Nora adored the sort of nineties and noughties crap that everyone secretly loves, but would never admit to and, for Daisy, it was all inextricably tied up with so many good memories, a sort of soundtrack to their friendship.
The group that Daisy had travelled out with that year after college had one by one gotten homesick or run out of money (not to mention the one who’d gotten pregnant – talk about your souvenir to take home) and so Daisy had been alone arriving in Croatia that spring. Embarking on the coach that was to be her home for the next ten hours as they travelled overnight from Zagreb to Dubrovnik, Daisy had made the snap decision that she’d rather sit next to the already-dozing brunette who looked around her age than the human sweat-patch that was sat next to the only other empty seat.
Ninety minutes into the journey, that brunette awoke with a start, ‘completely mortified’ that she’d been drooling on a stranger’s shoulder.
‘I’m completely mortified,’ the girl had apologised to Daisy.
‘Don’t worry about it!’ Daisy had laughed. ‘You gotta catch your Zs when you can, am I right?’ And that was all it had taken to strike up conversation. They covered the usual ground (‘You’re English, right?’/’Are you American or Canadian, or …?’) and as the night wore on and the coach fell hushed around them, Daisy’s new friend, Nora, had pulled out a battered iPod Classic and a pair of candy-pink earbuds and offered one to her. In the seven hours that remained, Daisy had had a whistle-stop tour through the delights of the cheesiest of Britpop: 5ive and the Sugababes and Busted and much, much more. And by the time the coach arrived at the coast Nora and Daisy were inseparable. They’d spent the next six months jaunting around Europe together, working for cash-in-hand pouring drinks in their bikinis or convincing fellow English-speaking tourists that they really want to go into this one particular nightclub in order to save up to pay their coach fares and their two-euros-a-night hostel bed bills.
Returning to real life had been a horrible wrench for Daisy, and part of that was having to say goodbye to Nora, who returned to London after a thoroughly gapped gap year to pack away her tiny bikinis and take up a graduate scheme position in finance, date a succession of tie-wearing, red-wine-drinking men and generally grow up.
When the opportunity had arrived three years later for Daisy to move across the pond to her own firm’s London branch, she had quite literally jumped at it (she blamed the fact that her great-grandparents on her father’s side were Scottish for the serious Europhile feelings she’d always had) and immediately sent Nora Dervan an excited Facebook message.
Nora had just broken up with one of the tie/wine city men and instantly invited Daisy to stay with her in her little flat in Hoxton while she got herself sorted. The ‘sorting’ had taken a long time. Daisy had actually ended up living with Nora for years, until Harry happened. And, whenever one of them had had a shit day at work, they’d come home and put on the playlist Daisy had lovingly entitled ‘Overnight to Dubrovnik’, whack up the volume and spin and scream along with Atomic Kitten, Blue or Steps. It had never failed them.
‘I just love the music,’ one of Harry’s colleagues called out to Daisy as she danced past, waving a glass of rosé wine around alarmingly in time with the pumping pop beats. ‘Sooooooo ironic.’
Daisy just laughed wryly. ‘If you like this, just wait for the wedding reception playlist.’
Darren, who had made his appearance about twenty minutes ago, grinned at her over the head of his cider and black. ‘It’s gonna be your magnum opus, babe.’
‘Hey.’ Cleo appeared, greeting Darren politely before turning to Daisy. ‘Where’s Nora? Everything okay?’
Daisy nodded over to where Nora and Bea were dancing in the centre of a small clutch of friends; Bea was already barefoot (Daisy didn’t even know why she bothered with the pretence of the heels when she went out). Nora had her tell-tale white-wine flush pinking her face and her collarbones. Daisy could hear her laughing even over the music.
‘All quiet on the Western Front, sir,’ she assured Cleo sarcastically. ‘Chill out. Have a drink. You’re really stressing me out.’
Cleo shook her head. ‘I need to stay on the ball in case I’m needed for something.’
‘Look, the only thing you’re going to be needed for is to do the Locomotion,’ Daisy informed her archly, lining the song up on the playlist as she said it.
Cleo groaned. ‘Maybe I will need that drink …’
‘It’s going to be a very long engagement if you and Sarah insist on being such bridesmaidzillas the entire time. Now fuck off and get yourself some wine. You’ve got about forty-five seconds.’
‘God, Daise, I hate it when you mince your words,’ Cleo stuck her tongue out even as she went to obey the order. ‘Why don’t you say what you really think?’
‘Thirty-seven seconds …’
Cleo made a swift exit (via the bar).
My boyfriend sent me to have a mani and a spray tan and I thought I was being spoiled – then he told me to pack a bag, we were headed for the airport! He’d already arranged with my work that I could have annual leave and whisked me away to Prague, remembering that years ago I’d told him that I thought the Charles Bridge was the most romantic place in the world. Standing on the bridge in the snow, he proposed with a ring he’d had specially made to look like one from my favourite film, and below the bridge 500 swans took flight! He said he arranged the swans specially, but I’m not sure about that … I was thankful for the manicure though – he’d thoughtfully realised that I’d be taking a lot of photographs of my hand!
Amber, Gloucestershire
Bea really couldn’t be arsed to have this conversation. It was not the time, and it was definitely not the place and she was ever-so-slightly too inebriated to think fast enough to avoid accidental agreement (although, secretly she completely agreed with Claire, so it wouldn’t really be truly accidental agreement, merely accidental disclosure of that fact … or something like that … maybe she was drunk … ).
‘I mean, I mean, she’d have been one of mine,’ Claire wailed on; it was quite hard to be heard even at close range over Enrique Iglesias’ heartfelt crooning.
Nora had known this was coming and luckily had fed Bea the ‘party line’ response should Claire start bitching to her about it. Well, here we go: Claire had started bitching about it. Bea sighed and dived in, opening with: ‘she could only have four bridesmaids, Claire, it’s nothing personal, honest.’
‘I know, I know. It just seems SO WRONG that she HAS to have Sarah as a bridesmaid just because she’s married to Cole. Do you think Harry FORCED Nora to have her?’
Bea, biting back a laugh at the thought of Harry forcing Nora to do anything, shook her head. ‘You know how it is. Wedding politics.’
‘Yeah, but, Sarah would ALREADY have been involved just from being the wife of the best man!’ Claire was clearly not going to let this drop. ‘I just thought we’d ALL be bridesmaids, all together, you know?’ Melodramatic sniff. ‘And now the first one of us to actually get engaged, and I’m out in the COLD.’
‘Oh Claire, you