Why couldn’t I leave my phone downstairs at night? And who the hell was calling at this time? I rolled over and peered at the alarm clock. 3.15 AM. Obscene. It must be a prank call. Or an emergency. You’d have to be desperate to ring me at this hour. I cast about in the dark, eventually laying my hand on the phone.
“Hello?” I managed to say.
“Meredith, is that you?” An American accent drifted into my brain. My friends back home never got the time zones right.
“I think so.” I replied as I sat up and turned on the light.
“It’s Miriam.”
“It’s three in the morning.”
“Is it? Sorry, I didn’t think.”
Miriam was good at that.
“I just really needed to talk to you.” She sounded too upbeat for it to be a crisis but why else would she call me? We hadn’t spoken in a year. It used to be that we facetimed every week, Meredith and Miriam, friends since nursery school. Side by side in detention all through our school years and then roommates at college. After graduation we shared an apartment in Los Angeles for a few years. But then I got the job in London and Miriam got into some obscure religious cult. One day she was wearing skirts so short you could see her knickers – if she bothered to wear any. Then, poof! She was quoting the bible. In college, Miriam used to sneak her boyfriend into our dorm room every weekend. The humping and heavy breathing in the bunk above didn’t promote sweet dreams for me, cowering underneath them. And now she was probably in the church choir for all I knew. The last time we’d talked she’d called me a communist (I’m actually more of an anarchist) and said I was going to end up a lonely, old woman with forty-nine cats. Ridiculous. I’d never have more than half a dozen. I told her she should stop drinking the Kool-Aid.
I could laugh off her misguided insults. Ok, not laugh. It hurt that my drinking buddy, my partner in crime had climbed up on a pedestal and was looking down on me. Not that I felt inferior, obviously I was right and she was wrong. But I missed my friend.
I managed to be polite until she told me she voted Republican. FFS!! She’d been such a determined Democrat she’d even forgiven Clinton his business with Monica. When Obama was president she’d told me she wanted to have his babies. And was she really going to join the right-wing ranks of anti-feminists? Her, who popped birth control tablets like M&Ms and yet still had to have an abortion. I couldn’t help myself. I told her she had her head up her ass. That was the end of our friendship. Or so I thought. Until she called me in the wee hours of the morning.
“What do you want Miriam?” Even in my drowsy state (drugged too, I’d taken a sleeping pill) I could tell that I sounded less than friendly.
“I’m getting married!” She left out ‘again.’ Her first wedding had taken place in one of those insta-wedding chapels in Las Vegas. We were supposed to be having a girls’ wild weekend but the very first afternoon by the pool she meets this guy who sold kitchen remodels. Before you could say ‘royal flush’ they were getting hitched and I was the witness, me and some drunk they pulled off the street. Witness number two spent the ceremony sipping from the bottle in his brown paper bag. He was kind enough to offer me a swig.
Miriam’s Las Vegas catch lived in San Diego requiring the happy couple to commute between LA and San Diego every weekend. It’s only a three-hour drive if the traffic isn’t too bad.
“They’ve got a great zoo there,” she told me. “And Sea World as well.”
“Fun,” I replied in my best monotone.
“Tijuana is a short drive across the border. You can stock up on cheap booze.”
“More fun,” with added animation.
Things were going well enough for Miriam and the kitchen salesman until she found a drawer full of ladies’ underwear in his condominium. It turned out he liked to wear alternate gender undergarments from time to time.
“It wasn’t the fact that he had a thing for dressing up,” Miriam explained. “It was his taste in lingerie. Giant white underpants that could double as a parachute and industrial strength bras. I think he was trying to channel his grandmother. Too much of an ‘ick’ for me.”
Fair enough. I think their divorce took place in Vegas as well. I can’t really remember but there were a lot of tequila shots involved and a hangover that lasted for a week.
“Will you be my maid of honour?” Miriam’s question interrupted my review of her matrimonial past.
“What?” was all I could manage at 3.35 AM.
“You know, my maid of honour, though you aren’t really a maid anymore.” Oi! I was only thirty-eight. Sure, I’d been around the block a few times but matronly I was not. I didn’t have the bust for it.
“Why me?” I wondered out loud. She could probably find an actual maid in her pure as the driven snow church community.
“You’re my oldest, bestest friend.”
“I thought you were mad at me,” I said.
“Mad at you? Why? Oh, because you were upset that I voted Republican. You were rude about it and it really is none of your business who I vote for, especially as you don’t even live in this country anymore. But everyone is entitled to their own opinion.”
Except your opinion is wrong, Miriam. But I didn’t say that. I don’t start arguments in the middle of the night. It does weird things to my sleep tracker.
“Is this going to be a religious affair?”
“Of course. The pastor has found the perfect spouse for me.”
“Wait a minute,” I checked my ear for wax in case I was having hearing problems. “You’re telling me that some dude in your church has chosen a husband for you? Seriously?
She giggled, actually giggled. “The pastor says we will be a model couple.”
I pressed my head against the wall behind me. “Weird.” I could have said worse.
“Arranged marriages often turn out to be beautiful unions. You are matched logically and not led astray by lust. Matchmaking is totally making a comeback.”
“Yeah. Flares came back too.” I took a deep breath. “Let me get this straight. You want me to be part of your arranged marriage wedding. Me?”
“Please.” She sounded like a Chihuahua whining.
“But I’m not religious, Miriam. Won’t my presence upset somebody? Like God?”
“It’s alright. I pray for you everyday and know you will see the light eventually.”
I tried not to gag into the phone.
It would be so easy to say ‘no’. I’m not a big fan of marriage full stop and this pastor’s choice gave me the heebie-jeebies. But like I said, I’d taken a sleeping pill and wasn’t thinking straight.
“What are your colours?”
She squealed. I think I could hear her jumping up and down. “Peach and cream. The wedding is two weeks from now at our church in Los Angeles. I can’t wait to see you. Love you babe!” And she hung up.
What had I done? How would I survive being in a room full of people who I was allergic to? And I doubted I’d be welcomed with open arms. I’d probably be tarred and feathered before the happy couple exchanged vows. @******
Los Angeles felt like an oven as I stepped off the plane and I was way over dressed for a desert climate. I’d had to wear jeans and a jumper when leaving England or I would have frozen my tits off but here I was stewing in my own sweat within two minutes.
I couldn’t hug Miriam when she met me at arrivals or she’d be engulfed in my armpit stains. I gave a little wave and clamped on a Hollywood smile. Damn, she’d put on weight since I’d last seen her. She was all round and rosy like a piglet. She even squealed like one.
“Meri! It’s so good to see you!”
“Hey,” I replied, “you look great,” I lied. Her chubby cheeks were cute but the ruffled blouse with the pussy bow, paired with a wide mid-calf skirt made me want to vom. She did look happy though. I couldn’t figure out why. Maybe ignorance is bliss.
“I’m going to drop you off at my parents’ house for a quick shower before the rehearsal. I’m afraid there was a problem with your hotel booking. Hopefully, it will be sorted by tomorrow.”
I braked suddenly, causing my carry-on luggage to roll into the back of my legs. “I can’t stand your mother, Miriam.”
She attempted a smile. “I know. Nobody can. But it’s only for one night.”
I gritted my teeth. There sure as hell better be alcohol at this rehearsal evening.
The aroma of mothballs in Mrs. Reven’s spare room almost asphyxiated me when I was first shown into the floral print room. Totally floral – the bedspread, the curtains, even the upholstered chair with its plastic cover. As soon as Mrs Reven left me to my own devices. (I told her I was as tired as fuck and smelled like a badger) I threw open the bedroom window and let in a refreshing blast of LA smog. It smelled like home and made me so glad I no longer lived there.
I took a long shower, using up most of the water in the Los Angeles aqueduct. Then I slithered into a turquoise sheath dress with sheer tights and beige kitten heel pumps. It was tame compared to what I had planned for the big day. Tonight, I kept my make-up understated. The goth touches would have to wait for tomorrow.
The dress definitely showed off my not insubstantial curves, if Mr. Reven’s dropped jaw was anything to go by. We all drove to the venue in their air-conditioned station wagon, Mrs. Reven worrying all the way there about whether or not we were late and why was her husband driving so slow and why did he take this route, it was the long way and did he have to keep letting other drivers into his lane, they were going to arrive when the dinner was over.
It was the church first and then the meal, although it was well past cocktail hour. We arrived at what looked like a white box with a cross on top. Mr. Reven guided me towards the entrance, ignoring his wife’s admonitions to hurry up. A group of people were standing at the front of the church near what I supposed was an altar. A bulky man in polyester trousers and a polka dotted shirt had his arm around Miriam. I recognized her ass, even in its enlarged state. The narrowness of my dress inhibited my stride so it took me a while to reach the happy couple. They turned as a unit to greet me and I am not ashamed to admit that I grimaced. Miriam’s husband-to-be was at least twenty years her senior with a balding pate and a beer belly that needed a personal hoist. What kind of sicko thought this old man was right for my former best friend? Miriam wasn’t as svelte as she used to be but she still had that midnight black hair and skin like Irish cream. She was funny, especially when drunk and she’d finally finished her degree in tourism and had a decent job. She didn’t deserve to be hitched to a loser, for Brother Beer Belly oozed non-starter. Also, I don’t know much about Christianity but I don’t think the bridegroom is supposed to salivate over his fiancé’s maid of honour.
I saw Miriam’s face fall for a nano-second and then she pasted on a happy-clappy smile. Wow. New skill. She could never do that in the old days. I remember when she had looks that killed, or at least maimed.
“Where do you want me to stand?” I asked her. But it was the pastor who took my elbow and steered me alongside Miriam.
“Just there,” he said. Was it my imagination or was he breathing heavily? Were these men all sex-starved? I looked around the assembled. Every woman was in something that shrouded their figures or accented their worst points. Was it a commandment of their religion to look like crap? Maybe they were too busy doing charitable works to shop. See! I do have a few kind cells in me.
The rehearsal was boring but mercifully short and then we all traipsed off to the restaurant. I got seated next to Ralph, the intended.
“Tell me about Miriam when she was younger,” he started off.
She’ll always be younger than you mate. Didn’t say that. Promise. I wasn’t going to go out of my way to be obnoxious, I’d just let it happen naturally.
“She was a party girl and damn she was good at it.”
He chuckled. “I bet she was. I can see that she’s a real little spit fire underneath it all.”
I managed not to gag on my chicken taco and reached for the extra-large marguerita I’d ordered. I had missed Mexican food in England. Taco Bell is a poor substitute.
“Tell me about some of the things she did,” he insisted, laying his hand on my thigh.
I flicked his hand off and put on a conversational tone of voice. “You know she’s been married before.”
“The pastor told me.”
Ralph’s hand had pissed me off. “He was drop-dead gorgeous.” Not exactly true but husband number one was a damn sight better than husband number two. “Abs you could build a house on. And bronzed. All over.” I lifted an eyebrow and watched him swallow hard. “Like a stallion in bed she told me. But you know,” I waved a hand airily, “even perfection gets boring after a while. We girls do like to shop around.”
He turned away from me and dug into his three-bean burrito.
When I slipped outside for a fag, who was there but the pastor himself, smoking no less.
“A sin I haven’t given up yet,” he explained. I was sure it wasn’t the only one. Ignoring him, I lit my own cigarette and let the smoke mix with the smog. In London, you can’t drink the water and in LA you can’t breathe the air. The joys of city living.
“Miriam tells me you live in England,” he remarked, not picking up on the obvious body language that I didn’t want to chat. With him.
“I do.”
“Why would you leave our wonderful country?”
I turned to him. “I don’t know. The mass shootings kind of put me off. So did the masked agents roaming the streets picking up legal immigrants. The climate change denial is another thing.” I grinned, teeth out. “I could keep going.”
He opened his mouth to argue but I put my hand up to stop him. “No point in wasting your breath, I haven’t been brainwashed by reactionary news stations. I can actually read and there’s these things called newspapers with journalists who check their facts. Amazing, huh?”
“You’re very different from Miriam.” I watched his jaw grind and his hand form a fist, pleased with myself. He dropped his cigarette and ground it into the pavement.
“There’s a bin over there,” I pointed.
He looked down at his litter and shrugged.
“It’s men like you who don’t take responsibility for their actions who are ruining this world.” The margueritas had taken hold and I was on a roll.
He stepped closer to me, exhaling his nicotine breath into my face. Grabbing my arm he hissed into my ear, “It’s men like me that are in control of this world.” And then with his other hand he squeezed my ass.
Those self-defence classes do come in handy. With muscle memory my knee came up right into his nuts. He doubled over and fell to the ground, moaning.
“Yeah,” I said, “you sure look in control of the situation.” I left him grovelling on the concrete next to his smashed fag end.
Back in the restaurant I grabbed Miriam and led her to the ladies room. Leaning against a sink I crossed my arms and began the interrogation.
“What are you doing with these people? Do you know your right reverend stick up his ass just felt me up? And I won’t leave out the fact that your fiancé had his hand on my leg for half the meal. They’re a bunch of hypocrites.”
I saw her eyes fill with tears and almost felt sorry for her.
“Miriam …” I reached for her.
She pulled away and stood up straight. “Ralph hasn’t had sex in a very long time. He can’t help himself. He’ll be fine once we get married. The pastor’s wife left him so he’s a bit unbalanced right now. It’s a loving community and they have made me feel welcome. I was a bit lost after you moved away and left me all alone.”
“We talked on the phone,” I said lamely.
“It’s not the same.”
“No,” I admitted. “It’s not. And I did call you an asshole. Sorry.” I was kind of sorry at this point. Miriam and I had history together. How many bottles of wine had we drained while talking late into the night? We’d solved the world’s problems between us. At least our world’s. I missed that. I missed her. The way she was before though, not the frumpy women leaning on the sink opposite me.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” I asked her.
Her face had lost all expression. “If you want to grow old in a flat with smelly cats, that’s your choice but I want a family. As my oldest friend, I’d hoped you would be happy that I now have that possibility. I would appreciate it if you didn’t go out of your way to spoil my day. The dress cost seven hundred dollars and I spent three hundred on the flowers, not to mention the cost of the reception afterwards. The Las Vegas wedding was kind of a wet fart. This is my chance to be princess for a day.”
I sighed. It seemed they had her firmly in their clutches. “It’s your life.”
“That’s right. It is and you’re not going to ruin it. Are you wearing that dress tomorrow?”
I raised an eyebrow – a well-shaped one I must add, unlike the untidy hedge she had let grow on her face. “Of course not. When have I ever worn the same thing two days in a row?” She gave me a narrow look. “Don’t worry. I remember. You want me to wear peach.”
“Peach and cream,” she corrected. I pretended to hear her.
It is the duty of the maid of honour to help the bride prepare for the wedding. I took a taxi to Miriam’s apartment the next morning as her parents were too busy arguing about what time to leave for the church in the afternoon. I lugged along my suitcase as I planned to go to the airport straight after the ceremony. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world that would make the reception palatable. And I didn’t think I would be welcome once my maid-of-honour outfit was revealed.
There weren’t any bridesmaids – Miriam hadn’t been able to afford four dresses and matching shoes. Despite her song and dance about me being her best friend, I think I was chosen because I could afford to dress myself in couture. A touch of class at no cost. So, it was just me at the apartment assisting Miriam with her hair and make-up – two things I was adept at. What a bargain I was, saving her money on a hairdresser and make-up artist as well.
She greeted me stiffly and offered me a coffee. No espresso machine so I declined. Besides, I’d had the taxi stop at Starbucks on route and had two macchiatos for us. There was a polite thank you and then we moved to her bedroom where she sat down in front of her vanity table. My eyes ran over the make-up she had assembled and dismissed it all. Cheap shit. I’d brought my own plus some items I’d picked up at duty-free on the way over.
“Hair first,” I said. “Do you have a style in mind? Are you wearing a veil or a garland?”
She lifted her chin. “A veil of course. Past twenty-five a flower garland is ridiculous.”
Thank God she still had some sense of style left.
“Okay, hair down or up?”
“I’d like it up. But not severely. Something soft and feminine with a few dripping curls.”
I turned on the curling iron on her vanity table and picked up a hairbrush, tucking a few pins in my mouth. As I swept up her glossy black locks (she still had stunning hair with not a strand of grey, unlike me) I noticed a small lump behind her right ear. I put my finger on it and felt a hard, oblong shape, slightly bigger than a bugle bead. My heart began to race.
“What’s this?”
Miriam reached up and felt the spot. “Oh. That’s where I get my B-12 injections. I must have got a reaction after the last shot.”
I’m no doctor but I know you don’t go injecting vitamins in someone’s neck -- B12 goes in the butt.
“Who’s giving you these injections?” I tried to sound interested instead of choked.
“It’s a doctor recommended by one of the ladies in the church. I was feeling a bit run down and she swore these shots made her feel ten years younger. And for members of the church, the doctor gives a huge discount.”
“And is this doctor a member of your cult, I mean church?”
“He is. He often does readings at the services.”
I was beginning to glimpse the web that had entangled her. “How long have you been having these injections?”
She frowned. “I’m not sure. Maybe a year ago. It was right after I joined the community. I told you the members are always so friendly and helpful, even to newcomers.”
I swallowed the bile that had rode up into my mouth.
“Sorry. I’ve got to run to the toilet before I have an accident. I’ll be right back.” I fled the room and shut the bathroom door behind me. Leaning against in I took three deep breaths. (Thank you Guru Ganesha for teaching me calming techniques). I had to do something. There was a foreign object in my friend’s neck and I was pretty sure what it was – an implant that was brain jacking Miriam. I had to remove it. And now, before she became one of their tradwives.
I began pulling open drawers in the bathroom. Miriam never threw anything away and I distinctly remember cutting cocaine with her in this very apartment not two years ago. There had to be a pack of razor blades in here somewhere. Ah! There they were, right at the back. I stashed a blade in my pocket and then flushed the toilet to make my visit sound genuine.
“Right,” I said with false cheer. “Let’s get this hair styled.” I twisted her mane into a ponytail and began sticking in hairpins. With a sleight of hand, I pulled the blade out of my pocket, nicked her neck and removed the implant.
“Ow!” Her hand flew to her neck, coming back with blood stained fingertips.
“Oh shit! I’m so sorry! I’ve accidentally stabbed you with one of the pins! But it’s only a tiny cut. I can cover it with make-up.” I rushed back to the bathroom and returned brandishing a box of band-aids but only after I’d thrown the implant down the toilet.
There were tears in her eyes. I placed my hands on her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay Miriam. I’ve cleaned you up.” She nodded, sniffed loudly but let me finish her hair and make-up.
The wedding gown was a conglomeration of ruffles and lace, not unlike a Disney princess outfit that we might have worn when we were six. At least the sky-blue colour complemented her complexion and she had the sense not to wear virginal white.
“What are you wearing Meredith?” Currently, I was in a black pantsuit, more funerial than wedding attire but it wasn’t the outfit I’d prepared for the ceremony.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got my stuff with me. I’ll give you some time alone to pray or whatever and meet you at the church. I’ll be all dolled up and ready to go when you get there.”
“You aren’t coming with me?” She sounded like her thirteen-year-old self, pleading with me to go to the school disco with her.
“It will be too crowded in your parent’s car. That skirt,” I indicated the belled bottom half of her gown, “will take up the whole back seat.”
She gave a half-smile. Looking down at her dress, she pressed on the hoop skirt, releasing it and watching it pop up in the air. A giggle bubbled forth. If I didn’t know better I would think she was stoned.
We air kissed (can’t muss the make-up) and I grabbed a taxi, suitcase in tow.
It didn’t take me long to dress, though it wasn’t easy in the cramped cubicle of the church. I already had the peach silk blouse on half unbuttoned to reveal a black, balcony cup bra. The pant suit was removed and I yanked on a black mini skirt that I’d bought with Miriam one afternoon when we’d been shopping in West Hollywood. It was a bit tight these days but I would be holding my breath through most of the ceremony anyway. Then I shrugged into an old black leather jacket that I’d picked up on Carnaby Street in London when Miriam and I had done our university year abroad there. My black stiletto Manolo Blahniks were already on my feet. I’d decided against black fishnets. The wiccan tattoo on my right ankle was provocative enough. A few flicks with the eyeliner created an Amy Winehouse look and I was ready to go.
Without looking right or left I strode up the centre aisle and stood in front of the church across from the best man. The gasps and hisses followed me. The pastor cleared his throat and gave me the evil eye. I gave him my widest grin and then turned to the best man, a tall, lean bloke with a corrugated face and beetled brows. The doctor I bet. I winked at him. The immediate flush on his face displayed efficient circulation though I doubted that the sustained high blood pressure would do him any good. Standing next to him Ralph had eyes the size of silver dollars. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and turned towards the church entrance, presenting his back to me.
An organ sounded the traditional strains of ‘Here Comes the Bride’ and Miriam appeared in her blue ruffled wonder, leaning on her father’s arm. I wasn’t sure how she would react to my get up and was curious to find out. Had removal of the implant made any difference at all? She did seem to be using her father as a crutch, taking each step with deliberation while her head wove from side to side like Stevie Wonder. I wasn’t the only one that noticed. The congregation, only just recovering from my entrance broke out in a rustle of whispers. Mrs. Reven began to cry.
When Miriam reached us she turned to me first. I prepared myself for the tongue lashing.
“Carnaby Streeet,” she said elongating the vowels. I nodded back at her encouragingly. “Where are we?” she asked me, though she didn’t sound particularly bothered.
“In a church. You’re getting married,” I answered.
“Oh.” She closed her mouth in a prim little pucker and looked up at the pastor. “Hi.” She gave a wave.
The pastor’s jaw muscles rippled. The best man cleared his throat and Ralph wrapped Miriam’s arm in his. The words began. I gritted my teeth. This was happening. I hadn’t been able to stop it. My head sank towards my chest in a gesture of defeat.
“Do you, Miriam Judith Reven take this man, Ralph Reginald Bellgood to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Miriam suddenly straightened. She peered into Ralph’s face and her eyes grew wide.
“What the fuck? She glanced down at her gown. “Oh my God! What the hell am I wearing?” And then she began to scream like a cat being raped.
I leapt to her side and took her arm. “It’s alright Miriam. Come with me. I can make it stop.”
She threw her arms around me. “Meredith! You’re here. What did we take? Is this a bad trip?”
“Yeah, but it’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.”
We linked arms and ran out of the church. The pastor and the doctor tried to chase us but I pulled off one of my stilettoes and threw it back at them, the point of the heel going into the pastor’s eye. Terrible waste of a good shoe but needs must. We jumped in the waiting taxi and headed to the airport.
Miriam got a job at my agency and we are sharing my flat in London now. She hates the weather and keeps telling me she’s moving to Spain. But not yet. We’re still having too much fun.