A Groom With a View

by Sophie Ranald

  Erica said, “It’s just a question of educating one’s palate. I find fresh herbs and lemon juice are all the seasoning I need.”

  No you bloody don’t, I thought, you put mountains of raw chilli on every single thing I cook.

  In spite of his height, Hugh seemed to have shrunk slightly in his chair. “We’ve won many awards for our food here at Brocklebury,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean it always has to be fancy. We can keep things very simple if you’d prefer, and we can cater for just about any dietary restriction, although it does increase the cost if we’re preparing lots of special dishes. I would recommend that, purely for practical purposes, we keep the number of off-menu choices to a minimum and focus on choosing a meal that all your guests will be able to enjoy.”

  I said, “But I really liked the sound of the monkfish.”

  Erica said, “Monkfish is extremely vulnerable to overfishing. I would have thought that as a chef, Pippa, you would pay more attention to choosing sustainable ingredients.”

  Nick looked up from his iPad and said, “You know me, I’ll eat anything, so long as it’s not parsnips. So don’t worry about me. Look, I’ve done a rough design for the wine labels.”

  I said, “Okay, fine. Venison then. But I’m not having it well done.”

  Erica said, “Pippa agrees with me that the most important thing about a wedding is the bringing together of friends and family, and the sharing of a joyful day. I know you aren’t going to be selfish or unreasonable about this, and anyway you’ll be far too excited to eat much on the day, as well as watching your weight for the honeymoon.”

  Hugh said, “Excuse me a moment, I’m just going to see how things are going in the kitchen,” and legged it.

  I didn’t speak to Nick or Erica all the way home. I bought a copy of Heat at the station and read it from cover to cover, silently fuming. Nick asked if he could borrow my phone because his iPad battery was flat, and spent the journey tapping away on it. Erica closed her eyes and breathed deeply, apparently catching up on her evening meditation.

  When we got home I went to bed, and opened Nick’s blog on my phone. I’d guessed right – he had been composing a post on the train, and as guilty as it made me feel, I couldn’t not see what he’d said.

  So here it is, followers – the great menu reveal! It’s quite tricky because there are loads of fussy eaters in my family, which I hadn’t had a clue about until Mum told me – just as well, otherwise we would have had a load of starving guests! But because Pippa’s so creative with food, she’s suggested a menu that I reckon should go down well with all of them, and I’m sure will be delicious too. I’ll mostly be getting pissed and feeling too sick with nerves about my speech to eat, anyway! (Speaking of which, I’ve had a brilliant idea for the wine – I’m going to get some custom-designed labels printed that will fit with our colour and font choices. I’ve posted an initial layout below, and I’m really pleased with it.) But back to the food. What do you reckon to this?

  Canapés:

  Raw vegetable crudités with olive oil and lemon dressing

  Smoked tofu in filo pastry

  Home-made beetroot crisps with fresh herbs and chilli

  Starters:

  Tomato soup

  or

  Fresh melon balls

  Main course:

  Supreme of chicken with steamed potatoes, carrots and peas

  or

  Soy bean roast with steamed potatoes, carrots and peas

  Dessert:

  >Meringues with berry coulis

  or

  Fresh fruit salad

  Late-night nibbles:

  Mixed bean and vegetable chilli tortillas

  That sounds like it’s going keep everyone happy, doesn’t it?

  As had become my habit, I scrolled quickly through the comments, looking for one name. There it was, about the seven posts down. “Sounds totes mezzin! Wish I could be there. YHM, btw ;) B xx.”

  That night, I had a dream that I was walking down the aisle on my wedding day, holding Dad’s arm. My hands were clutched tightly around my bouquet, but when I looked down at it, I realised I was holding a bunch of carrots, and I had no clothes on, only my strappy silver shoes. And when I looked up towards the table where the registrar was waiting, I realised that Bethany had got there first, and she was waiting in my place next to Nick. I tried to make Dad hurry up, to get to the end of the seemingly endless aisle so I could tell the registrar that there’d been a mistake, and I was here, but there seemed to be a forest of thorns in my way, and when I tried to push through them they pierced my naked skin agonisingly.

  My eyes snapped open and I realised Spanx was lying on my chest, kneading me with his needle-sharp claws.

  “Hello, you,” I mumbled sleepily. “That’s no way to wake your humans up on a Saturday morning, is it? Is it?” Spanx narrowed his eyes at me and cranked up the volume of his purrs. I gave him a scratch behind the ears. “And where’s Nick? What’s he doing up so early? And more to the point, where’s my morning coffee in bed?”

  Spanx didn’t know, but there was a look of steely determination in his amber eyes that told me I wasn’t going to be allowed to get up for a good long time, not while I was required for duty as heated cat furniture. We rolled over and I pulled his warm furry back against my tummy and covered us both with the duvet. Spanx purred even louder, and I strained to listen for any sounds from the rest of the flat. Then I heard Nick’s voice.

  “Here you go, Mum, green tea and a bowl of that worthy granola stuff you like, with oat milk.”

  “Thank you, darling,” Erica said. “Now, what’s on the agenda for today?”

  “Well, I thought I’d get cracking with designing the menu and order of service cards, as soon as Pippa wakes up,” he said.

  “And there are the table centrepieces to do,” said Erica. “That helpful man I rang at the garden centre in Hendon had so much good advice on how to grow snowdrops in pots, I thought I might get the Tube up there later and buy some bulbs, and we can order the pots online and get them planted up before Christmas.”

  “Speaking of which,” Nick said, “I need to go into town and do a bit of shopping. I’m not looking forward to braving Bond Street but it’s got to be done. And while I’m there I thought I might have a look at that shop you found that does the antique silver cake stands.”

  “That’s marvellous,” Erica said. “And if I do have a spare second, I might as well pop into Selfridges and have a look at hats. Justine still hasn’t confirmed what she’s going to be wearing so I think I shall probably stick to taupe, that’s safest, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t really advise on the hat front, Mum,” said Nick. “Maybe drop Callie a line if you’re not sure? But that reminds me, I need to pick up the ushers’ ties at some point. If I don’t have time this weekend I’ll make a plan to get to Saville Row at some point next week. Typical that there’s only one shop in bloody London that does the right shade of grey!”

  “Why don’t I put that on my list?” Erica said. “What was the name of the shop again?”

  “That would be brilliant, thanks Mum. If you’re able to go that, then I can finish off the playlist I’ve been putting together for the band, and do the labels for the vodka miniatures – we did decide Grey Goose for the favours, didn’t we? Let me write down that address for you.”

  I pulled the pillow over my head, but it didn’t help – I could still hear them.

  “It’s no good,” I said to Spanx, “We can’t lie here lazing about when they’ve been up doing Wedmin for shagging hours already. Come on, get your fluffy orange arse out of bed.” I pushed him gently away and he stalked off in high dudgeon, his stripy tail curved like an affronted question mark.

  I showered and dressed and sloped through to the kitchen, feeling both useless and guilty.

  “Morning, sleeping beauty,” Nick said. “I was going to bring you a coffee earlier but you were out like a light. I think you’re still jet lagged, you know.”<
br />
  I switched on the kettle, and said rather testily that you don’t get jet lag on overnight flights when the time difference is only two hours.

  “Well, I’m delighted you had a good sleep, anyway,” Erica said pointedly, “because you’ve got a busy day ahead of you, if your to-do list is anything like as long as Nick’s.”

  Did I? Actually, I’d been thinking it would be rather nice to wander down to Maltby Street and pick up some coffee and custard doughnuts, then spend the afternoon on the sofa with Spanx and the duvet, catching up on EastEnders until it was time to open a bottle of wine and watch The X Factor. But something told me Erica would take a dim view of that plan.

  “Er. . . yes,” I said. “I’ve actually got an appointment to try on dresses at. . .” I racked my brains, “Liberty! I’ve not been there and they’ve apparently got a really good selection.”

  Erica nodded approvingly. “Well, I’ll be heading into town later so why don’t I come along and have a look too? I’m beginning to think your expectations must be unrealistic, Pippa, because it’s quite absurd that you haven’t found anything suitable yet. A bit of firm guidance. . .”

  “No!” I said. “No, thank you, Erica. I’ve agreed to meet Katharine. We’re going to have lunch first and then she wanted to go shopping for. . . er. . . vibrators. So really, I must be off.”

  Blushing furiously (I’ve never been a convincing liar), I stuffed my purse, phone and keys into my bag, put my coat on and hurried out.

  Once I emerged into the street, I’d rather run out of steam. What the hell was I going to do? I’d effectively exiled myself from the flat for the rest of the day, and I had no intention of embarking on another soul-destroying wedding dress-shopping session, even if there was any chance I’d be able to get a last-minute appointment, which there wasn’t. I thought of getting the train to Hampshire and going to visit Mum and Dad or Callie and Phoebe, but I couldn’t face more wedding talk. I could go and see a film, but there wasn’t anything on that I wanted to watch.

  So I went to Borough Market and bought three kilos of springbok steak, and then got the Tube to work and spent the afternoon in the kitchen, happily experimenting with recipes for the rather tastelessly named ‘More Bang for your Buck’ episode of Guido’s African Safari until I had them nailed.

  It was after eight that evening when I got home. I felt so buoyed up by my successful day that I think I might have actually been singing when I opened the front door, and I called out a cheery “Hello!” to Nick and Erica, who were sitting in the kitchen with a bottle of red and a takeaway from the Vietnamese place.

  “Hey Pip,” Nick said. “We ordered you some meatball pho, is that okay?” He paused, his chopsticks halfway up to his mouth. “Pip? You look. . . You’ve done it, haven’t you? You’ve found a dress!” And he pushed back his chair and swept me up in a massive hug and spun me round. “I could tell as soon as you walked in! Look at you, you’re grinning like a loon! Is it cool? No, don’t tell me, I want it to be a surprise!”

  Christmas with Nick has always been my absolute favourite time of the year. With Erica abroad and my parents choosing to spend most of their Christmasses travelling to exotic destinations together (“The south coast of England in December!” Mum always laments, “Could anything, anywhere be more depressing?” This year they were off to Vienna to watch operas and eat sachertorte), we’ve never had any family obligations, and although one year we hosted Christmas lunch for a few of our similarly unencumbered friends, mostly we loved just being alone together.

  We had various little rituals and traditions that were just ours. On Christmas Eve we’d order a curry and watch Love, Actually on Netflix. We made Christmas stockings for each other, filled with random, silly gifts (and one for Spanx with new toy mice, Dreamies and a tin of corned beef, which is his favourite thing in the world) and opened them in bed as soon as we woke up. Nick made bacon sandwiches for breakfast and we ate them with a glass of his lethal bloody Mary, then went for a walk along the river, laughing about how tasteful everyone else’s Christmas trees were compared to ours. After we got home I’d change into the beautiful new underwear Nick always put in my stocking and one of my less saggy jumper dresses, we’d open the first of several bottles of prosecco and start cooking together.

  By the end of the day we’d be smug and sated, congratulating ourselves on our good food and good fortune, before dancing badly together to the cheesiest of our favourite songs and falling into bed long after midnight.

  Like I say, perfect. But somehow this year I wasn’t looking forward to it as much as I usually did. I’d even felt a bit let down, instead of delighted like I would have expected to feel, when Erica announced that she was off to spend a few days with Andrew and Barbara in Halifax, no doubt feasting on Aunt Bessie’s roast spuds and sprouts that had been in the pressure cooker since the clocks went back.

  When Erica was around, especially when she was being her most insufferable, she successfully distracted me from the fact that I was constantly annoyed with Nick – a low-grade, niggling annoyance that threatened to spill over into anger at any second. Her presence made it difficult for the horrible tension between us to escalate into an actual argument, and I was afraid, once we started a row, of exactly how and where it would end.

  Nick must have sensed my mood, because he was carefully solicitous of me. When I said, “Shall I ring the Ivory Arch, then?” Nick said, “No, don’t worry, Pip, I’ll do it. Why don’t we have lamb rogan josh, I know you like it better than vindaloo?” even though vindaloo was what we had every year. He pressed pause on the remote control when I got up to put the kettle on, even though we’d seen the film so many times I could practically recite it in my sleep. He kept asking me if I was okay and not too tired and having a nice time. And the more solicitous he was, the more irritable I became.

  Even the contents of my stocking were more lavish than usual. Instead of the usual panic-buy from Debenhams, he’d splashed out and bought me a beautiful silk bra and French knickers from La Perla. There were chocolates from L’Artisan instead of the usual family pack of wine gums, and a gorgeous cashmere cardigan, and even a pair of real pearl earrings.

  “I thought maybe you’d want to wear them for the wedding,” he said, looking all pleased and shy.

  I was appalled by how much it all must have cost, and dreadful that I’d bought all his presents in one hasty Amazon order, and my guilt made me feel even crosser.

  “Shall we head out for a stroll?” Nick said, once the stockings were opened, the bloody Mary drunk and Spanx happily mauling his catnip giraffe.

  But when we opened the front door, it was pissing with rain.

  “Let’s not bother,” I said.

  “Go on, Pip!” said Nick. “We’ll wear wellies and take an umbrella. It’ll be fun. I’ll run you a hot bath when we get back, with some of that whatsit Provence stuff I put in your stocking.”

  I said, “No, I don’t really feel like it.”

  So Nick went for a run on his own and I put the oven on to cook our dinner and started to peel chestnuts in a resentful sort of way, and thought how ungrateful and petulant I was being, and how I really needed to snap out of it. But I couldn’t.

  “Pippa,” Nick said later, once we were sitting at the table with our first glass of fizz, the flat beginning to fill with the smell of roasting goose, “we need to talk.”

  “Do we?” I said.

  “I think we do,” he said. “Something’s wrong, and you’re not telling me what it is. I know it’s been hard for us to have time together, with Mum staying. You’ve been so good to her, and she really appreciates it. And I know it’s been crazy for you, and with your hen night coming up next week, and then your trip to South Africa, and then obviously the wedding. . . There’s so much going on, and I think you’re worrying about stuff. I wish you’d talk to me.”

  Spanx jumped on to my lap and I scratched his bristly chin. I could feel a flood of words building up in my chest – about the wedding
, about Bethany’s reappearance on Nick’s blog and in his life, and about the other thing, the one we never spoke about. But I had no idea how to begin to get them out. “I’m just a bit stressed, I guess. Work, you know.”

  “Pip, I don’t think that’s what it is. Come on. You’re loving work at the moment. It’s hectic and everything, but when you talk about it. . . That’s the only time you seem really happy.”

  “Nick, I am happy!” I protested. “You know I am, and I love you. I’m just a bit worried about the wedding.” I took a gulp of prosecco and a deep, slightly trembly breath.

  “Pip. You don’t need to worry about the wedding,” Nick said. “Now you’ve found your dress – and I can’t tell you how happy I am for you about that – there’s nothing more for you to worry about. Mum, Callie and I are on the case. Everything’s booked and sorted and all the deposits are paid. And you mustn’t feel bad about me having done more of that than you. Are you worried things won’t be right? I know you want everything to be perfect but we’ve done our best to make it be the kind of day you’d want. Shall we have a look at the USB Stick of All Knowledge? It’s all on there. If there’s anything you really want to change I’m sure it won’t be too late, you must just say.”

  God, how I wished it was just a question of telling him I wanted pink peonies rather than snowdrops, or for Callie’s dress to be Cadbury purple rather than the silvery grey she’d chosen, which I only knew about because I’d seen a picture of it on Nick’s blog.

  “It’s not that,” I said. “You’ve all been amazing, I appreciate it so much. But I just feel kind of like. . . Brocklebury Manor, you know? The whole thing. It’s got so huge and it’s not what I imagined we’d have, really, ever.”

  “God, I know what you mean!” Nick said. “I didn’t, either. Mum’s been so generous. I never thought, when we went to Iain’s wedding and it was all so fabulous, that we’d ever have anything like it. But we are. It’s kind of daunting, isn’t it?”