Page 2 of The Teacher

There’s an emergency with the bride.

And I am the one to fix it.

“What’s happened? What’s wrong?” I ask her.

I don’t even have to judge the severity of the problem; the bridesmaid’s face matches the dark red color of her dress enough to make me immediately understand that this is a CODE RED situation. The kind of situation you need the Maid of Honor for, the kind of situation that calls for the bride’s best friend and best friend only.

Other bridesmaids be damned.

It’s a real WEDDING DAY EMERGENCY, and I’m now thrust into the middle of it.

All I do is disappear for one minute to get some chilled champagne and suddenly all hell breaks loose.

Typical. I guess this is the life of a Maid of Honor on her best friend’s wedding day. It’s what I’ve signed up for.

“There’s no time to explain,” the tomato-colored bridesmaid - I think her name is Tiffany - splutters at me from the doorway of the hotel room. “We need to go to her. Now.”

The last and only time I met this particular bridesmaid, at the hen party, I was in a pretty intoxicated state. I currently don’t have the full confidence, or enough memory of our first meeting, to definitively call her Tiffany. Instead, I nod my head at her like a military commander and follow maybe-Tiffany out the room and into the hotel hallway, bringing along the freezing cold champagne bottle with me. I have a feeling that this emergency situation potentially requires the medicinal properties of bubbly wine.

And I’m not wrong.

We burst into the suite at the end of the hotel hallway, and a horrific scene presents itself to us. A whole gaggle of bridesmaids surround the bride, fanning and fussing around her like a pack of chickens. I don’t know any of them - don’t even get me started on how messy the hen party was. They’re all American friends of the American bride, flown into Australia for the hen party and for today. Their loud voices and American accents flood the room in a cacophony of noise. I can’t even see the bride through the sea of dresses flapping around like waves, but I can pick out she’s sitting down on the hotel floor, her white dress spraying around her on the carpet.

It’s worse than a scene out of a Vietnam war movie.

A bloodbath.

I know instantly that it’s my responsibility, as Maid of Honor and, more importantly, best friend of the bride, to take full control of the situation and to restore order to the wedding universe. I take in a deep breath and shout.

“Everybody, out!”

The whole room falls silent. All eyes turn to me. I am unmoved. They need to go. I know another lungful of air, and another shout is needed.

“Now!”

They shuffle out of the room, recognizing the chain of command means that I am the one with all the power.

Good.

I’m treating this like a full-blown military operation. Forget a Vietnam war movie, this is my best friend’s wedding. It’s more intricate and delicate than planning the Allied invasion of France.

The room fully clears of the swarm of American bridesmaids, meaning I can finally breathe again. Relief.

Now to fix this problem.

I carefully walk over to the bride and sit on the hotel floor next to her, placing the bottle of champagne next to me like it’s my most prized possession. I turn to the deflated bride and smile.

“Hey, Ripley. Now, what’s wrong?” I ask. “Why have you gotten all those bridesmaids’ knickers in a twist?”

My best friend, Ripley, looks back at me with her big doe eyes. Her wavy brown hair falls perfectly on her shoulders. Her pale skin glows, even in the hotel’s trashy lighting. God, she’s so beautiful. I can see why my younger brother fell in love with her. “I’m just so confused, Sandy,” she says softly to me.

“What about?”

“This.” She gestures around at the hotel suite. The place is a mess. Glasses, makeup, bags lay scattered around like it’s a bombsite. I take it all in.

Yeah, what was I saying about Vietnam?

“Everyone has doubts on their wedding day,” I say, trying to avoid looking at the mess around us for too long.