Free Bad Bridesmaid by Portia MacIntosh

mirror with a level of narcissism not unlike that of Patrick Bateman when he’s shagging those hookers in American Psycho. ‘The clothes should have been delivered by now.’
    Right on cue there is a knock on the door.
    ‘Come in,’ Belle calls out, still admiring her figure. It’s great that despite being a bit overweight she’s still so full of self-confidence. I know that when I was fat I wouldn’t ever have felt comfortable showing as much skin around other people – even when I was alone I didn’t like catching the sight of my own podgy reflection.
    Uncle Steve walks into room with an armful of garment bags.
    ‘Here’s the first lot,’ he starts, before clapping eyes on a nearly naked Belle and stopping in his tracks.
    ‘Thanks, Uncle Steve,’ she squeaks as she takes the clothes from him. As Belle dumps the clothes down on the floor and begins ripping into them, my uncle sidles over to me.
    ‘Are you trying anything on?’ he asks.
    ‘No,’ I laugh.
    ‘You should, I can give you a male perspective.’
    ‘Aw, thanks, uncle,’ Belle interrupts. ‘Can you go get the rest of the clothes first?’
    Worried he might miss something while he’s gone, my uncle dashes out of the room.
    ‘Right, if you want me to try anything on we’re doing it now, before Uncle Sleaze gets back,’ I hurry my sister.
    ‘Hey,
I’m
the bride, me first,’ Belle complains. ‘Not everything is about you.’
    I exhale deeply. Steve trying to catch sight of me in the nip is very much about me, but there’s no reasoning with Belle at the moment. Whether I have to try anything on or not, I suddenly feel very naked around my uncle in the super-short, hot pink, tiny nightdress I slept in last night.
    Belle finds her dress, hops into it and demands I zip her up.
    ‘Wow,’ I exclaim.
    ‘I know, right?’ my sister replies as she twirls around in front of the mirror.
    Lucky for me, Belle took my exclamation as one of delight rather than one of horror. Make no mistake though, I am horrified.
    In addition to her white stockings and white ballet pumps, my sister has slipped on a strapless, white tutu dress. She looks like a little girl about to perform Swan Lake with the rest of her ballet class, but if I tell her as much she will no doubt act as moody and stubborn as a bratty little diva.
    ‘So you like it?’ my sister asks.
    ‘It’s…’ I pause to think carefully about what I’m going to say. ‘Is it a bit short for a bridal gown?’
    ‘I’m getting married on the beach – duh! It has to be short or it will get covered in sand. All the outfits are short, even the men’s trousers. We’re going for a sort of casual formal look.’
    As my brain tries to process exactly what a casual formal look is, I feel a headache coming on.
    ‘So, what’s my dress like?’ I ask, suddenly terrified.
    ‘All in good time,’ my sister says. ‘I’m trying to figure out how this veil goes on.’
    I take the sparkly white birdcage veil from my sister and begin fixing it in place on her head.
    ‘Here, it’s easy.’
    My sister takes a long hard look at her outfit in the mirror. A single tear rolls down her cheek and for a moment I am touched by her sweetness – that is until that beautiful single tear turns into an eruption of wailing and a flood of tears. I may not be an expert on the emotions of your typical bride but I’m fairly sure this is not a display of happiness.
    ‘Belle, what’s wrong?’ I ask.
    ‘My wedding is ruined,’ she cries. ‘My wedding is ruined and my marriage is going to fail. And it’s all
your
fault,’ she adds.
    ‘What? How is it my fault?’ I’m confused.
    ‘Because… because… because… because… because…’
    As my sister struggles to say what she wants to say because she is so upset it occurs to me that this would be an inappropriate time to start singing ‘We’re Off To See The Wizard’ at her, so I don’t.
    My mum comes bursting into the room.
    ‘Oh, Belle, darling, what’s