Gemma tries it on: 'I need to get my pasty-white, chubby body into a bridesmaid's dress'

Dare to bear: Miranda Kerr at the Instyle awards (Getty Images)

The trouble with having friends is that sometimes you have to do things that you don't want to do. At the tender age of 27, I was due to be a bridesmaid for one of my best friends, but she put the wedding on hold. Totally fine by me, but I swore blind I didn't want to be an 'old' bridesmaid and 30 was my cut-off age. Wrinkles and poofy dresses don't gel in my opinion.

Now that milestone has been and gone I thought I was safe, but after a near-miss in the summer (another friend, thankfully, scaled down her girl gang before her wedding for fear of looking like a crazy bridezilla with her groupies so I had a lucky escape), I have been asked again.

Don't get me wrong, I have been a maid before and adored every minute: my eight-year-old self, plus sisters and cousins, all 14 of us dressed identically in pretty silk dresses with net-slips, floral headdresses and rag-curled hair. We looked pretty damn gorgeous. But I'm no longer pre-pubescent and I look terrible with curly hair.

My best friend and one-time housemate, who moved to the other side of the world a couple of years ago, is the one getting hitched. I couldn't turn down an opportunity to see her, or a trip to Australia.

We started talking dresses and sweetly she asked what colour and style I preferred – being so far away I couldn't do the shopping trips, so said I was easy, pick what she liked.

A couple of weeks later I got an excited call: she had bought the dress! I asked her what it was like and she answered "It's in a different colour, but Google Miranda Kerr at the Instyle awards." What?! If there is one thing I'm NOT, that's a Victoria's Secret model. With only little strips of fabric covering her boobs, and the gaping holes around the back – she looked more or less naked.

Great, not only do I need to get my pasty-white, post-Christmas, chubby body into a bridesmaid's dress, everyone is going to see my arse. "I've ordered you a size six."

For three weeks I have waited for the dress to arrive, trying to conjure up body-covering methods. Maybe I could get one of those ice-skater, skin-tone body suits? Or get the back sewn up? Wear a vest?

I can't tell you how relieved I was when it arrived – it was much tamer. Miranda had been wearing a pimped-up version: it seems she has no problem in showing people her bottom. With a little, ahem, altering, it's lovely.

The colour (a secret) is beautiful, and my relief was so great that I've completely forgotten about the lack of material over my breasts. I will worry about that next month.

Gemma Hayward is Fashion Editor of 'The Independent'

g.hayward@independent.co.uk