“Let’s do it.”
Chapter Three
What do you pack on a whirlwind trip to Vegas?
This was exactly the conundrum I found myself faced with as I stood in my tiny bedroom, looking around at the assorted stuff that littered every surface. Clothes lay on the chair in the corner, on the open doors of the wardrobe, and all over the floor. (Had gravity gotten lost somewhere in my sock pile, they might also have covered the walls). Jewellery dripped from nails hammered into the wall over my dressing table and from the frame of my small mirror. Cheap, glittery strands of rhinestones and plastic beads that I’d bought on a whim and never worn, so they’d become part of my room’s multihued decor.
Don’t go thinking I know my arse from an anklet though. I have next to no clue about fashion. I’m strictly a shirts and skirts kind of girl, and most days I forget to put on jewellery, or make-up. Truthfully? On a good day I had enough time in the morning that I didn’t have to choose between knickers and deodorant.
While Dorian waited patiently in the living room, probably looking at my copies of Sacred Spirit magazine and wondering what the hell he was doing with such a weirdo, I picked up a red crocodile weekend bag and yanked open my underwear drawer.
That was when I realised that if we got married, there would be a wedding night.
I looked down at my collection of over washed, M&S ole’ reliable pants, the ‘HMS Gusset’ as my mum used to call them. Not to mention my bras, which were all catalogue ordered (and engineered with secret soviet technology) as the local branch of skimpy-silky-things didn’t carry my awkwardly large cup size.
Yes, boo-hoo, she has cleavage she could drown a cat in. You can have them, seriously. Just try finding a top that fits.
I snatched up the least baggy briefs I could find, and dredged up my one matching set of lingerie, white with a blue bow. These went into the bag with a shower of loose socks. Next was nightwear...and again, it was cotton and skanky. My choices were a t-shirt from the Science Museum, or a cream nighty with peach flowers on it. I balled up the nighty and packed it with my undies.
Clothing was a little easier, I have maybe four tops that I think I actually look nice in. The big boobs, coupled with my equally undeniable hips, made clothes shopping difficult and meant that I tended to buy a lot of just one thing. I took out three plaid tunics (lilac, blue and pink) and a floral silk top. That, plus skirts and a pair of Primark penny loafers completed my outfit range. I topped the bag off with my make-up kit (it was going to be my wedding after all) and a few bits from the bathroom, then opened the door to the living room.
“Ready.”
Dorian was sitting on my purple corduroy sofa, flicking through a copy of the Sainsbury’s Magazine. My food bible.
“Good,” he glanced around the living room. “Passport?”
I retrieved it from inside of my plastic TARDIS.
I just had time to throw a beige mac (a must-have style accessory that I’d found on a bus to Swansea – trés chic, Qui?) on over my dress before we ran back out to the cab, and Dorian directed the driver to the airport.
I think by the time we reached the airport, the reality of our decision had started to dawn on us. But, we had yet to regain enough common sense to recant our spur of the moment idea. Who wants to be the person whose ‘crazy story’ ends with them traipsing home from the airport with an unused passport? Exactly.
Dorian bought two one-way tickets to Vegas, flashing a platinum card as he did so. The flight was last minute, and we streaked through the airport, baggage handover and boarding process in record time.
Seated in business class side by side, we smiled shyly at each other like school children bunking off for the first time. Look what we’ve done. How cool are we?
After a while I pulled a book out of my bag (score one for hand luggage). I always have a book on me, it’s the perfect antidote to wasted time. Stuck waiting for a bus? Whip out a book. Coffee alone? Book. Ten seconds left of my break? Book. I had different books in each room at home, as I often found it too much effort to go and find what I was currently reading. This was an old childhood favourite, Flowers in the Attic.
When the drinks trolley came round, Dorian stumped up for a vodka tonic and a whisky and ginger. Watching him sip his V&T, I couldn’t help but smile to myself.
We didn’t talk much on the flight. It was kind of like being on a mission to the moon – we were too focused on our destination to make small talk.
When we landed, and stepped out into bizarrely instantaneous sun and heat, it seemed like someone had hit fast forward on everything around us. There were streams of people all around, all headed somewhere far more important than those striding along in front of them.
You can probably see it, can’t you? The yellow cabs, the sun, designer shades and gorgeous buisnessy types. But I remember very little of our journey to the chapel (thank you alcohol) save that Dorian googled its location on his phone. What I can recall, was the scent of our incomprehensible driver (a mixture of body odour and astringent body spray) and what the chapel looked like once we reached it.
The Vegas Wedding Chapel could be described in one word, and that word was ‘pink’. Bubblegum pink from stem to stern (or rather, from swan fountain to spire). Dorian and I stood before it like epic adventurers staring down The Precipice of Certain Death.
“Wow,” I said.
“Pink,” said Dorian.
Through some stroke of destiny, luck, or, dare I say it – cynical forward planning – The Clark Country Marriage Licence Bureau was just across the street. So, we left the pink palace of lurrve, and went to fill in whatever forms they could provide us with. While Dorian handled the sixty dollar fee, and the processing of our licence, I went to the bathroom and changed into my one good set of underwear.
“Ready?” Dorian asked, once I’d remerged.
“Yup.” The ‘as I’ll ever be’ stuck to my tongue. I was in a foreign country, about to marry a stranger. Both of us were dressed head to toe in BHS’s finest and I had that day’s underwear in the inside pocket of my mac.
By now you can see that clearly, I’m a very classy lady.
Dorian took my arm, in that funny old romantic way they do in black and white musical numbers. We crossed the street and entered the blindingly pink palace of marital bliss through its pink and white door. I half expected it to be made of sugar cane. The tower at the top, I saw as we ducked inside, was made of plywood. There was a rose arbour painted on the sides.
You know when you’re drunk, and suddenly you’re really really hungry? Like, you’d kill someone for their chewing gum kind of hunger? Have you, or anyone in that state, thought, ‘you know, I don’t want to go to the greasy burger van with the one armed cook and the mysterious cat collar decorations hanging from the serving hatch. I’d rather find a nice place, with chairs and maybe some form of health regulations’? No? Didn’t think so. Because, when you’re drunk, you just want the job done. I want to sleep? Lie down on the verge and catch some shut eye. I want to pee? Duck behind that handy Mazda. So, when me and Dorian decided to get married, we didn’t want to wait long enough to find a good chapel, or a halfway decent one - we just wanted to get the job well and truly jobbed.
So don’t judge us, when I tell you that the inside of the chapel was just as vibrant as the outside – with fake doves in a fake tree by the fake wood reception desk. A man in his forties, with (fake) auburn hair, in a badly fitted suit looked up at us, then back down at the tabloid paper on the desk. After thirty more seconds he looked up again, pulled a cue card out of his sleeve, and read –
“Welcome to the Vegas Wedding Chapel, where dreams come true. Whatever you’ve always wanted for your special day, this is where we make it happen. Here at the Vegas Wedding Chapel, we want to build you a memory that will last a lifetime, and start you on your way to years of married bliss,” he looked up at us, “packages are ninety-nine dollars and up – pick one and tell me what you want.”
He sli
d a laminated folder to us, and Dorian opened it, showing me the options. There were quite a few. Everything it seemed, cost extra. From candles and flowers, to pictures, music and the length of the service. It was like a Starbucks menu, Venti wedding with added confetti and a shot of Elvis. Many of them required giving more than zero notice, because of the time needed to book a band and make arrangements for flowers, and live butterflies to be delivered.
“What can we get right now?” I asked.
The clerk rolled his eyes.
“Use of the wedding garden, recorded music, use of flowers, and anything from subsection four.”
We looked at subsection four.
Dorian and I conspired for a few seconds and eventually decided that we wanted photos and a framed marriage certificate.
“We might also...need a ring,” Dorian said, “would it be possible...”
Another folder was produced wordlessly, containing twelve pictures of rings, from a plain ‘gold’ band (and yes, the quote marks were present in the description) to a platinum set. Dorian pointed at these and looked at me for confirmation. I smiled shyly.
The clerk slapped the folder shut and charged Dorian $199 for the wedding and another $400 for the rings, which he retrieved from the back office.
He returned and then led Dorian into the next room, then came back and handed me a bouquet of three silk roses, and placed a veil on a rhinestone tiara onto my head. He went back into the wedding ‘garden’ and a few seconds later, tinny music came through the door.
Just like that, it was time to get married.
Two cab rides, a flight and a brief bit of multiple choice...and I was standing in my own wedding.
My GCSEs had involved more effort.
At that point, I could have dropped the fraying flowers, torn off the plastic tiara, and fled into the American sunshine. Dorian was a stranger, I owed him nothing. Yes, it would have been a terrible thing to do, but in an impersonal way, like when a teenager on a bus flips you off through the window.
Instead, I pushed open the door and started down the aisle.
The wedding garden was exactly as tacky as it sounds. White wrought iron furniture on a green nylon carpet that made my tights crackle with static. There was a bower of fake roses over the altar, and a badly concealed speaker amongst the silk flowers played generic organ music.
Dorian’s eyes met mine as I took my first steps down the green aisle, my shoes scuffing fake rose petals. I’d imagined this moment a lot, mostly while I was engaged, and yes, I’d continued to picture it even after Stephen had scarpered. I’d wondered what it would be like to look into the eyes of my intended from across a landscape of frothy hats and maiden aunts, meeting his gaze as I approached in my wedding dress and seeing...what? Joy, nervousness, the sickly green pallor of pistachio ice-cream? Perhaps, in my wilder moments, I imagined him being seized by my beauty, arrested by his triumph at securing such a beautiful bride.
But, as Dorian caught my eye, and smiled, widening his eyes at the truly hideous room we were in, I smiled back. I thought, in that moment, that we would tell this story to our friends, maybe even our children. That, whatever happened after this, our wedding day would be what every wedding should. One hell of a memory.
The desk clerk/minister/officiator took our hands and we recited the simple vows in the order required of us. I discovered that Dorian’s last name was ‘Foffanay’ and raised my eyebrows, wishing I’d known that beforehand. Still, it wasn’t so bad. I slipped a platinum ring onto Dorian’s finger, and he slipped one onto mine. Just like that, we were married.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Dorian looked about as panicked as I felt, and for a second neither of us could move. Aside from that one peck we’d shared by the Abbey, a lifetime ago, we hadn’t kissed yet. We’d barely touched.
Still, Dorian leant forwards and kissed me delicately. To my relief, he was not one of those dry lipped, chicken mouthed men, or (horrors) a slobberer.
The clerk/minister/officiator/photographer went to the end of the room and snapped a few pictures with an ancient looking camera. Dorian and I dutifully smiled, grinning at the sheer cheesiness of it. When he went to print them off, and get us our certificate, Dorian and I stood in the wedding garden, nervously silent.
“So, ‘Foffanay’?”
Dorian winced. “He pronounced it wrong, everyone does – it’s not ‘Foff-ann-aye’ it’s ‘Faux-fanny’”
I felt my heart cough.
“Faux-fanny?” I repeated. “You mean...my name is...Annie Faux-fanny?”
Dorian looked at me in confusion, then his expression cleared. “Why yes...I suppose it is.”
Oh my God.
OH MY GOD – my poor facebook page!
OH MY GOD, Will was going to rip the piss out of me.
Chapter Four
“What would you like to do?” I asked Dorian, once we’d been waved out onto the street by our multi-talented officiator.
“I suppose...we could get changed. Go out...find something to do,” Dorian frowned. “I don’t have anything to change in to...I suppose that will need to be rectified.”
He blinked a lot when he was uncomfortable, I’d picked up on that.
“Right, well, we are in Las Vegas, ‘stuff to do’ is literally on every street, and we can probably find at least one shop...” I began, “anything in particular?”
“You should decide, it is your first trip, after all. And you seem to know better than me what would be fun to do.”
I thought for a moment, and then I remembered something I’d read about a while ago, in a magazine. No, not one of my spiritual-organo-hemp-moon-power magazines, one of Will’s arty-farty quarterlies.
“Fiori di Como,” I said, startling myself and Dorian, “at the Bellagio Hotel.”
“And what is that?”
“I’ll show you, come on, we can get a cab.” I was suddenly very excited, the swooping, giddy sensation of adventure was back.
We caught a taxi to the Bellagio.
My first American taxi (well, the first one I was sober enough to remember anyway). It shouldn’t have excited me so much, but it did. No surly, Daily Mail reading driver, smelling of cigarettes and sausage rolls. Our driver spoke fast paced, incomprehensible Portuguese, and seemed ecstatic to be doing so. Even Dorian seemed a little less grave, freer now that he was out of Bath and back on American soil.
But, when our cab pulled up by the Bellagio, all thoughts of the subtle differences in transportation were driven from my mind. Being a massive CSI freak, I had of course seen the Bellagio on TV, and watched the fountains gush, and the lights pick out its amazing architecture, even as I waited for the murdered waitress/hooker/DJ to be identified. In reality? It was a palace. A towering cliff of pale stone and flawless windows, a curved building, embracing its own impressive water feature. The tower in the centre bearing the name that I had read in a magazine in a dreary café kitchen. At the feet of the gorgeous hotel itself, Chalets, restaurants, and a spa were arrayed like a winning poker hand.
And the fountain. I know, I know, I shouldn’t have been so impressed. You’re probably thinking, it’s just a building – God this girl needs to get out more. But it wasn’t just a building. It was like...my own personal heaven. I’ve loved architecture, building design and decoration for my entire life. Ever since my Dad took me to Port Merion in Wales. (Where, admittedly I did eat three ice-creams and then throw up over a ten-foot ceramic Buddha, but really, I was only five, and I don’t think Buddha bears grudges, even against the devil-children of unenlightened westerners).
“Shall we go in?” Dorian asked, breaking my intense, lovelorn gaze with the building.
“Yes...sorry. I just...It’s the Bellagio,” I gushed.
Dorian smiled. “It is beautiful. I can see why you wanted to visit it.”
“Oh, we’re not here for the hotel, not really. It’s just a bonus,” I grabbed his hand, “just wait until you see what’s inside.”
A
s we walked into the registration lobby, past the columns and onto the marble floor, I felt the glamour of the place sweep over me. I felt like an intruder on a film set. Uniformed porters and desk clerks strutted around purposefully. Guests lingered, wealthy tourists mixed with businessmen. The whole, huge room had been designed to be as airy, as undeniably expensive, as possible.
“That,” I said to Dorian, “is why we’re here.”
We looked up at the chandelier together, though really it looked like more of a sculpture. A mass of brilliantly coloured glass flowers clustered in the plaster moulded ceiling. They put the tasteful cream lobby to shame, with the light shining through them and the gorgeous glass flora spilling over onto the ceiling itself. Reds, blues, oranges, yellows, violet and canary and emerald warring for space. Their stems as thin as cocktail straws.
Dorian’s eyes widened, entirely awed, and right then all I could think was, ‘he’s gorgeous, and he’s mine’.
“It’s by Dale Chihuly, he did these amazing installations with ice and neon, but his glass work is...phenomenal. It’s what got me into glass blowing.”
“You blow glass?”
I realised that I hadn’t told Dorian this at any time in the last twenty-four hours.
“Yes, I do. Did. I mean, I took ceramics and stuff at uni...but glass is...”
“Hot, dangerous...this concludes my knowledge on the subject,” Dorian half smiled.
“It’s...a lot more magical. But yes, the heat and dangerous-ness of it is definitely a turn on.”
We looked up at the ceiling again together.
Dorian said, “How long have you wanted to see this?”
I thought.
“Maybe...four years?”
We stared upwards, and Dorian took my hand. In that moment I was so glad that I’d finally managed to make it, to stand under the Bellagio Chihuly installation. Just like I’d finally gotten to stand in front of an altar with a man who wanted to marry me. (Admittedly, an altar made of plywood, but still).
Dorian and I stood there for the longest time, and it was only after the desk clerk coughed pointedly next to us that I realised most of the people around us were staring. Clearly some things were just as taboo in America as they were in the UK, like, staring at ceilings in hotels you don’t actually belong in (and drooling a little in public).
Prior Engagements Page 3