‘It gives a whole new meaning to the words “over my dead body”,’ said Bernard, as the hysterical bride and rather shocked groom left the church. Despite her father keeling over, they did marry a few months later and I hear are still together.
But death at a wedding is not uncommon. We had a granny pass away a few months back in one of the pews. No one noticed until the church was virtually empty, and fortunately even then nearly everyone thought she was having an afternoon snooze. Bernard sorted out the removal of the body, while I had to explain away her absence from the group shots. We did have another granny keel over last year, but it turned out that she was just paralytic with alcohol and could no longer stand. She was carted away by a couple of burly ushers to sleep it off.
Alcohol obviously plays a huge part in inciting incidents, although nothing can really explain or justify the father of the bride stabbing the groom in the leg with his skean dhu at a Scottish wedding we did back in September. Fortunately the two of them had had too much whisky to be able to inflict real pain on each other – most of the punches missed as they flailed around the dance-floor. Bernard and I never quite got to the bottom of who started it. It seemed to flare up out of nothing and for some reason the DJ kept playing ‘The Eye Of The Tiger’ throughout the fight, which somehow rendered it all the more comic. But when the ceremonial dagger came out, Bernard almost squealed with delight. For a fastidious gay man who can’t abide the touch of a paper napkin, his fondness for violence is bizarre. The father lunged and got the groom in the leg. Bernard couldn’t stop himself from applauding. Sadly, the groom was too drunk to get his sword out of his scabbard in order for there to be a proper fight. But the poor bride screamed as her dress got spattered in blood. However, it clearly wasn’t a serious argument because five minutes later the two of them were found slapping each other’s backs at the bar. It was all forgiven and resolved over another dram.
Bernard’s favourite fight he’s witnessed, which was sadly before I joined him, happened at a class-divide wedding. A posh bloke was marrying a girl from the other side of the tracks and the wedding was very much split into two camps – those who drank port with their cheese and those who drank lemonade with their port. One half of the wedding was gritting their teeth and getting through it, thankful that they would never see the other half again, while the others were necking as much free alcohol as possible.
The bride and groom were leaving the reception in an open-topped Rolls Royce, and the wedding party was following them down the drive, when one of the groom’s relatives offered to push the bride’s great-aunt along in her wheelchair. He managed it fine until he reached a cattle grid, where he lost control of the wheelchair and both great-aunt and the chair ended up in a ditch. Someone shouted, ‘They’ve put Auntie in the ditch!’ To which someone else added, ‘Let’s get the bastards!’ The bride and groom drove off, waving goodbye to their party, as all hell broke loose. Bernard always loves to add that four people ended up in hospital.
But more often than not, the tension is not so overt. It normally manifests itself with bitching and little acerbic asides: the bride’s dress is cheap; the bride’s mother is wearing pistachio; the groom is wearing a white suit. One of Bernard’s little tricks is that he always tries to find out what the groom is wearing. He is always saying, what is the point of the bride spending £3,000 on a dress if the groom turns up in a pink suit? The whole effect is ruined. I remember last summer we did a wedding where all the ushers turned up in shiny suits and ten-inch-wide ties. Bernard spent the whole ceremony chain-smoking in the graveyard because he couldn’t bear to look.
However, there is nothing that sends Bernard into the stratosphere more than people being invited to the later part of the celebrations, like a second wave of also-ran guests who weren’t good enough for the first half. ‘It makes the guests feel bad about themselves,’ he says. ‘And you don’t invite people to feel bad. Also what are they supposed to do until ten o’clock? Sit at home and wait until it is time to go out? It is not a good dynamic for a party.’ And the thing that sends Bernard kicking and screaming to hell and back is a pay bar. ‘Britney Spears had one at her wedding,’ he always says. ‘That is all you need to know. Don’t invite people and ask them to pay. It is the rudest thing you can do. Just don’t have so many people.’ But the rudest thing either of us have ever witnessed was a father who was supplying wine for the wedding, who decided he was going to charge his guests at a pay bar after dinner in order to recoup the cost of the wine and food. Bernard was so shocked that he didn’t know what to do with the information. Needless to say, after a couple of weeks of working on the wedding we decided to pass it on to someone else.
Sadly, it is a little late to be able to do the same with Alice and Richard. One can only hope that everyone behaves themselves on the day.
Camilla is still comparing Matthew Williamson and Stella McCartney down the line and online with her mate when Desmond arrives. Desmond is our calligrapher – or scribe, as he likes to describe himself. Six foot four of dreadlocked Jamaican, he is the coolest dude to ever walk the planet. Handsome, laid-back and with a sharp sense of humour, he looks like he should be DJ-ing on a beach in Ibiza instead of being one of the finest handwriting experts around. A member of the Worshipful Company of Scriveners, his fair hand is responsible for some of the most exquisite invitations, placements and lettering imaginable. His clients range from captains of industry to high-fashion luxury brands. He is a very good friend of Bernard’s and one of our big-gun suppliers, but as he is so goddamn expensive (between £1,000 and £2,000 for a morning’s work), we only call on him in an emergency, or if we have an oligarch we want to impress. His Arabic calligraphy goes down particularly well with our Middle Eastern clients. He is also so handsome that Camilla immediately drops her call.
‘Hi Desmond,’ she purrs as he saunters in with his case of quills under his arm.
‘Good morning.’ He nods his head. ‘How are you on this beautiful day?’
‘All the better for seeing you,’ she giggles, winding her hair around her fingers and licking her lips. My toes actually curl for her.
‘Desmond! Good to see you!’ I shake his hand, trying to help the man out of there. ‘Thanks for coming in at such short notice.’
‘No problem, man,’ he says, looking around the office for somewhere to work. ‘Shall I use Bernard’s desk?’
‘Good idea,’ I reply, watching him stride across the office, his long legs in drainpipe jeans. His bright-orange shirt and collection of gold and leather-thong necklaces would look ridiculous on anyone else, yet somehow Desmond manages to carry off his whole look with enviable aplomb. Camilla sighs unconsciously as he walks past.
He moves Bernard’s Mont Blanc pens and blotting pad to one side. Out of his case he produces a selection of goose-feather quills (with the feather still attached), as well as various pots of different-coloured ink.
‘Bernard said that the card is already here?’ he asks.
‘That’s right,’ says Camilla, bringing over a pile of stiff cream card. ‘This came about half an hour ago.’
‘Excellent. Thanks babe,’ smiles Desmond. ‘The bride wants black for the wedding and green for the rehearsal dinner? Is that right? And one large seating plan for each night?’
‘That’s right, I think. I’ll just go and check my notes,’ I say.
‘And what was wrong with the last lot?’ he asks.
‘Card was too yellow, apparently,’ I say. ‘And apparently the writing wasn’t right. She wanted ornate and she got italic.’
‘OK then, dude. And what sort of green – apple or lime?’
‘I would say apple,’ I reply.
‘Cool.’
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ asks Camilla.
‘No caffeine for me, darling, it gives me the shakes and I need a steady hand in my job.’
‘Oh God, of course, silly me.’
‘Although a glass of water would be perfect.’
Camilla busies herself pouring Evian into a glass while I hand Desmond over the list of names and places where they are sitting, for him to start on the large seating plan for the Friday-night dinner. His work is meticulous and apparently effortless. Each curl and swirl and curve seems to flow from his squeaking nib. And he is fast.
‘Honestly,’ he says as he writes Louise’s name on top table. ‘Whatever happened to a quiet dinner and a few drinks for a wedding? Or even a bit of cake and a drink, like in the olden days? Why are they now doing the three-day things? When I get married I’m going to do it over a pub in Brixton with some mates, a few beers and my aunt’s jerk chicken.’
‘I totally agree,’ lies Camilla, for whom a knees-up in Brixton is about as far away from her perfect big day as you can get. ‘I think we should all chill out more about weddings.’
‘Oh?’ grins Desmond. ‘Now you shock me there, Camilla. I had you down as more of a church-and-big-reception kind of girl.’
‘Oh God, no,’ she scoffs. ‘Why would I do that? I’d like a chillaxed day.’
Camilla has suddenly developed what she supposes to be a ‘hip’ voice while talking to Desmond. Much like the plummiest of Sloanes always sniff and say ‘mate’ as soon as they speak to a cab-driver, she must think this new patois is more engaging than her usual RP. I am afraid I find it rather hard to keep a straight face. Fortunately Bernard’s arrival puts Camilla out of her hip-hop misery.
‘Darling!’ he declares rather flamboyantly to Desmond.
‘Darling!’ Desmond declares right back.
‘You look fabulous! I’m loving the orange shirt.’ Bernard holds Desmond’s shoulders and steps back to admire the look.
‘Ozwald Boateng,’ he smiles.
‘Sadly, I am nowhere near tall enough or black enough for his stuff.’ Bernard rolls his eyes with disappointment. ‘Have you been working out, you bastard?’ he asks, squeezing Desmond’s sturdy biceps.
‘No.’
Bernard raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh no, don’t tell me!’ He clutches his purple-rinsed head in dramatic despair. ‘You’ve got a new girlfriend. I can’t bear it. The tragedy of it. You are far too handsome to be straight.’
‘You win some and you lose some,’ shrugs Desmond. He is used to Bernard’s lame advances and I think would be disappointed if Bernard didn’t launch himself at him with all the enthusiasm of a Labrador on heat.
‘I know, but with you I am not even in with a fighting chance!’
‘Jesus,’ says Desmond. ‘What the hell is that smell?’
‘Oh Christ,’ says Bernard, looking down. ‘Sophie! Fuck me, that’s disgusting! Camilla! By the way, you’ve got Sophie this morning. We’ve got to go to a tasting in Stockwell.’ He points to himself and me. ‘And I’ve got nearly two grand’s worth of cake on the back seat of the car and we can’t leave Sophie with the cake because she’ll eat the bloody thing. So she’s coming into the office – only until lunchtime, when I am taking the cake to Alice’s sister’s house for her to transport it down to Sussex.’
‘Great,’ says Camilla sarcastically. ‘That’ll be fun.’
‘Any more cheek and you can take her for a walk as well,’ says Bernard. ‘We’ve got no clients coming in, so she can sit on the sofa next to Jez’s desk – and I’ll shut the door for you, darling,’ he smiles at Desmond. ‘So you can work in peace. Sophie – shoo!’ he says. ‘In your bed!’ He points to the sofa. The dog trots over to the other side of the office. She may be flatulent but at least she is a little more obedient than she used to be. Those evening classes are beginning to pay off. ‘Now,’ says Bernard, ‘let’s have a look at what you’ve been doing.’
Bernard and Desmond close the doors to his office, then they have a ten-minute conversation that try as I might I can’t quite hear. It seems to involve much laughter and the mention of Elton John twice, his partner David Furniss once, Prada three times and Kylie Minogue. Desmond has clearly been spreading himself around quite a lot of late.
‘Excellent,’ says Bernard, suddenly appearing through the door. ‘Shall we go?’
Twenty-five minutes later, we pull up outside Nigel’s warehouse on an industrial estate in Stockwell. I get out of the car with a sheet-white face, just about ready to puke on my shoes. My hangover has not been helped by the horrendous stop-start driving that I have just experienced. It would have been more comfortable to have been shoved head-first into a kangaroo’s pouch and bounced over the river. Bernard is also one of those deeply scary drivers who look you in the eye all the time while driving. And all the time you are smiling and talking you are secretly begging for the mad bastard to look back at the road.
‘Who are we meeting?’ he asks, turning to me and stretching out his clearly exhausted brake leg.
‘Ian and Catriona,’ I say, opening my file on the roof of the car. ‘Their wedding’s on September the sixth in Hampstead and this is the final tasting.’
‘Righty-ho,’ says Bernard. ‘Let’s go and eat some of Nigel’s lovely grub.’
Walking into the offices of The Lilac Olive is like entering an Aladdin’s cave full of delights. It’s a huge set-up. There are three or four industrial kitchens with twenty-two full-time chefs, sous chefs and pastry chefs preparing the food, which ranges from the simple asparagus-tip-wrapped-in-Parma-ham canapé, to spun-sugar castles with caramel hazelnut batons. Adjoining the kitchens is a large warehouse storeroom of linen, glassware and silver. Hundreds of different-coloured tablecloths – oatmeal, lime, sage, white, toile de joie – are piled to the ceiling, along with matching napkins and chair covers. In one corner there’s a collection of sample dining chairs attached to the wall. Gold, silver, perspex, wicker, mahogany or lime-washed – they are all on offer for you to choose from. Through a glass door off to the right there’s another room with twenty-five sample dinner services arranged neatly on the shelves. Some are simple Limogues white plates, and there are square black sushi plates for a more contemporary look, but there is also a collection of bespoke dinner services that were made especially for The Lilac Olive by Royal Doulton. In the middle of the room are three sample tables, which have been laid out in various ways in order to help the client choose, using a selection of candelabra. Each table has a totally different look. In the far corner, there are also piles of different uniforms for the staff, to complement and match their surroundings. With so much choice available, it is a wonder that anyone can reach any decision in here at all.
‘Good morning! Good morning!’ Nigel’s nasal voice echoes around his cavernous warehouse, as does the click-clack of his shiny shoes. ‘How are we today?’ He appears from between the linens.
‘Fine and dandy,’ replies Bernard. ‘How are the haemorrhoids?’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ says Nigel, giving Bernard a weak handshake. ‘The clients are upstairs in the tasting room, so curb your tongue.’
We follow Nigel upstairs, past his office and a group of busy-looking staff, through their rather nice dining room, where they get fed a chef’s two-course lunch every day, and into the tasting room. A small sunny room in the corner of the building, it boasts two tables. One is laid like a show table, as it would be for a wedding, with a tablecloth, two chairs, a candelabra and two full place settings; the other is a long trestle where the actual tasting takes place, groaning with food. A tasting can cost a couple a thousand pounds if Nigel doesn’t perceive them as serious, otherwise the cost is factored in to his quote.
Ian and Catriona are quite serious, so this delicious early lunch won’t set them back anything. They already each have a glass of champagne on the go, and are clearly ready to enjoy themselves.
‘I have been looking forward to this all week,’ smiles Catriona as she comes over and kisses me on both cheeks. ‘I haven’t eaten for days.’
‘Cheers,’ grins Ian from the other side of the table. ‘Very nice to see you both.’
Judging by the spread that is on offer, it looks as if they have chosen to sample a mid-range menu. The Lilac Olive’s p
rices range from £8 to £15 per head for canapés and between £47 and £95 per head for a three-course dinner including coffee and petit fours, but excluding the cost of staff, wine, soft drinks, cutlery, glasses, table and chair hire, the marquee – the lot. And the extras are expensive. The chefs come from places like Spencer House and other private homes. The butlers who serve at the table have been trained at Buckingham Palace, Clarence House and the executive fine dining rooms at Shell and BP. They are usually Spanish or Italian and get paid £18 an hour. With a dinner for two hundred you would need two butlers per table of ten, as well as another five or six wine butlers who circulate between the tables, who are also joined by two head barmen and a couple of others – including the back-stage staff there would be about seventy in total. Or if you’re the Beckhams you have two hundred and fifty guests and the same number of staff. So despite the fact that you are spending between £11,000 and £21,000 on food alone, you can more or less triple that once you have added in staff and other costs.
At which point one might be tempted to go for a buffet option instead, thinking it might be cheaper. But in fact it is not. With a dinner there are two courses and a pudding to cater for, so, for example, smoked salmon, lamb and then a cake. However, with a buffet you have to offer lamb and beef and fish and prawns – it is almost twice as much work and food, and therefore money.
Ian and Catriona look like they’re spending £65 to £70 a head and they have gone for a very modern, fashionable menu, opening with a ceviche of three types of fish. Asian and ethnic is big at the moment, as is having three little options on a plate. So you can have three small starters, followed by three small mains and an assiette of desserts. It used to be terribly frowned upon to serve chicken, as it was considered the stuff of corporate events, but these days so few women eat red meat that chicken is often ordered by the bride. Having said that, there is nothing that gets up Nigel’s rather large nose more than vegetarians.
Wedding Babylon Page 12