Wedding Bubbles: A romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 1) (4 page)

“Oh,” I’d replied noncommittally, unable to
concentrate on what she was saying.

W
e whizzed past boggy sports fields and grim-faced pedestrians battling to keep their umbrellas intact in the face of a bitter Wellington storm.

My heart sunk.
After living an exciting life in London for four fabulous years Wellington felt so small, so quaint, so… well, so like home.

But after the life I’d been leading how could I ever really feel like this was home again?

***

When I walk through the f
ront door of my old family home I’m literally stopped in my tracks by the familiar aroma. You know the one - it’s a smell you don’t exactly consciously remember, but when you smell it it’s instantly recognisable, bringing a million memories flooding back.

Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t be an altogether unpleasant walk down memory lane, but in my current state of mind
it’s one I could happily do without.

Mum rushes down the corridor in front of me towards my old bedroom
. “... and then they painted their fence an entirely inappropriate shade of beige. It’s
ruined
the street, dear. Absolutely ruined it.”

I lumber my heavy
suitcase, cabin luggage, handbag and much needed duty free vodka down the hall, banging into the walls as I go.

“Careful, dear. Here, let me help.”

She takes the lightest bag and opens the door of my old bedroom with an unnecessarily theatrical flourish to reveal a room decorated to within an inch of its life in lavender florals. Everywhere.

It looks like a group of elderly graffiti artists snuck in and had a tagging competition in the
room.

She’d even managed to find a faux fur throw covered in an image of purple kittens running through a field of lavender. Who would have known you could buy such a thing, let alone there would be people out there who felt it quite acceptable to manufacture it?

I can just see the product development people now at Bad Taste Faux Fur Throws, sitting in a meeting room together.

Someone called Marjorie, who wears her glasses on one of those strings around her neck, exclaims with excitement, “I know what we can print on our faux fur throws: lilac coloured kittens playing in a lavender field!”

So a big thanks, Marjorie, for allowing my stylistically misguided mother to add your throw to my already
lavenderliscious
bedroom.

Looking around my old room it feels undeniably strange to be back in the place I’d left when I moved out after university.

Wow, that feels so long ago.

Of course I’d been back to visit, but there’d always been an end-date in focus, when I’d get on a plane and head back to my real life.

Now
this
is my real life, and it feels so depressing.

I guess the one saving grace of what can only be
described as this extreme floral makeover is the room doesn’t even remotely resemble my childhood bedroom anymore. To tell the truth it’s actually a small blessing.

In my current fragile state I really don’t think I could handle being smacked between the eyes by my teenage self.

Mum jolts me back to the present from my walk down angst teenage lane. “I do hope you like the new decor, only I didn’t think you’d be moving back in now that you’re, well,
older
, and I was so tired of the room the way you’d left it all those years ago.”

My mother, love
her as I do, could never be described as subtle. All she wants is for me to meet a nice man, get married in a wedding ceremony of
her
choosing, and settle down to provide her with adorable grandchildren called Jonathan and Jemima.

OK I’ll admit, I've no idea what she actually wants these imaginary grandchildren to be called, but you get the general picture. 

“Oh, it’s errr…. lovely, Mum,” I reply as I look around the room, feeling dubious.

With an unpleasant shock I spot one of my old framed photos sitting on the windowsill. I immediately step over to it and turn it face down.

“Oh lavender’s good for the soul, dear. And helps you sleep, too,” she replies with a smile.

“Err, I think that’s the
scent
, Mum,” I reply, noticing my bed has been replaced by a small sofa. “So where exactly do I sleep?”

“Oh this sofa is the sweetest thing, it just pops open into a bed. See?” She pulls on a lever and the sofa does indeed pop open into a single bed with soft pink coloured bed linen. Nice change from the sea of purple, I suppose, but a
single
bed?

God, I really am home.

“I’ll just pop into the garden to pick some flowers to help you sleep.” Before I can protest she walks with purpose out of the room in the direction of the garden.

That’s all I need, more bloody lavender.

But at least it gives me a moment to take a breath. I lived in this house, sleeping in this very room until after I graduated from university and got a flat in town with Morgan and Laura, two of my besties from school. I smile at the memory. They were such fun to live with. Morgan and I had both graduated, me with my bachelors in Classics and Morgan with her marketing degree. Although Laura was still at varsity studying law she moved in with us into the smallest room.

We were earning virtually nothing, spending what we had on clothes and wine, and having as much fun as a bunch of twenty-something girls can manage. Which really is quite a lot of fun, as it turns out.

Our other good mate, Lindsay, was always over too, but she still lived with her parents in Roseneath, Wellington’s answer to Beverley Hills. We were inseparable, the four of us, and had been since high school, so it was entirely natural we’d all still hang out once we got out into the world.

Jerking me back to my current miserable reality, Mum walks back in holding the promised vase of cut flowers, which she places carefully on a lace doily on top of the chest of drawers.

“There, that should help you sleep well while you’re here.” Glancing quickly at the overturned photo she asks, “You’re seeing Morgan tomorrow, is that right, dear?”

“That’s right,” I smile back at her, feeling my excitement rise.

My one speck of hope is that Morgan and I’ve agreed to go into a sensational new business venture together as personal stylists.

I see it as my opportunity to bring my fabulous London life to Wellington, and I’m pinning all my hopes on it working out.

It was Morgan’s idea. She’d decided running marketing campaigns for large banks was about as interesting as watching your toenails grow, so had packed it in and gone back to school to study interior design. Along the way she’d ended up as a personal stylist after having helped a friend out at one of those mall fashion shows.

A
t my local pub on her recent visit to London I’d told her the devastating news I had to move back home because my British work visa was about to expire.

“Have you tried to find a cute Brit to marry
you?” she’d joked.

“Not likely,” I’d responded. “The closest I’ve ever come to being a criminal was when I stole a chocolate bar from Patel’s dairy with you, Laura and Lindsay, remember? God I felt guilty about it for
months
.”

“Yeah, you’re not gifted in the ability to bend the truth, really.” She’d shaken her head, smiling. “What are you going to do, babe?”

“I don’t know,” I’d replied morosely. “I’ve got no money so I guess I’ll have to move back in with Mum and find a project manager job.”

Her face had suddenly lit up. “How about you join me? We could be personal stylists together! Wellington’s answer to
Trinny and Susannah.”

“Yes!” Without a second though
I’d literally leaped at the opportunity, right off my barstool and into the path of an unsuspecting waitress carrying a tray of drinks. Unfortunately I ended up wearing them, but I was too ecstatic to care.

You see I’ve loved fashion since I was ten years old and had teamed my Mum’s glittery platforms from the Seventies with a Union Jack crop top and a pair of cargos in loving homage to the Spice Girls.

A career change from IT project management - which isn’t exactly the height of glamour - into the world of fashion felt absolutely right.

I’ve got a million style ideas from my time in London Wellington is just screaming out for, so I did an evening course in personal styling.

Morgan came up with the name
Estil
, which she tells me is Catalan for style. Who knows why she chose Catalan, but as with all things Morgan does, it’s really chic and I love it.

Mum
’s voice brings me back to the present. “Such a shame things didn’t work out with that lovely fellow you were seeing. What was his name? Luke?”

Mum had met my ex-boyfriend, Luke just the once when she’d visited me in London last summer. We were an item for about a year, so I guess she was hoping marriage and grandchildren were imminent.

“Yes... Luke,” I reply quietly, feeling the fury his name evokes building in me like the steam in a kettle about to boil over.

“Luke, that’s right. Such a nice young man, and very successful too, wasn’t he? A banker, isn’t that right? Well, I suppose you had your reasons, dear.”

“Mmmm,” I reply, forcing myself not to react. “Thanks for the flowers, Mum, they’re beautiful.”

I’ve found the best approach with my mother is to ignore her comments, otherwise you can get yourself into conversations you just don’t want to have.

And anyway, I doubt she wants to hear Luke traded me in for another model seven months ago. Oh and there was
serious
overlap between me and the next girl.

One of my friends literally stumbled over the two of them in the stairwell of the Warrington pub in Maida Vale, snogging like their lives depended on it. When I confronted him about it he didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

He just put his hands up in surrender and said, “No contest. You got me.” It took all my strength not to slap the smarmy look off his face there and then.

Needless to say we were history from that day on. I’m guessing the facts probably wouldn’t fit w
ith Mum’s notion of Luke being, “such a nice young man”, however.

“
Now, before I forget, your father asked me to get you to call him. He and his wife have just come back from some retreat or something. You know your father.” She rolls her eyes.

“Will do, Mum.” I smile quietly to myself as I hang my winter coat in the closet. That certainly sounds like Dad. He's always off meditating or attempting some injury-provoking yoga pose on top of a mountain somewhere.

She glances at her watch and jumps a clear five centimetres off the ground.

“Heavens! I need to get back to the surgery. I’ve already taken nearly two hours for my lunch break today, thanks to the traffic to the airport and your late flight. What will Dr
Whitelock say?”

Mum works as a receptionist for a group of GPs about five minutes from home. She takes it very seriously and working for doctors makes her feel like she’s doing something important for humankind. It doesn’t pay much, but clearly enough to keep her in overdone décor.

“Sure. Thanks for coming to get me. I’ll just have a shower and unpack.”

“Nice to have you home, dear. See you tonight about six. Remember we’ve got Siena’s school musical tonight, so try to get a bit of sleep in this afternoon.”

And then she’s out the door and on her merry way, oddly humming as she goes. I’m left standing in my old bedroom, feeling dazed and desperately missing the carefree life I’ve just left behind on the other side of the world.

***

You can find
Styling Wellywood; A fashionable romantic comedy
here:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00K7MMIGU

A huge thank you to my beta reader and editor Julie Crengle, for whom the unlikely combination of the terms ‘wicked sense of humour’ and ‘pedantic’ were created.

About Kate O’Keeffe

Deciding long ago that feel good stories and happy endings shouldn’t be limited to just children’s books and fairy tales, I decided to create such worlds through my writing. Because life can just sometimes suck, can’t it?

I’ve loved chick lit and romantic comedies since I first encountered Bridget Jones as a young, impressionable writer. It really was a match made in chick lit heaven for me! I like to take on serious subject matter and wrap it up in warmth, wit, and humour.

I’ve been a teacher and a sales executive, but am now content as a mother, madly writing all the ideas I’ve accumulated during my time on this planet we call home.

I live and love in New Zealand, with my wonderful family and my two very scruffy, naughty dogs.

Styling Wellywood: A fashionable romantic comedy
is my first novel. I’m working on another, so watch this space…

I would love you to keep in touch!

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Or email me
at [email protected]