I remember him late one night, having had a few too many chardonnays and a terrible service, shouting on about vegetarians.
‘I mean, what is a vegetarian?’ he slurred. ‘They are usually people who don’t eat red meat but who will suddenly eat bacon or ham or sausages. They will say they are vegetarian, but then ask for a nice piece of chicken if the person next to them is tucking in to some. “But you’re a veggie!”’ he shouted. ‘“I just don’t eat red meat,”’ he mimicked. ‘“No! You’re just a bloody fussy girl.”’
Nigel is always in the habit of doubling the veggie order and insists that it is not printed on the menu. Otherwise he ends up in the same situation as he was on the night of the rant. Because it was printed on the menu, everyone presumed it was an option and his six vegetarians suddenly became thirty-two.
‘Allergies’ are his other bête noire. ‘What the fuck is wrong with everyone?’ he once asked me. ‘We’ve got vegans, the lactose intolerant, coeliacs, macrobiotics. Christ, nuts were booted out last century! Why is everyone so ill? Maybe it is just fashionable to be sensitive.’
However, despite his moaning, Nigel is truly brilliant at accommodating the unexpected. Two weeks ago, he managed to find a nice piece of fish for the groom’s mother, who suddenly announced, as they were sitting down, that she couldn’t eat venison. She had already had a separate starter because she couldn’t stomach the pasta first course. ‘What the client wants, the client gets’ is his motto and he always pulls it off with great aplomb. He knows to double the bread order if it is a Jewish wedding, and to bring in the prawns if the rabbi is not staying to dinner. He knows the Russians love their cured fish. And everyone loves a pudding. Pudding is, according to Nigel, the one dish that everyone remembers, which is why it must be spectacular. I beg to differ, as I am always far too drunk to remember what the pudding was, but he is insistent. A croque en bouche – a profiterole pyramid with crème anglaise covered in chocolate or spun sugar – is his favourite.
Ian and Catriona seem delighted with their starter, which sits on the plate for barely a minute. While Nigel talks them through the various ways of serving it – on square plates or with charger plates – they crunch and munch away. They sip at their champagne and pronounce everything to be delicious. I have to say, I agree. The salmon has the edge on the red mullet, I think. But Bernard is a fan of the sea bass.
The main course is again three different types of meat; this time each has been seared and seasoned and placed around a medley of small veg. The lamb and beef are particularly melt-in-the-mouth perfect. I am a little less keen on the venison.
‘You can have this with a jus of some sort if you want,’ suggests Nigel, flaring his nostrils and inhaling over the plate. ‘But personally I am over jus and emulsions; I prefer a quality meat, perfectly seared. I think it shows confidence.’
‘It won’t be dry?’ asks Catriona, chewing away on her piece of beef.
‘No,’ says Nigel.
‘And I am wondering if we need some mash,’ adds Ian. ‘To soak up the drink.’
Nigel shoots him a look that could turn milk at twenty paces. His food is not there to soak up alcohol, it is there to be savoured and enjoyed. His silence speaks volumes.
‘Then again,’ says Ian, ‘maybe not.’
‘The vegetables are amazing,’ declares Catriona by way of warming the sudden chill in the air.
‘Thanks,’ smiles Nigel.
While two members of staff clear away the main course, a trolley with a small mountain of profiteroles arrives, along with a plate of three desserts, which consist of a small summer pudding, an apricot-compote-topped cheesecake, and a tiny champagne jelly with fruit.
‘Now I know you wanted the assiette,’ says Nigel. ‘But I just wanted you to have a look at the croque en bouche to imagine what it might look like on the day and to see just how attractive it is.’
‘Oh my God!’ exclaims Catriona, her hands on her cheeks. ‘That looks amazing!’
‘But aren’t we having a wedding cake?’ asks Ian.
‘Do you want one?’ she asks.
‘I am not sure,’ he replies.
‘Do you want to eat it or cut it?’ asks Bernard. ‘The one we have in the car is really a cutting cake. It won’t taste nice and it’s cost the best part of £2,000.’
‘You’ve got a cake in the car?’ asks Nigel.
‘Yes,’ says Bernard.
‘In this heat?’
‘What do you mean, “in this heat”?’ snaps Bernard.
‘It’ll melt.’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid.’ Bernard rolls his eyes. ‘And anyway, we’re parked in the shade.’
‘Are you sure?’
I have never seen Bernard walk off at such a pace while pretending to be nonchalant. I can hear him sprint down the stairs and then we all turn to watch him as he dashes across the car park to his old Mercedes, which is parked in the full sun. The ‘Fuck!’ that he shouts is audible through the glass window and the following display of hair-pulling, jumping up and down and general kicking of the car verges on the Basil Fawlty. It is so insane and out of control that Catriona starts to laugh.
‘I know it’s mean,’ she sniggers. ‘But I just can’t help myself.’
‘No,’ I smile. ‘I agree.’
Bernard slams the boot of his car and comes bounding back up the stairs. His face is pink with rage and yet drained with terror.
‘Nigel,’ he croaks, ‘I am fucked. The cake is fucked. I am terribly sorry,’ he apologizes to Ian. ‘I never swear in front of clients. Please forgive me!’
‘No, don’t worry,’ dismisses Ian. ‘You are well fucked, mate.’
‘Shit!’ Bernard stares at Nigel, his hands limp by his side. ‘The layers have collapsed!’
‘Badly?’ asks Nigel.
‘They’re fucked.’ Bernard shakes his head. ‘Sorry,’ he says quickly to Catriona, who smiles back.
‘Listen,’ says Nigel. ‘Get it out of the car, and I’ll get our chefs to fix it for you. There’s nothing they can’t do.’
‘Really?’ Bernard looks like he is about to cry. ‘But you guys didn’t make it.’
‘You’re my friend,’ says Nigel, patting Bernard on the back. ‘And besides, it is always good to check out the competition.’
While Nigel goes off to save Bernard’s bacon, Ian takes a swift slug of his drink and leans over to me.
‘We’re glad to get you on your own,’ he says, straightening his pale-blue silk tie and tugging at the double cuffs of his pink checked shirt. ‘Cat and I were wondering if we could have some sort of snow storm after dinner?’
‘A snow storm? In September? Well, there are machines that can do that. It shouldn’t be a problem.’ I shrug, making a note on my clipboard.
‘No,’ he laughs, patting me on the shoulder. ‘Not that sort of snow.’ He sniffs and then winks. ‘You know, snow snow.’ I am still a little confused, but am beginning to not enjoy where this is headed.
‘What Ian means is could we halve the food budget and double the drugs budget?’ Cat smiles sweetly. ‘We’d like, I suppose, between fifteen and twenty grams of cocaine, to hand out to the guests?’
I have been asked for drugs before, but not quite this blatantly. It is usually the best man who comes up to me at the reception, breathing hot champagne breath down my ear and asking where he can score. I haven’t actually been asked to mule a whole lot in for the bash. But I am not surprised, as drugs are increasingly common at weddings. In fact, I have lost count of the amount of times I have seen the happy couple drop an E just before or after dinner, only to become very happy indeed. I did have one couple take a pill just before they went down the aisle, which I thought was a little crass. But more often than not it is an after-dinner thing that results in Bernard and me trying extricate ourselves from the loved-up embraces of the bride and groom at four in the morning as they repeatedly tell us how much they love us, how that was the best day of their lives and haven’t we both got
the most beautiful hair? Which in Bernard’s case is patently not true.
Coke is the drug of choice for the over-thirty bride. I think because it is more expensive and you can supposedly maintain some sort of control. It doesn’t make you dance like an arse, hug a marquee pole, or repeatedly stroke the basket of fancies. You simply talk endlessly about yourself, which is permissible on your wedding day. It is supposedly more discreet, except for the constant trips to the toilet. However, if you talk to wedding photographers, they’ll tell you it drives them nuts. You can tell in the photos exactly who’s had a line by their rictus grins, their frosted nostrils and dead eyes. It doesn’t make for very romantic snaps.
‘I am afraid I can’t supply anything illegal,’ I reply, reaching for my po-face. Not strictly true – I did buy a huge amount of hash for the hubble-bubble pipes at a Moroccan-themed wedding a few years back. And I did once pimp a dancer for the father of the bride. He was keen for a private lap-dance after the go-go girls got down off their podiums, for which the randy old so-and-so gave me a fistful of cash. Other than that, I will hold the door for a bride while she has a line, I’ll go and fetch her a nice clean mirror to chop out on, and I will make sure the lavatory is pleasant enough for her when she enters. But I won’t do much else. Bernard told me about a wedding he did years ago where the loos got blocked up with used syringes because half the guests were on heroin. He said it was the dullest party he had ever been too.
‘Fuck me!’ declares Bernard as he walks back into the room, carrying a heavy melted morass of white sugar and sponge. His face is puce and covered in sweat. ‘You had better bloody pray for a goddamn fucking miracle.’
Wednesday p.m.
CATRIONA AND IAN stay in the tasting room, finalizing the details of their menu, which, if they get the snow storm they desire, now appears to be surplus to requirements. Meanwhile, Bernard and I follow Nigel into the kitchens to try and resolve Cakegate.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ exclaims the French head chef as Bernard arrives with the silver tray of melted cake. ‘That is a super pig’s ear.’
‘You can say that again, Antoine,’ agrees Nigel, looking down his flared nose at the mess. ‘Can you rescue it?’
‘Rescue!’ snorts Antoine. ‘I think it is better to start from the beginning, no?’
‘Well, it needs to be in Fulham by half past four,’ says Bernard.
‘ ’Alf four?’
‘Yup.’
I don’t think I have ever seen Bernard look embarrassed before. He is unflappable and indefatigable; he is always in the right and always knows best. It is fascinating to witness. He looks like a bespoke schoolboy, shuffling from one shiny handmade shoe to another, staring at the floor and mumbling slightly. That was clearly the last time he buggered anything up. And it was such an elementary mistake to make. I am convinced he was so obsessed about his dog not eating the cake that he forgot to guard against other catastrophes.
‘What the fuck did you do to it?’ Antoine asks, walking around the cake, picking off a couple of white sugar roses.
‘I left it in the car and it melted,’ explains Bernard, itching his ear and scratching his purple rinse.
‘Very, very smart,’ nods Antoine, still inspecting the exhibit. ‘ ’Alf four, you say?’
‘That’s right,’ says Nigel. ‘I said you could do it.’
‘I will have to take Alfonse and Xavier off the silver wedding cake for the end of the week,’ he says, frowning through a pair of thick black eyebrows.
‘Fine,’ agrees Nigel. ‘Penrose here are one of our best clients.’
‘You guys from Penrose?’ asks Antoine.
‘We are Penrose,’ says Bernard, standing a little taller.
‘Of course you are,’ says Antoine, squinting slightly. ‘I have done some of your weddings.’
‘Really?’ says Bernard.
‘I do pastry. You would not meet me,’ he shrugs. ‘I never leave this shithole.’
‘I thought we hadn’t met,’ smiles Bernard, offering his hand.
‘OK, so fine,’ he replies, giving Bernard’s hand the briefest of shakes before turning around to bark at his team. ‘Alfonse! Xavier! Come here, you bastards, and fix this fuck-up as soon as bloody possible. This is an emergency and I have told the bosses ’ere –’ he indicates to Nigel, Bernard and I, ‘that you can re-make this pile of shit into a thing of beauty by three o’clock.’
I look across at the large clock on the wall – it is quarter past twelve. That doesn’t give them much time to resurrect this five-tier cake from its sugar-coated ashes.
‘They can be a little later if they want – four would be fine,’ I suggest.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ quips Antoine, under his breath. ‘Where is the challenge in that?’
Leaving Bernard and Nigel to chivvy on the French cavalry, I head back to the office as quickly as public transport will allow. I am supposed to be attending a registry office wedding this afternoon. They are a rather sweet couple – Nick and Esther – who have known each other since their early twenties and are celebrating with a small dinner for forty in an art gallery that we have taken over for the evening. It is not a big event. In fact, it is one of the smallest budgets we have ever dealt with at Penrose, but I think it will be one of the most stylish. Esther works in fashion and I think has managed to beg, borrow or steal most of her accessories. Her shoes, I know, have been given to her, and a friend has done the flowers for the dinner at cost price. I think the whole thing has only set them back about thirty grand and that includes her dress, which is couture. But before I head off to West London and then down to Chelsea registry, I have a couple of meetings in the office to deal with first.
Coming up the stairs to the first floor, I’m met by the pitiful sight of Sophie sitting on her own on the landing, her lead tied to the large white radiator. She looks at me with her doleful brown eyes, but just before my heart melts and I insist that she be allowed back into the office, I am buffeted by the thick stench of Winalot.
‘Good girl, Sophie,’ I say. Her tail beats the floor in reply. ‘You sit there nicely. Camilla will take you for a walk in a minute.’
I am barely through the door before Camilla launches into tales of her ‘dog-morning hell’ and how it has been impossible to work and how Jez came and went, leaving her on her own to cope with everything. He went to the art gallery to help set up for this afternoon and then called and said he won’t be back till tomorrow.
‘That’s good.’ I nod, not really listening.
‘Good! I have been here all morning on my own!’ Her voice is so shrill it makes me wince.
‘What’s happened to Desmond?’
‘Oh, well . . .’ She blushes slightly. ‘He asked me not to disturb him. I went in a few times—’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replies, looking a little defensive.
‘How many?’ I repeat.
‘Five, six, I can’t remember.’ She smiles tightly. ‘Anyway, he put his iPod on so he couldn’t hear me.’
‘Right.’
‘So that was that.’ She looks a little defeated. ‘I got the hint.’
‘It’s very skilled work.’
‘Not that skilled,’ she snorts. ‘A bit of curly writing. I can write and talk at the same time. Actually I can do anything and talk at the same time. Even sex.’
I follow her into Bernard’s office, where Desmond has left an immaculate pile of place names on top of the desk and two large cards with the seating plan drawn in stunning ornate detail propped up against the side of the sofa.
‘He left about twenty minutes ago.’
I pick up the pile of cards for the dinner and leaf through. They look incredible. The black curls and swirls are executed without fault. There is not a blot or a smudge or a spelling mistake. He really is a talented scribe. The whole thing appears so effortless. The seating plans are equally stunning. The bride and groom’s names are illuminated in gold on each of the plans, with other
important players such as the bridesmaids and the best man each given a little extra touch to make them stand out from the crowd. ‘Not bad, I suppose,’ says Camilla, looking at the green-penned cards for the rehearsal dinner.
‘I think they’re a work of art,’ I reply. ‘Can you get these all packaged up and ready to send?’
‘Where to?’
‘We’re going to courier them to the house in Sussex today.’
‘Really? Isn’t that a bit expensive?’
‘Anything to keep the bride happy,’ I smile.
‘Oh right, our mistake then.’ She nods.
‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’
Camilla gets to work on packing up the placements and I get to work on the tin of biscuits in the office. I realize that a couple of mouthfuls of ceviche and a teaspoon of summer pudding is not going to keep anyone going beyond two o’clock. I am just tossing up the merits of a jammy dodger versus a pink wafer when Kathryn arrives. Dressed in an expensive-looking sheer silk summer dress, she looks like she’s wafted through a meadow on her way.
‘I am not too early?’ she says, as she spots my hand in the tin.
‘No, no.’ I spit crumbs all over my desk. ‘I was just—’
‘The downstairs door was open and there was such a bad smell of drains in the stairwell I just couldn’t hang around.’
‘No, of course, sit down.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiles and perches neatly in the chair, crossing one slim thigh over the other.
‘Biscuit?’ I suggest, shoving the large tin towards her.
‘No, thanks.’ She looks as if she is about to retch at the mere idea.
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