The Bad Bridesmaid

CHAPTER 1 
Red Flags

‘Let me get this straight.’ My date leans his elbows on the table between us and looks at me like I’m deranged. ‘You’re writing a book about how not to catch feelings?’

Popping the olive from my vodka martini into my mouth, I nod. ‘That’s right.’

His dark-blue eyes bulge as he shakes his head and speaks slowly, ‘And you’re out on a date with me?’

‘That’s right,’ I repeat equally as slowly, wondering about this guy’s IQ. Sometimes it’s hard to tell from a Tinder profile.

He obviously only gave mine a cursory glance or he’d have known that I’m not on the prowl for a relationship. He probably got distracted by my photo. I’m not trying to blow smoke up my own trumpet, but I’m what people call ‘striking’. I’m tall, thin, and ever since I was a little girl, people have been telling me I have a face that turns heads. Some say it’s my almost jet-black eyes, others say my perfect cheekbones, occasionally someone even mentions my smile. I can’t completely blame Damon; I saw his pic and thought him hot as well. He’s got a bit of a Jacob Elordi vibe going on: strong, square jawline and brown floppy hair, longer than mine – not hard – that he keeps having to push out of his eyes every time he goes to take a sip of his beer.

I’m more interested in what’s between his legs than between his ears anyway. If we get to that stage of the evening, I might just have to gag him or ask him not to speak while we’re doing it.

Some people might think that just because I’ve slept with a lot of people, I’ll sleep with anyone. But I’ve got standards. I might not be looking for Mr Right, but that doesn’t mean I’ll put up with any old Mr Right Now. I need to find them interesting in some way, and respect them, which means I have to go on a lot of dates to sort the wheat from the chaff. I guess dating is my hobby, along with writing, although I hope to one day make the latter my full-time job. I rarely indulge in one-night stands. Most of my hook-ups last for at least a few weeks, sometimes months, until I get itchy feet or the guy in question starts trying to blur our boundaries and I have to let him go. Not that I’ve got anything against one-night stands.

My best friend, Bee, reckons I’m ticking off some invisible list of book boyfriends. Recently engaged, she’s obsessed with romance novels. Although to be fair, she was a goner in that department long before she met her fiancé, Sully.

Damon leans back and links his hands behind his head. ‘What if you fall in love with me?’

Oh my God. Yet another guy with tickets on himself. I can almost see the cogs in his tiny brain churning as he mentally accepts this challenge. I should have guessed he was not my type when he made a cancer joke about my hair before we’d even ordered our drinks. Red Flag #1.

‘I won’t,’ I promise, taking another sip of my drink. So far, it’s the best thing about this evening.

Damon’s not the first guy I’ve gone out with who thinks they can convert me, as if marriage is a religion and I just need to ‘see the light’. Even if they don’t want long-term commitment themselves, they see my stance as a personal affront.

Most of the time, I nip such interactions in the bud, but occasionally, if they’re super cocky, I like to play their game. And – spoiler – I never lose.

One time I went out with this really arrogant civil engineer called Lachlan, who decided after hearing my story that he could convince me to fall in love with him, even though he had no inten­tion of developing such feelings himself. At first, I pretended that I was falling for his love bombing, but then suddenly ghosted him. He went crazy, trying to find out why I’d stopped wanting to be with him. He sent me flowers at work and at home, begging me to take him back. Poor guy – I do hope he learned his lesson.

I still haven’t decided what I’ll do with Damon and am pon­dering where he might fit on the scale from Billionaire Playboy to Virgin Boy Next Door when he asks, ‘What exactly is the point of this book? Are you some man-hating feminist?’

I laugh. ‘No, I love men, which is why I don’t want to tie myself down to just one.’

‘You know what I think your problem is,’ he begins.

Oh, this should be good. Red Flag #2 – a man who thinks he knows me better than I know myself.

Two minutes later, he’s still delivering his monologue when my phone vibrates on the chipped wooden table. Judging by the length of time it does this, someone is phoning me, rather than doing the respectable thing of sending a Snapchat or WhatsApp message. The only phone-call action my mobile gets is from people wanting donations to charity or scammers warning me I haven’t paid my tolls. More fool them since we don’t have tolls in Western Australia.

The only reason anyone else I know would call is if it’s an emergency.

If I was enjoying this date, I might let the call go to voicemail, but Damon’s theory of what’s wrong with me is nowhere near inter­esting enough to quell my curiosity. I flip my phone over to read the screen.

Mum!

What could she possibly want at this time on a Thursday night? She, Waylen and I get together every couple of months for dinner, sometimes I’ll see her outside of that if there’s a show we both want to see, and we have a once-a-month agreement for a spoken update. Aside from that, we communicate by text message and the occa­sional meme about divorce and being better off single. Although her divorces were no laughing matter, I see the memes as proof that she’s grown.

Have four weeks already gone by since our last phone call? I don’t think so. Besides, it’s not Sunday. Our calls are always on Sundays.

As if she realises I’m not going to answer, the vibrating stops, but even before I can make a mental note to send her a message tomorrow, it starts up again. What the hell does she want? Has someone died? I stare at the phone as if I’ve never seen one before.

‘Do you need to get that?’ Damon asks, lifting his pint to his mouth again. We’ve barely been here ten minutes and it’s almost empty.

I shake my head. ‘It’s my mum. I’ll call her tomorrow.’

He frowns. ‘Sounds like she really wants to talk to you. You don’t think you should answer? Maybe something’s happened to her.’

‘If she’s calling me . . . she’s obviously okay,’ I say, not about to be told what to do by this bozo.

Before Damon can reply, my phone rings again.

I glance at the screen. Waylen.

Okay, that is weird – my brother doesn’t call me. We live together, so have plenty of opportunities to speak and will simply text if we need milk or toilet paper or other supplies.

I pick up my phone and stand. ‘I think I’m going to have to take it.’

Damon nods. ‘Shall I order you another drink?’

I’m too distracted to reply as I step outside and answer the call.

‘Waylen? What’s going on?’ My heart plummets as I think of my deliciously fat ragdoll cat, Aunty, short for Agony Aunt, because every single woman – even those of us single by choice – needs a cat to unload their problems on. ‘Is Aunty okay?’

‘Aunty’s fine,’ he says. ‘She’s sitting next to me and Benji on the couch right now, licking her butt.’

Phew. I love that cat more than I love The Hunger Games, op-shopping and seventies punk rock, and that’s saying something. ‘Then what’s going on?’

‘Mum’s about to call you and I thought I’d better give you a heads-up.’

‘She’s already tried. Don’t tell me she’s got a new boyfriend.’

‘Worse.’ He pauses a moment then delivers the blow, ‘She’s get­ting married.’

‘What?’ I screech, earning myself a glare from two passers-by. I was joking about the boyfriend. ‘Did you know she was dating someone?’

‘Nope.’ Waylen sighs loudly. ‘I promise: tonight is the first I’ve heard about all this.’

I start pacing up and down South Terrace, the breeze from the ocean cool on my near-naked scalp. ‘Is she trying to give Elizabeth Taylor a run for her money? Break some kind of world record?’

‘She says it’s different this time.’

I scoff – as if we didn’t hear that the last two times. After her fifth marriage ended in a near mental breakdown – hers, not his – she promised me that she was taking a vow of chastity. Considering she’s not the kind of person who can sleep with someone without catching feelings, I told her that was a very good idea, and she’d been going well.

Or so I thought.

‘I told her you wouldn’t be happy,’ says Waylen.

Happy? I’m incensed! ‘Don’t tell me you are?’

He sighs again and I can’t tell if he’s frustrated with me or our mother. ‘She’s fifty-seven years old; she can make her own mistakes.’

‘Well, at least you agree this is a mistake,’ I reply sarcastically. ‘Why’s this guy supposedly different?’

‘She’s known him for over forty years.’

What?! This renders me speechless for a few seconds.

‘Do we know him?’ I rack my mind for male family friends who might be a possibility but come up blank. We don’t really have any family friends.

‘No. She says he’s an old school friend, and they met each other again a few weeks ago at their fortieth reunion. Remember, she went to Brisbane for it?’

Usually, I’m good with a lot of information coming at me quickly – I’m a librarian, after all – but I’m struggling with this. ‘Hang on, did you say they only re-met a few weeks ago, and they’re engaged?’ That was fast even for her.

‘Yep. And they’re having a quick engagement as well. The wed­ding’s in three-and-a-half weeks, but that’s not the only thing I wanted to warn you about.’ He pauses a beat, then, ‘She wants you to be her maid of honour.’

I freeze in the middle of the path, unsure whether I’m going to faint or vomit. Maybe both. How can she think I’d be excited by this news? Never mind agree to be in her bridal party.

In the end, I laugh psychotically. ‘Like that’s going to happen!’

My delusional mother calls again as I’m heading back into the Sail and Anchor. I reject the call, then send her a message telling her I’m busy and I’ll call her tomorrow. It’s probably better for both of us if I take the night to calm down.

‘I’m going home, Damon,’ I say as I return to our table and notice a fresh vodka martini beside another half-drunk pint of beer.

He gives me a patronising smirk. ‘Was that one of those phone calls?’

‘What phone calls?’

‘You know, one where you pre-organised a friend to call so you could bail on a bad date if you wanted to.’

It was clear he’d pulled this move numerous times – Red Flag #3 – but I don’t need to use such tactics. ‘No bullshit’ is Rule #1 for dating without catching feelings. If I don’t like someone or I’m not feeling the spark on a date, I just tell it to their face. No point wasting time for either of us. Plenty more fish in the sea and all that.

Three strikes and he’s out, or at least he would be if I wasn’t already mentally out the door.

‘If that were the case,’ I say, pulling a twenty-dollar note from my back pocket, ‘don’t you think I’d have answered the first call?’

‘True.’ He nods and holds up his phone. ‘Can we get a selfie?’

‘Why?’ I ask, as I slap the note on the table to pay for the cock­tail I can’t drink.

Damon gives me the sleaziest wink I’ve ever seen. ‘In case you get famous with your book. Then I can say—’

‘Definitely not,’ I interrupt before he can finish. No thanks. Not now. Not ever.

I’ve already wasted enough time in this idiot’s company, and anyway, Rule #11 is simple: No selfies.

Selfies signify a level of commitment that I’m never going to give. The only photos I take are with myself, Aunty, or occa­sionally my colleagues after we’ve had a few too many drinks at Darling Darling, which is exactly where I summon them to right now.

Fifteen minutes later, after messages from my so-called friends refusing to meet me at our favourite hole-in-the-wall pirate bar at such short notice, on a work night, at what they deem ‘late’, I park my beloved bright-orange Mini next to Waylen’s sleek, silver Ferrari 458 in our garage, climb out and slam the door.

Only people in committed relationships would think 9 p.m. late – most of my dates are merely getting started at this time. Bee said she and Sully are already in bed, and she isn’t giving up a night of red-hot monkey sex when he’s rostered to work all weekend unless I’m in hospital or she has to bail me out of jail. Persephone texted that her seven-month-old baby, Sullivan, named after Bee’s boyfriend (long story), is in a fussy mood, and Xavier and Rory are apparently out for dinner with lesbian friends they’re considering having a baby with.

The door that leads from the garage to the kitchen is also slammed as I storm inside. The short drive from downtown Freo to the house I share with my older brother in East Fremantle did nothing to calm me. Schmaltzy music is coming from the TV in the lounge room, but I grab a glass and my faithful cask of Aldi white wine from the fridge before I head in there to rage about our mother.

‘How was your date?’ asks Benji, grinning from the couch where he’s practically sitting on Waylen’s lap as I enter. Possibly because, despite it being a rather large couch, Aunty is taking up almost half of it, spread-eagled on her back with her paws outstretched like a starfish. Her fluffy tail twitching ever-so-slightly is the only indica­tion she’s actually alive.

I ignore Benji and glare at my brother. ‘Please tell me this is some kind of sick joke.’

‘’Fraid not,’ Way says, his fingers gently caressing the back of Benji’s neck, just beneath his head of thick, dark curls. It’s still weird seeing my workaholic brother looking so relaxed, watching poor-excuse-for-free-to-air TV with a man on his lap rather than his MacBook. Until he met Benji a few months ago, Waylen was in an obsessive, monogamous relationship with his job.

Flopping down into a matching leather armchair because there’s no room for me in my usual spot on the couch, I pour wine to almost the brim of the glass and take a large gulp.

‘How can you stomach that cheap stuff?’ asks Benji, grimacing as he gestures at my drink. ‘It’s even worse than what we serve in economy.’

Did I mention he’s a flight attendant? Benji and my brother met when Way was flying to Melbourne for work and although they are as different as Ted Lasso and Roy Kent, they’ve been seeing each other ever since.

‘It does the trick,’ I say, as the wine slides down my throat.

‘There’s a nice bottle of red I brought over in the kitchen if you want me to fetch you a glass,’ he offers.

In reply, I take a second gulp, then ask Way to tell me everything he knows.

He shrugs, then reaches for the remote to mute the TV. If I wasn’t so distressed, I’d give him hell for watching Dancing with the Stars or whatever this crap is.

‘I told you pretty much everything already. You really should talk to Mum about this.’

I narrow my eyes, daring him not to push me on this. I’ll call her when I’m good and ready.

He sighs. ‘She and Paul were friends in high school, yet lost touch after they finished. They ran into each other again at the reunion. Mum says it was like no time had passed at all. After one drink they ditched their old school mates and went to have din­ner alone. Paul lives in England now, like Toby Morpeth—’ Way has even less of a relationship with his father than I do with mine, and thus always calls him by his full name. ‘And he was only in Australia for a week, to catch up with his daughter and attend the reunion, but he and Mum spent that whole week together and have been talking non-stop ever since.’

I roll my eyes, thinking this story sounds like the kind of romance novel Bee adores. ‘Are we sure he’s not got some fancy wife back in the mother country?’

It wouldn’t be the first time Mum – Tracy’s her name, by the way – fell for a married man. (Remind me, some time, to tell you about Husband #4.)

Benji sniffs, pressing a hand against his chest, as Waylen shakes his head. ‘He’s widowed. His wife died six months ago and—’

Almost choking on my wine, I spit, ‘Six months! And he’s already planning to shack up with someone else?’

This does not bode well. He’s clearly one of those deadbeat men who can’t manage five minutes without a woman taking care of him. He probably went to the reunion for the sole purpose of find­ing some desperate woman he already knew so he could speed up the process a little.

‘Don’t yell at me.’ Waylen looks to be stifling a smirk. ‘I’m just the carrier pigeon.’

‘And a very sexy pigeon you are at that,’ Benji says, beaming like the love-sick puppy he is. Before I can pretend to vomit, he adds, ‘I think it’s kind of romantic.’

As my nostrils flare and my grip tightens on my glass, I see Waylen place a hand on his boyfriend’s knee, but Benji does not heed the subtle warning.

‘I think it’s lovely that all Tracy’s bad experiences haven’t soured her on love. Maybe she and Paul were always destined to be together and that’s why it never worked with anyone else.’

And maybe unicorns are real and there are pots of gold waiting to turn us all into billionaires at the ends of rainbows.

It’s clear Waylen hasn’t told his boyfriend everything about our mother or her medical history.

‘Have you unofficially moved in?’ I ask Benji. He certainly seems to be here more nights than not. Don’t get me wrong, I like him. He’s easygoing, a fabulous cook, has a great sense of humour, clearly adores my brother and I like the way Waylen has loosened up a bit since they met, but right now, he’s getting on my nerves. ‘No offence, but this has nothing to do with you. You don’t know Mum like we do, and you won’t be the one picking up the pieces when her latest marriage falls apart.’

‘Hey, don’t take this out on Benji,’ Waylen says. Then, ‘I know you’re upset about this, but working yourself up into a state isn’t going to change anything. You know what Mum’s like. When she thinks she’s in love, there’s no stopping her.’

‘That’s a very defeatist attitude, Way.’ I go to take another gulp of wine and realise I need to refill my glass. ‘I know you divorce lawyers aren’t in the business of stopping marriages from going ahead, but we’re not talking about one of your clients here, we’re talking about our mother! Maybe we should stage an intervention.’

Way throws his head back and laughs like this is the funniest thing I’ve ever said. ‘What? And miss out on a week off work in an island paradise? Come on, relax; it’ll be fun!’

I’m so distressed that I totally miss the phrase ‘island paradise’. ‘Oh my God. Don’t tell me you’re actually considering going?’

He nods. ‘I emailed the office letting them know I was having the time off just before you arrived.’

‘Time off!’ I can’t remember Way ever having a holiday out­side of the mandated public ones, and even then, he’d usually work from home.

‘Sounds like Paul’s loaded,’ Benji chimes in as Aunty lifts her head from slumber and gives me a look of utter disdain. She’s not big on shouting. ‘I’m invited too. One week in Norfolk Island, all expenses paid in a fancy resort. Bring on the cocktails.’

Normally, I’d be all about the cocktails and a free holiday, but I just can’t bring myself to get excited about something I know will end in disaster, and I can’t understand why Way is being so non­chalant about it.

‘Where the hell is Norfolk Island?’ I ask.

‘It’s in the Pacific Ocean. Only a short flight from Brisbane, Sydney and Auckland. And,’ adds Way, anticipating my next question, ‘they’ve chosen to have the wedding there because appar­ently they’ve always both wanted to go.’

Benji all but swoons – ‘So romantic’ – as he reaches out to stroke Aunty’s fur. She rubs her head against his palm like a total hussy and I resist the urge to snatch her away from him. He’s already taken my brother away from me, I’m not letting him take my cat!

‘Didn’t you say you were struggling to find the time to write?’ Way asks.

I blink. ‘What’s my writing got to do with any of this?’

‘I was just thinking that you could use the week leading up to the wedding as a kind of writing retreat. I’m sure in between all the stuff Mum’s got planned there’ll be time to work on your book.’

This gives me pause.

Five months ago, I matched on Tinder with a photographer from The West Australian and although there was zero physical spark between us and we quickly realised we wanted totally different things in life, he was fascinated when I told him the rules I have for dating to avoid messy entanglements and emotions.

‘I reckon that would make an awesome article,’ he said. ‘If you write it, I’ll pitch it to the features editor at the paper for you.’

Not long before this, I’d finished writing my first novel after years of dreaming about winning the Booker or Pulitzer Prize. I’d thought I’d penned a witty, original masterpiece until Bee had risked our friendship to tell me it was an enormous pile of con­fusing and slightly disturbing sad-girl poop. Although I’d put on a brave face, telling her I appreciated her honesty and would of course continue pursuing my dream of writing – you can’t expect to be an expert at something first try – her critique had knocked me, and I hadn’t been able to put pen to keyboard since.

‘Would I be paid?’ I asked the photographer, whose name I can no longer remember. I didn’t really care – I had a job and cheap rent thanks to my uber successful and sensible saving brother – but it felt like a question a professional would ask.

He nodded. ‘If it’s good.’

I agreed to give the article a shot, hoping that writing about a topic I was an expert in would get my creative juices flowing again. Not telling my friends or family what I’d done, I penned the article, titled ‘21 Rules for Not Catching Feelings’ – it practically flowed from my fingertips – and no one could have been more surprised than me when The West shared it to their socials and it went viral.

Within a matter of days, I’d been contacted by not one but three different publishers asking me if I’d be interested in writing a book on the topic. Hell yeah, it was a no-brainer. This might not be the debut book I’d dreamed of, but I was all about championing modern women and helping them realise that achieving a satisfy­ing sex life didn’t have to mean giving into traditional notions of love and the shackles that go with it. Besides, everyone knows that in the book world it’s more about who you know than what you’ve written, and doing this could get me the contacts I need to really kick-start my writing career. With the assistance of my creative writing teacher, I scored myself an agent, and he negotiated what they call in the industry ‘a nice deal’. The money wasn’t enough to quit my job – not that I wanted to, I loved working in the library – but it paid off the loan I had for the Mini, and that was worth celebrating.

*

A week of almost-uninterrupted writing time could be good, although if I’m honest, time to write isn’t the only problem I’m hav­ing with the book. Writing eight hundred words about my rules for casual dating was one thing, but writing sixty-to-seventy thousand is something else entirely. And I can’t completely make it up like I did with my novel, because people will be taking direction from my book, implementing the rules in their lives, and relying on me to help them.

This kind of pressure is something I never expected to feel.

‘Anyway, we’re off to bed,’ Waylen says, swinging Benji’s legs off his lap and standing before I can reply. ‘Think about it. But either way, call Mum tomorrow morning, please. And be kind. We might not understand her, but that doesn’t mean we can’t support her.’

Be kind? Support her? What the hell has happened to my cynical older brother?

Next thing, he’ll be encouraging his clients to talk it out, try all they can to stay together. He’ll go broke. He won’t be able to pay his mortgage and we’ll both end up homeless. I blame Benji – he must be a God in bed because no way would Waylen have been so blasé, even happy, about our mother’s upcoming nuptials before their meet-cute.

I poke my tongue at them as they head down the hallway hand in hand, then scoop Aunty up and carry her and the wine into my bedroom.

At least I know she won’t try and talk me out of my mood.