by Rosie Orr
Followed by a horde of tiny, giggling bridesmaids, pageboys and a stressed-looking matron of honour doing her best to keep order, the bride was processing slowly up the aisle, more beautiful by far than anything conceived of in Bride. Beside her, leaning heavily on her arm, tottered Eamonn, white with terror.
Anna blinked: that couldn’t possibly be Tina’s old wedding dress Lucy was wearing. The gossamer-fine guipure lace clung to Lucy’s curves, the tight sleeves ended in long points over the back of her hands, the train swept out dramatically behind her to form a fishtail. A foaming veil spangled with tiny brilliants was held in place by a tiara that flashed as Lucy turned her head to acknowledge her guests with a smile so radiant it all but eclipsed the diamonds. As she drew abreast of Anna, she bowed her head slightly and smiled into her eyes. Anna returned the smile, full of love for her prospective daughter-in-law. And she saw the look of wonder on her son’s face as his bride took her place beside him.
Beside her, Tony whipped out a large handkerchief patterned with luminous red and yellow kangaroos and trumpeted noisily into it. A bright pink straw cartwheel swivelled angrily in their direction.
Grinning, she leaned towards her ex-husband. ‘Yeah, beaut, cobber.’
Smiling beatifically, Father O’Malley stepped forward, hand raised in benediction as creaking and groaning, the great doors swung closed at the back of the church and the service began.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Declan sat on a tombstone, gazing at a clump of dandelions.
The only way to get through these occasions was to try to feel nothing at all, and he was doing fine so far. It was the usual sort of wedding, with the usual sort of crowd, and the couple themselves seemed pleasant enough, though the old bat – Christ, why didn’t someone tell her she looked like something out of a pantomime? Widow Twanky sprang to mind – was an even worse pain than he’d expected. The smallest pageboy had been wriggling around crying piteously just before the bride arrived, obviously desperate for a wee. Instead of nipping the poor little bugger pronto into the bog, or whipping him behind the nearest tombstone, she’d grabbed his hand, bent down and whispered something very quietly in his ear. Declan didn’t know what she’d said, but the kid had been dead white when the old bat let go and pranced off to bollock the organist for not playing fast enough, or whatever, and he sure wasn’t wriggling any more. No wonder her poor bastard of a husband looked as if he was going to top himself any minute …
The gravestones were getting him down. There was a tiny spider trying to get to the top of the cherub’s head on the one nearest him. He’d almost make it, then get confused by the patch of lichen on the cherub’s nose and slip back to its chipped and pitted sandstone chin.
Declan picked a blade of grass and held it patiently until the spider climbed aboard, then decanted the little creature carefully onto the top of the cherub’s head. It sat motionless for a second or two before scuttling away out of sight as if it couldn’t believe its luck.
He glanced at his watch.
Twenty past twelve.
It shouldn’t be long now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Half an hour later, the church doors were thrown open and the bells began to peal wildly. As the sun showed its face for the first time that morning the happy couple emerged, followed by the congregation ecstatically throwing confetti. Declan had positioned himself perfectly in the centre of the path a few yards from the porch and, pausing only to check his light meter, he set to work.
Anna let herself drift to the edge of the crowd, her face stiff with smiling, forcing herself to nod and shake hands with complete strangers.
‘Isn’t the bride just simply …’
‘… the Vidor, so frightfully emotional.’
‘… with Sam up for the Zircon contract – you know, he really is one top …’
‘… where the loo is? One of the pageboys has just shat himself.’
‘I love your suit, do tell me, where did you …?’
The more adventurous guests spilled into the graveyard, pastels and furs and top hats nodding and bobbing among the cypresses, reading aloud the inscriptions on the weathered memorials with appropriately witty substitutions (the IT faction) and tweaking any recent floral tributes into pleasingly symmetrical alignment (the Tina contingent).
Suddenly a space cleared in front of Sam and Lucy where they stood arm in arm, smiling as though they’d never stop, greeting well-wishers. Embracing, Lucy holding out her left hand to admire the narrow platinum wedding band sparkling in the sunlight, accepting congratulations, laughing and embracing again. Anna gazed at her son with pride and sadness as he kissed his new wife and whispered something in her diamond-studded ear. The gap closed again, and she retreated to the church porch, where she concentrated on reading the Mothers’ Union poster about the forthcoming autumn jumble sale pinned on the porch wall and a request for funds for urgent repairs to the church roof.
Eventually it was time for group photographs. The key members of the party arranged and rearranged themselves, the bridesmaids and pageboys milling about, screaming and fighting, safe from adult censure as soon as their photograph was done. Declan was switching to his favourite Canon digital when he looked up and saw Anna standing silent and absolutely alone in the midst of the joyful cheers, the hearty congratulations. He would remember for the rest of his life that first sight of her.
As he watched, touched by her beauty and air of separateness, he saw the old Bat with the Hat (Nita? Zita?) swoop over, sink her orange talons into the woman’s upper arm and drag her over to the enormous group of bickering relatives jockeying for position. Wincing on her behalf, he saw the woman in blue (what was that colour? Cornflower? No, delphinium. They had always been his favourite flowers, delphiniums) snap into defensively cheerful mode and allow herself to be shoved into the middle of the mêlée. He stepped forward involuntarily to … to do what precisely? He stopped. He was being ridiculous. Anyway, duty called. He must make the best of the sun while it lasted. He set to work.
As soon as the group photographs were over, Lucy and Sam left for the reception. Their guests began to drift away to their cars, calling loud au revoirs (the IT faction) and ‘see yez back at the ranch’ (the Tina faction). Declan took several impromptu shots then gathered up his equipment, sprinted back to the van and set off for the hotel.
As the crowd thinned, Anna found herself alone again.
‘Nice little service, wasn’t it?’ Tony stood beside her, Tara-Louise at his side. Tiny bows of the same material as her dress nestled among her lavish hair extensions; her wet-look lip gloss perfectly matched the sugar-pink stripes, her turquoise eye shadow the blue. ‘You’ve got to admit he’s done well for himself, our kid. Well, see you back at The Grand. Must say I could use a few tinnies.’
Tara-Louise smiled at Anna. ‘I love weddings, don’t you? And isn’t her frock something? Would that be polyester, do you reckon?’ She frowned. ‘Though my friend Tracy-Sue had a cocktail frock like that once, and she said it itched so bad she …’
‘Hey, Tara-Louise – she doesn’t want to hear all that crap.’ Smiling fiercely, Tony drew his fiancée’s arm through his and clamped it sharply to his side. ‘But hey, Anna, where’s your wheels?’
‘I …’
‘You don’t mean – you ain’t gonna tell me …’ He studied her with pitying incredulity. ‘You got no wheels?’
Anna shrugged in what she hoped was an unconcerned manner. ‘Nope.’
He narrowed his eyes. She knew that look; it meant he was closing in for the kill. ‘I couldn’t help noticing earlier. No date, either?’
‘Oh, that’s a shame! All on your own-eeh-oh at your son’s wedding! Wasn’t there a neighbour you could ask, or something?’ Tara-Louise gazed at her, her eyes dark with sympathy. Anna wondered briefly what Mr Simwak-Kim would make of the raucous Tina faction; he had quite enough trouble coping with Western women as it was.
‘No …’ Oh, Jack. ‘Well, the thing is the
re is someone …’ For Christ’s sake! Don’t even think about going there. ‘No.’ She cleared her throat. ‘No, there wasn’t.’
Smirking, Tony stuck out his chest. ‘Shame. Looks like you’d better bum a lift in the Merc.’
‘No, really, thanks but …’
Seizing her arm with his left hand, Tony set off in the direction of the gold Mercedes parked opposite the lychgate, Tara-Louise clattering along gamely on her scarlet strappy sandals gripped firmly on his other side. After much ostentatious play with the remote key, and ignoring with set jaw the blaring alarm that started up as he opened the passenger side and which took more than three minutes to silence, he gestured towards the suede-covered luggage rack behind the butterscotch leather seats. Anna didn’t even hesitate. With the casual air of one to whom projecting gear levers, loose coils of seat belt strap, slews of maps, travel rugs and bottles of mineral water were mere trifles, she manoeuvred herself into the tiny space, smiling sweetly when Tony stuck his head over the back of the driver’s seat and observed that if she’d worn stockings like that in his day he might have stuck around a bit longer. Anna survived the journey back to The Grand by trying to decide which of the Tina faction she’d least like to be marooned on a desert island with – a tough one – and which of the males encountered that morning she’d least like to have sex with – no contest: Father O’Malley.
A waiter (hardly more than eighty, by Anna’s reckoning, and thus a mere junior) was waiting to greet them in the forecourt, overflowing now with parked cars. Lime-green helium balloons bearing the entwined initials S&L had been tied to potted shrubs in a festive manner, giving them the air of having been afflicted by some rare and virulent blight. Muttering darkly to himself, the ancient waiter conducted them down a side path to the grounds at the back of the hotel, where the reception was already in full swing. He accepted Tony’s tip of what looked to Anna suspiciously like five pence with a look of contempt so great she had to restrain herself from hugging him.
‘Hey, some shindig.’ Tony stood gazing about him with a satisfied air. He seized Tara-Louise’s hand. ‘Time to put away a few tubes of the amber fluid before we get down to the tucker, I reckon.’ Without a backward look he disappeared into the crowd, pulling his fiancée after him.
If the scenes in the churchyard after the wedding had been jolly, the reception was a positive riot. Guests milled about the vast central lawn, downing glasses of Pimms stuffed with veritable salads of brightly coloured fruit and sipping from brimming flutes of champagne – indeed, in some cases, both – and getting in the way of the harassed-looking waitresses bearing salvers loaded with small squares of toast topped with lime green and orange swirls. Large numbers of Eamonn’s business colleagues and important clients had recently arrived (who knew what profitable contacts might be established?) and were recognisable by their too-blue, too-tight suits and hearty laughter. Several insalubrious and therefore inconsequential members of what was clearly a Tina-relatives’ sub-faction (not important enough to be invited to the church, but useful inasmuch as they stoked the main players’ self-importance) were also present, and were recognisable by their tendency to take two every time a dish of cocktail sausages or tray of drinks was proffered.
As Anna tried in vain to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom among the crowd, the elderly swing band dressed in boldly striped blazers and boaters, and stationed strategically by the drinks table, broke into a passionate albeit slightly off-key rendition of ‘Love is Here to Stay’, one of Jack’s favourite tracks on their Songs for Swingin’ Lovers CD. Anna bit her lip. Damn and blast them to hell, she’d been doing fine until then. She grabbed a flute of champagne, downed it, slammed the glass back on the tray and took another. The waiter responded with a supercilious smile, and hurried away.
Walking purposefully, as if she had somewhere very important to be, and gripping her glass tightly, Anna headed for the Scot’s pine at the edge of the lawn, nodding politely to people as she passed. Beneath the shelter of the great tree’s branches the air was still and deliciously scented; the effect was as calming as a cool draught of lemonade. Setting her glass down carefully in the rough grass she drew a tiny notebook and pencil from her bag and after a moment, began to write.
The last of the early morning rain clouds finally vanished; the pale sun rose higher in the sky, giving old ladies and long-estranged relatives a useful topic of polite conversation.
Declan moved through the crowd, observing, recording. He’d been keenly aware of Anna’s presence from the moment she arrived, and her sadness whenever she thought she was unobserved. He’d taken several shots of her already, and intended to take several more.
Eamonn, thinking himself unobserved, crept into the hotel forecourt and on towards the circular flowerbed beside the drive. Drawing a crumpled sheaf of scribbled notes from an inner pocket he began to declaim his speech to a topiary peacock, unaware that Bernadette was watching, convulsed, from the staff loo window.
Kate, the matron of honour, thinking herself unobserved, slipped behind a clump of hydrangeas badly in need of pruning and downed the medicinal gin she kept in a Venetian perfume bottle in her handbag for such occasions. If that bastard Ben didn’t propose to her soon, she’d … she’d …
Father O’Malley, thinking himself unobserved, slithered into the shrubbery beside the tennis court, gripping the oldest, fattest waitress firmly by the waist.
Desmond, in full morning dress now, sauntered through the crowd greeting the guests in a lordly manner and doing his best to look as if he hadn’t a care in the feckin’ world. Where the feck was Anna? Thank Christ! There she was, holding an empty glass and talking to some old bird about the weather. He hurried over, made some mad remark about the sunshine to the old bird, who nodded thoughtfully, then sidled up to Anna and whispered urgently in her ear. Anna stood frowning at the ground for a moment, then whispered a reply. Bidding a polite goodbye to the old bird who was still, apparently, chewing over his comment on the sunshine, they hurried off to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, wearing an impressively formal chef’s hat somewhat at odds with the plastic apron, Connor screeched orders at the waitresses loading the microwaves with the Foil ’n’ Freeze banquet the hapless delivery man had delivered early that morning. Desmond watched approvingly for a moment, then went over to the fridge; Anna followed, her stomach churning. Opening the door with a flourish, he drew out a tray of little gold pots. Anna took it gingerly – examined it – and let out a little whoop of joy. The Grand de-luxe mousses au chocolat Grand Marnier looked delicious – chilled to perfection, each pot brimming with a delicate froth of airy bubbles.
She handed the tray back to Desmond, who placed it reverently in middle of the refectory table.
‘Feckin’ great. But …?’ He looked at her questioningly.
She nodded solemnly. ‘Something’s missing.’
‘Right. Like I said, it’s my opinion they need tartin’ up.’ He chewed at a thumbnail. ‘Could get Bernadette to nip round the empty Pimms jars and collect up the maraschino cherries?’
Anna opened her bag and took out a brightly coloured carton. ‘Or maybe …’ She shook the contents onto the table, laughing as Desmond shouted with delight. Scattered across the dark wood was a glittering heap of tiny gold bells – the wedding confetti she’d been too upset to throw at the appropriate time, and for which omission she was now wholeheartedly grateful.
They stood beaming at each other for a second, then, with the utmost care, they set to work.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Half an hour later, Anna headed back to the reception, well satisfied with her handiwork. Two hundred and fifty gold pots of mousse au chocolat Grand Marnier that had been merely charming were now quite exquisite – or ‘feckin’ fantastic’, as Desmond had put it as he’d slid the trays carefully back into the fridge. Each little pot of froth was now topped with a pair of tiny golden bells, the perfect decoration for a wedding breakfast dessert.
‘Would yez lo
ok at that!’ said an elderly waitress as she shuffled past bearing a stack of soup plates, tears of delight in her eyes. ‘If it’s not like some puddin’ from the fairies’ feast!’
Job done, thought Anna, as she negotiated her way through the crowd of guests outside which, fuelled by a steady intake of Pimms, seemed to have become markedly more animated during her absence. As she accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter she caught sight of Sam and Lucy in the distance, talking with Grandma Taylor. Anna smiled; they were probably enquiring discreetly where she’d bought the expensive but hideous set of Popular Cat Breeds place mats she’d sent as a wedding present so that they could exchange them. She was about to go over and join them when a very elderly man (one of Eamonn’s important clients, if she remembered rightly) quavered up to the little group, bowed and began to make flirtatious advances to the old lady. It was clear from Grandma Taylor’s response that she was not entirely averse to this. Grinning, Sam kissed her on the cheek and putting his arm round Lucy, discreetly withdrew. Anna was about to wave and catch their attention, when Sam pointed out someone in the crowd to Lucy. Anna saw that it was Tony and Tara-Louise; as she watched, Sam began to shepherd Lucy towards them.
Anna sighed. She was about to go in search of Barbara and hear the latest instalment in the saga of the crazed dope fiends who’d moved into the Islington flat below hers (a perfectly pleasant couple of medical students, according to Brian, Barbara’s long-suffering husband) when she saw a bright pink straw hat, so enormous it knocked other guests headgear askew, making a beeline for Sam and Lucy from the opposite direction. Sam had begun to talk to Tony and Tara-Louise while the hat was still several feet away; as he introduced his new wife Anna saw it come to an abrupt halt. Suddenly her view was blocked by a couple from the IT faction arguing loudly about the merits of Mark Zuckerberg’s management style. Stepping swiftly round them, Anna was just in time to see Tina bristling as she looked Tara-Louise up and down.