One Winter Weekend

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

P atricia rubbed her damp hair with a towel, a scowl on her face.

“Dear God,” she complained, “what is this made of, sandpaper?”

James lay on the bed, scanning through Italian broadcasts on the TV. “How was the water pressure, dear?”

“Awful,” she frowned. “And the bathroom has some kind of… odd fragrance.”

“I think they call that ‘soap,’ darling.”

“This really is intolerable, James,” Patricia replied, exasperation in her eyes. “I understood that this hotel would be acceptable to our standards.”

James shook his head. “The concierge chap assured me that they’re going to get this taken care of, my dear,” he told her. “For now, we’ll just have to… make do. Though I agree this bedlinen does seem quite garish.”

Next door, Molly and Caroline opened the bottle of wine that had been delivered to their room a few minutes before.

Molly took a long, deep sip while Caroline kicked off her shoes and put her feet up. “This really isn’t so bad, is it?” she asked her.

“It’s not,” Molly agreed, gazing out the window at the Roman rooftops below. “But I really wanted a suite.”

“Oh come on, Mol,” Caroline chuckled. “When in Rome - isn’t what they say?”

Her friend sighed and sipped her wine. “Is it so wrong to just want this to be perfect?” she asked after a long pause.

“Every bride wants her wedding to be perfect,” Caroline said soothingly. “But it very rarely happens that nothing goes wrong.”

“It just worries me, a little that’s all. Like, is this how my life with Ben is going to start?”

“You mean, in one of the romantic cities in the world at Christmastime?” Molly took a large swig of her wine. “Nasty.”

“Ah, you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Caroline nodded – but she smiled teasingly.

“Of course I know what you mean. In your head you’re been planning this perfect Italian wedding for most of your life. But you are putting too much pressure on yourself. At the end of a wedding day, is just a day – no matter where it is. It’s going to be brilliant of course, but don’t put too much emphasis on it.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Molly countered, finishing her wine, “seeing as the closest you’ve come to getting married was when we were four and you and Raggedy Andy were an item—”

She stopped short, realising what she’d just said. She looked over to Caroline, who stared at her, the slight tremor on her friend’s lips making it that clear Molly had hurt her.

“Oh, God, Caroline,” she began, “I – I don’t know – I’m so sorry. That was literally the nastiest thing I could’ve said to you. What is going on with me?”

“It’s fine,” Caroline said softly.

“No, it’s really not,” Molly continued. “I’m really – ”

“I know, Mol,” Caroline said, a half-smile on her face. “Besides, maybe I’ll meet a gorgeous, bronzed Italian while I’m here.”

“Like Fabrizio?” she teased.

“Ew,” Caroline replied, horrified. “He’s so…”

“Charming? Handsome? Dreamy ?”

“…cheesy, I was going to say,” Caroline concluded. “The guy is every bad stereotype of every movie set in Italy ever.” She finished off her own wine and poured another glass. “Why can’t life just be like Pretty Woman ?” she asked.

Molly looked at her quizzically. “You want to be a prostitute with a weirdly expressive mouth?” she asked, giggling.

“Okay, right, not Pretty Woman – the other one – Runaway Bride? ”

“ Not the best comparison,” Molly said, dissolving in a fit of laughter. Then she sighed and reached for her friend, enveloping her in a tight embrace. “You know I love you, don’t you?” she said. “And that I’m proud beyond belief that you’re going to be bridesmaid.”

“Enough of the Hollywood smaltz,” Caroline berated but she was smiling. “Now, drink up. We have a lot of work to do before we meet up again with Fabio this evening.”

“Fabrizio,” Molly corrected. “ Fabio is the dude on the cover of romance novels.”

“Same difference,” her friend grinned.