Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2016

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. HarperCollinsPublishers, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Nathalia Buttface and the Totally Embarrassing Bridesmaid Disaster Text copyright © Nigel Smith, 2016 Illustrations © Sarah Horne, 2016

Nigel Smith and Sarah Horne assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780008167097

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008167103

Version: 2016-02-15

To Michèle, for pretending I’m not as embarrassing as Dad.

And thank you to Ruth, for the awesome idea, the amazing editing and the annoying nagging about finishing the flipping book.

NS

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Read more from Nathalia Buttface

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“Dad, I’m not coming out of the changing rooms and I’m not even joking and this wedding is utter pants and I hardly even know my lame cousin and bridesmaids are all rank and I LOOK TOTALLY STUPID and anyway I’m not doing it,” said Nat.

Ever so loudly.

Dad looked at the sour-faced lady who ran DREAM BRIDES LTD – a hot and cramped little dress shop above a newsagents on the high street. He gave her what he hoped was a charming smile. She wasn’t charmed one little bit. Her face, which was stony to begin with, hardened to granite.

“She doesn’t have to shout,” said the lady, who was called Dolly Crumble and who was almost lost among the sickly pink and curdled cream and violently violet fluffy, frilly frocks that filled her little boutique.

“That’s not shouting,” said Dad, whose voice was muffled by some kind of purple velvet thing that was apparently a really important bit of a bridesmaid outfit and seemed to be attacking him. “When she was a baby and was hungry or had wet herself, THEN she shouted. You should have heard it.”

“Shuddup, Dad,” shouted Nat from the changing room. Billowing pink material surrounded her. It looked like she was being consumed by a possessed blancmange.

Dad didn’t shuddup.

“When baby Nathalia started yelling in the car, people thought a fire engine was going past. It was great – everyone else on the road got out of the way. I lost count of how many cars drove into lamp posts.”

“Nobody cares, Dad,” shouted Nat.

“Are you ready to come out yet?” asked Dolly Crumble. “Only you’ve been in there twenty minutes and this is the SIXTH Perfect Fairy Princess dress you have tried on.”

“That’s because they’re all horrible,” wailed Nat. “They all look like vomit.”

“Such language,” said the dressmaker, glaring at Dad as if he was to blame. “I hope she’s going to be a better behaved young lady on the big day.” She sniffed in a superior way and hoisted up her enormous bosom.

“A wedding is the most precious day in any woman’s life. It is, you might say, the best moment of her entire life.”

“Rubbish,” said Nat. “There’s tons of things better than a soppy wedding. There’s getting to number one in the charts or winning Celebrity All-Star Cook-Off or climbing Mount Everest or getting an Oscar or a Nobel Prize or an Olympic medal or going into space or—”

“Yes, well, not many girls will do those things,” interrupted Dolly Crumble, “but all girls can get married.”

“If everyone can do it, that doesn’t make it very special then, does it?” argued Nat. There was a stony silence, like a big, gaping dark hole. Dad jumped into it. With both feet.

“Tell us about YOUR wedding day,” he said. “If I’ve learned one thing in the last few weeks it’s how much women like to talk about weddings. They really REALLY like to talk about weddings.”

Nat thought she heard a rather strained tone in Dad’s voice but as she was still being swallowed by the evil dress, she couldn’t be sure.

The silence got EVEN worse.

“I have not had the pleasure of the bridal day,” hissed the dressmaker. “Well, I had the pleasure of the DAY – the lovely church, the beautiful flowers, the glorious dress, the expectant relatives. What I did NOT have was the pleasure of Derek Sponge, my intended, turning up. No, he decided NOT to marry me, but to run off to Torquay to open a Bed and Breakfast with Sally Bucket, my next door neighbour.”

“Oops,” said Dad, stepping back. “You ready Nat?” he shouted. “We should be off soon.”

“And so I vowed to make every other woman’s day at the altar absolutely perfect, NO MATTER WHAT,” said the jilted bride, “and whatever the bride wants, she gets. And this bride has left strict instructions that her six bridesmaids are to be six Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaids.”

Angry little bits of spittle had gathered around MISS Crumble’s top lip.

“And if it takes me all day to turn a turnip into a Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaid, then so be it!”

With that she whipped open the changing room door and Nat popped out like a cork from a bottle of pink fizzy pop.

Miss Crumble picked up Nat and dusted her off.

“You’re as beautiful as I can make you,” she said. “Possibly as beautiful as ANYONE could make you.”

“Thanks,” snarled Nat.

Dad pushed the smothering purple material from his eyes. “Let’s have a proper look at you,” he said.

“This is my biggest and best Perfect Fairy Princess outfit. I call her the Esmerelda, the Flower Fairy Princess. Isn’t she beautiful?” said the dressmaker, proudly.

“No, she’s horrible,” said Nat, miserably, “and I’m going to have to walk around in it ALL DAY including at the party afterwards when everyone else is in party clothes and having fun and being all cool. I’m going to look like a cross between Tinkerbell, a stick of candy floss and a sneeze.”

Which is literally what she looked like.

Dad pushed the bit of purple material into his mouth for some reason. “No, it’s all right actually,” he said, squeakily.

Nat eyed him suspiciously.

His shoulders were shaking.

“Are you LAUGHING at me?” said Nat, furiously. “You are, I can tell, don’t lie to me.”

“It’s nice to see you in a dress,” coughed Dad in a strangled kind of way, “even a dress with big pink flowery wings.”

“What even is this on my head?” snarled Nat. “It’s got my hair all tangled up.” Her long blonde hair was wrapped around some kind of pink fluffy crown. She tugged at it, but it was stuck fast.

“It’s a tiara. All Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaids have to have tiaras, it’s the law,” said Miss Crumble, advancing towards Nat with a box full of sharp dress pins.

“What law?” snapped Nat.

“Fairyland law. Everyone knows that. Now, stand still and let me take it in. You haven’t got a shape really, have you?”

“Dad, stop her talking about me like this,” said Nat, “she’ll make me sad.”

“She’s a professional,” said Dad. “She’s just got her…er… own dressmaking language.”

“Ow, she jabbed me on purpose,” yelped Nat.

“Of course I didn’t,” fibbed Miss Crumble.

Eventually, after much prodding and pushing and pinning and yelping, Dolly Crumble was satisfied and Nat and Dad were free to leave. Five minutes later they were sitting in the burger place opposite. Actually, Dad was sitting, Nat was hovering. Her bum was now a pincushion and it was too painful to sit.

Nat slurped her pop fiercely. So fiercely, in fact, that bubbles came out of her nose and made her even crosser. “Why have I got to be one of Tiffannee’s stupid bridesmaids anyway, I hardly know her,” she growled.

Dad sighed the sigh of a dad who has answered the same question six thousand times. Which was a bit unfair to Nat as he’d only been asked that question FIVE thousand times.

“You DO know Tiffannee. She’s a close relative when you look at our family tree from a distance,” he said.

“If you look at family trees at enough of a distance, it looks like EVERYONE’s related,” said Nat, who had done evolution at school that term. “Everyone except Darius Bagley, who was made in a lab. By mistake.”

Darius was not only the naughtiest boy in the history of schools ever, he was also Nat’s best friend for reasons so old and complicated Nat couldn’t even remember.

“But you are properly related to Tiff,” said Dad. “She’s the daughter of my cousin Raymonde. Auntie Daphne’s son.”

“Is she a proper Auntie or just one of those old women I have to call auntie even though they’re not? The ones with hairy faces and a smell of cat wee?”

“Auntie Daphne is Bad News Nan’s sister,” explained Dad, patiently, “and you know Raymonde because he lives in Texas these days and always sends you baseball caps for Christmas.”

“Oh yeah I like him,” said Nat, who liked baseball caps.

“Tiffannee’s his daughter, which makes her your, er, your, um—” Dad’s eyes glazed over, “it makes her your relation anyway. Let’s say cousin.”

“I don’t know why she can’t get married in Texas,” grumbled Nat, “we could all go there and eat cheeseburgers and get a tan and drive round in big cars.”

“Tiffannee was born here, most of her relatives are here, and she says she’s always dreamed of a perfect English wedding.”

“I flipping well know THAT,” said Nat, “it’s all I’ve heard for months, Tiffannee’s perfect wedding.”

“I was pretty honoured to be asked to organise it,” said Dad.

Nat snorted.

“I haven’t really got the time,” fibbed Dad, who always had loads of time, “but Raymonde’s stuck out there in Texas working for that big oil company and, well, you can’t say no to family.”

Nat snorted again. “Tiffannee asked MUM to help organise her wedding, not you. No one would ask you to organise anything, not even a sock drawer. You write Christmas cracker jokes for a living and you don’t even get those done in time.”

Nat stamped her feet in silent fury as Dad just chuckled and dripped tomato sauce over his shirt. “I did do something useful actually,” he said. “I got you promoted to THIRD ASSISTANT Bridesmaid. Cool, eh?”

“Brilliant, thanks,” grumbled Nat sarcastically as they clambered into Dad’s rubbish old campervan, the Atomic Dustbin. The Dog licked Nat’s face, as if to say he understood her fairy princess pain. As they drove off in the familiar cloud of black engine smoke, Nat’s brain was working overtime.

I’m not doing it, she thought. I don’t care how I get out of it, but I’m not doing it. I just need a plan…

At home there was no escape from the wedding horror.

The kitchen table – and indeed most of the house – was covered in silly wedding magazines. They were stuffed with glossy photos of daft looking, super-skinny, soppy brides pouting smugly on beaches, or draped over park benches, like they were homeless.

“Do you think if we spoke to Tiffannee she might change her mind about fairy princesses and have a less ridiculous wedding?” asked Mum, as she sat in the kitchen, listening to Nat’s woes.

“She seems pretty set on fairies,” said Dad. “She wants a Fairytale Wedding, and so fairies are important.”

“And no one says no to a bride, apparently,” muttered Mum with half an eye on her mobile phone, “even one who demands really mad things.”

Nat snorted. “Who even likes fairy princesses? It’s like that lame school play we did last term.”

Nat had played keyboards in the school orchestra for their production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d thought it was totally pants and soppy and it had only been enjoyable at all because Darius had jammed the smoke machine full on and the fire brigade had had to be called out.

A horrible thought struck Nat and she gasped.

“You took pictures of that play,” she said, “and you sent them to all the family! OMG, Dad, it’s YOUR FAULT. You’ve given Tiffannee the stupid idea to have a stupid fairy wedding. Which makes you – stupid.”

Mum crossed her arms and looked at Dad, a small smile playing around her mouth. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, “your father is a buffoon sometimes.”

Dad looked guilty. Nat wanted to strangle him.

“Still, I suppose we should be grateful Dad didn’t send her pictures of The Wizard of Oz,” said Mum, “or she’d be making the bridesmaids into munchkins.”

“And Dad would be the scarecrow,” said Nat, “the one without a brain.”

“Cooee! Only me,” said Bad News Nan, bustling into the kitchen with two enormous carrier bags. “Ooh, I’m starving. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

Mum slipped quietly out of the kitchen as Bad News Nan plonked herself down and took a packet of biscuits out of a bag.

“I’ll have to have them dry as no one’s offered me a cup of tea yet,” she said, taking her false teeth from her pocket and popping them in her mouth.

“Nan, can you help me get out of being a stupid Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaid?” said Nat, making tea.

“Certainly not,” said Bad News Nan, “you can’t back out of being a bridesmaid, oooh the very thought. If your auntie Daphne was dead she’d turn in her grave.”

Nat thought she heard Mum giggling in the living room.

“We’d never hear the end of it, you letting the family down. Your uncle Cuthbert let the family down and it killed him.”

“Mum, Uncle Cuthbert lived to be a hundred and six,” said Dad, “he was the oldest Bumole in history.”

“And the wrinkliest,” shouted Mum from the living room.

“I tell you it killed him stone dead,” said Bad News Nan, living up to her nickname. “He promised to save that big tinned Christmas pudding for everyone – but he couldn’t wait, could he? Boiled it up on Christmas Eve, forgot to put a hole in the tin and BOOM! Only person ever to be killed by a flying plum pud.”

“Yeah, since you put it that way, you’ve got a point, Nan,” sniggered Nat squeakily.

For some reason, even though Bad News Nan only ever knew horrible, miserable, doom-laden, awful news, she always cheered Nat up. Maybe it was because her nan enjoyed the bad news so much.

“Plus another thing,” Bad News Nan droned on, “your auntie Daphne won’t stop talking about what a big shot Raymonde is, over in America. Multi-billionaire she says he is, just cause he bought her a caravan at Camber Sands. So you, young lady, are not going to show us up.”

Nat sighed.

“Besides,” Nan continued, from behind a shower of biscuit crumbs, “you should think yourself lucky you’re going to a wedding at all. All I ever get invited to is funerals.”

“You like funerals,” said Dad. “You even go to funerals of people you’ve never met.”

“I like to keep up,” said BNN, “they give me ideas for mine. And there’s always a good spread afterwards. There was half a side of ham left over at Doreen Wilmore’s wake last week. It just fit in my shopping bag. Kept me in sandwiches for days,” she added, smacking her lips.

Mum popped her head around the door. “Gotta dash,” she said. “I promised to run Tiffannee to the Castle where she’s having the reception. There’s some kind of issue over the buffet. It might even be a crisis.”

“Castle?” said BNN. “Castle, oooh that is posh. Ideas above her station, people will say. Not me, of course. But it is a bit flash.”

“It’s the Castle Court Hotel and Country Golf Club,” said Dad patiently. “You know this, you’ve got an invite. After the church, we’re going there to have lunch, and then there’s a band and disco.”

“And fairy princesses,” growled Nat. “Let’s not forget the fairy princesses.”

“I got my wedding outfit from the charity shop today,” said Bad News Nan, taking a huge, bright green dress out of a shopper. She stood up and pulled it on over her clothes.

“What do you think?” she said. “As it’s supposed to be a fairytale wedding, I was going for a ‘Queen of the May’ look.”

Queen of the Swamp, more like, thought Nat. Bad News Nan looked like a massive lump of snot, wrapped in pond slime.

“It’s different,” said Dad, stuffing a hanky in his mouth for some reason.

“Oh please, Daddy, is there any way I can get out of being a Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaid?” pleaded Nat in her best – in other words, most pathetic – voice.

“Well,” said soft Dad, wilting like Superman in a Kryptonite onesie, “not really, love. Oh stop making that face.”

“It’s Tiffannee’s big day,” said Bad News Nan, “and brides get what they want. Not like funerals. You’re at the mercy of the living. I’ve asked for six black horses and a Viking longboat but your dad won’t organise it, I know.”

Sniff, went Nat.

“If you didn’t do it, it would be bad luck and might cause family upsets for years to come,” said Dad, trying not to look at her.

Sniff, went Nat. Big fake tears plopped on to her jeans as she fixed her doleful eyes on Dad, who hid behind Nan.

“People get written out of wills,” said Dad.

“You might get an oil well one day,” said Bad News Nan, “his mum got a caravan, remember?”

“You’d like an oil well, wouldn’t you?” said Dad.

“Don’t care, not worth it,” wailed Nat, plonking herself down in misery and chucking six copies of PERFECT BRIDE MAGAZINE on the floor.

Nat was sure Dad was weakening when her dramatics were rudely interrupted by the doorbell, followed by a young woman’s voice shouting shrilly, “Ding dong wedding bells!”

It was blushing bride-to-be Tiffannee, with her usual – and annoying – greeting.

“Do you remember, before she moved to Texas and decided to become American, how she used to be called Rosie?” Nat whispered to Bad News Nan.

“Course,” said Bad News Nan, “Rosie Lee Jones. She was a pudgy little thing with brown frizzy hair and teeth like wonky tombstones.”

“She was also a lot nicer though,” said Nat, quietly.

The woman that now greeted them was NOTHING like the old Rosie.

Tiffannee was stick-thin and nut-brown, with bright blonde hair and bright blue eyes and a perfect, dazzling, super-white smile. Her pastel yellow summer dress was short and stylish and wrinkle-free. She rushed to hug Nat but stopped just as she got there.

“Don’t want to wrinkle the dress!” she said. “Air kiss, air kiss!”

She smoothed her dress out, just in case the air had wrinkled it.

“It’s one of Diana De Milano’s,” she said proudly.

“Have you borrowed it off her?” said Nat.

“She’s a very famous designer,” said Tiffannee, laughing. “She’s doing my fairytale wedding gown too, don’t you remember?”

Nat didn’t remember, because she didn’t care.

While Tiffannee went off to talk to Mum, Nat turned angrily to Dad. “I’m telling her I’m not doing it and you can’t stop me. I’m not gonna be in a bazillion family photos dressed like a ridiculous fairy princess with MASSIVE butterfly wings and a spangly tiara. I look like something even hobbits would make fun of.

Suddenly Mum dashed back in. “I just need my purse then we’re off,” she said. Nat stood up.

“This bridesmaid thing—” began Nat, summoning up her courage to say she wasn’t going to do it, no way no how, no ifs or buts.

“Oh yes, I forgot to tell you, good news – Tiffannee’s arranged for all her bridesmaids to go to a spa tomorrow!” said Mum.

“Spa?” said Nat.

“Yes,” said Tiffannee, coming back in, “that really a-maze-balls one that was in the paper. I want you all to get pampered and massaged and made-up and everything. The works, treat yourselves. It’s my little thank you to my fairy princesses.”

Nat paused.

“I’m so jealous,” said Mum. “It’s supposed to be a wonderful spa.”

Nat paused a bit more.

“Now, what were you saying about the bridesmaids?” said Dad.

“Nothing important,” said Nat.

“I think it was,” said Dad, helpfully.

“Shuddup, Dad,” said Nat firmly, “it definitely wasn’t important.”

I’ll get out of being a bridesmaid tomorrow, thought Evil Nat, who was always lurking somewhere in a grubby corner of Nathalia’s brain. AFTER the a-maze-balls spa…

The next day was a lovely spring day, sunny and warm. Nat hopped cheerily on to the minibus that was to take her and Tiffannee’s five other bridesmaids to the FABULOUS YOU! spa.

Nice one, Nat, she thought to herself. She walked smugly down to the end of the bus where the other five bridesmaids were waiting.

Like Tiffannee, the other bridesmaids were about ten years older than Nat. It was exciting to get to hang out with grown-ups. Even better, as Nat walked towards them, she could hear the other girls already hating on someone. Nat was looking forward to hearing all the wedding gossip while hopefully getting sparkly nail varnish on her toes.

“…little miss perfect, the pet fairy,” said the Chief Bridesmaid, who was called Daisy Wetwipe. She had a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder and a sharp nose that pointed upwards.

Oooh, thought Nat, girls are so mean! I wonder who they’ve got it in for. At least for once it can’t be me as they don’t even know me. This is waaay better than school.

“I should have been Third Assistant Bridesmaid,” said a girl with scraped back blonde hair called Tilly Saddle. Her hair was so tightly yanked back it pulled her eyelids up into a look of permanent shock.

“Yes, you should. Or me, at any rate. And now she’s taken that place, which should have been either me or you,” sniffed Erin Granule, who had a little moustache.

“She’s trying to climb the bridesmaid ladder,” said Annie Chicken, who exhibited a nose stud which looked like a fat spot.

“You’re in danger now of course, ’cos you’re Second Assistant Bridesmaid,” said Daisy to a girl called Bella Drench, who had black frizzy hair piled up like a loo brush, and had shaved her eyebrows and drawn them back on.

“Yes, she’ll be after your place next.”

“Not if we get her first,” whispered Bella, her eyes flicking darkly in Nat’s direction as she sat down next to them.

“Hi, I’m Nat, who we hating on?” said Nat, a little nervously.

Five pairs of bridesmaid eyes glinted angrily at her.

That would be me then, thought Nat, sliding down into her seat, it IS just like school, after all.

After a tense and embarrassing journey, with Nat catching regular unpleasant whispers behind her, the minibus at last pulled into a wide gravel drive that cut through beautiful green lawns.

They parked alongside a large number of big shiny cars in front of a huge old house. The house reminded Nat of a Victorian school. Or perhaps a Victorian prison, she suddenly thought, as she saw a bunch of people in grey tracksuits being marched up a hill and made to do press-ups.

That doesn’t look very relaxing, thought Nat. Then she noticed a big sign.

The full name of the spa was:

FABULOUS YOU! SPA, WELLNESS AND FITNESS… FOREVER.

Underneath, someone had painted the words:

OR ELSE.

Which alarmed Nat a little.

The bridesmaids were greeted at the front door by a trim woman in a blue tunic with thin lips and a clipboard. She had one of those tight smiles that people who don’t enjoy smiling have.

Her plastic name badge read:

Gertie Catflap.

“Welcome to your super fun-packed luxury spa day,” said Ms Catflap, handing each of the girls a form.

“Sign this, it means we’re not responsible if anything happens to you during a treatment.”

As they signed, she said: “The changing rooms are on the left. Please get into your swimming costumes. Quick as you like now, you don’t want to miss a fun-packed minute. Go, hurry.”

Her smile got tired about halfway through, so by the time she said ‘fun-packed’ it looked like she was sending them all down for a ten stretch in the clink. Nat didn’t want to think about what Ms Catflap would do to anyone who DIDN’T have a super fun-packed time.

None of the other bridesmaids spoke to Nat in the changing rooms.

Be like that, Nat thought. I’ll just have a day of pampering on my own. See if I care.

She put on her bathing cossie and wrapped a fluffy spa robe around herself. She wished Penny Posnitch was here to enjoy it with her. She smiled and thought how much fun she’d have telling her friend all about her super fun-packed luxury spa day at school tomorrow.

Obviously she wouldn’t bother telling her friend Darius about it, because his idea of a super fun-packed day would probably involve tactical nuclear weaponry and a big red button.

The first treatment was in a large, brick-lined room, built around a massive mud bath. Gentle music was piped in from somewhere. The lighting was soft. The mud, however, smelled like farts.

Actually Darius WOULD like this, thought Nat.

The girls clambered into the big tub filled with the warm, gloopy mud. Close up, the mud smelt of perfume that didn’t QUITE mask the smell of rotten eggs.

Nat sank into the muck with a big, ploppy, trumpety noise.

“Hey, it wasn’t me,” she said, as the other bridesmaids pulled faces.

“Now ladies, you must wear shower caps,” said Gertie Catflap, popping her head round the door. “If this mud gets in your hair it’ll never come out,” she said, before disappearing again.

But just as Nat reached for a plastic cap, she felt someone’s leg slide sneakily around the back of hers…

And give it a deliberate, hard yank.

Before she could even yell, Nat was tipped right over and landed with a squelch, face-first in the sticky, stinky mud.

“Blech, you flup glupp cowpig,” Nat coughed, coming up for air. “You did that on purpose. Who was it?”

The other bridesmaids just laughed nastily and pretended to look innocent.

“It’s very slippy in here, little girl,” said Second Assistant Bridesmaid Bella Drench, who Nat reckoned had definitely done it.

“It’s dangerous, getting pampered,” said Tilly Saddle smugly.

“You might be better off sitting back in the minibus with some crisps and a fizzy drink,” simpered Erin, who had a tiny fleck of mud stuck on the end of a moustache hair.

“Nothing too greasy though… ” said Annie Chicken, nose stud quivering meanly.

“No, she doesn’t want to get MORE spots, does she?” cackled Daisy, as the others all joined in the laughter.

Not for the first time in her life, Nat wished Darius was lurking nearby. He might be a tiny evil ninja of doom, but he was HER tiny evil ninja of doom, and that’s just what this rotten lot needs, thought Nat, pulling lumps of sour-smelling mud from her hair and spitting great gobs of it back into the bath.

“Ew,” said the bridesmaids.

“Shuddup,” said Nat, in her best Darius/evil ninja of doom voice.

“Hardly perfect Third Assistant Fairy Princess Bridesmaid behaviour,” said Daisy, sharply.

“I don’t care,” snarled Nat. “I never wanted to be Third Assistant Fairy Princess Bridesmaid anyway…” she began.

“I told you!” said Daisy, looking at the others. “She wants to be Second Assistant Fairy Princess Bridesmaid.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Nat.

“No, she wants to be Chief Fairy Princess Bridesmaid!” said Tilly Saddle, gasping in horror.

“You’re bonkers,” said Nat, “and more than that, you’re all a bunch of—”

“OK girls,” interrupted Gertie Catflap as she burst back into the room, “time to get showered off. Follow me.”

Nat and the other bridesmaids were led to a small shower room decorated all over with blue and white shiny, tiny tiles. But instead of the usual shower nozzles on the walls, there was just one great big hose.

“This is a high-pressure hose,” said Gertie Catflap, “to help get all that sticky mud off. It is quite powerful though, so you do have to be careful. Do you want me to hose you down, or would it be more super-fun to do it yourselves?”

“Oooh let us, we just love super fun, don’t we girls?” said Daisy, grabbing the hose.

“No, can you do it?” said Nat, who didn’t like Daisy’s tone.

“All right, you can do it,” said Gertie Catflap not hearing Nat, “but do be careful, it’s very high pressure. Don’t go mad!” She closed the tiled door behind her.

“Of course,” said Daisy Wetwipe. “I’m not mad…”

She grinned at Nat.

“I’m furious,” she whispered.

“I’m actually quite clean,” said Nat, scraping bits of drying mud off herself as she tried to make a break for the door but discovered her knees were locked together with gloop.

Daisy was way too fast. Nat was backed against the wall as the Chief Bridesmaid pointed the hose at her and the other girls gathered round on all sides, hemming her in. With an evil grin, Daisy began to turn the big metal wheel with ‘WATER PRESSURE’ written on it, twisting it right round to:

FULL POWER – ONLY TO BE USED BY EXPERIENCED STAFF.

The other bridesmaids snickered as Nat looked frantically around the small room, trying to escape. But there was nowhere to hide.

“Enjoy your shower, you little creep,” said Daisy, and pressed the ON switch.

For a long moment nothing happened except a horrid gurgling noise, deep in the pipes. The hose trembled as the pressure built up.

“I’m gonna spray you to kingdom come,” cackled Daisy, gripping the hose tightly with both hands.

And then the water shot out like a rocket.

Now, Nat had done rockets at school, and Darius liked building them, so she was a bit less surprised than Daisy by what happened next. Instead of the water lifting Nat off her feet and shooting her across the shower room, the OPPOSITE happened.

“Aaaargh! Help!” squealed Daisy, as she was hurled into the air by the power of the water, shooting out of the wildly bucking hose.

“Waaaah!” she screamed as she was shot around the room in a big circle, sliding across the walls, like one of those motorbike riders on the wall of death at the circus.

“Let go!” shouted Bella.

“I can’t! I’m too scared!” shouted Daisy, the pressure lifting her six feet off the ground. “Turn it off, turn it off!”

She was now whizzing around at the top of the room, and gathering speed all the time.

“The wheel’s jammed!” squealed Annie Chicken, frantically trying to turn it off.

“You’re turning it the wrong way!” shouted Tilly.

“Now it IS stuck!” squealed Bella. “You absolute idiot – blaaaagh!”

The last noise was because she got hit, smack-bang in the mouth, by the water.

“I’m drowning!” shrieked Bella.

“If you were drowning, you couldn’t speak,” cackled Nat, dodging the watery jet. She was quite enjoying herself now.

Suddenly, Bella’s loo-brush hair shot off in a big black frizzy mass. She shrieked even louder. “My hair extension! That cost me a fortune. Someone grab it before it goes down the drain…”

All hell broke loose. Two bridesmaids tried to grab the flying Daisy, Annie struggled with the wheel and Bella scrabbled after her disappearing hair, which slithered towards the drain like a big soggy spider getting flushed down the loo.

Nat realised that all the spray had sloshed her clean as a whistle and she could move again. She saw her chance and dashed for the exit.

She slipped through and slammed it behind her in relief.

“Everything all right?” said Gertie, who had come over to check on the faint wails and squeals that were coming from behind the door.

“Very all right,” said Nat.

“Are you sure? I thought I heard screaming and the words: ‘HELP, HELP, I’m going to die’.”

“Oh, you know us bridesmaids,” said Nat. “We do like to scream. It’s all the excitement, waiting for the big day.”

Just then, the door burst open and Bella came hurtling through it, gripping her sodden, ruined hair extensions. She skidded on the floor like a rocket-powered fish and lay, panting, at Nat’s feet.

“You… you…” said Bella, pointing at Nat and coughing up water. “You are responsible…”

“For all the fun and good bridesmaid times? Too kind,” said Nat. She grabbed a nearby towel and began to help dry Bella off, making very sure she shoved the towel in her face, really firmly.

“You’re wiping my eyebrows off you little— mumph,” said Bella, but her words were muffled by the fluffy towel.

“Lovely spa you’ve got,” shouted Nat to Gertie, rubbing even harder.

“Gerroff!” said Bella.

Behind them, the wailing slowed down and eventually stopped.

The Second Assistant Fairy Princess Bridesmaid, now with short hair and no eyebrows, grabbed the towel and flung it across the floor. “I give up,” she said, bursting into tears. “Take my place! I can’t win. You are a bridesmaid MONSTER.”

With that, she ran off to the changing rooms.

The door to the shower room opened once more. Nat felt the glares of Tiffannee’s remaining fairy princesses boring into her back like hot fairy knives.

The rest of the spa day was just as horrid. Nat tried to talk to the other bridesmaids and tell them she wasn’t ACTUALLY trying to nobble them all, but they refused to listen. In fact, they all kept their distance, jumping a mile every time she tried to say anything. They looked at her the way very tasty gazelles look at very hungry lions.

The only reason Nat didn’t get more upset about the horrid bridesmaids was that she was kept too busy to think much about them. The rest of the day wasn’t so much a relaxing pampering spa experience – with warm fluffy towels and hot oils and foot rubs and gentle eyebrow-shaping – as a terrifying boot camp of pain.

Instead of glittery toenail painting she got the EXTREME ZUMBA POWER HOUR which made every muscle ache. And instead of a gentle massage she got OLGA THE PUMMELER who found those muscles and pounded them into weeping submission. Then there was a JOG AND SWEAT DETOX session in a big damp plastic suit and finally she had to drink a huge glass of HEALTHY HELGA’S CLEAN IT OUT NOW! JUICE. And all under the silent evil glare of the other fairy princesses, who weren’t QUITE pummelled and sweaty and detoxed enough to forget to glare.

It was miserable. She was glad when it was all over and the minibus dropped her home again.

“I thought you’d gone to get de-stressed,” said Dad as she barged through the door and up to her room, “you look ten times worse!”

In school the next day, Nat told Penny Posnitch her latest troubles, recounting the spa story in full gory detail.

“That’s funny,” chuckled Penny, not very helpfully.

“That’s not helpful.”

“I suppose those bridesmaids do sound horrible, but I don’t see what your problem with fairies is,” said Penny.

“That’s because you LIKE fairies,” said Nat. “What did you hand in last week instead of your history homework?”

“Pictures of fairies,” said Penny, “but that’s better than Darius, who drew a picture of his—”

“I know exactly what he drew a picture of,” snapped Nat, “that’s why he’s been sitting in the corridor for every history lesson since.”

Nat sighed a big sigh. “How do I get out of this wedding?”

“My dad says there’s only one way to get out of a wedding,” said Penny.

“What is it, what is it?” said Nat, hope flaring briefly, like a flame in the darkness of her soul.

“If you were already invited to someone else’s wedding,” said Penny.

Nat sighed again. The tiny flame of hope had turned out to be a mega meteorite of doom.

What a daft thing to say, Nat thought. What are the chances of getting invited to someone else’s wedding on the same weekend at such short notice?

Suddenly, she smelt something damp and earthy. Then she felt a wriggling beside her and noticed Darius was sitting next to her, picking his nose and eating it.

“Were you doing sneaky listening, chimpy?” said Nat.

Darius just shrugged.

Nat thought he had that strange look on his face that meant one of two things. One, he could be thinking deeply. Or two, he was going to burp the alphabet. Both always ended badly.

She took a gamble and hoped that he was thinking the slightly less disgusting option.

“Get me out of this wedding,” she said. “I know you can. I’m the only person in the world who knows you’re actually a tiny evil genius and not just a chimp.”

“What do I get?” said Darius, looking across the school playground. The sky had darkened.

“I’ll owe you a favour,” said Nat, feeling like she was doing the sort of deal people warn you never to do.

“What sort of favour?” There was a clap of thunder and rainclouds gathered overhead.

“I dunno, whatever you want,” said Nat.

Lightning hit a church steeple over in the distance.

“Deal,” said Darius, spitting on his hands.

Nat took a deep breath and took his disgusting, squishy hand.

They shook on the deal.

Darius smiled an evil smile.

“So, what do I do?” asked Nat.

“OK, the first thing you have to do is pretend you REALLY wanna be a bridesmaid. Agree to anything the stupid bride wants you to do.”

“That’s bonkers.”

“Nah, it just means she won’t suspect anything when you DO get out of it.”

“Sneaky,” said Nat.

“I’ll also have to meet this Tiffannee,” said Darius, “see how tricky it’s gonna be.”

“Sure,” said Nat, “come round on Saturday.”

Darius smiled and offered her some earwax.

“I get bored with just bogeys,” he said.

Not for the first time, Nat wondered if Darius was a genius who pretended to be a chimp, or if it was the other way round.

Nat’s Saturday morning lie-in was broken by the sounds of clanging and banging and shouting from downstairs. She wandered crossly down to the kitchen to find Mum telling Dad off (the shouting) and Darius hunting for food in the pantry (all the other noises).

“There’s only three weeks to go to this wedding and you haven’t even ordered Tiffannee’s centrepieces,” said Mum. “You’re meant to be helping me, remember?!” Dad was looking at a list Mum had written for him with TO DO – URGENT on it. NOTHING was ticked off.

Except Mum. Mum was really ticked off.

“Two things in my defence,” said Dad, taking a nervous gulp of tea. “One is that I was a bit late on finishing off those Christmas cracker jokes, and had to do those first, and two…” he paused, “I don’t actually know what centrepieces ARE.”

Mum told Dad EXACTLY what they were in great detail and with some rude words chucked in too. Nat chuckled and jabbed Darius in the backside with a fork.

“Stop that,” she snapped, “you’re supposed to be working on a great plan to get me out of this. If your great plan is just to come round and stuff your fat face then our deal is off.”

He retreated out of the pantry with a loaf of bread and a pot of jam.

“Wedding bells, ding dong!” trilled Tiffannee, at the door.

She rushed into the kitchen, air-kissed Nat and then noticed grubby, twitchy Darius. He put his face out for an air kiss. Jammy splodges dripped off it. Tiffannee stepped back in alarm.

“You must be Darius. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said backing away. Nat thought her face seemed to say: Enough to keep well out of your way.

“He’s a bit sticky, but he’s generally harmless,” said Nat. She thought for a moment. “Well, he’s nowhere near as bad as everyone says.”

Then Tiffannee told them all – in full dull detail – about a row she’d had with her aunt. She was staying with Auntie Daphne until the wedding, but she was quite moany about her.

“She insists on bringing me TEA in bed every morning,” complained Tiffannee, “and I’ve told her, we drink COFFEE in Texas.”

Mum looked a bit disapproving.

“Of course then I realised I was being silly,” said Tiffannee.

Mum smiled.

“I mean, I CAN’T drink coffee, my teeth need to be super-white for my wedding,” the bride-to-be went on.

Mum frowned again. “Tiffannee,” she said, “I know you want things to be perfect, but you’re going to drive yourself doo-lally.”

Along with the rest of us, thought Nat.

Tiffannee looked at a big gold watch on her wrist and squealed: “OMG, we have to go. Hiram’s meeting us in town. Said he wants to see where I grew up.”

“I’m not sure she HAS grown up,” said Mum once Tiffannee had dashed off.

“Come on, Darius, get out of the pantry,” said Nat as they all trooped off, adding wickedly, “oh and please make sure you sit next to lovely Tiffannee in the car.”

Mum waved them all off at the door. She said that unfortunately she was “too busy with work” to come. But Nat caught a sneaky peek at her laptop, and there was definitely a movie on it, not a spreadsheet.

The lucky groom who was marrying their English rose was a Mr Hiram J Wartburger III. He was waiting for them in a busy café just off the shopping centre.

The Texan oilman was big and rectangular like an oak wardrobe. He had an enormous square chin and a bald spot bigger than Dad’s. He was wearing a bright, candy-stripe suit, which made him look like an oversized stick of rock.

He stood up when they came into the café and in a huge booming voice said: “Hey! Over here! Over here! Can you see me?”

“We can’t really miss you in that suit,” said Dad.

“Mighty pleased to meet you all,” said the man as they sat down. “Hiram’s my name, hire ’em and fire ’em, that’s mah game.”

He said that very loudly and very proudly.

“Sorry?” said Dad.

“What ah mean is, ah say I hire people, and then if they get uppity, ah fire them, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Now what do you think of that?”

“What do you mean by ‘uppity’?” asked Dad, scanning the plastic menu.

“Like asking too many questions,” said Hiram looking at Dad, then breaking into a huge grin which showed his enormous, bright white teeth, “that’s uppity. Like that one you just asked. You would now be fired! Yes, sir.”

Tiffannee giggled.

“Take no notice of the big lunk,” she said, “he’s all talk, he’s a total pussycat really.”

“Ah confess ah’m as nervous as a fire-eater on an oil rig, that’s for sure,” said Hiram, “I mean, meeting you folks and all, I want to make a good impression on mah new family.”

By now, customers in the café were turning round to see what the noise was. One elderly woman with blue hair tutted and her husband briefly looked up from his meat pie and said, “It’s all right, dear, I think he’s American.”

He said the word American in a kind of whisper, as if he was naming an embarrassing medical problem, like a bumrash that might be catching.

“Oooh, that explains it,” said the blue-haired old lady, “poor thing. I suppose they have to shout because their country is so big. Hard to hear each other, maybe.”

Nat felt herself growing more and more uncomfortable as Hiram told them how EVERYTHING was bigger, faster and better in Texas than anywhere in the world, especially “little old England”.

Tiffannee gave him peck after peck on the cheek – aaargh thought Nat, public display of affection urgh.

“Isn’t he AMAZING?” whispered Tiffannee to Nat eventually. “Isn’t he just the bee’s knees and the cat’s pyjamas rolled into one?”

“He certainly thinks so,” muttered Darius. Nat hid a giggle.

The waitress came over with a bacon sandwich for Hiram, who looked at it, and seemed confused. “Excuse me, miss,” he said loudly to the waitress, who was young and spotty and bored.

“Yeah, what?” she said.

“What do you… ah, say, what do you call this?”

“I call it a bacon sandwich. What do you call it, fish and chips?” said the waitress, who didn’t care for being shouted at.

Hiram raised his voice over the café’s steamy coffee machine to about the level of a jumbo jet engine and said: “Then may ah POLITELY ask, where is the bacon?”

The waitress lifted a bit of bread. “There,” she said, “it’s the stuff between this bit of bread and this bit of bread.”

She walked off to get his coffee.

I hope you haven’t ordered a frothy coffee, thought Nat, it might be a bit frothier than you would like.

“One flob-accinno coming up,” said Darius, guessing what Nat was thinking.

“In Texas, when we ask for a bacon sandwich we get half a pig between two loaves!” yelled Mr Wartburger III. Everyone in the cafe was now looking at them. Nat moved her chair away and looked at a picture on the wall, trying to pretend he was nothing to do with her.

“Everything’s bigger in Texas,” said Darius.

“That’s right,” said Hiram.

“Like the cars.”

“Massive, yup.”

“And houses.”

“Huge, you got it.”

“And people’s heads.”

“Definitely,” said Hiram, “They’re very big.”

“And their mouths?”

“That’s right, we got great big mouths, and they’re bigger than anyone else’s mouths, and don’t you forget it, sonny boy.”

By now the whole café was laughing.

Hiram stopped and frowned.

“Hey…” he said, glaring at Darius, but Darius had put on his best blank expression, the one Nat knew he used when he was pretending not to understand something in maths because he couldn’t be bothered to do it.

And then… Hiram threw back his head and burst into the loudest – and most embarrassing – laugh Nat had ever heard. “Ha ha ha. That’s good, that’s real good, you got me,” he said crying tears of laughter and shaking his head.

Afterwards, they walked around town, with Tiffannee pointing out some of her favourite places; the cinema, the swimming baths, the nail bar. According to Hiram, everything was ‘cute’ and ‘adorable’ just like his ‘hunny bunny’. Nat started feeling a bit sick.

So she wasn’t keen when Hiram insisted on taking everyone to “one of those quaint old tea rooms” next because he’d heard so much about them.

“They’re on every street corner in England, right?” said Hiram, over the noise of the traffic. “The ones with the thatched roofs, roses up the wall, little old ladies on bicycles with big pots of tea and muffins and cucumber sandwiches, am I right?”

Nat looked around at the street. There was a mini-mart and a tattoo parlour, a 24-hour locksmiths, a cab office and a charity shop.

“We might have to go into the countryside,” said Dad, “for the whole thatched roof thing.”

“OK, let’s walk to the countryside. It can’t be far, your whole island is tiny.”

Even Tiffannee looked embarrassed now.

“Well, might be easier if we drive,” said Dad, who liked to help. “Hop in the Atomic Dustbin, we’ll find somewhere.”

As Nat clambered in she hissed, “Just don’t go anywhere that you might want to go to again, ever.”

“Don’t be like that,” said Dad. “He’ll be family in three weeks,”

Nat groaned. She hadn’t thought it possible, but this wedding was getting WORSE by the second.

“How’s the brilliant plan coming on?” she hissed at Darius. He rubbed his stomach, which was as tight as a drum.

“Too full too think,” he burped, contentedly.

Yes, thought Nat, worse and worse.

A little later and the sun had come out and Dad had stumbled on a lovely tea room in the kind of perfect, rose-clad cottage that make Americans go weak at the knees.

“Lemme tell you about our vision for the wedding,” said Hiram J Loudmouth, as they sat in the little garden at the back of DINGLEY DELL TEA ROOMS AND COUNTRY FAYRE SHOPPE. He munched on an enormous slice of Victoria sponge, scattering crumbs as he spoke.

“Magical, fairytale, ye olde worlde, English, retro, vintage, countryside, historical, garden,” said Tiffannee, counting off the ‘buzz words’ on her fingers.

“It’s modern, but with a traditional twist,” agreed Hiram.

“Yes, yes, we know,” said Nat, “we’ve been organising it for you for ages now.”

“Yes, but I think we can do more,” he said. “Since I’ve been here, I’ve been stuffing myself with your culture.”

And cake, thought Nat, wiping crumbs off her top.

“You’ve got a church booked, you’ve got six Perfect Fairy Princesses…” began Dad.

“Five,” corrected Tiffannee, “one so-called friend has let me down and won’t even say why!”

That’ll be hair and eyebrow-less Bella then, thought Nat.

“You know, Tiffannee cried for two solid hours when she found out,” said Hiram. “The hurt that selfish woman has caused…”

“At least she wasn’t family,” breathed Tiffannee. “Can you imagine?”

I’m trying not to, thought Nat, wincing inwardly.

“…and then you’re going to that posh castle golf club hotel where there’s a lunch and then a band and a disco,” said Dad, carrying on. “And wedding centrepieces,” he added, quickly.

“OK so we got the basics,” said Hiram, “but where’s the maypole?”

Dunno where it is but I know where I’d like to put it, thought Nat.

“Erm…” said Dad.

“Maypole. We want old English, right? So we need morris dancers, a jack in the green, a troupe of mummers…”

“…some jugglers, clowns, folk singers, food vans, hog roast,” Tiffannee finished.

“Let me write all this down,” said Dad, confused. “Do you want these before or after the disco?”

An hour later Dad’s notebook was full and he looked frazzled.

“We’ll never get all this organised in time,” Nat said to Darius, when the pair of them went inside to order more tea. Darius looked thoughtful.

“Keep agreeing to do everything she wants. You have to look like you really REALLY want to go,” he said.

“It’ll make your excuse later look way more believable.”

“Yes, yes, but what’s my excuse gonna be?”

“One thing at a time,” said Darius, sticking his fingers in YE OLDE COUNTRY JAMME pots.

Nat had to listen to more wedding drivel all afternoon. She tried to look interested but probably failed. And then the loud American grabbed her and said: “You know, you’re very important to Tiffannee, Nathalia!”

“Why’s that?” said Nat.

“Tiffannee had a dream of six Fairy Princess Bridesmaids and you were chosen sixth. Which makes you top of the Fairy Princess Bridesmaid pyramid. The most important.”

“Or it makes me the last princess chosen which makes me bottom of the fairy princess pile. The LEAST important,” said Nat.

“Plus you’re family,” said Tiffannee, giving Nat a little squeeze, then smoothing out her dress. There it is again, thought Nat, that rotten word ‘family.’ Every time she tried to get out of anything recently, someone would say: ‘it’s for family’, as if that explained everything. It was driving her bananas.

“In fact, I have an announcement to make. Now Bella has deserted me, I want you to be… Second Assistant Bridesmaid!” said Tiffannee, grandly.

“Yay,” said Nat, not very grandly at all. She scowled at Darius.

“But we do have one teensy weensy problem,” said Tiffannee, “and we need your help.”

Nat was going to complain, but Darius nudged her and raised a crafty eyebrow.

Here goes with the evil plan, thought Nat. “OK,” she said. “Of course I’ll help. I’d love to help.”

“Is it about the entertainment?” said Dad excitedly.

“No,” said Hiram.

“I’ve had some genius ideas about that,” said Dad.

“It’s not about the entertainment,” said Tiffannee.

“Let me just tell you anyway,” burbled Dad.

Nat cringed. Dad was always keen to do the entertainment, anywhere and everywhere they went.

And it was always a total disaster. From school quiz nights ending in riots to birthday parties ending in casualty, from holidays that landed them in jail to discos that ended with her naked baby botty projected ten metres high, Dad was the WORST entertainer on the planet.

“Joke-a-oke!” said Dad. Everyone looked blank, “It’s like karaoke, but people stand up and tell great jokes from a screen, rather than sing rubbish songs.”

“Whose jokes?” said Tiffannee.

“My jokes,” said Dad.

“No,” said Hiram, Tiffannee and Nat together.

“OK, then how about I get my old college band back together, just for your wedding?” said Dad, hopefully. “King Ivor and the Hunnypots — we could do a great set for you, no problem.”

“Dad, no one liked your band when you were young and thin and had hair,” said Nat.

Dad just laughed.

“He can’t resist it,” said Nat, annoyed, “he’ll do anything to get attention, he’s worse than a bride.” She looked at Tiffannee. “No offence,” she added, quickly.

Darius said nothing, but Nat noticed he was looking at Dad with the weird expression that she knew meant he’d had an idea or else was about to armpit fart the national anthem.

“Back to me, people,” said Tiffannee, “you know, the bride?”

“We’re all ears,” said Dad.

Tiffannee looked pained. “It’s Uncle Ernie,” she said, “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Did you forget to invite him?” said Dad, “because it’s OK, he’s quite a distant relative, he won’t mind.”

“No, I did invite him, that’s the problem,” said Tiffannee, awkwardly.

Even super-confident Hiram looked uncomfortable. “It was MY fault,” he said, “I wanted Tiff to have the biggest and best wedding ever so I invited everyone she knew… without asking her.”

“Including Uncle Ernie,” said Tiffannee.

“What’s the problem?” said Nat. She thought Tiffannee looked embarrassed. That’s odd, she thought, it’s usually me looking embarrassed.

“She wants a PERFECT wedding, not the biggest,” said Hiram, “and she doesn’t think uncle Ernie is, well, the perfect guest.”

“He’s a long way from perfect,” said Tiffannee, though flushing red and looking a bit uncomfortable for saying it.

Nat was so shocked she couldn’t speak. She thought everyone in her family was used to having embarrassing relatives.

“Uncle Ernie is so weird-looking he’ll ruin the photos,” said Tiffannee, squirming a little, “and so full of wind he’ll ruin the magic and romance of the ceremony with trumpet noises and the smell of rotten eggs.”

“So?” said Nat.

Tiffannee’s eyes filled with tears. “So Daddy promised me a perfect wedding but he can’t be here right now to make it perfect. He’s still stuck in Texas because there’s this teeny-tiny oil spill and they’re saying it’s his fault.”

“An oil spill? Who put someone from Dad’s family in charge of an oil well?” said Nat, “you can’t trust a Bumolé with a wedding.”

The other customers in the tea room stopped chewing and started listening.

Nat cringed; she hated her embarrassing family surname – and all the terrible nicknames it had earned her – and hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But she carried on anyway.

“Dad can’t even be trusted with a tin opener. And on that note, have you seen him with a glue gun? Last time he tried to make a model aeroplane he glued a German dive-bomber to his nose and went to casualty.”

Dad chuckled. Nat glared at him.

“And you put the plane stickers all over your face. You had swastikas all over your forehead and no-one in the hospital would talk to you. Except that one man and he had some very odd ideas.”

Tiffannee’s lip wobbled. “At least your dad’s here,” she sobbed. “And your dad would make YOUR wedding day perfect.”

I doubt that very much indeed, thought Nat.

Hiram hugged Tiffannee, and Dad put an arm around her too.

“Watch the dress,” she sniffed, “it’s di Milano.”

“Sorry,” said Dad, taking his arm away.

“And you’re the closest thing to my dad I’ve got,” wailed Tiffannee, “which means you’re supposed to be my dad until my dad gets here.”

Dad couldn’t bear the sight of a crying woman. “What can I do?” he said, “you can’t un-invite Uncle Ernie, there’s a small chance you might look like a terrible person if you do.”

“I know,” she said, “that’s why she’s got to do it for me.” Tiffannee turned to Nat. “You’re so sweet and clever, you can let him down gently, I’m too upset to talk to him. And you’re my second assistant chief bridesmaid. AND you said you’d help.”

Nat’s mouth was open in disbelief. She looked at Darius, who had told her to agree to everything the bride wanted. He gave her a quick thumbs-up.

You’d better have a good plan brewing, she thought.

“I’d be very glad to help,” she heard herself say, “anything for you.”

“You’re a darling,” said Tiffannee, “thank you.”

“That’s settled then,” said Hiram. “Sorry y’all but you gotta fire ’im.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” complained Nat, standing outside Uncle Ernie’s front door later that afternoon. She looked around at his neat and tidy front garden, full of novelty gnomes, and wished she was somewhere else. “Uncle Ernie’s really nice. Everyone likes him. This is going to be horrible.”

But Darius had said she had to play along with Tiffannee’s wedding plans, even the barmy ones.

“He likes you,” said Dad. “You can help let him down gently.”

Dad rang the doorbell. Instead of a bong, it sang a happy little tune.

“Hello guests, you are welcome, hello guests,” trilled the doorbell, before what sounded like a choir of gnomes chimed in:

“HELLOOOOO GUESTS!”

“Coming!” shouted Uncle Ernie from inside. “I’m just painting Tiffannee and Hiram and my hands are sticky.”

“Are all our relatives a bit loopy, Dad?” asked Nat.

“Only on your nan’s side,” said Dad. After a minute the door opened and Uncle Ernie was standing there with a big beaming smile which very nearly covered his unusual face. It was round and jolly, like the moon. And like the moon, it was also grey and warty, like it had been battered by meteorites.

Lovely Uncle Ernie opened the door and gave Nat and Dad a huge welcoming hug before leading them in. There was a smell of fresh paint, and rotten eggs. Uncle Ernie burbled away, unaware of the doom hurtling towards him.

“Tea and cakes for everyone!” said Uncle Ernie. “Make yourself at home, my home is your home, as you know, I’ll just pop the kettle on.”

“Can’t stop long,” said Dad, “we just dropped by with some wedding news.”

“Dad – shush and look,” whispered Nat, tugging at his sleeve.

“Not now, I’ve got myself ready to drop the bombshell,” said Dad.

There was a ripping noise from the kitchen.

“Sorry, sprout and baked bean soup,” shouted Ernie, “I like to experiment.”

“I think Ernie’s dropping his own bombshells,” Dad went on, but Nat was too worried to find it funny, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from…

Dad raised his voice. “I reckon you’ll probably think this is good news, it’ll save you a lot of bother and free up a weekend for some fun. On balance. I think you’ll be relieved.”

“DAD!” insisted Nat. “Shuddup and look at that.”

She was pointing at something in the middle of the living room. Standing proud were two freshly painted, enormous, bride and groom gnomes!

“Oooh, do you like them?” said Uncle Ernie, returning and pointing at his wedding masterpiece. “They’re for Tiffannee and Hiram’s wedding.”

“I’d never have guessed,” said Nat. “I mean, you wouldn’t HAVE to give them to her for the wedding, there’s plenty of other uses for them, like, er, um, lemmee think…”

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