Extra Time by Valerie O’Riordan

Seventeen minutes.

Nicola’s looking at the control-top pants that Graham had sent up with the hotel porter. Jen comes out of the walk-in wardrobe, dress borne high over outstretched arms.

“Mate,” she’s saying, “this is lush. Where’s yer veil?”

“Here, Jen,” says Nicola, “do yeh think I’m slack? Me belly, like.”

“Do I think yer wha’?”

“Slack. Yeh know. Fat.” She opens the dressing-gown, takes hold of her belly with both hands and pinches. “Graham says I’m gone flaccid.”

“Ah, God,” says Jen, “fuck Graham.” She lays the dress out on top of the duvet. “Lookit yer beadin’ here. Classic, tha’ is. He’ll die when he sees yeh come up the aisle. An’ him wi’ tha’ big baldy head.”

Nicola nods. She runs a finger along the layered white frills. Fourteen minutes. She picks up the bedside alarm clock and holds it to her lips. There’s a taste like picnic cutlery. Wet Sundays in a mouldy tent. Graham’s waders. The tick-tick-tick-tick jars like toothache.

Jen says, “Spit tha’ ou’, yeh mad bitch – the hotel does breakfast an’ all.”

Nicola says, clock-muffled, “We can’t – I’ll only be late.”

Jen tuts. “Has he sent yeh anorexic, now? Is tha’ it? It’s yer weddin’ mornin’, not the Last Supper. A quick bite a toast an’ we’ll be off.”

“It’s a ten minute drive, Jen. I can’t be late.”

“Give us tha’.” Jen inspects the clock. “Yer an hour out, yeh daft cow.”

“Wha’?”

“The clocks went back, didn’t they? Yeh’ve, whatsit, seventy-five minutes. Time for a game a hurlin’ and a cup a tea an’ all.”

“Are yeh serious?”

Jen looks at her with the hands on her hips. “I’ll tell yeh wha’, Nic – yer lucky yer gettin’ married. Even to him. Wha’ would yeh do on yer own? If I wasn’t here, yeh’d have only stood outside the church for an hour like a prize tool, thinkin’ he’d stood yeh up! Though he might, an’ all,” she adds. “A prick like tha’. Sorry, pet. But – yeh know.”

“Yeah,” says Nicola. “Haha. Imagine tha’.”

She stands up.

Jen says, “Here, now – where are yeh off to? I’ll call room service. Last time you’ll be getting’ breakfast in bed.”

“Yer a star, Jen,” says Nicola. “Yeh really are. An’ thanks. For everything. Just – get us the veil, will yeh? It’s in the bog, hangin’ up behind the door.”

Jen’s already moving. “Chief Bridesmaid, at yer service.”

“Lovely,” says Nicola. “Try it on if yeh like.” She’s moving, too. The dressing-gown drops and she pulls on yesterday’s tracksuit, t-shirt, hairband.

Jen says, out of sight, “Ah, God, Nic, this is pure gorgeous. He’ll hardly know yeh!”

Nicola says nothing. She double-knots laces and drops Graham’s ring in the hotel ashtray. The dress, headless, misses her exit. The corridor’s empty: the clock ticks loud in her fist.

Seventy-two.

She starts to run.