1847390870

ISBN - 13:9781847390875

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Chapter 1 The Forest of Bowland, Lancashire, Saturday, 24 February My best friend is due to get married in fifty-two minutes and the hotel suite looks like day three on the main field at Glastonbury. The room is strewn with random items of wedding paraphernalia - and I include the bride herself in that category. Grace is still in her dressing-gown, with only half of her make-up done. I, meanwhile, have spent the last ten minutes frantically trying to revive the flowers in her hair after she trapped them in the car door coming back from the hairdresser. I give her curls another generous whirl of spray and throw the empty can onto the four-poster bed. 'You're sure it's all secure now, Evie?' she asks, hurriedly applying her mascara in a huge antique mirror. I've used enough hairspray to keep Trevor Sorbie in a comfortable retirement, so am reasonably confident. 'Definitely,' I say. 'It doesn't look unnatural though, does it?' she goes on, picking up a tub of bronzing balls. I tentatively touch her curls. They feel like they're made of fibre-glass. 'Course not,' I lie, strategically re-positioning bits of foliage over some of the thirty-odd hairgrips. 'Your flowers are perfect. Your hair's perfect. Everything's perfect.' She looks at me, entirely unconvinced. We're in the bridal suite at the Inn at Whitewell, in the Forest of Bowland, a piece of countryside so beautiful it inspired Tolkien's Shire in The Lord of the Rings, and so tranquil that the Queen herself has said she'd like to retire here. Which is fair enough because she's probably in the 0.001 per cent of the population who could afford to. In any case, we haven't even looked at the scenery; there just hasn't been time. And the gorgeous suite with its sweeping window and antique chic is completely wasted on us at the moment. 'Great! Excellent. Good! Thanks,' Grace says breathlessly. 'Right. What now?' Why she's asking me, I don't know. Because nobody could be less qualified to advise on an occasion like this. First of all, I'm just not used to this wedding malarkey. The last one I went to was in the mid-Eighties, when my mum's Cousin Carol married the gangly love of her life, Brian. Within three years he'd run off with a seventeen-stone painter and decorator. Carol was devastated, despite the undeniably professional job her rival had done on their hall, stairs and landing. For those nuptials I wore a puffball skirt and wouldn't let go of the pageboy's hand all day. If I'd known then that that was going to amount to one of my life's most meaningful relationships, I'd have tried to remember his name. Which brings me to the second reason why Grace would be better off asking the grandfather clock in the corner for advice: I doubt very much that I'll ever be getting married myself. Before you get the wrong impression, I should explain an important point. It's not that I don't want to get married - I'd love to. I just don't think I ever will. Because the fact is - the very worrying fact is - that I have now reached the grand old age of twenty-seven and can honestly say that I have never been in love. I've never even come close to being in love. By which I mean I've never actually managed to stay with someone for longer than three months. In short, I am to commitment what Pamela Anderson is to AA bras. A very poor fit. The funny thing is, I encounter plenty of people who think this ought to be a cause for celebration. They assume that my inability to be tied down makes me young, free and thoroughly liberated. But that isn't how I feel. Like everyone else, I read The Female Eunuch in sixth form and didn't shave my armpits for three weeks, but I just know emancipation isn't meant to be like this. A typical case is Gareth, with whom I split up last week. Gareth was - is - lovely. Nice smile. Good heart. Decent job. Lovely. And, as usual, it all started well, with pleasant evenings over a bottle of Chianti in Penny Lane wine bar - near where I live in Liverpool - and lazy Sunday afternoons at the cinema. But we'd barely been together four weeks - he was suggesting a three-night caravanning holiday with his mum and dad in North Wales - when I knew that it was just too late. I had ceased to think about the cute little dimple in his chin and couldn't stop thinking about the dirt under his toenails. And the fact that the most intellectual thing on his bookshelf was a copy of Auto-Trader. And - oh well, I won't go on. Suffice to say, I'm aware that nothing he did or said was all that terrible and, certainly, it doesn't compare with what some women have to put up with. Yet, while I kept telling myself there were worse things a man could do than think that George Eliot was that bloke from Minder, I knew deep down he wasn't for me. Which is fine. Except they never seem to be for me. Anyway, after a gap of twenty-two years, I've now got three weddings lined up in one year and I'm a bridesmaid at every one of them. Although if today's dramatics are anything to go by, I'm not sure my nerves are up to it. 'Shoes!' Grace declares as she stomps around the bedroom, flinging items out of the way. I look at the clock: thirty-one minutes to go. Grace is now pacing around like a teenager waiting for the results of a pregnancy test. She picks up her lip-brush and hesitates. 'Maybe I should get my dress on now,' she says. 'No, wait, I need my stockings. Oh, hang on, should I touch up my hair with the tongs first? What do you think?' What do I know? 'Er, stockings?' I offer. 'You're right. Yes. Stockings. Christ, where are they?'