Wedding Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  ‘Oh,’ she says, looking at Richard. ‘With?’

  ‘Without,’ he says.

  ‘Without,’ she repeats.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot. When it comes to the “due impediment” it is not funny to hear the whole church cough,’ he says. ‘So if you have a group of rugby mates who think it’s hilarious to cough, then tell them not to.’

  ‘And that includes you.’ Richard smiles at Andrew.

  ‘Oh no, the end of another cunning plan,’ he replies.

  ‘Then I pronounce you man and wife,’ continues Dave.

  ‘And you can kiss the bride?’ asks Alice.

  ‘That’s an American thing,’ says Dave. ‘I can put it in if you want. Like you haven’t already!’ He laughs.

  ‘Yes, please,’ says Alice. ‘That’s the best bit.’

  ‘OK, and then we go and sign the register in the vestry out the back there.’ He points to a small door off to the right. ‘You are married in the eyes of the Lord when you say your vows, and you are married in the eyes of the Law when you sign the register. All I ask is that you don’t spill ink down the front of your lovely dress. I had someone do that not so long ago and she had to have a bridesmaid stand in front of her in every single photo.’

  Dave finishes the rehearsal with a little pep talk about how this is a joyous occasion and that everyone should have fun. Weddings are to be relished and enjoyed and every moment is to be savoured. He tells Alice that everyone is on her side, the whole congregation is rooting for her, so she must keep her head up and smile. He runs through a few more timings, telling Richard to get his ushers there at least half an hour before kick-off. The elderly like to arrive early to get a good pew and there should be someone there to seat them.

  On the way back, with just the two of us in the car, Reverend Dave is a little quieter than before.

  ‘That went well,’ I enthuse, trying to make some form of conversation.

  ‘Mmm,’ he says.

  ‘You’re coming to the reception?’

  ‘Would I miss sitting next to the village atheist? Or the aunt who loves church architecture? Or the bloke whose Uncle Barry is a vicar?’

  ‘I suppose you must have a list of twenty questions that you trot out all the time!’

  ‘Just getting one out would be nice sometimes. You need the patience of a saint to sit next to these people – which is why you are put there, of course.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that might not be great,’ I say.

  ‘It is not the nicest way for me to spend my Saturday night. I would, quite frankly, rather be with my wife and children.’ He sighs, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Is there a good spread?’

  ‘Oh, excellent,’ I reply, trying to cheer him up.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ he says. ‘I always find the richer the people, the meaner the spread. With a working-class wedding you always get good food, they make an effort. Some posh weddings I have been to, you’re lucky to get a sausage roll. The bride looks great, the flowers are amazing, but the champagne runs out and you end up with a cup of tea and a sandwich. There really is a limit to how many terrible canapés you can eat.’

  ‘You won’t stay late?’ I suggest.

  ‘No, I’ll slip off at the speeches,’ he says. ‘Don’t you think that best man is a bit odd?’ he asks suddenly. ‘He seems furious.’

  Sadly, I don’t have time to contemplate Dave’s theory about Andrew because all the way back to the house I field calls from Bernard, checking up on the flowers and the loos and the Oakes & Co rental. Then Nigel calls to find out if his ovens are ready, and if he has a special tent for mise en place and laying out all the canapés. Simon calls and tells me the dress has arrived and he’s let it out as far as he can. Then the band – the Taylor Six – call to ask what time their sound check is tomorrow. They also ask what the first song is. Bearing in mind they sing everything from Snow Patrol to James Blunt, I say I’ll check with the happy couple.

  By the time I have dropped Dave off and reached the house, Alex and Trudi are just finishing up and the marquee looks fantastic. There are lilac displays on every table and huge plinths with cascading flowers at various focal points in the marquee – by the entrance, the stage and top table.

  ‘We are in the church tomorrow morning,’ says Alex, looking exhausted. ‘I shall pop by later tonight and early tomorrow to give the flowers a spray, but unless it is extremely hot tomorrow they should last, no problem. What is the forecast for tomorrow?’

  ‘Good,’ I say, not having checked yet. ‘Good, that’s what I have heard.’

  ‘Oh Mum, don’t you think it looks fantastic?’ Alice declares, standing behind me.

  Dressed in a stunning low-cut red frock which knots at her cleavage and stops just above the knee, she is clearly ready for the rehearsal dinner. As is Louise, who is wearing something equally revealing, but in black. Except she has rather overdone the make-up, painting two dark-blue circles over her eyes and splashing a shiny burgundy on her lips. She looks like a seven-year-old who has been playing dressing-up. Next to her is a heavy-looking woman with a tight grey perm, dressed in a pair of beige keep-the-crease slacks and a purple satin shirt. She is clutching a glass of champagne to her chest with both hands, as if fearful that someone might take it away from her.

  ‘Thank you, Carol,’ says Alice, giving the woman a kiss.

  ‘Pleasure, love,’ she smiles. ‘Just so long as you are happy.’

  ‘Carol,’ I say. ‘Very lovely to meet you.’ I go over to shake her hand.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ says Louise, her voice distinctly more plummy than before. ‘This is the planner. This is Carol.’ She moves her maroon-painted fingertips from me to Carol.

  ‘My mother-in-law.’ Alice shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘Not yet, darling, not yet,’ says Louise, moving away; her nostrils flare like she has just inhaled something unpleasant.

  ‘Only twenty-four more hours,’ adds Carol, tapping Alice on the back of the hand. Louise winces. ‘Paul and Bev should be along in a minute,’ she adds, taking a gulp of champagne.

  ‘Things just get better and better,’ says Louise.

  ‘How many are we for the dinner tonight?’ asks Carol.

  ‘Seventy,’ I reply. ‘It is as many as the restaurant can hold.’

  It takes about another forty-five minutes for the party to disappear off to the restaurant, and although I have organized it, arranged the menu and some extra flowers and got Desmond to draw a seating plan, it is much better that I don’t go.

  Steve is coming back tonight to make sure that the lighting is working in the marquee and the garden. We have to sound-check the equipment, and make sure the mikes and speakers are working and that no one is going to electrocute themselves during the speeches.

  Steve and I have been going up and down ladders for the last three hours when people start coming back from the dinner. Katie is one of the first to fall out of a minicab and stagger up the drive, helped along by her twelve-year-old daughter. There is one point when she looks like she might retch into the flowerbed. But she mumbles, ‘No, no, you’re all right,’ to Liberty, which the girl takes as an instruction to move on.

  Next are Grace and Andrew, who seem to be perfectly perpendicular as they disappear off inside the house. They are rapidly followed by Alice, Louise and Richard, who all scream up the drive, with Louise at the wheel.

  ‘You have got to start being nicer to Richard’s family!’ shouts Alice as she marches out of the car.

  ‘I don’t have to do anything!’ replies Louise, shaking her finger. ‘My house, my party—’

  ‘My wedding!’ shouts Alice. ‘And you!’ She turns her attention to Richard. ‘You aren’t supposed to be here! It is the night before our wedding. It is bad luck for you to see me. You are supposed to be with Andrew in the B&B down the road.’

  ‘I can’t help it if we forgot our suits,’ he says.

  ‘Well think!’ she yells. ‘I am off to bed.’

  Richard is left standin
g by Louise’s car. ‘Don’t look at me, sunshine,’ says Louise. ‘I am off to bed too, and anyway I am far too drunk to drive.’

  Steve and I look at each other, smile and crack on. We have a few more technical dry runs to sort out before we can hit the sack. And anyway, my small child’s bed in the rafters doesn’t exactly exude comfort.

  In a corner of the marquee we find an open bottle of champagne and start to knock it back. We’re both exhausted and need a lift. Steve starts checking the sound system again and tweaking the lights.

  ‘How about the pink?’ he shouts.

  ‘Perfect!’ I shout back. ‘Great with this track.’ I get up and with the bottle in hand start swaying around to ‘She’s The One’ by Robbie Williams.

  ‘Is this the first-dance song?’ he shouts.

  ‘No,’ says Richard, suddenly standing right next to me, also with a bottle in his hand. ‘It’s “Have I Told You Lately” by Nat King Cole.’

  ‘It’s “Have I Told You!” ’ I shout.

  ‘We’ve got that,’ he yells back. ‘Shall I put it on?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ says Richard. ‘Can you dance?’ he asks me suddenly.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  ‘You know, properly, like the waltz?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He is really quite drunk because he is swaying and standing, which takes some doing.

  ‘Can you teach me?’ he slurs. ‘Before tomorrow? Like now?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. Bizarre as this may sound, I am quite used to dancing with grooms on or just before their wedding day. I have often been asked for a quick reminder of how it’s done by those so nervous they don’t know their left foot from their right. I take hold of his hand and place it in the small of my back and put my hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Make sure your hand doesn’t slip down to my arse,’ I laugh as I take a step backwards. ‘Remember, don’t push her around too much. Whatever Fred Astaire did, Ginger Rogers did backwards in high heels.’

  ‘OK,’ he mumbles, lurching somewhat.

  ‘So it is basically one-two-three. A waltz is a three-four. So forward step, and then side and feet together and back, and then to the side, and then feet together. It’s not hard; it’s like stepping around a box. So forward step, side, together and then backwards step, side, together. One-two-three, one-two-three. You can move it around if you want. Shall I lead?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, a little more floppy.

  ‘One-two-three, one-two-three—’

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  Richard and I turn and, squinting through the pink light, manage to make out Andrew standing in the dark, holding a bottle in his hand. Nat King Cole keeps on playing.

  ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ says Richard, releasing my hand and taking a step back. ‘It’s not what it looks like at all.’

  Saturday a.m.

  QUITE WHAT ANDREW thought was going down last night is anyone’s guess. But neither of them stayed around long enough to discuss it. Andrew chucked his bottle of champagne on the floor in disgust and stormed off, leaving Richard to run after him. They both wandered off into the night, leaving their morning suits in the hall.

  However, by the time I wake at seven thirty to greet Nigel and his team of caterers, the suits have gone. I am hoping one of them crept back in the night to retrieve them, rather than anything untoward happening. But to be honest, there is too much going on for anyone to think about anything except the problem that is immediately in front of them.

  Bernard drives through the gates at eight fifteen. Suited, showered, powdered and puffed, he looks immaculate and very much in charge. He decided a long time ago that he was never going to stay down at a wedding if he could possibly avoid it. Last weekend, however, the hotel was too far away for him to drive there and back in a day, and anyway he managed to get himself a proper room. It’s just B&Bs he can’t bear, and he’d rather eat his own dog than stay in the bride’s house.

  ‘Morning,’ he says, looking me up and down. ‘Who did you sleep with?’

  ‘No one. I just haven’t had as much time in the shower as you, or indeed as much water.’

  ‘Here’s the bridesmaid’s dress,’ he says, handing me a pressed pink ruffled dress, wrapped in a transparent sheath. ‘Let’s hope she hasn’t popped on a few more pounds in the last twenty-four hours.’ He walks towards the marquee, expecting me to follow behind, briefing him as we go like some American president. ‘So the flowers?’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Not the mother’s thing, apparently.’

  ‘She didn’t pay for them, if I remember?’

  ‘Correct,’ I nod. ‘She wanted Claridge’s in the country, and instead—’

  ‘We have Fulham,’ he interrupts. ‘Very pretty, very young girl. Remind me, how old is the bride?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘Very appropriate – just. How are the lavatories?’

  ‘Excellent,’ I reply, trotting on after him. ‘A three-plus-one with music, Molton Brown and oak flooring.’

  ‘Well done,’ he says, poking his nose into the ladies’. ‘Make sure the girls put flowers in there and some petals on the floor. Pretty it up a bit.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Oakes & Co. have got the kitchens and oven and fridges,’ he checks, poking his head into the catering tent. ‘Nigel! My darling! How are you?’

  ‘Bernard!’ Nigel smiles, coming over to press cheeks, stooping slightly as he comes. A lifetime of compensating for his height means he always hunches in doors. ‘We’re a couple of men short, which is a bugger,’ he says. ‘We were all there waiting for them to load canapés at three o’clock this morning and I ended up putting half of them in the van myself.’

  ‘They’re looking good,’ says Nigel, lifting up a layer of greaseproof paper and looking at the rows of neatly arranged Parma-ham-wrapped asparagus tips in a brown plastic container. There are hundreds of containers, each with a different amuse bouche, all piled high in the tent, and they keep on coming as a line of white-shirted waiters with black trousers files back and forth from the large vans in the drive to the tent. ‘We’re laying up in the tent at the moment,’ adds Nigel. ‘I don’t like the Oakes stuff as much as mine,’ he sniffs. ‘God knows what the bride thinks she is doing with square plates for the starter and then round for the main, but there we go. You start with square and keep square all the way through.’ He shrugs. ‘Everyone knows that. And have you seen the cruets?’ He picks up a bog-standard salt and pepper mill. ‘Well, at least they won’t go walkabout, unlike my mother-of-pearl ones. No one is taking this lot home. Do you remember that wedding?’

  ‘What, the one where they grabbed all the table centres?’ says Bernard.

  ‘Yes,’ he snorts. ‘Bunch of fucking kleptomaniacs.’

  ‘Do you have enough power?’ checks Bernard, looking at the row of plugs and leads and extension cables on the floor. ‘Do you need a generator?’

  ‘Well, we haven’t got one, so we’ll have to make do,’ Nigel smiles. ‘Oh, there was one thing that we were all wondering – where is the wine?’

  ‘Wine?’ I ask.

  ‘Wine?’ Bernard looks at me.

  ‘Because it says on the invoice – and I have just checked, if you want to have a look – that the client is to supply the wine and the champagne,’ he says, licking his finger and leafing through the stack of papers on the cooker.

  ‘Have you seen any wine about?’ Bernard asks me.

  ‘I have seen some champagne – a bit, but not enough for a wedding,’ I reply.

  ‘Shit!’ he says.

  ‘Shit,’ I agree. ‘Shall I ask the bride?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. That breaks every rule in the book – no stress for the bride on the day. Call the groom.’

  I finally get through on the third attempt. Richard sounds dehydrated and hungover, his voice is rasping.

  ‘Oh, right . . .’ I can hear him scratch his head. ‘I spoke to Majestic and asked them about the price and everythi
ng.’

  ‘Good,’ I encourage. ‘But did you actually order any?’

  ‘Oh.’ He coughs. ‘Um, I am not sure. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Can you remember giving them your credit card number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In which case you didn’t. He didn’t,’ I say to Bernard, who immediately reaches for his phone and the company credit card.

  ‘Shit,’ says Richard, panic rising in his voice. ‘What shall I do? I have ruined the wedding!’

  ‘Don’t worry. The matter is in hand. We’ll sort it out. Just eat some breakfast and we’ll speak later.’ I hang up. Bernard is already on the phone to one of our many suppliers, ordering up champagne, white and red wine and buckets and buckets of ice. The big problem is not getting the wine here in time, it is getting it cold enough to drink. I leave Bernard to his negotiating and go up to the house to deliver the bridesmaid’s dress.

  Alex and Trudi are in the marquee, spraying the flowers and checking that none of the lavender twists have come off the backs of the chairs. I pass on Bernard’s suggestion about the lavatories, and they both seem to think they have enough blooms left in the van to sort that out. I am just heading off to the house when Alice comes storming towards the marquee. Her wet hair is stuck to her head and she is somewhat precariously wrapped in her dressing gown.

  ‘MOVE YOUR VAN NOW!’ she yells, her cheeks flushing pink with fury. ‘My hair and make-up girl has been honking her horn for the last ten minutes because she can’t get in the drive.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ says Alex, rather flustered at being shouted at so loudly. ‘We had no idea.’

  ‘And what the fuck are THOSE!’ Alice shouts again, pointing to two planters full of flowers on either side of the entrance to the marquee.

  ‘Planters?’ stammers Alex.

  ‘What the FUCK are they doing there? They are supposed to be at the corners of the dance-floor.’

  ‘Your mother asked us to move them,’ says Trudi.

  ‘My MOTHER?’ Alice’s head is spinning around like something out of a Chuckie movie. ‘I’m the BRIDE!’

  ‘I know you are,’ I smile soothingly.