Rent a Bridesmaid Read online

  ‘I’m going away for a little holiday, Tilly,’ she said.

  ‘Oh don’t, please don’t!’ I cried. I ran to her and climbed onto her lap. ‘Can’t we come with you, Mum?’

  ‘No, Tills, I need to be by myself for a bit. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. You stay with Dad and be a good girl,’ said Mum.

  ‘But when will you be coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Dad made a little choking sound. He went out to the downstairs toilet. I pulled Mum’s head closer and whispered in her ear.

  ‘Can’t I come with you, Mum?’

  I hated remembering that. It was horrible of me to try to walk out on Dad too. But I just wanted to be with Mum so much. It didn’t matter anyway. Mum wasn’t having it.

  ‘No, I have to be by myself. Don’t start crying, Tills. You’re better off without me. You both are. Now come on, slide off my lap. I’ve got to go now. This is awful for all of us,’ she said.

  She kissed me goodbye. She waited until Dad came out of the toilet and kissed him too. Then she walked out of the front door with that one suitcase. She didn’t come back that night. Or the next or the next or the next. She didn’t come back for months.

  Dad and I were so happy when she suddenly turned up on the doorstep. We thought she’d come back for good. She hugged us and kissed us and said how much she’d missed us. We didn’t notice at first that she didn’t have a suitcase with her. She hadn’t come back – she was just visiting to make sure we were all right.

  She wasn’t stupid: she could see we weren’t all right at all; we were all wrong without her. But she still went again. She came back three more times, just for a day. She never even stayed the night. All the times in between we waited for her. Whenever we heard a car drawing up nearby, or footsteps, or the squeak of our front gate, we jumped up, ready.

  That was why we moved away. Dad said we had to start a new life. We couldn’t stay waiting for ever. I was terrified Mum wouldn’t be able to find us the next time she came back.

  ‘Maybe she won’t come back at all,’ said Dad. ‘Anyway, I’ve left our forwarding address with the new people in our house, the neighbours, Sylvie, all her friends. Mum will find us if she wants to.’

  Mum obviously didn’t want to.

  I didn’t tell Matty any of this. It was too sad.

  She was staring at me, waiting for an explanation. I just shrugged my shoulders helplessly.

  ‘Oh well,’ she said. She chewed her pen. It was actually my pen, and she was making little nibbly marks.

  ‘Don’t muck it up,’ I said.

  But then she jerked and bit off the entire top.

  ‘Matty! My pen!’

  ‘What? Sorry! I didn’t mean to,’ she said, spitting the top out. ‘I’ve just had the most wonderful idea!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can advertise. Offer your services! Rent-a-bridesmaid!’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘RENT-A-BRIDESMAID,’ I SAID slowly.

  ‘You could make yourself a little profile on the internet,’ said Matty.

  ‘No. I can’t. Dad made me promise that I would never do anything like that on the internet. He says it’s dangerous.’

  ‘Yes, but hundreds of thousands of people do it. And he needn’t know.’

  ‘But I’ll know. And I’ll feel terrible if I break my promise.’

  ‘Oh, Tilly, you’re such a hopeless goody-goody wuss. Tell you what, I’ll do it for you – on my iPad, so your dad couldn’t possibly find out. There! Problem sorted!’ said Matty triumphantly.

  ‘I’ll still know though. I’ll still be breaking my promise. No, I can’t do anything on the internet,’ I said.

  ‘Well, how are you going to advertise then?’

  ‘I know exactly,’ I said. ‘I’ll put an advert in Sid’s window.’

  When we went up to Matty’s bedroom to play, the Warrior Princesses stayed sleeping in their cardboard-box palace. The dinosaurs and cuddly toys and ponies lay on their backs, immobile. Lewis lay on his back too, arms and legs out like a starfish on the rug. He sang all the songs he knew, pop songs and theme tunes to television shows and advertising jingles and Christmas carols. He sang very loudly, and when he didn’t know the right words, which was often, he made up rubbish. It was very distracting, but at least it stopped him interfering with our important task.

  Matty and I were compiling our advert for Sid’s window. I tore out a page from my drawing book, made it into a neat square, and started working on another bridesmaid’s dress border while Matty made a rough draft of the wording because I couldn’t think what to say. I could make up a profile for Dad in a heartbeat but I was stuck when it came to describing myself in a positive manner.

  ‘It’s easy-peasy,’ said Matty, scribbling away, and then read out:

  ‘Very pretty, sensible nine-year-old

  has barely worn gorgeous pink

  designer bridesmaid’s dress with

  matching accessories. Will attend

  any wedding ceremony and add

  that perfect stylish touch to your

  wedding photos. Very small

  rental fee for one day.’

  ‘Matty! I’m not in the least pretty!’

  ‘Well, you do look quite pretty in that yucky dress.’

  ‘Sensible?’

  ‘Well, you are sensible, except when you go all moody on me.’

  ‘I haven’t got matching accessories.’

  ‘Of course you have. You can wear my pink shoes. They did get a bit scraped at the toes when I danced, but you could colour them in with your felt tip. And you can wear those awful pink frilly knickers. Mum washed them and I’m never wearing them again, believe you me,’ said Matty.

  ‘I don’t want to charge a fee either. I’ll be someone’s bridesmaid for nothing,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve got to be professional. They won’t take you seriously if you say you’ll do it for free,’ she said. ‘Go on, write out the advert. Your handwriting’s neater than mine.’

  ‘I’m not putting I’m pretty. It’s not true and it sounds like showing off.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. And if you don’t put that, they’ll think you’re hideous and no one will want you to be their bridesmaid,’ said Matty.

  ‘You can’t say stuff like that – it’s mean. You can’t help the way you look. Everyone should have a chance to be a bridesmaid.’

  Matty sighed. ‘I’m simply being practical. OK, if you’re someone’s little sister or niece and you happen to be ugly, then they maybe won’t mind too much. You’re probably stuck with them anyway because of family pressure. I’m positive my Aunt Rachel didn’t want to have me as her bridesmaid because I look stupid in frills and she knew I’d muck about, but Grandma insisted. You’re not a family bridesmaid, though. You’re a professional selling your services, so you need to reassure people you’ll do a good job and look the part. Now write the wretched thing and let’s play. I’m getting bored with the whole subject.’

  ‘Me too, and I don’t even know what you two are whispering about,’ Lewis sang.

  I still wasn’t sure, but I wrote Matty’s words in my best fancy handwriting and then put the card carefully in my school bag. I didn’t know how I was going to get to Sid’s to put it in his window, but I decided to think about that problem later. The Warrior Princesses awoke and leaped from their palace, preparing to do battle. We managed a great game before our lasagne and salad supper.

  ‘Mm, something still smells good,’ said Dad when he came to collect me.

  ‘We’ve still got heaps left. You’re very welcome to a plateful,’ said Angie.

  ‘Oh no! No, I wasn’t hinting! I was just commenting, that’s all. No, I’ve got my own supper at home, honestly,’ said Dad, blushing painfully. ‘You’re being wonderful looking after Tilly like this. You can’t look after me too!’

  ‘You look as if you might need a bit of looking after,’ said Angie. ‘Come on, sit down and have some supper.�€