Wedding Bubbles: A romantic comedy (Wellywood Series Book 1) by Kate O'Keeffe

So here I am, sitting at the ‘top table’ along with the rest of the bridal party. The beautiful bride and her handsome groom, the Best Man and groomsman, and my fellow bridesmaid are all looking appropriately regal and serene.
    As for me? Well, there’s an outside chance that I’m not quite living up to their example.
    Despite my very best efforts the room insists on spinning around like a toppled Ferris Wheel. It’s not exactly fun.
    I shake my head in an attempt to stop it. It doesn’t work. Unsurprisingly.
    Eventually I close my eyes and have a shot at Zen-like breathing as a last resort. But the room just keeps on whirling around, this time in my head.
    How does it do that?
    With a sinking feeling I realise that there may be a teensy chance that I’ve had a bit too much to drink.
    Just maybe.
    In my defence I got off a long haul flight to New Zealand from the other side of the world a mere forty-eight hours ago. So perhaps it could be the jetlag? I mean it’s completely plausible that my body still thinks it’s on Greenwich Mean Time. I should be just about to face the day with my first caffeine fix in hand – most certainly not sitting in a bridesmaid’s dress a size too small for me, having drunk virtually my entire body weight in champagne.
    P erhaps my circadian rhythms are just bit confused?
    But then again the empty bottle lying next to my upturned glass keeps glaring at me accusingly, as if to say, “You drank all of me almost before anyone had the chance to say ‘ to the bride and groom’ .”
    So o n further reflection perhaps it might very well be the alcohol.
    Too bad I have to deliver my maid of honour speech once Laura’s new husband, Kyle, finishes his.
    Now where are my speech notes, exactly?
    I’m back in my hometown of Wellington against my better judgment. Although I’d left here and vowed never to return, Laura’s one of my best friends and she made me promise on my Prada handbag that I’d be here for her wedding. Although the handbag was only a cheap knock-off from China, I was true to my word.
    I guess matters haven’ t exactly been helped by overhearing my mother in the church earlier. She was complaining to another wedding guest about what a dreadful daughter she had.
    “You see, Jessica’s my only child,” she’d whined to a middle-aged woman dressed in a bright green Twenties-inspired dress and white hat ensemble. From a distance she looked like a green Magic Marker.
    “Oh,” Green Magic Marker replied, crinkling her forehead in sympathy, the hat bobbing up and down.
    Harrumph , I’d thought. It’s hardly my fault my parents decided not to have any more kids after they’d had me. They reached the pinnacle of reproductive success and decided to stop. That’s what my dad always said to me, anyway.
    “Yes, and she doesn’t appear to even have a boyfriend let alone be on the verge of walking down the aisle,” my darling mother continued.
    “Oh, Cynthia,” Green Magic Marker cooed in compassion.
    “There she is. She’s one of the bridesmaids,” my mother stated, sounding thoroughly defeated.
    Like I’d chosen not to have a boyfriend just to spite her. For the many reasons not to have a boyfriend, annoying my mother is pretty far down the list.
    They both turned to look in my direction. I was with the bridal party outside the church in the brilliant summer sunshine, the official photographer bouncing around us, roaring instructions.
    “Oh, but she’s gorgeous!” Green Magic Marker had exclaimed in surprise.
    “No, not that one. That’s Morgan. The other one,” my mother had explained and I’d felt myself recoil into my dress in mortification, like a turtle into its shell.
    “Try putting your shoulders back a bit. Chin up,” the officious photographer barked at me.
    Too scared of the ramifications of not doing so I followed his commands. But, like a possum caught in the headlights I was unable to tear myself away from witnessing my mother’s