Wedding Belles (4 page)

Meanwhile, Clover is working the room like a pro, chatting to the magazine editors, and making them all nod furiously and laugh out loud. I must remember to ask her what she’s talking about that is so funny. I do hear her say something about New York at one point. “That’s right, in New York. We’ll see what happens.” Maybe she’s chasing an interview with a big movie star over there. Maybe she’ll take me with her? While Clover is schmoozing, Brains and I mostly hang around, testing the canapés and talking only to each other.

“These people sure know how to party,” Clover says, rejoining us. “Am I right or am I right? Hell of a shindig”— she lowers her voice —“if you’re an undertaker. I’m delighted to report that my work here is done. I’ve chatted to all the editors, soaked up some wedding-dress ideas for Sylvie, and picked up lots of advertising contacts. Let’s make like a banana and split. Dare you both to zombie-walk outta here.”

Brains grins. “You’re on. Ghoulish girlies, let’s shake an undead leg.”

Clover flicks her head to the side like one of the zombies in the Michael Jackson music video. It’s one of her favorites.

Brains loves it too. He starts to sing “Thriller” softly under his breath and we all put our hands out in front of us and march toward the door, with widened eyes staring vacantly into space and stiff limbs. There a few raised eyebrows, tut-tuts, and shocked laughs, but we ignore them and continue dead-marching down the stairs. Outside, we dissolve into giggles.

“How do you do that?” I ask Clover as we walk back toward the main entrance to the wedding fair, where the Cupids still stand waiting.

“Do what? My splendorific, Oscar-winning zombie impression?”

“No! Although it is impressive. Talking to those scary-looking adults. How do you know them all?”

She shrugs. “I don’t.”

“Really? You just went up to them and . . . said what, exactly?”

“‘Hi, I’m Clover Wildgust from
Irish Bride
.’ Then they introduce themselves and I start asking them questions.”

“What sort of questions?”

She smiles gently. “Grown-ups are just people, Beanie. Wrinkly humans wearing yawnsville clothes, admittedly, but people all the same. I ask them about their job, their kids, where they bought their wrap dress — anything, really. And here’s the important bit: I listen to them — that’s the trick.” She shakes herself, like a dog throwing off water after a swim. “Wowsers, that’s all far too serious for this hour of the morning. All set to watch some skinny models in some blissfully bad wedding frocks frolic down that catwalk?”

“Abso-doodle-lutely!”

“Fabulous. Now we’re sucking wedding diesel.”

Brains and I trail behind Clover as she checks out the wedding fair. The wedding-theme fashion show is due to kick off shortly on the large catwalk that divides the huge hall. On either side of it are dozens and dozens of stalls, all pushing different wedding wares, from dresses to exotic honeymoon destinations.

Clover comes to a halt in front of a large stall with a sign saying
GOOD GROOMING
hanging above the unmanned table. Three male mannequins stand behind the table in different groom outfits, their waxy faces staring out at us.

“Ooh, I like that one,” Clover says, pointing at the middle mannequin, which is dressed in a dark-red velvet suit.

“I can’t picture Dave in velvet.” I squeeze my eyes shut and try to imagine Dave in velvet. “Nope, not happening.”

“Not for Dave, for Brains,” Clover says.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Clover?”

“Not to get married in, you crash-test dummy, for band photographs. It’s a very striking suit. Marriage is so not on the cards for a long time to come,” she says. “But don’t stop proposing from the stage, sweetness. It’s darling,” she adds quickly, winking at Brains, who is taking a closer look at the suit. “Makes a gal feel special.”

Since January, Brains has been shouting out marriage proposals to Clover from the stage at Golden Lions gigs. Most people think it’s all part of the show. Clover always says, “No way, José,” and the women in the audience cheer — they all have big crushes on Brains.

“What do you think?” Clover asks him.

“Not really my color,” he says. “But I dig the velvet.”

“What about the cream-linen suit for Dave?” She points at the left-hand mannequin.

“Yuck!” I say.

Clover laughs. “Don’t hold back, Bean Machine.”

“Dave would hate it,” I say. “It’s too ‘Look at me, I’m so handsome.’”

“Amy’s right,” says Brains. “That one would be more Dave’s style.” He nods at the third mannequin. “Dark-gray morning suit, nice and traditional.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you,” says a voice behind us. “One of our male models hasn’t turned up for the fashion show and I’m all in a tizzy.” We turn to find a tanned man smiling at us. He’s wearing a plain dark suit, and a tape measure hangs around his neck like a thin scarf.

“Not a problem,” Clover tells him. “Can my boyfriend try on the gray suit, please, with a yellow vest if you have one and a sky-blue cravat? It’s for my sister’s wedding. We’re just the organizers and Brains is our model for the day.”

The man looks Brains up and down. “Model, did you say . . . ? Ladies, would you mind if I borrowed this young man for a moment. He’ll meet you at the fashion show later. Here.” He presses a couple of fancy white-and-gold invitations into Clover’s palm. “With my compliments. And after the show we can talk about your wedding plans. I’m sure we can work out a special deal.”

“Thanks,” Clover says. “That’s really kind of you, Mr. . . . um? But what do you need Brains for?”

“You’ll see. And the name is Stanley. Noel Stanley, but please call me Stan. Everyone does.” He drags a bemused-looking Brains through the curtain at the back of the stall.

“Where do you think he’s taking Brains?” I ask Clover.

Clover shrugs. “To do some heavy lifting. Or to look for his missing model.” She winks. “Hey, the fashion show’s about to start and we have ringside seats. Chop-chop, Beanie.” She’s right — through the sound system a loud voice is asking people to take their seats.

The seats are amazing, right up against the catwalk. Music starts pumping out of the loudspeakers. I swivel toward the stage to watch the models sashay down the catwalk in lots of different white and cream dresses. They’re all nice frocks, but nothing special. And I don’t think Mum would like any of them. After we’ve seen about thirty dresses and ten groom and usher suits, Clover begins to slump in her seat and yawn.

“And now for the finale,” a voice says over the PA system. “Our fantasy wedding couple!”

“Thanks goodness for that,” Clover says, sitting up. “I can’t take much more. Whatever Brains is doing, it’s got to be better than this.”

A bride and groom step onto the catwalk in the most amazing outfits — the willowy blond model is wearing a bloodred taffeta wedding dress, and the male model’s black-velvet suit is gorgeous. Hang on, that isn’t any old male . . . It’s Brains! I gasp and nudge Clover, who is smiling away to herself.

“I had a feeling we might see him on that catwalk,” she says.

Brains stops just in front of us. “Will you marry me, Clover Wildgust?” he asks loudly.

Clover hesitates, as if weighing up her options. For a second I think she’s about to buck the trend and say yes, but instead she replies, “One day. Keep asking, babes.”

At that, everyone claps and cheers.

Clover grins.

“Hey, hey, Saint John’s fans, yell it out and rock the stands” may be what the rugby fans hear on Sunday morning, but in my head there’s a completely different chant going on: “Cross left and kick, cross right and kick; arms in, out, in, out . . .”

“Watch your swirlies, Amy,” Mills says after we finish yet another punishing set of cheers.
Swirlies
is the cheerleading term for “fists.” Daft name, if you ask me, but hey, who I am to judge?

“Thumb wrapped tightly around the fingers, remember?” she says. “And keep the wrists dead straight.”

“OK,” I say, sucking in deep breaths to try to tame the stitch in my side.

Mills’s chest isn’t heaving up and down, and her cheeks are only slightly pink. She’s glowing, unlike me. I am a red, sweaty mess. I hadn’t realized how superfit she is. Playing goalie on the field hockey team (my usual sport of choice) clearly isn’t as taxing on the lungs as cheering.

“Ready for the next cheer?” Annabelle says. “‘Don’t Mess with the Best’?”

I look at Mills, panicked at the thought of going straight into another set of torturous cheerleading contortions.

“Let’s take five,” Mills says, reading my expression perfectly. “The ref’s about to blow the whistle for half-time anyway.”

“Fine. But stop protecting Green,” Annabelle tells her. “It’s pathetic. No,
she’s
pathetic. Is your jelly-belly hurting, Gweenie? Pwoor liddle Amy-damy.”

I’m imagining ramming a swirlie down her smug throat when the whistle blows for half-time.

“We get another break now, right?” I whisper to Mills.

“’Fraid not. Sorry, Ames. This is when we keep the fans and the players’ morale up, especially as we’re losing 13–8 despite Bailey’s talent. It’s criminal. Bailey is ready on the wing, but Hugo just won’t pass him the ball, the dunderhead.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I just nod and murmur, “Criminal.”

“You’re not in your knitting circle now, girls. Stop chattering and let’s get on with rallying the crowd,” Annabelle snaps.

“Knitting circle,” Nina says and titters. “That’s a good one. Did you hear that, Sophie? Knitting circle.”

“Hey, my nan’s in a knitting circle,” Sophie says. “And it’s back in, isn’t it? All that artsy-craftsy stuff.”

“But your nan’s, like, a hundred,” says Nina.

“Shut up, the lot of you, and focus,” Annabelle says. “Two rounds of ‘Don’t Mess with the Best’ now, OK?”

After two rounds, I need to lie down. Luckily Mills says, “Let’s do ‘Blue, Blue, and White’ next. Amy, you don’t mind sitting this one out, do you? We haven’t taught it to you yet.”

“No,” I say, giving her a grateful look. “Not at all. Knock yourselves out.” I bend forward to catch my breath as the All Saints belt out another chant, thankfully without me this time.

“How was the cheering?” Dave asks as I stagger into the kitchen, flop down into a chair, and then rest my head on the table. My whole body feels like I’ve been pummeled by Katie Taylor, the Irish Olympic boxer.

“I have never been this exhausted in my whole entire life,” I say. “Please feed me before I pass out.”

Dave smiles. For some reason he’s wearing Mum’s pink rubber gloves with pink fake fur at the cuffs. They look pretty funny on his hairy forearms. “I just happen to have cooked lasagna for lunch. It should be ready any minute now.”

That sounds promising. Dave’s lasagna is surprisingly edible.

“Where are the troops?” I ask him, meaning my little brother and sister. Alex is two and a bit and Evie was one in January. I love them to bits, but, boy, are they a handful!

“I’ve parked Evie in front of
Peppa Pig
, and Alex is upstairs playing with a cardboard box,” Dave says. “I took him to the toy shop this morning to choose a new train, but he spotted this big cardboard box and refused to leave without it.”

“My bro, the cheap date. Where’s Mum?”

“In bed.” He lowers his voice. “She’s a bit tired today, so I told her to go and lie down for a while and take it easy.”

That doesn’t sound good. When it comes to Mum, feeling “tired” spans a wide spectrum of emotion, from a little bit weepy to thumping pillows and wailing. Sometimes, if she’s really bad, we have to ring Clover for help. Clover is the only person who can get through to Mum when she’s in one of her darkest-of-Peru moods. Mum has always been a bit fragile. Sometimes I feel like I’m the parent and she’s the child. Other times, though, she surprises me by being totally smart and together. This is clearly not one of those days.

“Should I ring Clover?” I ask him.

“She’ll be fine. She’s just a bit stressed out about the wedding. I keep telling her you girls have it all under control, but she won’t listen to me.”

“Of course I won’t listen to you.” Mum appears in the doorway with Alex on her hip.

Darn it, I should have closed the door behind me. How long has she been standing there? She looks terrible. Her hair is greasy and tied back in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing a pair of navy tracksuit bottoms and an old gray hoodie with a rip on the arm that I tried to throw out weeks ago, but she fished it out of my trash can, saying there was plenty of wear in it yet. Alex is a bit of a mess too. His face is filthy, with weird pink stains on his cheeks.

“Amy’s only thirteen,” she says, “and Clover’s so caught up in ridiculous details like doves and cupcakes that she’s overlooked the really important things like my dress and registering the wedding.”

“I’ll be fourteen soon,” I remind her, but she doesn’t even glance at me — her eyes are fixed on Dave.

“And look what Alex has done.” Mum throws something at Dave and it hits his chest and then clatters to the floor. It’s the stubby end of a lipstick. Ah, that would explain the streaks on Alex’s face. He has a habit of stealing Mum’s lipsticks and drawing with them. “You can’t leave him upstairs on his own, Dave. How many times do I have to tell you? And look at this place. It’s a bomb site. You’ve used every single pot in the house again and the stove is covered in tomato sauce. Why can’t you clean up as you go along?”