The little bell of the shop door rang and Tinks poked her head round it. ‘You still here? The shop really will be fine without you, you know.’
‘Sorry!’ said JoJo, with a start. ‘I’m going!’ And she set off down the street, her heels clacking on the now-drying pavement. She must try to make a concerted effort to forget all about the shop. She had booked something so lovely for herself and her friends; she should now focus all her energies on the weekend ahead and ignore that BlackBerry already burning a hole in the bottom of her bag.
JoJo had browsed and booked the hen weekend one lunchtime, in between brides. She hadn’t had much time, and the phone had kept going, but it hadn’t taken her long to find The Retreat, in the heart of Wiltshire and not far from the historic National Trust village of Laycock, which Constance reliably informed her was where parts of the Harry Potter movies were filmed. The Retreat was quite pricey, but it looked so worth it. Wendy deserved a wonderful hen do. Their wild and crazy Wendy . . . she, the first to kick off her shoes and dance on the tables in restaurants; the one to wear the brightest, clash-iest colours and make Helena Bonham Carter look like a conservative dresser; who danced the longest and laughed the loudest and had the craziest hair . . . It had taken Wendy so long to find Frederick, and they needed to celebrate her upcoming marriage in absolute style.
JoJo thought about her good friend as she walked. Wendy had met Frederick at a scientist convention in Maidstone: she was representing the destruction of aphids, or whatever it was she did; he was a corporate lawyer representing one of the big research firms. Wendy had told them that he’d approached her at the Morning Mingle, where they drank coffee and discussed science-y things in white coats, and that he’d ‘had her at molecular phylogenetics’. It made for a lovely story. Then she, Sal and Rose had met him last Christmas, when he’d joined them for dinner on their weekend away before leaving them to it for dancing and more cocktails. They’d all liked him enormously. He was quietly spoken, but with a lovely sense of humour. He was extremely polite. He rocked a very nice white, unbuttoned shirt and smart trouser combo. His build was lean, his face was handsome and he was, undoubtedly, a catch.
‘He’s very straight,’ Sal had observed, as he slipped off politely and quietly into the night and they’d finished their third round of Cosmopolitans. ‘In the old fashioned sense of the word, I mean. Posh, too. I doubt he’s the swinging from the chandelier type,’ she added, winking at Wendy, ‘but he’s straight and steady and polite and really, really nice. I like him.’
‘Me too,’ Rose had said.
‘Oh, me three!’ chimed in JoJo. ‘He’s gorgeous.’
‘You’d be surprised, actually . . .’ Wendy had smiled, raising her glass for an impromptu, celebratory chinking of them round the table ‘. . . about the swinging from the chandeliers thing . . .’ This was met with a rather raucous cheer. ‘But thank you for your kind words, all of you. I’m punching way above my weight, I know. He’s far too good for me. But I’m so excited about him! He’s perfect!’
And now Wendy was marrying her perfect man, mused JoJo, walking onto the concourse at Paddington Station and making her way to the departures board, and she didn’t have to wait much longer to do so. The wedding was next Saturday. All that remained was to have the most brilliant weekend, starting now – the perfect girly send-off for their fabulous friend, who deserved the very best before she sailed off into the sunset with Mr Right.
JoJo sighed with happiness; she saw so many women off into the sunset with their perfect men, and in the perfect dresses . . . nothing gave her more pleasure, actually. She’d just check her BlackBerry to see if Lucy Stoker, the girl who worked at Hamleys, was still coming in on Monday afternoon for her final fitting. There was a little work yet to be done on that beaded hemline and the darts at the back of the dress might need adjusting slightly . . .
‘Put that down! Right now!’
‘Step away from the BlackBerry!’
Wendy and Rose were under the departures board, grinning their heads off and holding giant bags. Wendy had one of those wheelie cases, like air hostesses have. She was also wearing a giant pink and gold sash that said ‘Bride’ in big black letters, and a comedy veil. So much for JoJo’s instructions! She could have sworn she’d said no tacky props! Still, Wendy looked like she didn’t mind one bit; she was positively glowing and giving a little twirl for the benefit of passers-by. An old man gave her a bit of a wolf whistle and said, ‘Good luck, darlin’’ and Wendy beamed.
‘All right!’ said JoJo, ‘I’ll step away from the BlackBerry.’ She shoved it back in her bag and approached her two friends for a hug. ‘How are you both?’ she asked, giving them a squeeze. ‘It’s so lovely to see you. It feels like absolute ages . . . And where the hell is Sal?’
Sal
Sal was late. Novelty hen items were falling left, right and centre out of her badly zipped-up overnight bag and spilling onto the pavement outside her pub. She bent down and scrabbled to retrieve a pink fluffy set of handcuffs, a pair of inflatable penis deely boppers and some glitter L-plates. The MAMIL (Middle-Aged Man in Lycra) she’d just turfed off the premises, sitting astride his orange and black road bike in three-quarter-length socks and what looked like an over-tight, neon-pink mankini, sat back on his razor blade saddle and looked on in amusement.
‘Yes, I have handcuffs and penises,’ muttered Sal, trying to pretend the afternoon drizzle wasn’t ruining her hair and that it was perfectly normal to be grubbing around on the ground for wayward hen props. ‘Have a good look. But you brought a pushbike into a pub! Who does that?’
‘It’s not a “pushbike”,’ scoffed the man, looking down on Sal as she stuffed the L-plates back into her bag. ‘I told you in there. It’s a Carbon-Fibre Endurance Special Edition Speed Machine with Direct Mount Brakes . . . and I have an extremely high-tech computer attached to Nigel – I can’t get it wet.’ He patted the black box between the handlebars. He’d spent the ten minutes since she’d chucked him out of the pub covering it lovingly with what appeared to be a sandwich bag and an entire roll of Sellotape.
‘Nobody calls their bike “Nigel”!’ exclaimed Sal. ‘And don’t ever try to bring him, it, whatever, into my pub again or I’ll have you barred!’
The man adjusted his tackle indignantly and squeezed a ridiculous cap onto his balding head. ‘It was always all right in the Old Grey Goose,’ he said sniffily, as he taxied off slowly down the road.
‘Well, my pub is the New Grey Goose!’ called Sal after him. ‘So leave the bike outside next time! And maybe have a wash before you come in.’
Nigel’s owner had obviously been on a very long cycle that afternoon, before he felt the need to stop for refreshment, as he had tainted Sal’s pub with horribly smelly armpits. After he’d parked his massive bike against the pub’s newly restored, gorgeous inglenook fireplace, blocking it completely, he’d deposited himself on a nearby armchair and raised both arms in an exaggerated backwards stretch, inflicting said armpits on the room and causing Sal to come rushing over with a can of Febreze and a few choice words. He’d also placed a revolting sports drink on one of her nice new tables and it had spilt sticky, orange hideousness everywhere.
What was it with men who liked to dress in restrictive, Day-Glo clothing and pretend they were permanently taking part in the Tour de France? Sal wondered, as she squeezed