The Park Bench Test

“I can spend whatever I need to,” Katie tells her, silently thanking her dad who is paying for the wedding, “but I’d rather not spend a fortune,” she continues, because she is not the sort to abuse her dad’s generosity.

At the mention of sort-of-unlimited cash Catriona’s mood perks up considerably and she takes over the rifling.

“You go in there and strip off while I get some dresses ready for you to try on,” she tells Katie, who obediently dumps her bag and coat on my lap and disappears behind a white linen curtain into a cubicle.

Moments later Catriona hangs three dresses on a rail outside the cubicle and pokes her head around the curtain.

“Take your bra off too, love,” she instructs Katie, inviting herself into the cubicle and pulling the curtain across behind her. I look at Emma and grin.

“How are you doing?” I call out several minutes later when they still haven’t reappeared.

It’s hard to tell but the loud guffaw from the other side of the curtain may well be a clue.

“Almost there,” Catriona shouts.

Emma and I flick through the magazines while we are waiting.

“Blimey! Guess how much this one is,” I say to Emma, holding up Bride Be Beautiful and pointing to the dress at the top of the page. I quickly cover the price with my finger.

“Dunno. Twenty pence,” she says, glancing up from White White Weddings.

“No, seriously, guess.”

“I want to say about eight hundred quid but judging by your reaction it’s probably more like five grand?”

“Twenty-five grand!” I tell her, bringing the magazine right up to my face. I must have misread it. “That’s ridiculous!” I say, having established there is nothing wrong with my eyesight and that, yes, this wedding dress really does cost almost as much as my annual salary.

“That’s a deposit on a house, for heaven’s sake.”

“If I ever get married, I’ll be doing it on a beach somewhere in my bikini,” Emma says. She would too.

“Why waste all that money on a dress that’s only going to be worn for a few hours – and on a day when all your new husband can think about is getting you out of it?”

Catriona pokes her head outside the curtain – to check we are still here probably – there’s a fabulous cake shop around the corner which I’m sure must be an incredible temptation when you are on the tenth or eleventh dress and the bride still hasn’t found one she likes.

“She’s ready girls,” she announces, before sweeping back the curtain and waiting for Katie to emerge.

“So. What do you think?”

“I don’t like it,” Emma says, screwing her nose up.

“You don’t get a say,” Katie tells her.

“What have you made me come for then?”

“Consider it your punishment.”

Emma says nothing – just rolls her eyes at me.

“What do you think Becky?” Katie asks me, not before giving Emma one more moody glance for good measure.

“Well, it’s okay … But there’s probably something out there that is more you,” I confirm, before she promptly disappears back behind the curtain.

“I am NEVER going to find a dress,” Katie says, despondently shoving a prawn cracker in her mouth.

We’ve come to China Palace for dinner before I head home. And we’ve ordered enough to feed an army, after Katie complained she had ‘not eaten a thing all day’. I did point out that this wasn’t strictly true – that she had in fact wolfed down an extra large helping of chocolate fudge cake as well as an entire king size bag of giant chocolate buttons between 2:12pm and 2:18pm. Single-handedly. The chocolate fudge cake she conceded, but the chocolate buttons didn’t count, apparently, since ‘chocolate buttons are an addiction, not a source of sustenance’.

Life is not fair. Katie can eat chocolate all day every day and never put on an ounce, whereas I only have to sniff the empty packet and I put on five pounds. And it’s not even as if I can just say ‘to hell with it’ and sod the five pounds. I have a bridesmaid dress to squeeze into. Or will do, anyway, if we ever get Katie sorted out first.

“You’ve tried on five dresses,” Emma laughs. “I don’t think you need to panic just yet, hun.”

“Yes, but I hated them all. Hated,” she repeats, slopping a spoon of sweet and sour chicken onto her plate. “And so did you two. God I hope it’s easier finding you a bridesmaid dress Becks. Unless you just want to get a wedding dress and have a double wedding?” she asks hopefully, eager for someone to share her frustration.

I shake my head as I help myself to some chicken with cashew nuts.

“Sorry hun, you’re on your own. But don’t worry. You’ve got plenty of time, despite what any of these wedding shop witches tell you. They’re bound to tell you to hurry – they want you to buy one of their dresses. They don’t want you to take your time and look elsewhere.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. So, anyway, enough wedding talk. Tell us how it’s going with Jim, Emma.”

Jim is Emma’s current man. She met him at the chip shop after a drunken night out in Brighton and offered to let him dip his chips in her curry sauce. She’s a classy chick, our Em. And despite her inexcusable opening line, it appears to be going well. I think it’s been about two months now, which is something of a record for her.

“It’s going really well, actually,” she grins.

I think she really likes this one because she goes all mushy whenever you mention his name – a bit like a lovesick teenager.

“We’re going away in a few weeks - to this posh hotel in Hampshire. Jim won this spa weekend at his work’s Christmas do. Two nights’ bed and breakfast with spa treatments for two. Let’s just say I think we might be missing out on the breakfast – and the spa treatments!” She licks her lips and smiles sweetly – like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, when in actual fact she’s planning the dirty weekend to end all dirty weekends.

“So when are we going to meet him?” I ask. “You don’t want to let it go too far. You might have to dump him if Katie and I don’t approve.”

“Oh you’ll approve,” she assures us. “He’s gorgeous. And totally fabulous in bed!”

“Excellent,” Katie says, helping herself to more egg-fried rice. She’s got hollow legs, I’m sure.

“So?” I ask.

“So what?”

“So when are we going to meet him? It’s not often you go this gooey over someone. It’s time we met the guy.”

“I’ll sort something out soon, I promise. But you’ll definitely love him.

“You know what…” she says, biting into a prawn cracker – a pause for thought. “He might just be Mr Right.”

“You don’t believe in Mr Right,” I remind her.

“I know I don’t. But someone this good in bed has to be as close as I’m gonna get to him, damn it!”

CHAPTER TWO (#u1d9f1cbe-faa7-5737-bbf0-df3cb6fdfa4f)