‘And you can fuck off!’ she shouts at me. ‘Richard’s called me and there’s no wine and it’s your fault. You couldn’t even organize a piss-up in a fucking brewery.’
‘So would you like me to move the planters?’ asks Alex quietly.
‘Of course I fucking would,’ she shouts, turning to walk back to the house. ‘And move your fucking car! This is the worst day of my fucking life and it is all your fault.’
She marches back up to the house, sobbing loudly.
I look at Alex and then Trudi. ‘You two OK?’
‘Fine,’ smiles Alex. ‘As Bridezilla moments go, that was fairly tame. I remember one bride standing in the reception of the hotel in her underwear, waving a bridesmaid’s dress in some poor bloke’s face and shouting at him, “Do I look like a fucking seven-year-old?” They had lost her wedding dress, but they kept on insisting that it was hanging up in her cupboard. They found it eventually, but she was so angry. I have never heard screaming like it.’
‘Oh God,’ laughs Trudi, clicking her fingers. ‘Do you remember that woman who went mad?’ Alex looks puzzled. ‘The short one?’
‘Oh, yes!’ says Alex. ‘She had the most beautiful wedding, with a pale-grey silk-lined marquee with a thousand handmade hurricane lamps hanging off the ceiling. The floor was a hand-laid whitewash and there were tea lights everywhere and everything was bespoke. She walked in wearing her curlers to check everything out. And she sat down at the top table – and she is quite short, just knocking five foot – and when she sat down she couldn’t see over the top of the table and the flower displays that we had put there. She went nuts and started shouting and screaming, and then I made the mistake of offering her a cushion. That was it. She hit the ceiling.’
‘Short people can be very sensitive,’ I say.
‘I know,’ she nods. ‘Anyway, I took the flowers away and she apologized the next day.’
‘I hope Alice calms down soon,’ says Trudi.
‘We’ve got a long way to go yet,’ I say.
‘Sometimes I find it amazing that these women get married at all. I can’t believe they manage to get a man in the first place, let alone hang on to him and get him to propose. They are so spoilt and unpleasant, they make me want to run a mile,’ says Trudi, walking over to pick up a planter. ‘Then they make themselves over so much for the wedding it’s ridiculous. The tan, the nails, the Botox, the weight loss – they end up looking nothing like the woman the poor bloke fell in love with at the beginning.’
She is right, of course, weddings can bring out the worst in a girl. I think perhaps I am so used to the stamping feet, the shouting, the ridiculous demands – the high drama of it all – that I actually find women who aren’t having tantrums like sugar-high toddlers rather unengaging. No wonder my mother finds my inability to find a girlfriend so frustrating.
I walk up to the house with the bridesmaid’s dress over my arm, and meet the hair and make-up girl in the hall. I introduce myself and she tells me her name is Victoria, or Vicky, and she is from a local salon near Haywards Heath. We offered Alice any number of girls, and indeed blokes, who we have on our list, but she opted to go local. Judging by Vicky’s scraped-back, buttock-length white-blonde hair and white, square-tipped acrylic nails, I can’t help but think Alice might have made a mistake. This is a girl who clearly knows the pleasure of running a nail extension through a hair extension – I just hope her bridal beauty regime is a little more organic. The number of extremely pretty girls I have seen done up like Polish prostitutes on their wedding day does not bear thinking about. No matter how many times you impress upon the bride that she shouldn’t have a tan for her wedding, and that her hair and make-up should not be too dramatic or different from usual, they all still make the mistake of shoving on the slap and crimping their hair, teasing it into curls so they end up looking like some Best in Breed at Crufts.
Looking for either Katie or Liberty, I wander into the kitchen, only to come across Alistair helping himself to a large and rather powerful-looking Bloody Mary. In fact, his drink appears to have so much poke he’s turned the tomato juice pale pink in the process.
‘Jesus!’ he says, his eyes watering post-glug. ‘That’s got some kick. Have you seen Trish anywhere?’
‘No.’
‘Oh,’ he shrugs. ‘She came over with me from the B&B this morning, but I seem to have lost her.’
‘How was the dinner last night?’
‘Fine,’ he sniffs. ‘Louise was on fine form, taking little snipes at Richard’s mother all night.’
‘Really?’
‘She can’t resist it,’ he continues, taking another large sip. ‘Oh God! I think I might have made that a bit strong.’ He looks at the drink briefly, before deciding that it is fine to continue. ‘She has always been the same. I found it attractive at first, her sharp comments, but now I realize she is just a cow. She drove me to drink.’ He raises his glass. ‘Cheers!’
It is on the tip of my tongue to suggest he ease back on the stiffeners before the wedding, but it seems rather rude. I am reminded of a father and daughter who stopped off for a shot or two of whisky in the graveyard before she went down the aisle. The only thing was they finished the hip flask. They weaved down the aisle together in a cloud of whisky fumes and when the groom lifted her veil he visibly recoiled. It wasn’t the most auspicious of starts. At least Alistair is on vodka – the fumes aren’t anywhere near so bad.
‘Have you seen Katie or Liberty?’ I ask, motioning towards the bridesmaid’s dress.
‘I think you’ll find them upstairs,’ he says, looking above him. ‘There’s been a lot of northern shouting going on this morning. Quite why those two got to stay in the house I shall never know, when real family have to sleep elsewhere.’
I leave Alistair to his extraordinarily strong hair of the dog and follow the sound of hairdryers upstairs. On the first-floor landing I can hear Katie berating Liberty for something or other, so before it reaches a crescendo I knock on the door.
‘Delivery!’ I say.
‘What?’ comes Katie’s screeching voice.
‘Bridesmaid’s dress.’
‘Oh right, come in—’
I enter the room to find Katie half-dressed in a turquoise frock with huge sleeves, and frills down the front. It looks like something you might put over a toilet roll. It flares out from below the bosom and does nothing but add to her ‘baby weight’. She is barefoot, with slightly streaked legs that she must have fake-tanned when drunk last night, and she has a black-feathered fascinator on her head that makes her look like she has been mugged by a passing murder of crows. As looks go, it is not the most successful I have seen.
‘Can we fix it? Yes, we can!’ I enthuse, waving the dress. They both look at me like I’m a twat and barely mumble a thank-you. Liberty disappears off into the en suite bathroom to see if Simon really has managed to save the day.
‘Mum!’ she shouts. ‘Can you come and zip me up?’ Katie huffs into the room, as if it is the most annoying thing she has ever been asked.
‘Breathe in, for God’s sake,’ she orders. ‘Hold your bloody breath!’
After much puffing and squeezing, Liberty appears in the doorway.
‘Great! It fits!’ I say. I can’t believe you got it on, I think.
‘I hate it,’ she says, looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror. ‘I look like a Teletubby.’
Actually, she looks like a big fat pink blancmange. The dress is stretched tight across her stomach and gathers in a tight fan under each armpit. ‘You look great!’ I enthuse. ‘Bridesmaids always hate their dresses, that’s their job.’
There’s a knock on the door. ‘Can I come in?’
‘If you have to,’ says Katie. ‘It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here.’
Grace comes in, sporting a grown-up, floor-length version of Liberty’s dress. If Alice’s desire was to make her younger sister look like a big summer pudding coming down the aisle behind her by dressing her in dusty
pink frills, then I am afraid the plan misfired. She looks fabulous. It is extraordinary for a girl to pull off a full-length pink dress with frills at the bottom and around the neck, but somehow it looks hip and vintage on her and her surly attitude steeps the whole thing in irony.
‘You look great,’ I say.
‘Yeah, right.’ Grace shrugs. ‘Come on, Liberty.’ She goes over and gives the girl a hug. ‘We can be pink together. What was Alice thinking?’ she asks, pulling at the frills around her bosom. ‘I actually think this is a form of bullying. What do you think, Liberty?’
‘I look like a Teletubby.’
‘Which one?’ asks Grace.
‘The gay one,’ she replies.
‘Then you’ll fit very happily with all the boys downstairs,’ I smile. ‘Half of them would give their eye teeth for that dress.’
Who knows why brides put their bridesmaids in such hideous frocks? I am not sure if it really is because they want to make themselves appear better looking, if it really is as conscious as that. Bridal shops will tell you that it is difficult to find one dress to suit all shapes, so inevitably you end up with one that suits none of them. Although these days there are some post-Sex and the City brides who dress their bridesmaids in different styles and strong colours to suit the people wearing them. A few months ago I organized a wedding where the bridesmaids were very glamorous and their outfits were stunning. The bride was American, and in the US the bridesmaids go down the aisle ahead of the bride. The aisle was narrow and the chairs had been placed opposite each other, so when the girls came down the aisle, one after the other, it was like a catwalk. The first girl got a ripple of applause. But by the time the fourth came down the whole congregation was whooping and whistling their appreciation.
‘Anyone home? Anyone here?’ Mike has turned up and is roaming around downstairs.
‘Mike!’ I come to the top of the stairs. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Mate!’ he grins as he comes bounding up the stairs in a grey suit and white shirt, his dark curls smoothed back with product. ‘So did I get it?’
‘Get what?’ I reply, knowing exactly what he is asking.
‘The Keith and Keeley job.’ He presses his long thin hands together in prayer and closes his eyes. ‘Say yes, say yes!’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been to the office since I saw you.’
‘Bernard here?’
‘Of course. But I don’t think he knows any more than I do.’
‘Of course he does, the wily old fox knows everything. Where is he?’
‘In the marquee.’
‘Releasing his inner OCD?’
‘I’m not sure it is that inner,’ I reply.
‘True,’ he smiles. ‘Hardly in the closet, is he?’
‘Have you seen the bride yet?’
‘Just got here, mate. It’s raining in London,’ he says. ‘Have you got a wet-weather set-up for the photos or do you want me to see if I can find one?’
‘Do you think?’ I ask, looking out of the landing window.
‘Can’t you see the clouds?’
‘It won’t rain,’ declares Louise, arriving on the landing with Carmen rollers in her copper hair, wearing a short red kimono that reveals rather a lot of her hefty white legs.
‘You sound like a woman who can command the weather,’ says Mike, approaching in full-charm mode. ‘I’m Mike McCabe, photographer, at your service.’
‘Hello,’ says Louise, licking her bottom lip. ‘Louise Oxford, mother of the bride.’
‘No!’ exclaims Mike, taking a step back. ‘I thought you were the sister!’
‘Oh no, please!’ she replies. My thoughts exactly.
‘But look at you!’ continues Mike, seemingly unembarrassable. ‘Do you work out?’ I am almost on the point of puking on his shiny shoes.
‘Shall I show you to the bride?’ I interrupt the oil slick of compliments.
‘Mrs Oxford,’ he says, taking her by the hand and kissing it.
‘Louise!’ she blushes.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter.
‘Keep in with the mother,’ he mumbles. ‘Works wonders if you are caught doing something later.’
Alice’s room stinks of hairspray and hot tongs. She is sitting in the bay window, at a huge triple-aspect dressing table, wearing her bridal underwear and a fluffy white dressing gown. The table itself is covered in brushes, pots, lipsticks, rollers and trays of different colours of blusher and eyeshadow. Vicky seems to have brought a whole department store with her. Alice herself appears to be very much a work in progress. Half her hair is up in rollers and the front section is being curled into ringlets. Her face is a shade darker than her neck and her fingernails have been painted a pearlized pink.
‘Hi there, Mike,’ she says, removing her chin from Vicky’s grasp. ‘How are you?’
‘Not as gorgeous as you!’ he exclaims, coming over to squeeze both her shoulders. ‘You have to be one of the prettiest brides I have ever come across.’
‘You’re just saying that,’ she says. You’re right, I think.
‘Now that I have found you here in all your glory, I should get going,’ he says. ‘My bag’s down in the hall. I won’t be a minute.’ He rushes off downstairs.
‘How are you doing?’ I ask. ‘Can I get you anything? Glass of champagne?’
‘Do you think?’ she asks, turning two blue eyelids towards me.
‘It might help you relax.’
‘Go on then. Oh, by the way,’ she adds as I approach the door. ‘I had a chat with Mum this morning and I think we should have the speeches before the food.’
‘Before?’ My heart sinks.
‘Yeah.’ She nods. ‘Both Dad and Andrew like a drink, and I think it would be so much better than after.’
‘Whatever you say.’
I pass Mike on the stairs, but am too preoccupied to engage with any of his quips. Nigel is going to hit the roof. There is nothing that pisses him off more than serving dinner after the speeches, and you can see why. Backstage he has sixteen chefs trying to keep the food warm, chomping at the bit, waiting to get their lamb out. They are all speed-snorting, pill-popping nutcases, so to try and keep them still and quiet while Daddy goes on and on about his little Princess Poppet at nursery school is nigh on impossible. Then, as well as the chefs, you have all the butlers messing about with nothing to do. Nigel once likened it to trying to keep sixty-five people quiet behind the bike sheds. And then there is the logistics of it all. When do you put the lamb on? You don’t want to burn it, or let it get cold. They always say the speeches will be fifteen minutes, but what happens if the best man goes on a bit? We once did a wedding where the best man had a slide projector and talked for forty-five minutes about what he and the groom got up to at university. I tell you, dull was not the word. People’s ears were practically bleeding with boredom – I think about five or six people actually fell asleep. We also did a wedding where the bride was French, so all the speeches were repeated twice in both languages. It was worse than the Eurovision song contest.
The kitchen is full of men in white coats chopping and seasoning and laying things out on plates. Nigel is not in the best of humours when I arrive because there are no staff toilets and his chefs are pissing in the garden rather than using the Portaloos and he is worried that none of them are washing their hands. So his reaction to my news is pretty predictable.
‘Oh fucking cunt!’ he shouts, and cuffs a nearby sous chef. ‘I fucking hate it when they do this.’
‘I am sorry, I am just the messenger.’
‘Did everyone get that?’ he moans, his nasal voice drawling across the marquee.
‘Yes, sir,’ reply a number of chefs.
‘Did everyone get that!’ he yells.
‘Yes, sir!’ they all yell back.
‘Can you smell burning?’ I ask.
‘No,’ yawns Nigel.
‘No – really.’
‘It’s the first sign of a stroke,’ he says, wandering
out of the tent.
‘What is?’
‘Smelling burning.’ He inhales through his huge nostrils. ‘Come to think of it . . .’
‘It’s worse outside,’ I say. ‘Bernard!’
Bernard pokes his head out of the marquee. ‘What?’
‘Can you smell anything?’ I ask.
‘Burning?’ he suggests. ‘Is it electrical?’
‘Hang on a sec. What power are you running the fridges on?’
‘The cable from the house,’ says Nigel.
‘And your six ovens?’
‘The cable from the barn.’ He shrugs.
‘Jesus Christ!’
I have never seen two middle-aged men in suits and leather-soled shoes run so fast through a field in my life. The smell grows more intense the closer we get to the barn. All the electrical cable in the place is quite literally melting. It is smoking and burning red hot, as bits of melted plastic coating drip to the floor.
‘Fuck!’ says Bernard.
‘Fuck!’ agrees Nigel.
‘This whole place is about to go up in smoke,’ I say. ‘There’s no trip switch to cut out the power. How much are you using?’
‘Around 30,000 kilowatts,’ whispers Bernard, watching the wires melt.
‘Shit!’ agrees Nigel. ‘I’ll get them to unplug right now.’
‘Thank God we found out now,’ says Bernard. ‘That would have had half the village up in a puff of smoke.’
‘Do you think?’
‘It was about to blow. You’d better send a few butlers down here just to make sure the straw doesn’t catch fire while the thing cools down.’
‘Shouldn’t we call the fire brigade?’
‘And ruin a fabulous party?’
Bernard and I walk back to the marquee to witness the wine merchant thankfully driving up the drive.
‘I’ll organize the alcohol and sort out another power source for the bloody ovens,’ Bernard says. ‘You check on the bride. The cars will be here in half an hour and Mike’s still got the family snaps to do. Also you’d better check that he has a wet-weather spot. Does the mother have anywhere in mind?’
Back in the kitchen, Alistair is dressed in his morning suit, looking around for the buttonholes.
Wedding Babylon Page 23