Buch lesen: «Bad Bridesmaid»

For my incredible mum.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Praise

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

They say there is no such thing as bad sex. They lie.

After a couple of weeks of seriously steamy flirting with Zack Carson I just knew that there would be fireworks when we finally got around to getting it on – but it’s an uncomfortably hot Los Angeles night and, despite Zack’s best efforts, the fireworks just aren’t going off. Not even a sparkler. Not even a birthday cake candle. I’m too warm, I’m bored and my neck is starting to ache thanks to the overly ambitious position of Zack’s choosing.

Did it occur to me that it might not be such a good idea to sleep with my boss’s assistant? Of course it did, but one look into his sexy brown eyes combined with his jet-black crew cut and his chiselled, model-like good looks and I was never going to be able to resist – and that’s before I realised he has a motorbike. Bikers are hot – especially tall, dark and handsome ones who are covered in tattoos like Zack is. Still, I’ve got nothing going on down there. I’m not sure how long we’ve been at it but I’m ready for it to end – even if I don’t get a happy one.

I scoop together my long, honey blonde coloured curls and twist them into a bun on top of my head. This does little to cool me down but I know that as soon as I break out my GCSE drama skills (I just about scraped a C grade) I can pull a Meg Ryan and put an end to this.

‘That was awesome,’ Zack says afterwards, in his strong Californian accent – one that never fails to fascinate me, no matter how many years I’ve been here.

I moved here when I was twenty-five, and in the four years I’ve been living and working here I haven’t lost my Kentish accent, not even a little. Everyone teases me for it; you wouldn’t believe how many Mary Poppins jokes I have to endure on a daily basis. Despite being born and raised in Canterbury, my American friends can’t distinguish between my accent and Dick Van Dyke’s attempt at sounding Cockney, and so the soundtrack to my life here will forever be ‘Chim Chim Cher-ee’.

I watch as Zack makes himself more comfortable on the sofa. As I anxiously nibble my middle fingernail, I wonder how quickly I’m going to be able to get him to leave.

‘Could you fix me a drink?’ he asks, flashing me a big, toothy grin. ‘Whatever you’ve got.’

‘Sure,’ I reply reluctantly. ‘Back in a sec.’

As I walk towards the sink I hear Zack call after me.

‘This is a nice place you got here.’

‘Thanks,’ I reply. I’m not surprised he likes it; it was designed with someone like Zack in mind. The interior of my Beverly Hills apartment is everything you’d expect of a lad pad. It is ultra modern, with clean white walls and huge floor-to-ceiling windows to make the most of the stunning view, perfect for the king of the castle. With its white walls, glass surfaces and the pretty LED lighting that runs around the room, the open plan living area has the vibes of a fancy hotel lobby. I can change the colour theme depending on my mood, but unless I set the glow to pink (as I most often do) you could easily think this was still a bachelor pad.

The place came furnished (because the bachelor it belonged to met a girl, fell in love and decided he wanted to play house – sucks for him, great news for me) but the furnishings suit me just fine. The custom-made white leather sofa is a delight to sit on (it feels like Matthew McConaughey is hugging your bum), the kitchen has all the bells and whistles you could even begin to imagine (plus some I still haven’t figured out) and the bathroom could rival certain spas we have back home.

You can tell the place used to belong to a movie star because when I moved in there was a huge wall-mounted TV – which I have recently upgraded to an even bigger one – and I loved the way he had framed posters from his movies all over the walls, so much so I did the same. I realise how vain that sounds, but it’s not as bad in my case because my face isn’t on the posters. I don’t star in movies, I write them. Romantic comedies to be precise. I’m part of a small writing group called Pink Inc. and we’ve been responsible for all of the big hits in our genre over the past four years. I made a name for myself back in England when I was in my early twenties, writing for a girly TV drama called Love Online. The show was about a group of young women who decided to try and find love by meeting boys on the net. This was around the time social networks were becoming a must among young people and the show turned out to be a huge success. So at least I have that to thank the MySpace generation for – that and the world embracing flattering, high-angle selfies. After that I went on to bigger and better things, before eventually moving here and joining a team of screenwriters.

My success can be a little off-putting for men – not because I am successful, but because of what I am successful for: writing love stories. When people know that you’re responsible for these romantic movies they instantly think that you have unrealistic expectations about love. They expect you to be all lovey-dovey and mushy and on a quest to find a Prince Charming. For me this could not be further from the truth. I’m good at my job because I have a good understanding of the genre, not because I’m a soppy romantic.

I fill a glass with water and hand it to Zack.

‘Is this vodka?’ he asks with a puzzled look on his face.

‘Water,’ I reply bluntly.

‘When I said a drink I meant something alcoholic. I need it after that,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. I could do with a stiff drink too, but for me it would be to help me forget.

‘Oh, sorry. It’s just I’ve got to be up pretty early in the morning so…’ So take the hint, Zack.

‘Great. I’m tired too, and I love to spoon. Is that the bedroom over there?’

Whoa, stop right there, does he think he is staying over? This isn’t the Sleepover Club.

‘Erm,’ I start, unsure how to do this tactfully. This was only ever going to be a casual thing, and I thought Zack knew that. Sleeping together isn’t ever going to happen – literally sleeping together, that is.

‘You want me to go?’ Zack asks.

‘Well, yeah,’ I reply. ‘I’m just not great at sharing my bed. I’m a wiggler, I fling my arms around – it would be carnage.’

‘It’s three a.m.’ Zack replies with a laugh. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘Even so,’ I reply, pausing to think of the right way to say this, ‘I’d still rather you went home.’

‘If I sleep here I can give you a ride to work on my bike in the morning,’ he negotiates, but I don’t think you’re allowed to side-saddle on motorbikes and a helmet would trash my hair.

‘Even so,’ I repeat myself, but before I have the chance to say anything else Zack gets the message. He hops off the sofa and begins aggressively putting his clothes back on. I can tell that he is angry because even a simple task like putting his leg into his jeans isn’t going very well.

‘So this was just sex and now you want me out?’ he asks angrily, but I don’t give him an answer. ‘I thought guys were supposed to do this to girls – use them for sex and then send them packing – not the other way around. Who do you think you are, huh?’

Still, I don’t say anything. Well, what can I say? He’s hit the nail on the head.

I stand by the door as I watch Zack get dressed. With his clothes on and his boots in his hand, Zack approaches me and places a hand on my shoulder.

‘This is silly,’ he says as he massages me. ‘It’s the middle of the night, we’re going to the same place in the morning. You and I could be really good together.’

The fact he’s even considering us having some kind of future together after just one night causes me to pull a face – an involuntary reaction I have to the idea of relationships, and one that I can’t always mask.

‘Let me guess,’ Zack starts, ‘ “Even so”…’

Again, I say nothing. Nail on the head.

‘You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?’ Zack shouts as he storms out, slamming the door behind him.

‘Yep,’ I say quietly to myself before turning off the lights and climbing into my bed, alone, just the way I like it.

Chapter 2

Despite being late for work, I grabbed my usual skinny cinnamon latte from the coffee shop on the corner by my office before hurriedly making my way there.

‘Hold the lift,’ I call out, just in time to squash myself in with all the other people. And by lift, I mean elevator. There goes Dick Van Dyke again.

As we begin our ascent to the floor I work on, I finally get to take my first sip of coffee of the day. God, that feels good. I’d gasp with delight if there weren’t so many people around who might find this odd. It is only as I examine my takeaway cup that I realise there is a phone number written on the side. I cast my mind back to the coffee shop. I was in a rush, but I definitely remember being served by a woman. Before I have a chance to consider what kind of vibes I’m giving off (I suppose I do flirt – for sport – with almost everyone) I remember the young bloke who handed me my coffee, the one with the gorgeous smile. I’ll have to remember to make a note of his number before I throw my cup away.

My appearance seems to be a hit with the male population of LA, but it took a lot of work to get like this. Back in Kent I was Mia Harrison, a chubby brunette with very few men vying for her attention, and nothing much going on in life apart from work. When I moved to the States I decided it would be the perfect time to reinvent myself (what better place to fake it than LA?), so I slimmed down to a US size six (which is absolutely no fun to maintain), dyed my dull brown locks a sexy honey blonde colour, and every morning I meticulously curl my long hair with tongs, squash myself into something sexy and step into a high pair of heels.

Now my name is Mia Valentina. I’m twenty-nine years old. I believe in taking care of myself, believe in a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. OK, so I’m not really a female Patrick Bateman, but before I get dressed each day I do have a particular routine to make sure I can keep up my new look and maintain my new body.

I’m not sure if adopting a fancy sounding pen name and looking the part is helping my career at all, but let’s just say I’m not short of men vying for my attention any more. Men didn’t look twice at Mia Harrison, but Mia Valentina... she’s a hit. I don’t know why I’m referring to myself in the third person because that’s me now. Mia Harrison is nothing but a distant memory. Even when I go home to visit (which, I have to admit, is not very often) no one from my past recognises me and my family all tell me how much I’ve changed – although not necessarily for the better. In fact, the new me isn’t a hit with my family at all. I’m not talking about the way I look, more the way I am. I’m a different girl on the inside too. The old me had panic attacks. I was pushed around at work, messed around by men and ever since the birth of my younger sister even my family have made me feel like the second favourite child – please keep in mind that there are only two of us. Life before my sister Annabelle was born feels like a weird dream that didn’t really happen, because ever since beautiful baby Belle bounced onto the scene the attention has been fully on her. Sure, I achieved everything first, but Belle did it all better. It’s a horrible thing to say, but I almost feel like I was the starter child, the practice run before Belle came along. I was five years old when Belle was born, so I’ve been’ second best for the majority of my life. That’s why I love living out here, alone. No one knows the old me, I can totally be myself without worrying about the consequences – and believe me there are consequences, because these days my true self can be a bit of a bitch.

‘Good morning, Mia,’ my assistant Dalia chimes brightly, despite it being past noon. That’s the great thing about having an assistant, they go out of their way to assist you, even by making you feel like you’re not incredibly late for work when you really are.

‘Hey Dalia, what’s happening?’

‘Well, the meeting started ten minutes ago, I tried to reach you on your cell.’

Oh, shit. I wish I could say that this was a one-off, but with great success comes a great ego. Even though I know that if I just got up a little earlier on a morning I could be on time for work, I still roll out of my bed when I feel like it and spend ages doing my hair when really I should be rushing to the office to make my meetings on time.

‘Good morning,’ I say cheerily as I burst my way through the doors to the meeting, grabbing an apple from the buffet table before taking a seat with the rest of the Pink Inc. team.

‘It’s not morning,’ Molly informs me.

‘OK,’ I say, twirling my chair from side to side as I munch my apple.

‘We were just talking about the script changes,’ Savannah says, kindly bringing me up to date.

Between the three of us, we have the formula for making movies down to a fine art – although unlike me, Molly and Savannah are way into all the romantic junk that I have no time for in real life.

‘Here,’ Molly says, tapping the page of the open script on the table in front of me. ‘We need to make some changes to this line.’

At the moment we’re working on a movie called Three’s A Crowd, which tells the tale of two twenty-something best friends. Both party girls, their friendship comes under strain when one of them goes off on holiday and returns engaged.

‘I wrote that line,’ I say, almost offended. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘I’m just struggling to believe that when Katie’s best friend tells her she is engaged, she asks her if it’s because she is pregnant. No one would do that.’

I have a little chuckle with myself because that’s exactly what I said to my sister when she told me she was engaged.

‘OK, so what were you thinking instead?’ I ask.

‘Perhaps it should be a sweet and sincere moment,’ Savannah suggests.

We could try that. After all, we write romantic comedies, it needs as much romance as it does jokes.

‘Sure, but what?’ Molly asks.

We all sit in silence for a moment – well, almost silence. The unattractive sound of me crunching my apple can be heard all around the room.

‘OK, let’s try this,’ I start with my mouth full. ‘So, Emma tells Katie that she is engaged and Katie is shocked – she drops her cosmopolitan and spills it all over Emma’s dress, just like we wrote originally. This time, instead of asking her if she’s pregnant, the pair rush off to the toilets together to try and get the stain out of Emma’s dress. For a moment no one says anything, they just both work together in silence, Emma holding the bottom of her dress taut as Katie carefully dabs at the stain with a wet paper towel. Now, the stain isn’t as bad as it looks, and together they get it out. Then Emma leans on Katie while she dries it under the hand dryer.’

‘I don’t think any girl watching the movie is going to care so much about fashion that she’ll want to watch them just removing a stain in silence,’ Molly interrupts me.

‘Let me finish then,’ I say sharply. Another thing that changed when I became the new Mia was my tolerance for girls and their bitchiness. I don’t really have any female friends here in the States, unless you count Dalia, but she’s paid to be friendly to me and she doesn’t try that hard. I have a sneaking suspicion she secretly hates me. Yesterday when I sent her out for condoms she looked at me like she wished I was dead. After an anti-climatic night with Zack (who I’m going to have to try hard to avoid today) I’m starting to wish she hadn’t bothered. Well, that I hadn’t bothered with Zack, not that we hadn’t bothered with protection.

Other than Dalia, the only other girls I have to deal with for lengthy amounts of time on a daily basis are Molly and Savannah. Savannah is a lovely, bubbly girl. We don’t have much in common but we get along OK. When all else fails we can always have a girly chat together, about things like hair and shoes, because Savannah is a girly girl too. She has long, naturally curly brown hair and bright green eyes like me, which we bonded over the day we met because supposedly green eyes are quite rare. Whether it’s true or not, it gave us something to talk about and thanks to that we’ve always got on well since.

Sadly, I never hit it off with Molly. We just don’t seem to have anything in common apart from our girl parts. Molly is very tall and very thin. She’s quite gothic looking, with her sharp black inverted bob and her heavy black makeup, but while she isn’t particularly girly, she is still a romantic just like Savannah – and that is the one thing I don’t have in common with either of them. The thing is, being a romcom writer, there’s no way I can openly admit to my aversion to love. If people knew that I thought the stuff I wrote was slushy propaganda, cleverly designed to trick women into thinking they need a husband and a happy ever after – I’d be finished. The film industry may not benefit from you having a happy love life directly, but through the use of product placement they can helpfully suggest the kind of shoes you need to wear to do so, or the bag you need to carry, or the car you need to drive. Molly and Savannah believe that all you need is love, and making these movies is their way of showing you just how beautiful love is and how true love conquers all. Sadly, I don’t believe a word I say. I know that every word I write comes from a dark and cynical place inside me, and the more I write, the less I’m inclined to believe in Love as a thing. It’s not a thing, it’s a marketing tool. It’s how you convince people to splash out on weddings and buy chocolate and flowers on Valentine’s Day. Thankfully the people who watch the movies written by the Pink Inc. team don’t feel the same as me, which keeps me in my flashy lad pad and my designer shoes.

Right, back to work. So Katie has just helped Emma clean the cocktail stain off her dress.

‘So, they’ve cleaned the dress together in perfect silence, both just thinking about what has happened and how life as they know it is going to change. Katie is worried, not only because her best friend is about to have someone else equally as important in her life, but also because to an extent she’s going to be left behind. Emma is going to be playing house, Katie is still going to be a single girl – only now she’s doing it alone. She’s scared. Anyway, Emma sees this. She takes her hand and she says: “Katie, you mean more to me than anyone in the world. I have known you all my life and just because I am getting married, it doesn’t mean I won’t want you around any more – I need you around. Look at the way you just helped me clean my dress – granted you were the one who spilled a drink down it – but even though you were upset you helped me, no questions asked. I lean on you, and not just when I need to dry my dress under a hand dryer. Yes, I have fallen in love, but it will never compare to the love I have for you, my best friend. It may not work out between me and this guy, but you and I will be friends forever. No one can change that.’

‘Wow,’ Savannah gushes. ‘That’s so beautiful.’

‘Yeah,’ Molly agrees. ‘Really beautiful.’

For a moment my writing partners sit and think about what I have just said. What I want to do is roll my eyes, this friends forever crap makes me throw up in my mouth every time I even think about it. Instead I force a smile and jot down my idea before I forget it – well it’s clearly an effective one. Is it hypocritical of me to write these loving and romantic tales if I don’t believe them? Of course not, I write fiction. Fiction can be whatever you want it to be. If you haven’t worked it out by now, I’m just really good at faking it.