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Draft Entry #9: Bridesmaid Duties
A bridesmaid is as close to a lady in waiting as you get these days. She’s made to wear a frilly, unflattering dress, attend to the bride, assist her in every way, spread rose petals at her feet, and dispose of her bouquet at the end of the night. Say nothing of the weeks and weeks of preparation leading up to the big special day.
Parties. Luncheons. Gifts. More gifts. It’s an expensive, thankless task. A basket of bath products or speciality cheese is not fair compensation for the time and effort spent. Lifelong friendships will be tested. Tempers will flare; it’s unavoidable. If you walk away, you’re labelled a bad friend never to be reinstated in the circle again. If you take your job too seriously, ridiculed. Repeat performances lead to social suicide. Always a bridesmaid and all that …
Groomsmen aren’t subject to any of this. In their tailored suits, they are admired, desired and hunted like prize game. Their duties are limited. They get their mate to the venue on time and tackle him to the ground should he panic and attempt to run.
Chances are if you’re invited to serve, you’re either a close friend of the bride or a distant cousin. Either way, you’re privy to a lot of information the average wedding guest is not. You’ve witnessed mother-daughter battles, lovers’ quarrels, and vicious rows over the guest list, seating chart, floral arrangements and money. You know how long and tortured the road to ‘I do’ truly is.
When the big day finally arrives, you’re exhausted and eager to get it over with – that’s a given. But you’re rooting for this couple and revel in their joy. If the officiant asks whether anyone knows of any reason they should not be joined in matrimony, you keep your reservations to yourself. Let the loving pair say their ‘I dos’ and be done with it.
Cheer up! You’ve made it through this ordeal with your dignity intact and your friendships in good working order. Well done, you! The reception is your time to shine. Tear off the tiara and chuck aside the flimsy bouquet. Take full advantage of the open bar. Flirt shamelessly. As soon as the first dance wraps up, grab a groomsman and hit the floor. Dance like no one’s watching even though you know bloody well everyone is watching and wondering when it will be your turn to make the trip down the aisle.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The setting sun gifted Naomi and Anthony a gold-and-violet backdrop to perfect their island paradise wedding aesthetic. Was the bride lovely? Achingly so. Did she drift down the aisle with the grace of a swan to an acoustic rendition of ‘Here Comes the Sun’? Absolutely. Did the handsome groom beam with joy? If he were any brighter, he’d set himself on fire. It was no exaggeration. The ceremony was perfect in every way. The couple said their vows with quiet confidence, exchanged rings and kissed to cheers and applause. Anthony’s mother bawled her eyes out. Amelia dabbed the corners of her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Maya made little hiccup sounds as she sobbed. Samantha exercised supreme self-control to keep from dissolving in an ugly cry right there in front of everyone.
That was all she remembered of the ceremony. She couldn’t describe it in finer detail and would have to rely on the wedding video to fill in the gaps. While Naomi and Anthony promised to love, honour, cherish and all of that, she’d had an honest to goodness out-of-body experience.
It started when the wedding planner lined them up on the red carpet leading to the altar at the veranda’s edge. Samantha scanned the guests looking for Roman. Amelia had invited the who’s who of Trinidad and Tobago, so it was hard to find him at first. Then she spotted him in an aisle seat, second row to the last. It took a while for her brain to sync the man in the dark tailored suit with the man in the rumpled T-shirts she’d got to know these last few days. He was looking straight at her, just waiting for her to connect all those dots in her mind. They locked eyes and from that moment on, Samantha walked among the clouds.
That dizzy feeling, that lightheadedness, never left her. It was like falling from the sky and not giving a damn where you landed. She hadn’t come to Tobago to find love or anything like it, yet she’d found Roman and there was no denying he had a hand on her heart.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr and Mrs Anthony Scott!’
Husband and wife danced their way down the aisle. Samantha took her place in the procession and would have gladly exited when she reached Roman if she could. Better or worse, she was committed to bridesmaids’ duties. A photographer was waiting to make up for the photo opportunities missed due to all those last-minute cancellations.
The hour-long photo shoot in the resort’s garden kicked off with the bride and groom and their parents. Jen, Jasmine, Maya and Samantha, in deep blue chiffon dresses with saffron-coloured flowers in their hair, collapsed onto lounge chairs and wiggled their aching toes in the grass. They were starving. Meanwhile the guests were enjoying crab dumplings. Before long, they were summoned to pose for photos with the bride, the groom, and of course Amelia.
A while later, they stood in a queue outside the banquet hall, waiting to be announced. Before the ceremony, Samantha had silenced her phone and tucked it in the pocket of her dress. It buzzed now and the vibration tickled her thigh. She didn’t have a death wish, so she checked to determine if the coast was clear before checking her phone. Amelia was fussing with the train of Naomi’s dress; this gave her all of two seconds. The message was from Roman:
I’m over this. How much longer until I can be with you again?
Samantha turned away from the others, concealed her phone in her bouquet of yellow roses and typed an answer.
I’ll ask them to speed things along. I’m sure they’ll take your feelings into consideration.
Roman: I’m not the only one who feels this way. We may start a riot.
Samantha: Do what you have to do. So long as you set aside a few dumplings for me.
Roman: What do you think of my tie?
It was a gorgeous shade of blue, matching her dress. Even so, she wasn’t going to gush. It’s nice, I guess. Pretty colour.
Roman: We’re not going to do nice things with it.
She strained to control her smile. Hmm … Is it silk? I’ve got standards.
Roman: Only the best for you, pretty lady.
A funnel of emotions spun inside her. With a few playful texts, he’d made her tingle from head to toe. She’d never felt this rush of excitement, never wanted anyone as much. She was screwed, wasn’t she? Was Roman Carver the gold standard of men? Was she doomed to spending the rest of her life comparing every man she met to him? It certainly seemed that way.
The wedding planner swung open the doors to the ballroom-cum-banquet hall with her usual flourish. Samantha tucked away her phone and snapped to attention. Their instructions were clear: enter before the bride and groom and take a seat at the head table, where they were mandated to remain through dinner and the inevitable toasts and speeches.
