DRAFT FOUR
Her Majesty The Queen
Buckingham Palace
London
SW1A 1AA
Madam,
How are you? I…
Sure. Go casual. The Queen will love that.
GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME!!!! Start. Again.
DRAFT FIVE
Her Majesty The Queen
Buckingham Palace
London
SW1A 1AA
Madam,
I am writing to you today with a request that I hope Your Majesty will consider. Would you possibly…
AAAAH!
I hate my life.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cordelia has somehow got worse.
There I was, thinking we had a new connection, a simple shared smile where we were both on the same page, joining in the comedy of a ridiculous florist/artist. It had given me so much hope because when something silly happens you look at your friend as you laugh, right? Yourfriend.She didn’t make eye contact with her mum, she didn’t look at Jonathan, she looked atme.
It had to mean something. Or so I thought.
Instead of the beginning of a beautiful friendship, though, it seems to have gone in the opposite direction. The “connection” I thought had been there must have been a figment of my imagination. When my phone first vibrated with a message from her after the disastrous meeting with Nicole, my reaction was an excited gasp.
This is it!I thought, opening my WhatsApp.Maybe she’ll be messaging asking to go for a drink and chat about fun wedding stuff!
I could not have been more naïve:Pick up dry cleaning. Tomorrow, 2 p.m.
I thought maybe she’d made a mistake: she’d meant to put it in her diary as a reminder but had accidentally sent it to me. But a slew of instructions has since come through, without a word of gratitude or acknowledgment that I’m not really her PA. I’m her bridesmaid.
It’s been getting worse all week. I’ve been asked—no, not asked,told—to respond to emails that she’s forwarded me with no explanation, book hair and beauty appointments on her behalf, and at one point fetch a coffee randomly for her therapist, whom she wasn’t even seeing that day. The therapist looked stunned to see me standing on her doorstep, saying, “Your skinny almond-milk extra-hot latte,” and slammed the door in my face, clearly thinking I was a total loon.
“Who is this new bride of yours?” Cara asks in disgust.
She had just asked me where I am and I’d told her the truth—on the train to go to a farm shop in Hertfordshire to get a specific truffle oil that Cordelia insisted she needed for cooking that evening. Apparently it’s not sold anywhere else in the country and she doesn’t trust a courier to pick it up. She only trusts her “favorite bridesmaid.”
“She’s a bit high-maintenance, but it’s fine,” I insist, lying through my teeth. “I can do other work on the train.”
