Read Online Wedding Bubbles: A romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 1) by Kate O'Keeffe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kate O'Keeffe
Ads: Link
disappointment in me.
Did Mum really just pull out a handkerchief and dab her eyes?
“She’s very pretty, Cynthia. In a less obvious way than the other bridesmaid,” Green Magic Marker had consoled her. “And even though she might be getting on a bit I’m sure she still has time.”
‘Thank you, Prue. You’re very kind,” my mother replied, smiling weakly.
“I’m only twenty-six!” I’d felt like screaming. This isn’t the Nineteen-Fifties, you know. Women are allowed to have an education, careers, lives.
Adding further insult to injury Green Magic Marker then asked, “Surely there must be someone out there willing to marry her?”
She then proceeded to scan the wedding guests, on the look out for potential husband material for me.
“Oh, I do hope so, Prue. I really do,” Mum had replied, shaking her head. She’s such a martyr.
To make matters worse, not only does it appear that I’m an utter disappointment to my mother, but I’m also the only sad and single member of the bridal party.
My fellow bridesmaid and wonderful friend, Morgan, has been living with her boyfriend Dave for a while now; the Best Man Ben, also recently arrived from London, is here with his Amazonian beauty of a girlfriend, Amber; and Glen, the groomsman, is married to a nice, homely woman by the name of Carla. And then of course there’s the bride and groom. All of them in their happy little love bubbles.
Really, losing myself in a large quantity of lovely, bubbly booze seemed to me like the perfect way to take my mind off my current predicament. Which is why I gave it a jolly good shot.
“So without further ado, would you all please raise your glasses to toast the beautiful bridesmaids,” Kyle says expansively into the microphone, smiling in Morgan’s and my direction as he raises his glass.
“The bridesmaids,” the wedding guests repeat eagerly as they too raise their glasses, all eyes in the room swivelling towards us.
We’re seated next to one another in our matching bridesmaids’ dresses. Of course Morgan looks incredible, as always, the red of the glamorous, empire-line dress complimenting her blonde locks and olive complexion perfectly. That said she could manage to look hot in head-to-toe Amish get-up - or even a burqa at a push. She’s gorgeous and sexy, which has resulted in many an otherwise normally functioning man to suddenly develop a stammer and drool problem. Nice for some.
I had heard that your chances of meeting your future husband at a wedding are increased exponentially if you’re a bridesmaid. Consequently I have what you might call a certain level of expectation about tonight’s events. But I regret to report that the bridesmaid’s dress doesn’t have quite the same effect on yours truly. The orange-red colour only serves to exacerbate my flushed face and the cut, although quite stunning on my slimmer figure before I moved to London, now makes me look rather like a large, shiny red brick.
Not quite the look I was going for.
I glance at the bride, my wonderful friend Laura. Being the product of a former All Black dad and TV presenter mum, who were the New Zealand celebrity power couple in the Eighties, she’s a total babe. The genetic lottery had been very kind to her. She’d got her dad’s beautiful mocha complexion and dark curly hair, which she wears in a gamine crop a la Halle Berry; and her petite, elegant figure and delicate features from her mum.
Why do I insist on having such good-looking friends, I wonder? Do I have some sort of inferiority complex that needs a constant diet of ‘ ugly duckling ’ servings? OK, so I’m never going to compete with the likes of Morgan and Laura, but I can hold my own, thank you very much.
Still, bursting at the seams as I am in my dress tonight, I definitely feel like the plain Kate Jackson of the Charlie’s Angels bridal line up.
Or even the Bosley.
I clutch at my champagne flute and raise it to my lips, realising too late in a
Did Mum really just pull out a handkerchief and dab her eyes?
“She’s very pretty, Cynthia. In a less obvious way than the other bridesmaid,” Green Magic Marker had consoled her. “And even though she might be getting on a bit I’m sure she still has time.”
‘Thank you, Prue. You’re very kind,” my mother replied, smiling weakly.
“I’m only twenty-six!” I’d felt like screaming. This isn’t the Nineteen-Fifties, you know. Women are allowed to have an education, careers, lives.
Adding further insult to injury Green Magic Marker then asked, “Surely there must be someone out there willing to marry her?”
She then proceeded to scan the wedding guests, on the look out for potential husband material for me.
“Oh, I do hope so, Prue. I really do,” Mum had replied, shaking her head. She’s such a martyr.
To make matters worse, not only does it appear that I’m an utter disappointment to my mother, but I’m also the only sad and single member of the bridal party.
My fellow bridesmaid and wonderful friend, Morgan, has been living with her boyfriend Dave for a while now; the Best Man Ben, also recently arrived from London, is here with his Amazonian beauty of a girlfriend, Amber; and Glen, the groomsman, is married to a nice, homely woman by the name of Carla. And then of course there’s the bride and groom. All of them in their happy little love bubbles.
Really, losing myself in a large quantity of lovely, bubbly booze seemed to me like the perfect way to take my mind off my current predicament. Which is why I gave it a jolly good shot.
“So without further ado, would you all please raise your glasses to toast the beautiful bridesmaids,” Kyle says expansively into the microphone, smiling in Morgan’s and my direction as he raises his glass.
“The bridesmaids,” the wedding guests repeat eagerly as they too raise their glasses, all eyes in the room swivelling towards us.
We’re seated next to one another in our matching bridesmaids’ dresses. Of course Morgan looks incredible, as always, the red of the glamorous, empire-line dress complimenting her blonde locks and olive complexion perfectly. That said she could manage to look hot in head-to-toe Amish get-up - or even a burqa at a push. She’s gorgeous and sexy, which has resulted in many an otherwise normally functioning man to suddenly develop a stammer and drool problem. Nice for some.
I had heard that your chances of meeting your future husband at a wedding are increased exponentially if you’re a bridesmaid. Consequently I have what you might call a certain level of expectation about tonight’s events. But I regret to report that the bridesmaid’s dress doesn’t have quite the same effect on yours truly. The orange-red colour only serves to exacerbate my flushed face and the cut, although quite stunning on my slimmer figure before I moved to London, now makes me look rather like a large, shiny red brick.
Not quite the look I was going for.
I glance at the bride, my wonderful friend Laura. Being the product of a former All Black dad and TV presenter mum, who were the New Zealand celebrity power couple in the Eighties, she’s a total babe. The genetic lottery had been very kind to her. She’d got her dad’s beautiful mocha complexion and dark curly hair, which she wears in a gamine crop a la Halle Berry; and her petite, elegant figure and delicate features from her mum.
Why do I insist on having such good-looking friends, I wonder? Do I have some sort of inferiority complex that needs a constant diet of ‘ ugly duckling ’ servings? OK, so I’m never going to compete with the likes of Morgan and Laura, but I can hold my own, thank you very much.
Still, bursting at the seams as I am in my dress tonight, I definitely feel like the plain Kate Jackson of the Charlie’s Angels bridal line up.
Or even the Bosley.
I clutch at my champagne flute and raise it to my lips, realising too late in a
Similar Books
