Chapter 1
This is not a traditional love story. This is a story about love, yes, but how to fall in love with your life and your true self, in your thirties. And maybe, hopefully, your future husband. What if someone asked you what you want – to quote the Spice Girls – what you really really want? Would you know the answer? To discover what makes you truly happy, a good place to start with is what makes you unhappy. When your best friend tells you she’s engaged and it fills you with dread instead of delight, perhaps there is something to unpack there. As someone who grew up with divorced parents who could barely tolerate looking at each other without having something snarky to say, I sought refuge at my best friend, Lola’s, house. She was my honorary family and we’ve been inseparable ever since. So, when she announced she was getting married, I wailed big snotty gulps like Kate Winslet’s character in that iconic scene in The Holiday, while attempting to say how pleased I was. I wondered if I’d have time to find the love of my life before her big day, and yet here we are on her hen weekend and I’m still chronically single.
'Make a wish!' The girls screech, as Lola blows out her candle.
'Careful, the wax is dripping on his balls.' Everyone cackles.
Perhaps I should explain. I’m Bobbie Carmichael, a (as I think I may have mentioned) single, thirty-year old, recently diagnosed ADHD-er from Brighton. I’m also an erotic candle maker and run my own brand: Wicks & Dicks. How does one get into that line of work, you may ask? It all started at university after watching too many episodes of Dragon’s Den under the glow of a Clean Cotton-scented Yankee Candle. I decided to browse Hobbycraft’s website – how hard can it be? It’s just melting wax, I thought, and with 10% off it’s worth a shot. (RIP student discount. God I miss those days, you just flashed your NUS card and bagged a bargain.) However, I discovered that it’s not that straightforward and the combination of chronic clumsiness and scalding liquids do not go hand in hand. There was a minor burn, plus a never-seen-again security deposit from halls of residence and I was left with a very wonky-looking lump. It wasn’t until a year later that someone took a shine to it at one of my house parties, when Lola was visiting for the weekend.
'Holy shit, I know him,' our guest slurred, spraying everyone nearby with eau de Corona.
'Know who?' Lola yelled over the pounding of Clean Bandit.
'That dick over there. I’d recognise it anywhere. I never forget a face, or a dick, especially one that’s been inside me.'
Lola and I followed a chipped red fingernail to the mantelpiece, where my work of art had pride of place.
'Oh my god! It does look like a dick. How have I not noticed? You could make a killing, Bobs. You could be like the Magic Mike of the candle world!'
And so, it began. A dozen YouTube tutorials later, plus a new, anatomically accurate, and much more aesthetically pleasing silicone mould, and I was the proud owner of an Etsy shop named wicks+d****s69.
We’ve spent the afternoon drowning in the echo of raucous laughter, tackling every hen party tradition imaginable: the obligatory Mr and Mrs quiz, the absurdity of trying to throw a ring onto an inflatable penis hat and bra pong, where you launch a ping-pong ball off a table, hoping it lands in one of the mismatched bras hanging on the wall. Cotton-candy pink garlands dangle playfully from every corner of the living room and shimmering sequined bunting catches the light from every angle. We’ve emptied the bar of wine, Prosecco and sugary cocktails. I’m usually more of a savoury girl, although I do have a sweet tooth, especially for chocolate. Wait, what was I saying? Right, the drinks! There have been copious pitchers of espresso martinis that never seem to empty, like an endless Mary Poppins jug of vodka. You know Mares, it turns out that a spoonful of Smirnoff really does help the medicine go down.
We’re staying in an extremely overpriced, although I will admit, absolutely stunning Airbnb. The pristine quartz marble kitchen, clearly designed for decorative purposes and not for an avid cook, gleams under a cluster of perfectly positioned pendant lights. The bar area is lit by a neon gin sign that catches the light like gemstones and of course, there’s a hot tub – steam and bubbles rising into the crisp evening air like an invitation to gossip and drink until your fingers become pruny. Upstairs, the master bedroom’s walk-in-wardrobe (which could swallow my entire flat twice over) has rows of glossy white shelves and rails and smells of lavender and snobbery.
There are four of us celebrating the bride-to-be’s last night of freedom. Well, technically it isn’t the last night, because who actually has their hen the night before their wedding these days? There’s Lola Marley – the life and soul of the party and my oldest friend – who’s getting married in just over a month. We met on the first day of secondary school and have been BFFs since, but more about that later. There’s Kat – Lola’s future sister-in-law – who was the first to arrive (after me, of course) and she can’t stop jumping up and down: I’m just so excited to have a sister, she loves to repeat. She’s a bubbly girl with an aqua bob and a collection of colourful tattoos documenting her recent travels to Thailand. Her constant joy should be infectious but I find it nauseating most of the time.
Lola’s uni friend, Lauren, was the last one to arrive at the hen, sporting a leopard-print tracksuit and big bouncy blow-dry that accentuated her full face of makeup. She air-kissed Lola, careful to turn her face at precisely the right angle for the inevitable Instagram story. She dragged three knock-off Vuitton suitcases along the marble-flint driveway, before clicking at me to lug them upstairs, as if she assumed I was the maid that came with the house.
Plus, there’s the dogs. I mean are you even a millennial if you don’t have a parade of pups in matching jumpers ready for their closeup? Bonnie – my one true love – is a white and apricot toy poodle. I’ve always been a cat person but for some reason I decided I wanted a dog and spent a whole week refreshing Gumtree until my perfect pooch appeared on my beaten up Chromebook screen. Before you scream ‘adopt, don’t shop’, I’d filled out hundreds of applications with animal charities but they didn’t seem to think I was a suitable candidate for a canine companion. Maybe it’s the whole dick candle thing, who knows? I drove for nearly three hours to pick Bonnie up from a dingy flat above a pizza shop – it’s a classic case of rags to riches: Bonnie has a bigger wardrobe and eats better than I do. Like a true crazy dog mama, we wear matching outfits – I bought heart printed pyjamas for us to wear at the hen do and a personalised ‘flower pup’ bandana, because Auntie Lola had to include her in the wedding party, of course. Bonnie’s an absolute angel, unlike Lauren’s yappy chihuahua that bares her pearly whites anytime you look at her.
'Bobs, come dance with me!' Lola drapes a fuchsia feather boa around my neck.
'In these heels?' I splutter pink fluff onto the now not-so-pristine white and beige checkerboard floor.
Lola continues to shimmy along to Megan Trainor, belting out ‘Yeah I made you look’ into her makeshift wine bottle microphone.
'Yeah girl, you did make him look and he put a ring on it!' Kat shrieks.
'I bet you would look good in a Versace dress, Lols. Is your gown designer?' Lauren pipes up.
'Ha, as if. All the money’s gone on the bloody venue and those extortionate caterers. I’m telling you if people don’t eat every single bloody mouthful on their plates, I’m going to lose it. I mean, I’ll be inhaling canapés after doing this fucking juice cleanse. Well 30% juice and 70% vodka at this point,' Lola replies, laughing.
I hate that Lola is doing the classic pre-wedding juice cleanse. She’s got a fantastic figure and she’s one of those who can eat what she wants and still fit into her size 8 Topshop Joni jeans circa 2012. Her flawless mocha skin is framed by her perfect, bouncy dark curls that never seem to get frizzy, unlike my strawberry blonde mane, which is not designed to come into contact with water.
Later that evening, Lola and I get ready in one of the five bathrooms. I run a comb through my sweat-tinged fringe as Lola rummages through her suitcase.
'Bobs, I haven’t got anything to wear tonight,' Lola whines, kneeling amid an explosion of fabric on the floor. Her fingers dart from a black mini dress to a floral halterneck, touching each briefly before discarding them with a dramatic sigh. 'I ordered loads so I could return anything I didn’t wear when I got home, but I’m not feeling any of these dresses.' This is typical Lola – she always has a million clothes and yet nothing to wear. Just like last year during our girls’ trip to Barcelona, and her cousin’s wedding, and our first double date with the Sanders twins. Every time we go through this exact charade until Lola somehow ends up ‘borrowing’ something of mine.
'What are you wearing? Did you bring your silver jumpsuit?' Lola lifts her eyebrows and flashes me a big grin. 'You know how much I love that jumpsuit,' she adds, flinging her dresses on the roll top bath tub.
'Yes, I did bring it and was planning on wearing it myself, but clearly you’re in dire need.' I rummage on the floordrobe to see which heels Lola has with her and pick up a pair of vintage black Louboutin pumps. 'Um, excuse me. They’re mine! I’ve been looking for them for months. Little Miss Thief!' I yelp. I’d searched everywhere in my bloody flat for those pumps.
'Oh shit, I forgot I’d brought them. They may have accidentally jumped into my handbag one day when I was at yours. I thought you said they were a bit too big for you anyway,' she replies, holding them up high in the air like an offering to the fashion goddesses.
'Lola! They are a bit big but as long as I don’t have to walk very far, they’re fine.' I scold my friend, grabbing the shoes and hugging them close to my body. 'I’ve missed you little babies, but don’t worry the nasty lady isn’t keeping you,' I whisper, rocking the red-soled treasures in my arms.
'You’re such a weirdo, Bobs,' she laughs before snatching them back. 'I wouldn’t want you to break an ankle, so for your own health and safety, I think it’s best if I have them. Besides, they look great with the silver jumpsuit,' she sings.
'Fine, you can wear the jumpsuit, and the shoes, but you’re not keeping either of them,' I sigh, searching in her makeup bag for the good red lippy. ' I’d spent weeks hunting for the perfect jumpsuit: one that would make me feel confident, desirable,
maybe even a girl someone would notice across a crowded room. I finally found it – a 1980s lurex disco piece – from an online vintage auction. But watching Lola's face light up as she admired herself in the mirror, I caved and gave up my prized possession. That's the problem with being friends with someone who attracts the limelight, sometimes you have to cast yourself in shadow just to let them shine. ‘I'm borrowing this,’ I announce, waving her lipstick like a tiny victory flag.
'Thanks, you’re the best. Love you!' She skips off and I follow her into my room where she’s already sliding her supermodel legs into the metallic number.
'We need to get a wriggle on, dinner will be ready soon,' she says, smoothing the collar of the jumpsuit. 'How do Monica and Rachel look, hun?' She asks, adjusting her push-up bra. We came up with the nickname for her boobs as teenagers bingeing the VHS box set of our all-time favourite sitcom.
'They’re looking Central Perk-y,' I reply.
'Fab, let’s go downstairs.'
***
The swanky Airbnb comes with an equally swanky private chef. I had a quick scroll on Instagram and his feed boasts he’s had the pleasure of cooking in many celebrity kitchens over the years, including none other than Victoria Beckham…’s dermatologist…’s second cousin. So, with credentials like that we’re clearly in for a treat tonight. Lols thought it was a bit pretentious and such a cliche hen activity, but when in Rome eh, or five miles East of the M5. Chef Leo is prancing around the kitchen as Lola and I come down the stairs. Garlic and tomato fill the air and it’s like being a little girl in my grandmother’s cottage, helping her make lasagna.
'Hmm, it smells delicious.' Lola inhales.
'Ah, signora. Dinner will be served very shortly. I have sourced the most exquisite vongole for such a special occasion. It’s truly bellissima, mwah,' Leo’s Italian imitation booms as he chef’s kisses the air.
'Wow, that sounds great. And what about the veggie option?' Lola asks, glancing at me.
I’ve been vegetarian for nearly fifteen years and was thrilled when Lola decided to join me after watching Seaspiracy on Netflix. ‘Oh my God, Bobs, those poor little tunas! I swear I’m never eating fish again,’ she pledged over Facetime while emptying her cupboards of John West tins. Fast-forward two months and I watched her stuff her face with a Filet-O-Fish in a McDonald’s drive-thru. ‘I tried hun but I need the brain food. You know, all of those omegas.’
'Veggie? Ah yes, we have vegetables: tomatoes, and olives with the bruschetta.' The chef brings me back to the present.
'Um, no, sorry I mean the vegetarian main course? We did ask for a veggie option. My best friend here, Bobbie, doesn’t eat meat,' Lola says.
'Oh there is no meat, Signora! Just fresh seafood, locally sourced from my incredible supplier!' he exclaims, waving his wooden spoon.
'Yeah, I don’t eat that either. No animals, meat or fish,' I interject.
'Mamma Mia!' he gasps, hands clasped over his mouth.
Chef Leo’s improv skills deserve an award.
'It’s ok. I’ll just eat lots of bread and I think I saw some crisps in the pantry,' I sigh.
'No, no! I will hear nothing of the sort. Nobody shall say the great Leonardo cannot cater for his clients. I’ll whip up a quick dish. You veggie girl.' He jabs a biro in my direction. 'I need aubergines and some more tomatoes. There’s a Tesco Express around the corner. It’s no deli but it will do.' A scribbled napkin and ten-pound note are shoved into my hand.
'Oh and some parm-i-giaaana,' he elongates the word.
'Actually, that’s also not vegetarian,' I whisper.
'Fine, well get some sodding cheddar then,' he mutters in a cockney accent.
Inside the local Tesco, I pause under the harsh fluorescent lights. The image of Lola twirling in my jumpsuit pops into my mind. Meanwhile, here I am running errands for a fake Italian chef. I should have felt depressed or self-loathing yet unexpectedly something resembling determination bubbled up inside me.
Yes, I’m thirty, single and pay the bills by selling penis-shaped candles. However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from crafting phallic wax sculptures, it’s that sometimes the most interesting shapes emerge from the most unexpected moulds.
I sashay into the kitchen – armed with aubergines, tomatoes and cheese. They’re hardly the ingredients for the perfect life, but perhaps the start of an interesting evening, especially after seeing Kat usher a turbaned woman in a purple moon-print dress through the back door.
