“We’ll be heading into town soon,” I remind everyone. It’s my job to keep track of the night’s schedule—all part of my maid of honour duties, and largely due to the fact no one else expects to be able to read the time once the party really gets underway. I’m the only one not drinking tonight.
“Oh, in my bag!” Penny says, gesticulating wildly with her hand towards the large Louis Vuitton overnight bag on the floor next to my feet. I hand it over to her, and she quickly pulls the gold LV zip. Her hand dives in and comes out with a white boa, and a plastic bag from an underwear store. “You’ve gotta put these on, chick.” She holds both out to Isabella who eyes the package with a guarded expression.
Mia pulls a red boa out of her handbag, and like a feathered-snake handler, Penny extracts another boa (this one black) from her designer luggage. I retrieve my pink one from the overnight bag I have in Isabella and Byron’s bedroom. By the time I get back to the others, they are all wearing tiny, glow in the dark penis necklaces like the mystery of where Ken doll genitals all over the world have gone has finally been solved.
“I’m sure I can lose my license to practise if I wear this in public.” Isabella grimaces as she pokes one of the plastic penises with her manicured nail.
“Only if we post it on Facebook,” Penny assures her but the horror on Isabella’s expression tells us she’s far from assured.
“Don’t tag me,” Mia says. “Cate looks at Mummy’s Facebook pics all the time.”
My mobile phone suddenly rings. I pick up and hang up a second later.
“Our ride is here.”
Slipping on our heels, we grab teeny tiny clutch bags that are only big enough for folded money and I.D.s. The next obstacle is navigating the stairs from the front door of Isabella and Byron’s tiny flat. On the kerb, double-parked along three cars, is a big, gold stretch Hummer. I come very close to squealing. It’s exactly how I imagined it (except not pink), with multi-coloured lights dancing behind the dark, tinted windows.
“Oh. My. Godfather.” Isabella looks nauseous, like she’s already had more than her fill of tackiness in one evening.
Mia has an uncertain smile as she regards my transport of choice.
“Nice ride, Jess,” Penny says. Sometimes her excitement about everything is a good thing.
The uniformed driver greets us warmly without batting an eyelid at our attire. He’s obviously used to ferrying groups of women in tarty clothes and R-rated accessories on hens’ nights. He opens the door for us and pop music instantly invites us into the multi-coloured-lit interior of the vehicle.
The fake leather seat is cool against the exposed skin behind my thighs as I scoot to make room for Mia. Penny and Bels sit opposite us on the bench seats that run the length of the cab of the Hummer. It can fit up to sixteen people, according to the website, but with us in there, I’m glad we only have four more women to pick up—Sofie who’s working late as usual, another of Isabella’s lawyer friends from uni, and two more legal eagles who’ve come all the way from London for the wedding. All the oldies (the bride and groom’s mothers, aunts and grandmothers) will all be joining us for a very civilised high tea at the Stamford Plaza on Sunday afternoon. We need tomorrow, Saturday, to get over tonight.
“I can’t believe another one of us is getting married,” Penny muses. “Throw the bouquet to me, okay, babe?” She spots me watching and asks, “You want the bouquet, Jess?”
“Hell, no,” I say, though part of me wonders what it would be like to be as sure as Isabella that her search for her soul mate is over. That she’s found someone who is willing to promise to stick with her through thick and thin. Quite literally.
“Cool. ’Cause I was going to push you outta the way,” Penny says. “To me, okay, Bels? I don’t care if you have friends that came really far.”
“I’ll try, Penny,” Isabella says with a laugh. “I’m not sure it’ll work if it’s rigged though. Actually, I’m not sure it works at all.”
“Don’t care. To me, okay? Oh, and there better not be any kids going for it either. At my cousin’s wedding, all the unmarried girls were allowed to join in and one of my younger cousins got it. She’s eleven. Bloody hell. If she gets married before I do…”
“All right. I’ll try.” Isabella says, chuckling. “This thing feels like a party bus. But with a lower roof. Do you guys know what other features it has?”
I studied the website so I take this question. “It’s got chilled booze, karaoke, and a Play Station so we can watch films, too. Actually…” I locate the remote control attached to the side of the Hummer by a thick, spring wire. It’s pretty easy to use, and in seconds, I have a movie playing, My Best Friend’s Wedding.
It seems apt. Keats is so Julia Roberts in this scenario.
Chapter 29
I hear a key scrape and clink against the lock outside the front door before the others do. Isabella’s hen’s night has turned out to be pretty tame. More of a “Fat Chicks’ Club” Only pyjama party than the Girls Gone Wild mayhem I thought it was going to descend to earlier in the evening. We even had Fiona on the phone earlier—she’d called, bored from her hospital bed, wanting all the details so she could live vicariously through us.
I’ve just mixed another big batch of rum and
