Celebrity Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A

sizes too big on the waist just so that I can get them over my hips and bum, and dresses that swamp my narrow shoulders so that they're big enough to cover my 34Es. These Hollywood types don't have such problems. Any large breasts they have were put there, not by Mother Nature, but by leading cosmetic surgeons.
    I bet they're all beautifully groomed too, with perfect nails and hair, and shoes that don't need mending and clothes that always look immaculate. I'd gamble big money on the fact that they don't wrap Sellotape around their stiletto heels when the plastic peels off, and I'd wager they don't own any earrings that are so cheap they leave horrid greeny-black marks on their ears. They all get their eyebrows done professionally, I bet, so they don't have a lopsided face with one brow ever so slightly longer and bushier than the other because they slipped with the razor one time when they'd left it too late to pluck. They're all perfect and I'm not . . . and yet, he's in love with me and I'm moving in there. Yeeeahhhhhhh . . .

Chapter 2
    'What are we going to do tonight, on your last night?' asks Mandy, fiddling with her baby-fine, long blonde hair. She's got lovely hair, has Mandy, but it doesn't suit her face. We're always trying to persuade her to get it cut shorter because it hangs down by the side of her ears, looking limp and lifeless. She's got a really round face (very pretty, but completely circular; the guys all call her 'moon face'). The style of her hair does nothing to compensate for this. I think she'd look great if she got it cut into a soft bob or something sexy, but she clings on to every last inch, refusing to go near the hairdresser's because Andy – that terrible grotty joke of a boyfriend – once told her it was her only nice feature.
    'Well?????' she says. 'What do you fancy doing? It's your last night. It has to be special.'
    I'm not sure about all this talk of my 'last night'. It sounds as if I've got the death penalty or something. 'I don't mind what we do,' I say, because I don't.
    'You know what I think we should do,' says Sophie, and there's something about the tone of her voice that makes it clear to all of us exactly what she's thinking.
    'Suga Daddys!'
    'It would be rude not to,' she continues. 'We certainly can't sit in here drinking this crap all evening; we'll be ill.'
    'Suga Daddys?' Mandy queries, alarm ringing through her high-pitched voice. 'But it's so tacky there.'
    'Er, yeees,' Sophie and I chorus. 'And?'
    You see the whole point of Suga Daddys is that it's tacky. That's the appeal of it. It's a nightclub cum naked dancing type place right next to our flat and it's a bloody disaster zone – a magnet for the area's low life . . . mainly men, so there's always lots of fighting, which is the worst part of it. The thing with us is that because we're a) girls and b) neighbours, we get well looked after. Jimmy Lapdance (his real name's Jimmy Lavance so, obviously, we've changed it to Jimmy Lapdance) is the guy who runs the place, and he's after an extension to his licence so he can sell food. (He came up with the surreal idea of offering 'free chicken wings' to women in order to attract them into the club. He's always trying to think of ways of getting more women into the place. I think maybe less fighting and fewer strippers would help, but he's convinced that chicken is the answer. Makes you wonder what sort of women he meets. Anyway, when he offered the free chicken, the council came down on him like a ton of bricks after complaints from neighbours, and he was told in no uncertain terms that he did not have the sort of licence that allowed him to cook chicken on the premises. We did laugh – he can have semi-naked girls cavorting around, and fights every night but chicken wings – no, no, no, no, no.) So, he needs the neighbours on his side when he goes for his licence extension, so whenever we go in there it's free drinks and a bouncer assigned to us for the entire night lest