“Don’t you think the fresh cream should be next to the apple pie?” Heather takes a step back, thumb and forefinger cradling her chin as she considers the new configuration. “Lorenda insists it should be at the end of the buffet with the sprinkles and chocolate sauce.”
Oh, my God. Is this what it comes down to one day? Kill me now.
“Why don’t we do both?” I grab a disposable plastic bowl from the stack at one end of the buffet table, spoon out some cream into it and place that next to the pie with a plastic spoon for serving. “I love what you’ve done with your hair and make-up today,” I tell her, partly to distract her from her obsession with the food in front of us, and partly because it’s totally true.
“Henrique is just wonderful. It’s really easy to style,” she tells me with a grin framed by blood red lips that probably have her eldest son cringing because she looks damn sexy.
I notice someone stealing glances in our direction. “Seems I’m not the only one who’s noticed how fabulous you look. You know him?” I nod as subtly as I can over her shoulder to the tall, older gentleman balancing a plastic plate of Mrs Harper’s noodles—there is nowhere else to sit and eat it. All the plastic chairs are spoken for.
Heather immediately looks over her shoulder. Subtle. Now I know where Keats gets his impulsive side from.
“Wave at him,” I instruct.
Heather wiggles the tips of her fingers at her admirer, catching him so much by surprise he almost drops the noodles onto the Harpers’ lawn. He recovers just in time to catch his meal, and return Keats’ mother’s wave. Busted, he crosses the yard to come over to us, flashing Heather a wry smile that I’m sure can send women’s hearts a flutter if they’re into that Harrison Ford, older-man-sex-appeal thing.
“Hello, stranger. I wasn’t sure it was you, Heather. You look lovely today. More than lovely.”
“Hi, Pete.” Her eyes are on his shoes, a blush spreading from her cheeks, down her neck and creeping to the vee-neckline of her red wrap around dress. “It’s all Jess here—she’s helped give me a make-over. Jess this is Pete Barker—the father of one of the groomsmen. Pete, this is Jess, one of Isabella’s high school friends, and the maid of honour.”
“Nice to meet you.” He gives me a nod and smile before his eyes are drawn back to the blushing Ms Radley. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off her, his expression almost like that of a teenage boy in love.
“Where’s Blake today?” Heather tucks one of her newly darkened locks behind her ear, a gesture Mr Barker follows with his eyes.
“He’s interstate this weekend. Got a big contract with a property developer in Armidale. The bloke’s in a real hurry to get a row of townhouses liveable before the uni semester starts. Blake’s making sure they finish on time.”
“Have he and his fiancée set a date yet?”
I excuse myself from their conversation, satisfied that my mission is accomplished. Isabella’s future mother-in-law is no longer locking horns with her mother. Plus, I may have just played Cupid for my friend.
Now if only Cupid would do me a favour and get my friend’s fickle son to look my way the way Pete Barker was looking at Heather.
Chapter 16
They’re beautiful. Off-white silk with Swarovski crystal accents on delicate embroidered flowers. I wipe my hand on my jeans before letting myself touch the detail on Isabella’s bridal shoes that she bought in London. Penny’s chest presses up against me as she leans in to have a closer look, too. Her breasts are either not very sensitive or she’s just accepted that they’ll touch anything she gets near. It’s just the two of us again this morning with Isabella—the other bridesmaids are busy with their kids. We won’t see them till after lunch when we go shopping for our bridesmaids’ gowns.
“Love your shoes, babe,” Penny calls to Isabella who is currently behind a curtain trying on her first bridal gown with the help of a shop assistant. It’s just like the dress she’d cut out of a bridal magazine and added to her display folder of wedding ideas. “Can you walk in them?”
“Not really. But I don’t want Byron to bend his knees just to be in the same shot as me. Can one of you pass them over?” A disembodied hand sticks out of the curtain. I get up and place the box in her hand. Ever the organised type-A person, Isabella has come today with the shoes she’s going to wear on her big day (so she knows the length the gown has to be tailored to), a strapless bra (as she expects not to have any wide straps or sleeves), and no make-up (to make sure she doesn’t leave a stain on the precious frocks).
We hear the rustle of material and the soft tap of shoes as Isabella puts them on. There’s no mirror behind the curtain. The bride can’t see what she looks like until she emerges and stands in front of the huge mirror behind us.
“You guys ready? Tell me the truth, okay?” Isabella calls out to us before coming around to full view.
I chuckle before I can stop myself.
“Oh. My. God.” Penny says and I can’t quite tell whether she likes it or not.
The dress is awful. Isabella looks like a newborn bird with its plumage not quite even or grown in yet.
“Oh, gosh. No.” Isabella scrunches up the skirt of the dress, steps out of her nosebleed-high shoes and goes back around the other side of the curtain. “Wow. This dress does not look the same on me.”
She tries on another gown to similar results.
“I’ll probably have to rethink the style,” Isabella tells us emerging from the change area in a courtesy robe.
“Yeah.” Penny steps up
