‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ booms Louise. Steve and about six other young men in vests and jeans turn to look at her. ‘I have got a thousand pounds’ worth of wildflower seed planted in that field and there you are churning the whole thing up. Take your vehicle out of there immediately and carry the things through the gate by hand as we agreed. We discussed using the field back in March and in March I said no.’
‘I am very sorry,’ says Steve, using his most charming wide smile. ‘But we are short for time and I was just trying to get this up as quickly as possible for you and your husband.’
‘I am divorced,’ she replies stiffly.
‘Well, you and your daughter,’ he tries again.
‘Yes, well,’ says Louise, warming slightly. ‘The answer is still no.’
‘Right you are then,’ he nods. ‘Through the small gate it is then, lads.’ Six pairs of eyes roll.
Steve and I walk round to the back of the house just to make sure that he has the correct measurements and is going to erect it in the right place. Alice and Richard have gone for a minimalist marquee with an ivory interior, having been advised against the white by Steve. ‘It looks a bit naff, if I am being honest,’ he said at his site visit. ‘And I’d have the flat wall linings and not the pleated. Although a bit more traditional, the pleats are only there to disguise the fact that the tent isn’t straight.’ There was much agonizing about what to put on the floor – white carpet was too wintry, the level wooden floor was too expensive and probably too noisy. So in the end we’ve gone for the sea-grass look, which is neutral, not noisy and not hugely expensive.
‘So one foot plate here,’ I say, standing right at the bottom of the stone stairs that lead off the back terrace and into the garden. ‘And the other one on the other side.’
‘Hi there,’ says Alice, appearing on the terrace. ‘Do your guys want anything?’
‘Not yet,’ says Steve. ‘Wait till they’ve got going a bit.’ She shrugs and goes back inside. ‘That’s pleasant,’ he adds. ‘Normally no one gives us the time of day, and if we ask to go to the lav, they point us in the direction of the nearest field.’
‘Talking of which, where are we going to put the lavs?’ I ask.
‘I seem to remember they were towards the stream, no?’ He looks down the garden. ‘At the back of the tent, and we’re building a tunnel to them, so they are not anywhere near the guests while they’re eating. There’s nothing worse than a back draught.’ He laughs and scans the garden, looking a little confused. ‘Where are the facilities, mate?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The toilets? Where are they?’
‘Haven’t you got them?’
‘No. D’you see any lavs on our trucks? We’ve got tents, cables, poles and flooring. We don’t have any loos.’
‘Really?’ My heart is racing now.
‘She went for the minimum package,’ he says. ‘I’ve not got tables and chairs either.’
‘No, I know about them. But you haven’t got loos?’
‘Nope.’
‘But you can get them?’
‘Nope – we are fully booked. It is wedding season, mate. Things are so fucking tight we’re marrying a girl on a Tuesday next week.’
‘Fuck,’ I say. The panic is really rising. My hands are sweating and my mouth is dry as a bone. ‘Fuck. I am fucked.’
‘You told me you didn’t want our £300 Portaloo thing, you were going to go for the bespoke one—’
‘What, the five-grand loo?’ I squeak. ‘I would never have gone for the five-grand loo at this wedding. That’s more than the bride’s dress cost.’
‘But I remember you talking about having them handmade with a seating area and a mock Damien Hirst print or plasma screen on the wall.’
‘No, that can’t be right. Maybe I was just telling you about them?’
‘Whatever,’ says Steve, walking off to join his crew. ‘I’ve got no lavs and now neither have you.’
With my heart pounding in my ears, I leg it to my car and close the door. I riffle through all my papers just to check and double-check that I am the one who’s buggered it up. And Steve’s right – Alice and Richard went for the cheapest option, thinking that they could get a deal on loos somewhere else. Or maybe I suggested I could. Fuck knows. I do so many of these a week, I can’t remember what I have said to whom. I take a deep breath and call Bernard. I am braced for his reaction, but because of my earlier hasty exit he uses my incompetence as an opportunity to swear more violently than a ho on crack. It is a relentless tirade that gives me tinnitus halfway through.
‘Have you finished?’ I sigh, getting out my pen. ‘Do you have any numbers that might be any good?’
Eventually, after some more grovelling, he shouts a few numbers down the phone.
‘And don’t pay more than three grand,’ he barks.
‘Three grand?’ I exclaim.
‘Yeah well, we’ve got to swallow this one, haven’t we? It’s your fuck-up. And they have us over a barrel. This is one of the busiest wedding weekends of the year, and they’ve got lavs so they are going to see you coming and charge you a lot of money, aren’t they?’
‘Oh.’
‘I know Nigel paid five grand for emergency loos last year when he did something quite similar.’
‘Five grand?’
Bernard hangs up. He is furious with me and I can’t really blame him. The thing now is to rectify my error with as little loss to the company as possible. It takes me six phone calls and four people laughing at me before I manage to track down a nice bloke called Peter who is in his second season hiring out event lavatories and has got a few left over. Initially he offers me a couple of the single workmen loos that you get at building sites, but then he manages to find a three-plus-one loo, which is three ladies’ toilets and one blokes’ toilet, plus three urinals, in one unit with basins, oak flooring and coordinating carpets, which according to the purple guide (health and safety at events) is supposed to cater for about 275 guests. I could kiss the guy. I sound so pathetically grateful down the phone that I think for a minute he might screw me on the price. But in the end he charges me a simple £2,000 – twice as much as I should pay, but not as much as Bernard predicted. He has himself a deal and my arse is saved.
I walk on to the back lawn with a wide grin on my face to share the good news with Steve, only to find him getting the full Louise Oxford hairdryer. She is yelling so loudly that he is actually wincing.
‘No! No! No! How many more times do we have to discuss this? The entrance to the marquee is off to the right so that the guests can see Granny’s cherry tree when they drink their aperitifs on the terrace. I went over this very carefully with you when you came.’
‘Back in March,’ says Steve.
‘Yes!’ she shouts. ‘Back in March. Can’t you remember anything?’
‘God, if I had fifty quid for every time I’ve had to move the marquee for bloody Granny’s tree, I’d be a rich man,’ he mutters to me, and he pulls up the foot plates and moves them half a metre to the right.
‘Thank you!’ shouts Louise, as if she’s been totally worn out by the whole experience.
Fortunately, Richard’s arrival proves to be enough of a distraction for her to leave the boys alone to erect the tent.
‘Everything going all right?’ he asks as he comes out on to the terrace. ‘Richard,’ he says, shaking my hand rather firmly.
‘We have met before, I’m planning the wedding.’
‘Course!’ he says, snapping his fingers in my face. ‘I am a little distracted. Lot on my plate.’ I smile through my irritation. ‘Shouldn’t the entrance be a little over this way?’
‘Not if you want to see Granny’s cherry tree,’ replies Steve, looking up and wiping his sweaty brow.
‘Oh,’ says Richard. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t get involved.’
‘Not if you know what’s good for you,’ I reply.
‘I worked that out a while back,’ he laughs. �
��Why do you think I’ve been with Dad and his girlfriend and my sister and my mum all day, keeping a “low profile”?’ he says, putting quotation marks around the words. Shorter and stockier than I remember, Richard has become so assimilated down South that he has lost most of his Manchester accent. In fact, as he chats away about the adjoining cottages in the next-door village where his parents are staying, it is hard to discern where he is from at all. ‘Anyway,’ he adds, ‘keep up the good work. I’m off to find out when the best man is getting here.’
Steve and his crew are hammering in the stakes when the hire vans arrive with all the catering and kitchen equipment. As well as marquee hire, Alice and Richard have rented everything from butter knives to dessert forks, from sugar bowls to coat-rails and hangers. Although The Lilac Olive does provide a selection to choose from, Alice wanted something a little different and has opted for one of the numerous catering hire companies. Perhaps the best-known one, with the largest amount of choice, is Jones Hire Services. They can provide anything from dinner plates to soup tureens to sauce boats, and from ramekin dishes to mother-of-pearl canapé forks and spoons – anything that you could possibly want when it comes to catering for your guests. Obviously it all comes at a price, and woe betide anyone who fails to wash up, as they charge another 25 per cent of the hire charge to clean the stuff afterwards.
Bernard always says that out of all the wedding-industry services, furniture and catering-equipment hire is the best business to be in. You’d be amazed how often we shell out between £10,000 and £15,000 a wedding on banal things like coffee cups and teaspoons. You might think that each item doesn’t sound expensive, but in the end it all adds up. Even at the simplest wedding for your average 160 guests there’s at least £880 on tablecloths, £190 on napkins, £1,000 for the chairs, £150 for the white wine glasses, £150 for the red wine glasses and £250 for the felt underlay on the tables. Even the pepper pots can be up to £25 a pop and that’s before you’ve hired the ovens and the grills for the kitchens. And it is such a simple business. You buy the equipment, deliver it and charge a third of the price to rent it. Breakages are all paid for and sometimes you can charge triple the price. So if a glass costs £2 to purchase, it will cost the hirer £6 to replace. And they rent this stuff out three times a week in low season, and almost every day of the week in the summer. It is no wonder that the partners of Jones are said to be driving around in Bentleys.
I have to say, the look on the faces of the Oakes & Co staff as they arrive to find the marquee not completely erected and lined is derisory. Only after assurances from both Steve and I that their stuff won’t be left out overnight and that it will be properly stored do they actually agree to deliver. Steve, the rest of the crew and I form a line and unload the vans. It is a hot, sweaty job and not something I should strictly be doing. As my shirt sticks to my back and my leather-soled shoes start to rub, I begin to wish we had employed a gang from Gallowglass to help, but due to budget constraints they were the first luxury to be culled. By the time we have finished the kitchen is packed with boxes, tables, chairs and stacks and stacks of linen.
‘I am glad to see we’ve got nice long tablecloths to the floor,’ I say, picking up a large white linen cloth off the pile. ‘All the better for shagging under.’
‘What is it about sex at weddings?’ says Steve. ‘Everyone always thinks that they are the first to do it. Honestly, these days it is kind of rude not to shag the bridesmaid.’
‘I hope that’s not true,’ says Alice, walking into the kitchen. ‘One of my bridesmaids is my sister and the other one is twelve. Anyway, no one’s having sex at this wedding. My mother would be furious.’
‘I am not sure you can stop them,’ says Steve.
‘You don’t know my mother,’ says Alice.
‘I think he does,’ I laugh. She shoots me a look. ‘I am sure you’re right.’
‘I did a wedding last week,’ Steve continues, oblivious to Alice’s growing annoyance. ‘And we had lit the garden really nicely with big historic lights around the place, and anyway this couple went off into the bushes and started having sex and they were illuminated and writ large on the side of the marquee. The whole wedding ground to a halt to watch them. The marquee emptied, the band stopped playing and when they finished, the whole place erupted in a round of applause.’ Alice stares at him, looking worried. ‘Oh my God!’ he says, tapping me on the shoulder. ‘Do you remember Eltham Palace?’
‘Oh, that was awful.’ I shake my head, willing him not to carry on.
‘You’ll love this.’ He grins at Alice. ‘So actually, it was a bit like here with your stream, but it was a moat and it was quite a deep moat. But anyway, this girl was wandering around the wedding looking for her boyfriend, and she asked the security guards if they had seen him. She was in a bit of a state, slightly frantic. After all, he might have got pissed and fallen in the water. Then a security guard found a pile of clothes by the moat. Could he have been that drunk that he wanted to have a swim? The drag nets were radioed for. This was serious. Then a bit further around the bushes they heard the sound of laughter. They went to investigate and there was the bloke, stark-bollock naked, having sex with one of the bridesmaids. The guard coughed to give the bloke a chance to get himself together before the girlfriend turned up, but it was too late. The girlfriend shouted, and then the bridesmaid slapped him for not telling her that he was with someone, and all the time he was starkers with this fight going on around him. Brilliant stuff.’ He laughs. ‘I do love a good wedding.’
‘Yes,’ I say, rubbing my sweaty hands together, attempting to move Steve out of the kitchen.
‘Oh, my favourite,’ he says on the threshold, ‘was a wedding by the sea. There was a group of guys on the balcony drinking champagne as the sun came up, when one of them said to the group, “Oh, look over there, look at that romantic couple, I bet they’ve just had sex in those bushes.” “Definitely,” agreed one bloke. Then another one said, “Dave, isn’t that your wife?” They all went to the edge of the balcony to have a stare into the early-morning light. And sure enough it was.’
‘That marquee is not going to erect itself,’ I say, shoving Steve out of the door. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I hiss as we get through the door.
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Couldn’t you see that she was getting all uncomfortable while you were talking?’
‘No,’ he says as we walk towards the marquee. ‘You’re paranoid.’
‘Brides are super-sensitive around this stage, they’re just terrified of things going wrong.’
‘Well at least I didn’t tell the one about the bride who was caught shagging the best man the night before the wedding,’ he smiles.
‘Thank heavens for small mercies.’
‘There’s still time,’ he says. ‘Have you seen the groom? He’s got no fucking hair. Who’d marry him?’
‘Obviously Alice is.’
‘She needs rescuing, mate. Let me tell you, that one is not going to last.’
‘Steve!’ comes a shout from the other side of the marquee. ‘Steve!’
‘What?’
‘We’ve hit water!’
Friday a.m.
STEVE, HIS CREW and I were up till four in the morning trying to sort out the leak. One of his out-of-work actors had managed to hammer a stake into an irrigation pipe. It wasn’t entirely his fault, seeing as the ex-Mrs Oxford had insisted that the marquee be moved a metre to the right, so the original survey that Steve had done for pipes and cables was now null and void. Obviously this minor detail was conveniently forgotten when it came to Louise’s wrath, and even when the matter was explained for the third or fourth time, she continued to take none of the blame.
Steve insisted that it wasn’t too bad a problem. Nothing he couldn’t handle. In fact, it was nothing compared to the main drain that he’d hit only a few weeks previously in a university quad. The grass had rumbled and then ballooned, the explosion of water an
d effluent went everywhere and managed to put the whole place under at least a foot of stinking water within twenty minutes. But this little leak would be fixed in no time. And it was – well, just before midnight. There will just be a slightly squishy area towards the back of the marquee, which should be avoided.
However, the leak put the mounting of the marquee back even later and it was about one a.m. before the sides started to go up. Poled tents that look like a big top with guide ropes are no longer de rigueur; these days tents are plastic, with frames that are not so pretty from the outside but are much more useful inside. They come with Georgian orangery, Gothic or clear panel windows, and can be stacked storey upon storey, with balconies and lifts and escalators and viewing platforms for the fireworks. The highest marquee we have had was three storeys and it towered over most of the surrounding trees. It was for 1,500 of the bride’s nearest and dearest, and the interior was entirely bespoke, with lavatories like the ones at the Dorchester, with powder-puff girls to give you a manicure during the wedding, should you so wish. The marquee itself was £250,000 and the same again was spent on the ‘icing’. The icing is what you see in the marquee – the lining, the carpet, the flowers, the chandeliers. The non-icing parts are the generators, the scaffolding and the staff loos.
It was about two a.m. when Steve started to work on the icing. And I am afraid come four a.m. I left him to it. He seemed to have it all under control; the only thing he was fretting about was the wind direction.
‘You’ve got to be careful with these things,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘One puff and they go. I had one go last year; it blew off in one gust and left everything else behind intact. So there was the hardwood floor, and all the tables and chairs. There was even a waiter still laying the tables, and in the trees behind was the marquee, wrapped around the branches. It was extraordinary.’
I promised to check on the wind direction and the weather forecast in the morning before I finally managed to crawl into the tiny bed in the attic that Louise had made up for me. It was obviously once one of the children’s bedrooms because it still had a few fluorescent stars stuck to the ceiling. They did their best to twinkle in the growing light. I closed my eyes and prayed for more than three hours’ sleep.
Wedding Babylon Page 18