Bridesmaid Blitz by Sarah Webb

gets a kick from fiddling with other people’s pores; I thought she was just being helpful.
    “Well?” Mum demands, determined to get a proper answer. She’s very stubborn, my female parental.
    “Sylvie, stop with the questions,” Clover jumps in, climbing down from the bed. “It has something to do with your hen night, and that’s all I can divulge at this moment in time.”
    “I keep telling you, Clover,” Mum says. “I’m not keen on hen nights. And I refuse to go anywhere near Temple Bar or wear a tiara or have anything to do with chocolate willies. And speaking of wedding plans, I can’t believe you invited Monique over behind my back.”
    “Someone has to make you see sense,” Clover says. “Your wedding day’s hurtling toward you, Sylvie, at warp speed, and you’ve done
nada
. If I can’t get through to you, maybe Monique can.”
    Like I said, Monique is Mum’s best friend. She’s an actress — sorry, actor. (She doesn’t like the term “actress,” says it’s sexist. You don’t use a different word for a female writer or singer, she says, so why for an actor?) Monique’s 50 percent French, 100 percent deranged. Clover and I call her Mad Monique. Mum and Monique have been best friends forever, although when I was little she wasn’t around that much. I don’t think she and Dad saw eye to eye. They certainly don’t now, not after the divorce and all that business with Dad and Shelly sneaking off to get married and everything.
    But Monique was amazing when Mum and Dad split up and Dad moved into an apartment in town. She came to stay with us for a while on account of Mum — who was practically turning into a zombie, wandering around the house in her dressing gown, sighing all the time, not washing or even bothering to brush her hair. She was a right mess.
    Monique made dinner every night and forced Mum to eat — crêpes, roast chicken, casseroles, all with loads of garlic, of course. (Monique has a thing about garlic, says she’d be dead if it weren’t for her bulb a day.) She was lovely to me too and used to read me stories at bedtime when Mum was too sad to do it.
Tracy Beaker
and anything by Roald Dahl. Her favorite was an old French book with pictures called
Madeline
. It was about a boarding school in Paris. I still remember bits of it even now: “In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.”
    I’m not sure we would have coped without Monique.
    Right on cue, there’s a bang on the door, and Evie starts wailing.
    Mum sighs. “That must be Monny. I’ll have to settle Evie. Will you get the door, Clover?”
    “Coola boola. Coming, Amy?”
    I follow her down the stairs. It’s definitely Monique — I can see her tall, slim profile through the glass panels at the side of the door. There aren’t too many women who are over six foot. Clover pulls the door open, and sure enough, there stands Monique beaming at us. “Clover,” she coos, lunging forward and planting a smacker on each cheek before turning to me. Grabbing my arms, she pulls me toward her bony chest.
    I’m practically asphyxiated by her signature perfume — it’s so strong I can taste it at the back of my throat. I don’t know what it’s called, but it smells warm and spicy, like a Christmas candle.
    “Aw, my little darlings. So delightful to see you again. And where is Sylvie?”
    “Settling Evie,” Clover says.
    “Ah, we have things to discuss . . . and if Sylvie is busy upstairs, this may be to our advantage, no?”
    “Shh,” Clover whispers and pulls the two of us into the living room.
    Once inside, Monique kicks off her red ankle boots and sprawls on the sofa — her cream cigarette pants and buttoned shirt stand out starkly against the navy blue of the cushions, like a star in the night sky.
    Clover sits next to her and takes a folder out of her bag. “Wedding clippings,” she says, slapping its cover with her palm. I hover on the arm of the