Free Celebrity Bride by Alison Kervin Page B

hellraiser – she'll run a mile. Most of the problems, though, appear to be caused by two women on the scene who seem to have upset everyone and hate each other so can't be seated anywhere. One of them may end up in the garden and the other in one of the outhouses.
    The first of these women is the aforementioned inimitable Elody Elloissie – a fashion legend. I'm acutely aware of her work through the pages of Heat . She's a sultry French version of Rachel Zoe, with glossy black hair, razor-sharp cheekbones and an even more razor-sharp tongue. The other woman whom everyone's worried about is Isabella, a doctor who spends her time injecting collagen, Botox and other toxic substances into the faces of the rich and famous. Isabella fell out with Elody when she told Marie Claire magazine that she had treated the world-famous stylist. Elody responded by telling Vogue that Isabella had no style and that her world-renowned parties and charity galas were clichéd and boring. Isabella's husband is Edward, the plastic surgeon to the stars. Isabella and Edward are, apparently, single-handedly responsible for the faces, breasts, stomachs and thighs of everyone coming to the party tonight.
    They avoid Elody, and Elody avoids them. Rufus won't tolerate such nonsense though –he's invited them all. What fun! Not . . . I wish Mandy and Sophie were coming, or even the girls from work. I'd have much more fun if Katy and Jenny were there chucking Maltesers at each other and putting up charts to show who's the reigning Malteser champion (me, last time I looked, unless they've had a small triumph while I've been off this week).
     
    It's 3 pm and I'm wearing my dress for the evening to show Elody. I have that air of confidence that only comes from wearing something new and flattering. I've sponged off the worst of the Purple Nasty from our night at Suga Daddys, and there's hardly a mark on it. I've also painted my fingernails this gorgeous shimmering colour that makes them look healthy and lovely and shows off my tan. I'm hoping she'll take one quick look at me and declare that I'm perfect, so we can have a glass of wine and become mates.
    More than anything, I'm hoping I'll be as easily accepted into Rufus's world as he was into mine. I took him back to my parents' house on our fifth date. We drove down to Hastings one gentle day . . . It was a lazy, timeless morning in early summer. One of those days when morning fades into afternoon then merges softly and seamlessly into evening. A beautiful warm day that glowed from within and hinted at hot summer months ahead.
    I'd told Mum and Dad that I'd met a man. I'd even started telling them that the man was called Rufus and that he was a world-famous actor, but if you knew my family, you'd know that explaining to them that you're going out with a Hollywood sex god is a little like explaining nuclear physics to a terrapin.
    'Tarzan?' said Mum, when I started to tell her about the films he's been in. 'You mean Johnny Weissmuller? I thought he was dead. Is he dead?'
    Christ, it shows how long it's been since she went to the cinema.
    I heard Mum yelling through the house. 'Tony, Tony, come quickly. Is Johnny Weissmuller dead?'
    'I don't know, dear,' I heard Dad's frustrated voice in the background. 'How on earth would I know something like that?'
    'Your father doesn't know whether he's alive or dead,' said Mum as if she'd added something that was in any way worthwhile to the conversation.
    'Mum, it doesn't matter whether he's dead or alive; I'm not going out with him. I'm going out with Rufus George.'
    'Oh, Tony, have a word with her, would you,' she said. 'She doesn't care whether Johnny Weissmuller's alive or dead.'
    Oh God. Why's it so hard?
    We arrived at Mum and Dad's house in something of a state, with Rufus having nearly killed us en route. He didn't mention that he was yet to drive on the left, having designated all previous driving to Henry. Rufus said he was eager not to have Henry drive us on