1
RUBY
This is my first wedding hairdressing job, and it’s a good one. Italy, no less. They paid for my flights, and I’m staying in the same hotel as the guests. My room doesn’t have a view, but it’s really nice, and breakfast was amazing. There was fresh orange juice, fruit, pancakes, and a load of delicious little pastries.
But maybe breakfast didn’t agree with the maid-of-honour, who’s looking a bit green as I pin diamantes into her hair.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I nudge her head to remind her to keep it straight for the fourth time.
“Mmm.” Amber nods but it sounds like a no.
The wedding is going to take place outside in the stunning gardens overlooking a lake, and the afternoon summer sunshine streams into the huge, light-filled bedroom in this villa, which is exclusively for the bridal party. The bride’s small, white curly dog, Al Poochino, or Alpi for short, is taking full advantage, lying belly up in a sunbeam, his ears out like miniature wings and his little balls on shameless display.
“He looks angelic now,” the bride laughed when the photographer said how cute he is. “But don’t let him fool you. He’s smart, and quick when he wants something. He stole his treat bag yesterday and ate every single one!”
There’s friendly chatter as everyone gets ready. They’re really down to earth given how loaded the family must be to afford all this. They slip into Italian occasionally, and have dark hair and tanned skin, so I think they’re of Italian descent, but their accents are English like mine.
“I might lie down for a minute,” Amber says, rubbing her chest and pressing her lips together.
“Let me cover your hair so it isn’t spoiled…” I search my supplies for a hair wrap. I’ve already done that for Daisy, the bridesmaid, because she wasn’t feeling well.
“Here!” Triumphant, I find a silky scarf at the bottom of a mainly empty plastic bag. “Now…”
I get the scarf over the crown of her head, covering the pins, and am deciding how to tuck it into place when Amber slaps her hand over her mouth and retches.
OH NO.
I grab the plastic bag, and shove it in front of Amber’s face just in time. She empties her stomach into the supermarket’s so-called “ready for anything” bag, and never has a plastic bag been more appropriately named.
There’s a cascade of concerned voices as everyone else in the room realises what’s happening.
“Amber!” exclaims the mother of the bride, a woman who doesn’t look old enough to have a daughter my age but laughed earlier about turning forty.
The bride, Francesca, gasps in horror and gets to her feet. “Are you okay?”
My boss backs away from where she was doing Francesca’s hair and bolts for the door with a muffled, “Phobia! Sorry!”
The photographer keeps taking photos. Amber stammers out an apology while Francesca, is next to her, concern on her face.
“Hey. It’s alright,” I say comfortingly. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.”
I hold the sick bag in one hand and Amber’s arm in the other, and we help Amber to the toilet.
Alpi barks, no doubt delighted for some excitement, and races over to us.
“No petting now,” I mutter to the dog, or possibly myself, when there’s a nudge at my hand. The next thing I know, the bag is snatched from my fingers, and there’s the thunder of triumphantly thieving paws.
I spin and find Alpi with the bag of bounced breakfast held delicately in his mouth, wagging his tail happily. I gape in horror, but the potential for the truly gross urges me into action and I grab for it. I’m way too slow for this dog.
“NO!” Francesca shouts.
Alpi dances backwards as Francesca lunges for him. Her “Bride” emblazoned white robe falls open, and she lets out a frustrated squawk as she misses Alpi and nearly trips over the waist tie that’s dragging on the floor.
Letting out a muffled bark around his disgusting trophy, Alpi play-bows, putting his head down and sticking his white furry bum in the air.
“Here!” Francesca insists, trying to regain her composure.
Alpi wags his tail and gives the bag a shake.
