Friday, May 22 9st 1lb; alcohol units: 3 (vg); cigarettes: 12 (excellent); calories: 3,425 (off food); minutes spent planning how to stop Jude and Vile Richard having doom wedding: 247; minutes spent planning own perfect-style wedding: 835. Jude has gone completely mad. Went round her house last
night to find entire place strewn with bridal magazines, lace swatches,
gold-sprayed raspberries, tureen and grapefruit-knife brochures,
terracotta pots with weeds in and bits of straw. "I want a gurd," she was saying, "or is
it a yurd? Moroccan instead of a marquee. It's like a nomad's tent in
Afghanistan. And long-stemmed patinated oil-burners." "What are you wearing?" I said, leafing
through pictures of embroidered stick-thin models with flower
arrangements on their heads and wondering whether to call an ambulance. "I'm having it made. Abe Hamilton! Lace and lots
of cleavage." "What cleavage?" muttered Shaz, murderously. "That's what they should call Loaded
magazine," I giggled. "I'm sorry?" said Jude, coldly. "You know, What Cleavage?, like What Car?" "It's not What Car?, it's Which Car?," said
Shaz. "Girls," said Jude, over-pleasantly, like a
gym mistress about to make us stand in the corridor in our knickers.
"Can we get on?" Weird how "we" had crept in. Suddenly was not
Jude's wedding, but our wedding, and we were having to do all these mad
tasks like tying straw round 150 patinated oil burners and going away to
a health farm to give Jude a shower. "Can I just say something?" said Shaz. "Yes," said Jude. "Don't bloody marry Vile Richard! He's an
unreliable, selfish, idle, unfaithful ----wit from Hell. If you marry
him, he'll take half your money and run off with a bimbo. I know they're
introducing the pre-nuptial agreements Act but..." Jude went all
quiet. Suddenly realised - feeling her shoe hit my shin - that I was
supposed to back Shazzie up. "Listen to this," I said, hopefully, reading
from the Bride's Wedding Guide. "Best Man: the groom should ideally
choose a level-headed, responsible person..." I looked round
smugly, as if to prove Shaz's point, but the response was chilly.
"Also," I ploughed on, "don't you think a wedding puts
too much pressure on a relationship? Like Annabel Heseltine going on in
the papers about getting engaged to that knitting pattern-cover man.
It's not exactly playing hard to get, is it?" Jude breathed in deeply through her nose while we
watched on tenterhooks. "Now!" she said eventually, looking up
with a brave smile. "The bridesmaids' duties!" Shaz lit a Silk Cut. "What are we wearing?" "Well!" trilled Jude. "I think we should
have them made. And look at this!" - it was an article entitled
"50 Ways to Save Money on the Big Day" - " 'For
bridesmaids, furnishing fabrics can work surprisingly well'!" Was funny, really, because at same time as feeling
really pissed off with Jude was simultaneously fantasising about own
wedding to Mark Darcy - thinking maybe a yurd or gurd would be nice, all
ethnic and rustic. But then, with chill lurch of doom, remembered about
lunch last Saturday in Sugar Club garden. Started off v. well, with me and Mark enthusing about
accidental night of passion. "It was irresistible,
overpowering," he was saying, running his hands through his hair
desperately. "I couldn't help myself." "I know, I know," I said, joyously.
"It's bigger than..." - cannot believe said this - "both
of us. We can't help it, it's just meant to be. Oh let's... let's run
away. Maybe to Mexico, or the Four Seasons in Ubud." Unfortunately this did not have quite the hoped-for
response. "Look, love," he said, squeezing my hand
(hate it when he calls me "love"). "I've caused enough
mess and pain. I've done all this to you and know I'm involved in this
'thing' with Rebecca. I can't make another mess so soon." "But," I whispered, head lowered, hand
shaking on wine glass, "are you happy with Rebecca?" There was a long pause while he stared fixedly at his
glass. "She's been incredibly good to me," he said. "And
she's got all these things fixed up: dinner parties, holidays, it would
just look so ... so indecisive and shabby." Could not believe what was hearing. Was as if he cared
not about love, but just social occasions and what everyone thought of
him. Also have spent all this time trying not to be pushy and respecting
him taking his pace, then it seems what really works is being
manipulative and ruthless. Or maybe he just didn't love me. "You see" - was suddenly aware of Jude
pronouncing - "with the guest-list it says, don't feel you have to
invite guests' new partners - but the minute I mentioned it she said:
'Oh we'd love to come'." "Who?" I said. "Rebecca." I looked at Jude, dumbstruck. Then
tears started pricking my eyelids. She wouldn't, she wouldn't expect me
to walk down the aisle in furnishing fabrics with Mark Darcy sitting
with Rebecca, would she? "And, I mean, they have asked me to go on holiday
with them. Not that I can go, of course. But I think Rebecca was a bit
hurt that I hadn't asked her to be a bridesmaid." "What?" exploded Shazzer. "Have you no
concept of the meaning of the word 'girlfriend'. Bridget's your best
friend joint with me, and Rebecca has shamelessly stolen Mark, and
instead of being tactful about it, she's trying to Hoover everyone into
her revolting social web so he's so woven in and he'll never get away.
And you're not taking a bloody stand. That's the trouble with the modern
world - everything's forgivable. Look at Mary Bell and those nurses.
Well, it makes me sick, Jude. You can stuff your patinated oil burners.
If that's the sort of friend you are, you can walk down the aisle with
Rebecca behind you in furnishing fabrics, and not us. And then see how
you like it." So now Shaz and I are not speaking to Jude. Seems like Rebecca is infesting and ruining every aspect of life. First Mark, then Magda, now Jude. Have got to make a plan. |