THE ETERNAL BRIDESMAID

A short story by Sharon Owens

Maisie Hamilton was known all over Dublin as the Eternal Bridesmaid. She had held up the flowing trains of no less than fifty blushing brides during her legendary reign spanning almost twenty-four years. She’d started off as a cute flower girl in lemon polyester in 1981 when she was only five. Now, it was 2005 and Maisie was almost thirty.

They’d even done a little piece about her in the local paper once. Maisie had the article framed and hung in the kitchen above the breakfast bar so nobody would think she was embarrassed about being left on the shelf so long. But of course every one of her friends (and all of her mother’s friends too) only pitied her even more.
“Poor Maisie,” they said behind her back, “The life and soul of every wedding, she is. Last one off the dance-floor, every time. But she’s twenty-nine years old now and there’s still no sign of an engagement ring on her finger. Still living at home with her parents. Oh how sad.”

Maisie’s mother Una was also well known about the city as she owned a chain of seven upmarket ladies fashion boutiques as well as being a leading member of her golf club. For this reason there was no shortage of glamorous young women in the Hamilton social circle, and Maisie was frequently invited to be flower girl, and then bridesmaid as the years went by. Sometimes she was included just to make up the numbers if another girl dropped out and sometimes she was asked as a special favour to Una who was very popular.

Everyone felt sorry for Maisie when she reached twenty-one without a boyfriend and they nearly always gave her an extra-special gift for carrying out the duties of bridesmaid so well. Something much nicer than the other girls ever got, for didn’t they have their romances to make them happy? A silver locket set with semi-precious blue stones, a designer suede handbag with pink sequins and a matching key fob, a voucher for five sessions of mist-on tanning: the list was endless. Once she even got the use of a luxury penthouse for six weeks when the happy couple went on an extended cruise. What was the use of the penthouse going empty, the bride pointed out, when Maisie could move in for six weeks? All she had to do was water the flowers on the balcony occasionally. No need to worry about the dusting, either: the owners had a maid come in twice a week to do the housework. Yes, Maisie did very well out of it all.

“Is there no young man you like the look of, at all?” Una asked her youngest daughter one bright summer’s day as they sat on the patio waiting for the charcoal to settle down on the barbecue. “I might be able to introduce you? I could throw a dinner party or host a charity thing of some kind? We’ll set it all up, like they used to do in the old days?”
“Really, Mum, there’s not a single person that tickles my fancy at the moment. But thanks all the same.” Maisie made a face to show how grateful she was for her mother’s thoughtfulness.
“There must be somebody, Maisie? For heaven’s sake, you can’t be that hard to please? What about that nice new vet with the spiky hair? He seems very nice. Let me ask around the golf club if he has a girlfriend already? I’m sure I can set you up with him?”

“Oh no, Mum. Please don’t do that. Promise me you won’t?”
“Maisie, I only want to help!”
“Promise me.”
“Okay, I won’t do anything. But why ever not? Don’t you want to get married and start a lovely little family like your sisters? You know your father and I have plenty of money so you won’t have to worry about the expense.” Una eased herself off the lounger and carefully set the neat parcels of bacon-wrapped chicken fillets onto the hot grill. They began to sizzle right away and the delicious aroma of the mustard marinade made Maisie’s stomach grumble. She swatted away a troublesome fly with her wrist, rattling her collection of heavy charm bracelets.
“Because I am not a charity case, Mum. I can find a husband without any help from the yummy-mummies of Dublin, thank-you very much.
“Well, I hope you do, sweetheart, and soon. No offence but I’d like to see my last remaining single daughter safely up the aisle before her 40th birthday. You know it’s not as easy to dress a mature bride as it is a younger one. Not to mention I’m turning into an old lizard myself.”
Both women laughed heartily at the joke. Una Hamilton still looked fabulous at sixty.

They smiled at each other as Una set out jewel-coloured plastic bowls of salad and fresh fruit on the picnic table. There were crunchy red pepper croutons sprinkled on the salad, and vivid green slices of kiwi on top of the dish of chilled strawberries.
“That’s pretty, Mum,” Maisie observed as she surveyed the table. “The scarlet red and bright green together. I think I’ll have red roses and green chrysanthemums in my posy when I get married.”
“That sounds wonderful,” beamed her mother, stretching cling film over the bowls. “Really fresh and vibrant. Lovely!”

“Maisie, pet?”said Una ten minutes later, as she turned the chicken pieces over with a long set of tongs. “Would you ever nip into the kitchen and fetch the dish of coleslaw and the big blue jug of orange juice from the fridge? Thanks.”
“In a minute, Mum. I’ve just painted my nails.” She held up her manicured talons, shimmering with two coats of palest pink.
“Never mind,” said Una patting her youngest daughter gently on the head. “I’ll go. They’ll be here in a minute.”
“Don’t forget the chocolate cupcakes,” murmured Maisie, settling back on the sun lounger with her dark glasses reflecting the sky.

The smell of suntan lotion was wonderfully evocative as the thick cream sank into Maisie’s pampered skin. She could almost believe she was in Monaco already. Her parents always took her on their annual holiday and this year it was Monaco. Well, they couldn’t leave her behind for two whole weeks in that big sprawling house on the outskirts of the city. That would be only rubbing it in that she was alone in the world. Poor wee Maisie: always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

As Una was returning from the kitchen with a large tray laden down with goodies, there was a small commotion at the front of the house. Three cars pulled up and there was a sudden burst of noise and laughter and shouting and crying as Maisie’s three sisters, their husbands and their nine children arrived for the barbecue.
“My darlings!” cried Una, as the children came charging round the side of the house, dropping bats and balls and blowing huge wobbling bubbles through tiny plastic hoops. They almost swept her off her feet as they fanned out across the lawn.
“Oh, aren’t you clever?” cooed Granny Una as the children displayed their latest toys. “Aren’t they looking well, Maisie?”

Maisie sat up on the sun lounger and rubbed some more cream on her legs. “They are so clever, Mum. Every last one of them. And look at their sweet little outfits! Angels! I’ll read them a story later, shall I? After the food? I bought a lovely picture-book in the supermarket yesterday.”
“That would be lovely, pet,” said her mother. Poor Maisie, she thought sadly. She’d love to have a family of her own one day, but time was running out. Maybe she’d meet a nice man in Monaco, thought Una suddenly. She made a mental note to buy Maisie some really nice new clothes and take her to every party and event she could find tickets to, when they were on the island.

Only the night before Maisie’s father Eamon was complaining that he wanted to go on holiday alone with his wife. He thought Maisie was far too old to be traipsing round the world after the two of them. But Una had been adamant that Maisie would be going along with them as usual. It was surely only a matter of time before poor Maisie managed to get herself a man, Una whispered as they lay in bed together.

“Where’s Peter?” asked Eamon now, as everyone took their places along the wooden benches and began passing food up and down the table. Eamon handed out cans of lager and bottles of wine and lemonade from the big turquoise cool-box.
“He’ll be here in a minute, Dad,” said Mary, the eldest daughter, and Peter’s wife. “He’s just gone to get something.”
Soon, everyone was tucking in to the chicken parcels, the crunchy salad and the mouth-watering strawberries. For a few blissful moments the children were quiet.

Then Peter arrived, swinging a set of car keys on his index finger. He said hello to Eamon and kissed Una’s cheek gently before dropping the keys into Maisie’s lap.
“What’s this?” she wanted to know.
“Surprise! The keys to Angela’s Jag,” said Mary wistfully. “She said you could have it while they’re on honeymoon.”
“Isn’t that lovely of her?” Una was touched. Eamon rolled his eyes but nobody noticed.
“Yes. Angela said it’s to say thank-you to Maisie for being so good about wearing the vintage smock. All the other bridesmaids hated theirs. And the flowers too.”

“Angela likes to think she’s a Boho-babe,” explained Mary to her parents. “But those chin-high lace smocks were just going too far. And as for the bouquets! Some faded old Hydrangea blossoms from her granny’s garden tied with a bit of ribbon! How could she?”
“I thought it was all very nice,” said Maisie. She had fond memories of the most recent wedding she had attended. Very fond memories indeed. Especially the part at the end of the night where she had told the groom that she had always fancied him rotten. He’d been floating-drunk on champagne at the time and was delighted at Maisie’s revelation. And then they’d nipped out to the formal gardens for a quick kiss and a cuddle behind the greenhouse. Angela’s new husband was a smouldering hunk but no man could make Maisie give up her status as the eternal bridesmaid.

Sometimes she flirted discreetly with the groom and sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes she chatted up one of the barmen or one of the band members. But one thing was for certain: Maisie Hamilton didn’t ever want to be wearing the big meringue dress herself. Or stretching her rock-hard stomach producing little horrors like her nieces and nephews. And as the children began to get bored and throw food across the lawn, and hit each other with their toys, and fall on the patio and graze their knees, Maisie scooped up the keys to the Jag and swiftly made her escape.

“Now where has Maisie got to,” wondered Una, as the children were jumping up and down on the good sofa in the sitting room a few minutes later. “She said she had a lovely book she was going to read to them.”
There was the distinctive purr of a luxury car engine from the driveway and the women went to look out of the bay window. They saw Maisie take off down the avenue, the car top down and her long chestnut hair blowing out behind her.
“Poor Maisie,” said Mary. “I think she just gets so broody, seeing all the kids together like this.”
“Yes, it’s so hard for her being the only single one in the family,” agreed Una. “She is nearly thirty, after all. She must have gone out for a drive to get away for a while. Come on, we’ll see if we can find the book and I’ll read it. Jack pet: don’t stand on the mantle-piece, sweetheart, you’ll fall down and get hurt. Oh dear, Timmy: you have to take your shorts off before you pee. Now Alex, you know you aren’t allowed to pick Granny’s lupins…”

Maisie decided she’d drive all the way to Galway. Angela’s car was amazing. She’d have a lovely long drive, and when she got back the children would have gone home and Una would have washed the dishes. Eamon would have tidied the garden and picked up all the squashed strawberries from the patio. Maisie liked her life to flow smoothly and as she zoomed down the road with the wind in her hair she decided that life had never been so good. All she had to do was pack her bikinis for Monaco and she could have a lie-in the following day; something her sisters hadn’t been able to do for years.

Maisie was a saint. Everybody said so. And being a saint didn’t involve nearly as much suffering and deprivation as it used to. She turned on the music centre. The DJ was playing Beautiful Day by U2. Maisie pressed her foot down on the accelerator. She wondered if Una could be persuaded to buy her a car like this for her birthday, to ease the pain of being thirty and still single…

THE END