Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 2) by Kate O'Keeffe
Authors: Kate O'Keeffe
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which catches the full skirt on my dress and blows it up into my face, making me look like I’ve got an oversized hula hoop around my neck. All I can see is blue and white fabric flapping at high speed in front of my eyes.
O h my god, what underwear am I wearing? I manage to pull the front of my dress down, only to experience another gust of wind, blowing the back of my skirt upwards again, flapping it rapidly against my head and shoulders.
I feel like I’m being slapped about by a bunch of enthusiastic little flag bearers.
Thankfully I remember I’m wearing some modest full briefs and not a tiny G-string, although they aren't really the sort of panties you want the world to see. Especially as they've turned a less than delicate shade of gunmetal grey, thanks to many washes in London's dodgy water supply.
Looking absolutely nothing like Marilyn Monroe , I juggle my bags and finally manage to pull the skirt of my dress down, holding it in bunches at either side of my body. I attempt to walk along the street, cursing the wind with each dogged step.
Realising I must look like a constipated geisha as I struggle inelegantly along, I eventually turn onto the main road and notice a very slim and sporty looking woman of about my age running down the hill towards me. She’s dressed in unforgiving fluorescent pink and black Lycra with a long peroxide blonde hair in a swinging ponytail.
She’ s concentrating hard on her form, but as she looks at me she does an obvious double take and slows down. It's not until she’s almost on top of me I realise who she is.
“ Jessica. Hi. Having a bit of a challenge with your dress, are you?” she asks without even a hint of friendliness, observing me holding onto my skirts, shivering with cold. She looks as fresh as a daisy, despite having just been running at breakneck speed, clearly unfazed by the chilly wind.
It's Brooke Mortimer, a girl I went to school with a million years ago and the last person I want to see right now.
Or at any time , really.
Way back in the early days of high school we used to be friends. She was part of our close-knit group of Morgan, Lindsay, Laura and me for a couple of years. We’d hang out, have slumber parties at each other’s houses, tell one another our deepest secrets - you know, pretty typical teenage girl stuff.
Then, when we were fifteen she started going out with Steve McAndrew, a boy I’d reluctantly admitted to everyone one night in a game of truth or dare I had a huge crush on. She totally broke the cardinal rule of friendship - thou shalt not covet thy friend’s crush, be it secret or otherwise.
What’s more s he totally rubbed their relationship in my face, telling me all about what a great kisser he was, how she’d given him a friendship bracelet she’d made, and how he’d always fancied her but had had to pluck up the courage to ask her out. Of course they only went out together for a couple of months, but that's a lifetime when you're a teenager.
To say I felt betrayed by her would be like saying it’s a little bit cool in Antarctica this time of year.
T he thing that riled me most, more than Steve not being interested me, was that she thought she was better than me because she got him. So, unsurprisingly for teenage girls, we fell out. Although we went to university together and she stayed quite good friends with Laura, we’ve barely spoken since.
She jogs on the spot in front of me and I nearly suffer a fatal flick of peroxide ponytail to the face.
“Oh, hi Brooke. Yes.” False laugh. “How are you?” I ask, trying to appear as though desperately holding onto my dress in the face of a virtual hurricane is really quite normal. Rather than the reality of the situation, which of course is that if I let go the world will be my gynaecologist, as someone once graphically put it.
“ I am fantastic . Things quite simply couldn't be better for me. Just out on a run.” Pointing out the obvious. “I do ten k’s a
O h my god, what underwear am I wearing? I manage to pull the front of my dress down, only to experience another gust of wind, blowing the back of my skirt upwards again, flapping it rapidly against my head and shoulders.
I feel like I’m being slapped about by a bunch of enthusiastic little flag bearers.
Thankfully I remember I’m wearing some modest full briefs and not a tiny G-string, although they aren't really the sort of panties you want the world to see. Especially as they've turned a less than delicate shade of gunmetal grey, thanks to many washes in London's dodgy water supply.
Looking absolutely nothing like Marilyn Monroe , I juggle my bags and finally manage to pull the skirt of my dress down, holding it in bunches at either side of my body. I attempt to walk along the street, cursing the wind with each dogged step.
Realising I must look like a constipated geisha as I struggle inelegantly along, I eventually turn onto the main road and notice a very slim and sporty looking woman of about my age running down the hill towards me. She’s dressed in unforgiving fluorescent pink and black Lycra with a long peroxide blonde hair in a swinging ponytail.
She’ s concentrating hard on her form, but as she looks at me she does an obvious double take and slows down. It's not until she’s almost on top of me I realise who she is.
“ Jessica. Hi. Having a bit of a challenge with your dress, are you?” she asks without even a hint of friendliness, observing me holding onto my skirts, shivering with cold. She looks as fresh as a daisy, despite having just been running at breakneck speed, clearly unfazed by the chilly wind.
It's Brooke Mortimer, a girl I went to school with a million years ago and the last person I want to see right now.
Or at any time , really.
Way back in the early days of high school we used to be friends. She was part of our close-knit group of Morgan, Lindsay, Laura and me for a couple of years. We’d hang out, have slumber parties at each other’s houses, tell one another our deepest secrets - you know, pretty typical teenage girl stuff.
Then, when we were fifteen she started going out with Steve McAndrew, a boy I’d reluctantly admitted to everyone one night in a game of truth or dare I had a huge crush on. She totally broke the cardinal rule of friendship - thou shalt not covet thy friend’s crush, be it secret or otherwise.
What’s more s he totally rubbed their relationship in my face, telling me all about what a great kisser he was, how she’d given him a friendship bracelet she’d made, and how he’d always fancied her but had had to pluck up the courage to ask her out. Of course they only went out together for a couple of months, but that's a lifetime when you're a teenager.
To say I felt betrayed by her would be like saying it’s a little bit cool in Antarctica this time of year.
T he thing that riled me most, more than Steve not being interested me, was that she thought she was better than me because she got him. So, unsurprisingly for teenage girls, we fell out. Although we went to university together and she stayed quite good friends with Laura, we’ve barely spoken since.
She jogs on the spot in front of me and I nearly suffer a fatal flick of peroxide ponytail to the face.
“Oh, hi Brooke. Yes.” False laugh. “How are you?” I ask, trying to appear as though desperately holding onto my dress in the face of a virtual hurricane is really quite normal. Rather than the reality of the situation, which of course is that if I let go the world will be my gynaecologist, as someone once graphically put it.
“ I am fantastic . Things quite simply couldn't be better for me. Just out on a run.” Pointing out the obvious. “I do ten k’s a
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