Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(47)

“Hi, Joe. How are you?” Darren says, his Brummie voice brimming with ire.

I blink. “Better than you lot. Aren’t you supposed to be looking a tad more cheerful?”

He glares at Brian. “Well, we would be if it wasn’t for someone around here throwing a spanner in the works.”

“Oh, fuck off, Darren,” Brian hisses, his blowsy blond coiffure quivering. “It was just a suggestion.”

“Just a suggestion?” Darren says, drawing himself up to his full height, which is helped tremendously by the silver platform boots he’s wearing. “You said you wanted to play something else today. It was like a knife in my heart.”

I narrow my eyes. “And is that something else another ABBA song?” I ask cautiously.

“Brian has decided we should branch out and play Linkin Park,” Bridget snaps.

“Their music is genius,” Brian says doggedly.

Anna is obviously struggling between rage and wifely duty. Unfortunately, it looks like rage might win at some point soon.

“Oh, really?” Bridget says, folding her arms over her chest. “And what exactly about the song ‘Numb’ screams marital bliss to you, Brian?”

I jump in before Brian digs himself deeper. “Well, I hate to go all Colonel Tom Parker on you, but please shelve your musical direction disputes until after the wedding, folks. Erica and Ryan love ABBA, and that’s what you’ve been booked to play. You are not—I repeat not—here to stick an axe in your bandmate’s back.”

I keep my expression relaxed and finally they all nod.

“Yeah sorry, mate,” Brian mumbles. He looks around at the others. “We’ll discuss this later,” he says rather ominously. “I have some ideas about Primal Scream that I’d like to discuss in my van on the way home.”

I look admiringly at the Machiavellian genius in our midst and then clap my hands together. “Great. Glad we’ve got that settled. I’m really looking forward to hearing your set.”

I’m not, of course. I’ve seen them before, and my eardrums still haven’t recovered from the shock, but I’m very diplomatic and a born situational fibber which comes in useful in my profession. “Right. I’m off to see the bride.”

I leave them hissing like a nest of snakes wearing flares, and hasten up the stairs. As I pass the bar, I glance inside, unable to help myself. My husband isn’t standing there in a puff of red smoke, so I carry on upstairs.

The bride’s room is a predictable scene of mess, confusion, and high emotion. I’ve never been in one that wasn’t. The scent of perfume and hairspray is choking, and the radio plays quietly in the background.

Erica is standing in front of a huge mirror wearing scanty underwear and an open silk dressing gown. Her hair is done in an intricate chignon and her makeup looks dewy. However, her expression is rather fraught, and it’s easy to guess why.

Her mother is fussing at her, her face set in a discontented scowl. Erica’s cousin Mary, who’s been forced on her as a bridesmaid, is standing silently like the angel of death. She’s a pale, standoffish woman who thinks she’s better than everyone, with the exception of her Aunt Frances. The two of them scare me shitless. Meanwhile, Erica’s best friend Paula is lying on the bed tapping on her phone. She’s wearing a pair of scarlet pants and a bra, and has an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

“How are we, ladies?” I say, giving them a wide smile. They all whip around to stare at me, and I repress my instinct to step back and shield my testicles.

“Joe,” Erica cries, her face lighting up. “Was that a nice surprise for you?”

“Oh, the best,” I say, smiling so hard my face hurts. “Wonderful.”

“I’m so glad,” she says fervently.

I cross the room. “Look at you. Your hair’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Her hair is wrong,” Frances snaps.

The hairdresser grimaces discreetly and goes back to packing her rollers away.

“What exactly is wrong with it?” I say, glancing at the chignon. “It looks absolutely beautiful.”

“Thanks, Joe,” Erica says gratefully.

“It needs to be higher,” Frances snaps. “We have the family tiara to consider.”

Why? Will its feelings be hurt?

“And I told you I didn’t want the tiara, Mummy,” Erica says.

“Nonsense,” Frances snaps.

I clear my throat. “The hairdresser has another appointment, so Erica’s hair will have to stay looking beautiful, as it is.”

“Yes, sorry,” the hairdresser says, her hands very busy. “I have another wedding to go to.” She smiles at me and hustles out of the room like her arse is on fire.

I wink at Erica, but Frances glares at me. “I am very disappointed, Joe, that we didn’t have the hairdresser for longer.”

How long does she fucking want her? Maybe I should have pencilled her in for a few years trapped in this hotel suite with Frances? I bet she’d rather take her chances in the American Horror Story house.

“Well, she does have other commitments, Frances. And she has done a wonderful job with all of you. You all look beautiful.”

Cousin Mary gives me a cool glance and glides away like the undead that she undoubtedly is. I repress a shiver and ignore the need to cross myself.