her parents have been so unkind as to give her that name? She always claimed it was because her mum was a fan of Doris Day, but it seemed like for once in her impeccably toned and manicured life, Doris’s mum had made a major faux pas. Not that Doris seemed to mind. She’d inherited the happy-go-lucky nature of her screen namesake, and took que sera, sera as her motto. And because she was just so bloody wonderful and fabulous, no one ever seemed to even tease her about her name. Now if it had been me…
I turned the invitation over in my hands. Should I go? It seemed to me that Doris was offering me another chance. Typical of her generosity that. And I didn’t deserve it. I felt my stomach twist with guilt and shame as I remembered how I’d treated her last time we’d met.
‘Hey Caz.’ Dorrie had turned up on my doorstep un expectedly one day five years previously, just before Beth’s wedding.
‘Hi,’ I said. I was conscious that I looked unkempt, my normally short, slicked-back black hair – styled on Trinity from The Matrix – a tangled mess, whereas Dorrie, as ever, was done up to the nines, immaculate in a flowery vintage dress, black suede boots and a fabulous leather jacket.
‘Are you OK? You look a bit rough.’ Instantly Dorrie thought about me. I should have been more gracious, but I’d had a rough night in A & E with Mum. None of the girls ever knew about the humiliation of those trips to casualty, and I was too ashamed to tell them.
‘I’m fine,’ I said sharply, and saw Dorrie flinch.
‘Can I come in?’
‘I suppose,’ I said, but I didn’t really want her there, I wanted to curl up and hide from the world.
‘I just wanted to see if there’s a way we can sort all this out,’ Dorrie said as she followed me into the lounge. I knew I should be offering her a drink, but I’d never felt less hospitable.
‘All what out?’ It came out belligerently. I knew what was coming and moreover I knew Dorrie was right. I had caused a rift in the Fab Four and it was up to me to put it right.
‘Oh Caz, this business with you and Beth and her wedding,’ said Dorrie. ‘Can’t you make up with her? She really does want you to be her bridesmaid.’
‘So why isn’t she here asking me?’ I demanded.
‘She doesn’t know I’m here,’ admitted Dorrie. ‘Look, I’m sure I don’t know who’s right and who’s wrong here—’
‘Too right you don’t,’ I said. ‘Just leave it, Dorrie, you don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Please don’t be like that,’ Dorrie said. ‘I know I can’t properly understand—’
‘You have no idea,’ I said. ‘It’s all right for you, with your perfect life and perfect family.’
‘If you must know, that’s not true,’ said Dorrie. ‘I’ve got problems you know nothing about.’
‘What, Little Miss Perfect has a problem? What could possibly go wrong for you?’ I knew I was being unfair, and my guilt and anger were misdirected, but as usual my mouth engaged before my brain had – the words were out before I could stop them.
Dorrie looked as if I had smacked her. ‘Sarah was right,’ she said. ‘She told me you wouldn’t listen.’
‘So you’ve cooked this up with Sarah?’ I said. ‘I might have known. I know you mean well, Dorrie, but I think you’d better go.’
‘I wouldn’t stay another minute,’ said Dorrie. She picked up her huge Gucci handbag, and got up and left the room. When she got to the door, she said sadly, ‘You’re not the only one with troubles you know.’
I didn’t stop to ask her what she meant and let her go. It was only much later that I found out how ill her dad was. I’d always loved Dorrie’s dad, who’d been so kind to me growing up. I tried to make amends, but Dorrie never returned my calls. I’ve felt guilty ever since. But now it seemed like Dorrie had forgiven me.
But what of the others? Could Beth and Sarah ever forgive me for what I’d done to them? We grew up in a culture that taught us that redemption is always possible. But I liked to think I lived in the real world and was realistic enough to know that it didn’t happen as often as our teachers told us. Besides. You need to earn redemption. To gain forgiveness, you need to be truly, truly sorry. And even now there’s a self-destructive bit of me which isn’t sure that I am…
The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport and I took a deep breath. Well, here I was. Finally. It had taken all my courage to come – I’d been tempted by a job in Greece where a famous model was attempting a comeback shoot for M&S. It would have been a great job. Glamorous. In the sun all day, and time in the evenings for some unwinding and Greek dancing in the local tavernas. But Charlie persuaded me to go to France. Charlie was my favourite photographer on the circuit. Down-to-earth and easy-going, he had the most amazing ability to tease the best out of the subjects he shot. Working with Charlie was always a breeze. And he was fun to socialize with too. Not since that mad moment in Las Vegas that we’d ever been anything other than friends, mind. He was firmly hitched to his live-in girlfriend and, attractive as I found him, I wasn’t about to go upsetting any apple carts. I’d learnt my lesson too well last time.
I emerged blinking from the airport into the pale March Paris sunshine. I always loved coming to Paris, but it was the café culture, museums and walks along the Seine which were the usual attraction for me. Without Dorrie’s invite, I doubt I’d ever have visited Disneyland Paris, but here I was on a train out of Gare du Nord, bound for Mickey Mouseville. Doris was the only person who could have ever persuaded me to come. And I still wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing.
The shuttle service to Marne la Vallée proved surprisingly quick, and I had barely time to get my head together and think what on earth I was going to say to everyone when suddenly there I was being deposited in front of Woody’s Cowboy Ranch. Toy Story being Dorrie’s favourite Disney film, she’d insisted we stay here. Despite my nerves I couldn’t help but smile as Woody greeted me at the door. I could just imagine how delighted Dorrie must have been when she arrived.
My smile was only temporary though. My heart plunged to my boots as I made my way to the reception desk. Suddenly I was eight years old again, being invited for the first time to Dorrie’s mansion. It had felt like such a privilege, and yet in the self-destructive way I have, I’d pretty much blown the chance of making the most of the opportunities being friends with Dorrie and the others had afforded me. I didn’t even know if they’d want to see me again, let alone forgive me. Knowing Dorrie, I bet she hadn’t told them I was coming.
I checked in at the desk, my nerves making a mash of my schoolgirl French. The unsmiling receptionist responded in perfect English with a look of such sneery disdain and I wanted the ground to swallow me up whole. Giving up on any attempt to speak her language, I said, ‘I’m meeting friends; a Doris Bradley?’
‘Ah oui, Mademoiselle Bradley is next door to you. I will let her know you have arrived.’
I took my bags and made my way to the third floor, shaking like a leaf. Suppose I ended up ruining Dorrie’s big weekend? This had been a dreadful mistake. I was wrong to come.
I found my room, next to Dorrie’s. I swallowed hard. Should I dump my bags, freshen up and then go and say hi? Or should I bite the bullet and go straight for it?
The door to room 327 flung wide open, and there in the flesh for the first time in five years stood Dorrie. Larger than life, as ever. Welcoming me in a massive hug. I felt my worries disappear instantly. Dorrie had a way of doing that. It was her special talent.
‘Caz! You came! I’m so pleased. Come right in.’ I’d forgotten how overpowering she could be. She propelled me into the middle of a massive room. I had a moment to take in the double bed, the cowboy-hat-shaped lampshades, the bridles and saddles decorating the walls,