Wedding Belles Read Online Free Page A

young. Students are always trying to gate-crash our parties for the free drink. I’m sure you understand why I have to be cautious. I’m just doing my job.”
    “And I’m just doing mine,” Clover says. “Can we go in now?”
    “Yes, of course,” says the girl. “Up the stairs and to the right. And please accept my apology. If there is any way you could forget about the whole misunderstanding, I’d be very grateful.”
    Clover smiles. “Don’t worry, I don’t tell tales out of school. I’m not that kind of gal.” And holding her head high, she sashays past the girl. “Come on, troops, the canapés are calling.”
    “Love your work, Gaga.” Brains gives the girl a parting wink, then hooks Clover’s arm and starts belting out Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory,” his deep voice rebounding off the walls and filling the hall.
    As Brains predicted, the reception is deathly boring: tall, skinny models wafting around the room in slinky wedding dresses (they probably banned the meringue kind in case they got stuck in the doorways), women in expensive-looking wrap dresses pretending to talk to each other but really checking to see if there is anyone more interesting in the room over their “friend’s” shoulder. The canapés are spectacular, though. There are tiny poached eggs on toast (I nearly gag when Brains tells me they are quail eggs — after I’ve eaten at least three), smoked salmon blinis with tiny black dots of caviar (which I scrape off with my finger — no way am I eating fish eggs, even posh fish eggs), and my favorite — baked mini Camembert cheeses, still in their boxes, which come complete with bread sticks the size of my baby sister Evie’s fingers to dip into the warm, squidgy insides. On Clover’s instruction, I’m taking notes for Mum’s wedding, so I jot down, “Mini Camembert boxes with teeny-weeny bread sticks, but no quail eggs!” under “Canapé Ideas.”
    Meanwhile, Clover is working the room like a pro, chatting to the magazine editors, and making them all nod furiously and laugh out loud. I must remember to ask her what she’s talking about that is so funny. I do hear her say something about New York at one point. “That’s right, in New York. We’ll see what happens.” Maybe she’s chasing an interview with a big movie star over there. Maybe she’ll take me with her? While Clover is schmoozing, Brains and I mostly hang around, testing the canapés and talking only to each other.
    “These people sure know how to party,” Clover says, rejoining us. “Am I right or am I right? Hell of a shindig”— she lowers her voice —“if you’re an undertaker. I’m delighted to report that my work here is done. I’ve chatted to all the editors, soaked up some wedding-dress ideas for Sylvie, and picked up lots of advertising contacts. Let’s make like a banana and split. Dare you both to zombie-walk outta here.”
    Brains grins. “You’re on. Ghoulish girlies, let’s shake an undead leg.”
    Clover flicks her head to the side like one of the zombies in the Michael Jackson music video. It’s one of her favorites.
    Brains loves it too. He starts to sing “Thriller” softly under his breath and we all put our hands out in front of us and march toward the door, with widened eyes staring vacantly into space and stiff limbs. There a few raised eyebrows, tut-tuts, and shocked laughs, but we ignore them and continue dead-marching down the stairs. Outside, we dissolve into giggles.
    “How do you do that?” I ask Clover as we walk back toward the main entrance to the wedding fair, where the Cupids still stand waiting.
    “Do what? My splendorific, Oscar-winning zombie impression?”
    “No! Although it is impressive. Talking to those scary-looking adults. How do you know them all?”
    She shrugs. “I don’t.”
    “Really? You just went up to them and . . . said what, exactly?”
    “‘Hi, I’m Clover Wildgust from
Irish Bride
.’ Then they introduce themselves and I start