Bad Bridesmaid - Portia MacIntosh

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He’s gay, right?’ says the girl who was just preaching about not judging a book by its cover.

      ‘He’s straight. I’m the authority on the matter and he is hot for you.’

      I smile back at the tall, muscular flight attendant. His gorgeous smile and his dirty blonde hair would usually make for my type, but he’s almost too pretty. Too polished and perfect. Of course, I can’t tell Ethan that this gorgeous creature’s teeth are too white. That his face is too symmetrical. That his clothes are too neat. He looks like he’d want to snuggle afterwards and that’s the last thing people do in aeroplane bathrooms.

      ‘Not my type,’ I insist to Ethan.

      ‘Your type isn’t gorgeous and crazy for you?’

      ‘Nah,’ I reply with a laugh. ‘You might be into that weird stuff, but I’m not.’

      ‘You like a bad boy?’ Ethan asks.

      ‘I do. I like them manly and dangerous looking. Rough and ready, heartbreakingly handsome, could have any girl they wanted – that’s my type.’

      ‘So you like the chase,’ Ethan concludes. ‘You reel them in and then you throw them back.’

      ‘Well, you know, if we’re sticking with the fish metaphor, you kill them when you catch them. What would I want with a dead fish? I just chuck them back, leave them for someone else to suffocate.’

      ‘Mia, honey, you are a case study waiting to happen.’

      ‘Why thank you,’ I reply proudly.

      As the in-flight movie starts playing, Ethan and I – or the plane pals as we’re now known – both reach for our headphones. It’s some weird animated movie and all the characters are things you would find in the bathroom. I watch Ethan recoil in horror as he watches a talking toilet brush chatting with a “sexy” loofah with long eyelashes and lipstick.

      ‘What the hell?’ he asks me, before standing up in his seat and addressing the entire plane. ‘Can we get something with Ryan Gosling on please?’ he yells to no one in particular. Most of the female passengers find this utterly charming (they’re clearly Gosling fans) and applaud Ethan’s bold move.

      ‘Sir, if you’d like to sit down,’ the sexy cabin crew guy insists firmly.

      ‘Yeah, sit down,’ I whisper to Ethan as I pull him back down by his arm. ‘It’s not worth getting wrestled off a plane for Ryan Gosling – unless Ryan is the one doing the wrestling.’

      ‘Aw, would you miss me, plane pal?’ he teases me.

      ‘I would actually, because for the first time in days you have managed to stop me stressing about having to go to this wedding.’

      And now I’ve just reminded myself again…

      ***

      As we touched down on English soil everyone applauded the pilot for doing what he does every day of his working life. He’s landed the plane, we’re all alive, it’s a miracle, applause, applause. In a new twist, Ethan started throwing the sick bag confetti in the air – something that landed us absolutely filthy looks from the crew as we left the plane. I did still get a wink from the cabin crew cutie though.

      I know it’s just a weird coincidence, but the more I tried to keep my mind off the wedding, the more things would crop up to remind me exactly what would be waiting for me when I got off the plane. The funniest of all was when the second in-flight movie turned out to be one of mine – and a wedding flick, no less. As Ethan gushed over the male lead, I decided it best not to tell him I had a hand in writing it, because I imagine it would take the shine off it a little.

      After going through the usual airport motions without a hitch – which is surprising, considering Ethan told a hot policeman he had twenty grams of cocaine hidden in his rectum – I followed my sister’s ridiculously detailed itinerary down to the letter and made it safely onto my Cornwall bound train.

      With four hours down and just one to go, I know it won’t be long now until I arrive. My sister and her hubby-to-be will be waiting for me on the platform and then there really will be no turning back. I’ll be in captivity and my sister will be my keeper – my sister who has told me that all wedding-based celebrations will not be optional.

      To take my mind off where I am heading, I grab one of the trashy celebrity magazines I picked up at the train station. Unless their fame makes it across the pond, I don’t know very much about what is going on in UK celeb culture, so reading about people from the likes of The Only Way Is Essex, Geordie Shore and Made In Chelsea do little to hold my attention. Reality TV inspired fashion is certainly a big hit here, though. I’ve only been home a few hours but I could play fashion bingo with the number of people I have seen replicating the styles these famous-for-being-famous people are sporting. I’ll just tick each one off in this magazine as I spot it in real life. Huge false eyelashes, tick. Man-tans, tick. His and hers onesies, tick.

      Looking at the current fashion here fills me with dread. I wonder what kind of bridesmaid dress my sister has lined up for me. They had the dress fittings ages ago, so I had to send Belle my measurements and hope she put them to good use. Even before my Hollywood makeover, my sister and I never had much in common when it came to fashion. Growing up one of the cool kids, Belle embraced any silly trend going. These days my previously skinny sister is now a little on the chubby side and her dress sense has settled down to a comfortable style, think: function over fashion, comfort over style, etc. When I was the chubby one my mum would make me feel like shit for even looking at a chocolate bar, but now that my sister is the one who has piled on the pounds my mum has put it down to her being a contented woman. Oh, and I’m dangerously thin and I don’t eat enough. Even when the shoe is on the other foot, Annabelle is still perfect and I am still a huge let down.

      It isn’t fair to blame my mum for everything. Sadly, my dad is of a similar opinion, and I’m fairly certain my Auntie June hates my guts – she thinks I’m a bad influence on my cousins, who in turn love me for being a bad influence. My gran doesn’t really “get” me, but my granddad absolutely worships me. I’m so glad he’s going to be there because he is always on my side, even when I know I’m in the wrong. That just leaves my Uncle Steve, and while he does like me, he likes me a little too much. We’re not blood relatives or anything (Auntie June and my mum are sisters) but his weird crush on me is still entirely creepy. Still, it’s nice to have another fan. When my mum is complaining about my outfits, my gran is trying to feed me and my auntie is trying to stop me talking to my cousins, I’m sure that inevitable slap on the arse from my uncle will be almost welcomed.

      Hopefully I’ll be able to avoid having to spend too much time with anyone in particular because so many other people will be there too – people who are not related to me and therefore might actually like me. I haven’t met any of Dan’s relatives, but I know there’s going to be quite a few members of his family there. The rest of the guests are just friends of Belle and Dan, some that I don’t know and some that I wish I didn’t know.

      After hours of travelling I can’t help but let out a big yawn. Put it down to a combination of jetlag and tiredness, but I rub my sleepy eyes with my hands, smudging my heavy black eye makeup everywhere.

      ‘Dammit,’ I can’t help but say to myself.

      Grabbing my toilet bag, I head for the train toilets to smarten myself up. It won’t be long before I arrive so I’d better go and apply my war paint.

      Ah, the great British Summer. Despite it being August, the sky is a thick blanket of cloud that is doing nothing to keep me warm. In fact, I am positively freezing. The weather back in Beverly Hills was supposed to be lovely these next few weeks, so a vacation from work to just chill out and enjoy the nice weather would have been welcomed. Instead I am here, in jolly old England, feeling the wrath of the hit-and-miss summer.

      As I stand alone on the platform

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