Wedding Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  ‘Aha!’ he says, pointing at me a little exuberantly. ‘You’ll know where they are!’

  ‘The pink roses are in the hall,’ I say. ‘Ready to take up to the church for the ushers and the groom.’

  ‘I bet they’re having a lovely lunch in the pub,’ he says longingly.

  ‘I’m not feeding anyone,’ declares Louise, walking into the kitchen.

  ‘Who said anything about food?’ Alistair replies, looking his ex-wife up and down.

  She is dressed in the smallest, tightest French-blue suit I have ever seen. Cinched in at the waist, it has red piping around the edge of the jacket and pockets, and it stops a good three inches above the knee. She has bare legs and a scarlet handbag with matching scarlet shoes. On a girl of twenty-five the suit would be a statement; on a woman who is definitely twice that age it is a goddamn proclamation.

  I have often found that mothers of the bride dress one of two ways on their daughter’s big day. One is the demurely attired practical dresser, who pops on something pretty with a nice hat, but whose main aim is to keep the show on the road and make sure that everyone else, especially the bride, is having a good day. The other is the showstopper mother who is fighting her daughter for the limelight. Determined to be noticed and to claim pole position on the big day, she will pour herself into something ludicrously tight or obscenely short, in order to make her point. I can’t tell you how many pairs of ropy old Stilton legs or empty-shopping-bag breasts I have seen work the aisle.

  I remember one wedding we did a few years ago, where the bride was just about to get into her rather large and rather beautiful wedding dress when her mother burst into the room in some skin-tight slinky number. Unfortunately her zip had broken and she was stuck in the gaping dress. So while the bride stood there in her underwear, two bridesmaids and I rolled around on the bed with the mother for a good twenty minutes, trying to release the zip. Eventually the bride gave up waiting for any help and ended up trying to dress herself. It was only when she asked for help with her buttons that anyone remembered she was there.

  Louise is certainly going to get noticed today, as is Katie, although I am not sure that was her intention. Trisha walks in in a yellow plunge-neck suit with a knee-length skirt and high golden sandals. She and Louise look each other up and down, trying to work out who has done better in the style stakes.

  ‘Darling, there you are!’ declares Alistair. ‘Where have you been? You look stunning. As do you, darling,’ he says quickly to Louise.

  But before the ex and the current squeeze can size each other up too much, the bride makes an appearance in the hall. The floor-length Annabel Rogers dress and thankfully new veil look beautiful. The dress fits her perfectly, the shoes are the right colour, and the veil sits confidently on the top of her head. It’s a stunning combination that flatters and looks fabulous. It’s just the hair and make-up that are a catastrophe. She has heavy blue eyes, a dark-pink mouth and a poodle of curls at the front of her head. Alice is a beautiful girl; she has a pretty, innocent, charming face, and she looks like she’s been in a fight with a clown. The room falls silent. No one quite knows what to say and my heart breaks for her.

  ‘That dress looks fantastic,’ says Louise, finally finding a drop of maternal blood.

  ‘The shoes are lovely,’ says Trisha, joining in.

  ‘Darling! You look wonderful!’ declares Alistair, raising a glass of champagne.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I agree, desperately trying to sound positive.

  ‘Do you think so?’ asks Alice. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Fabulous!’ asserts her father and the bride promptly bursts into tears.

  ‘Don’t cry!’ shouts Vicky, running across the room with a make-up brush. ‘I’ve just spent three sodding hours doing that!’

  Alice’s make-up pours down her face in navy-blue streaks. Black mascara circles form under her eyes. The more the make-up runs, the more she cries. It’s a bloody disaster.

  ‘Careful of the dress!’ I say. The last thing we need is big black blobs on the dress. The face we can rescue, the dress we can’t.

  Louise rushes over to put her arm around her daughter and Alistair searches for his answer to all life’s problems – a glass. Vicky cracks open a packet of tissues and I make lots of placatory noises. Thank God Bernard is not here to witness this. There is nothing he hates more than a bride in tears. It is the one thing we always try and guard against on the day, as no one wants a snivelling, puffy-faced bride walking up the aisle. But I would say about 30 per cent of them do cry on the morning. It’s nerves, lack of food, and the inevitable sharp comment from their mothers that set them off. Thankfully Alice’s make-up was so poor, this must be a blessing in disguise.

  Eventually Alice calms down and is sent back upstairs with a glass of champagne as the cars pull up outside the house. We have booked two large Mercedes for the family and a white open-top Rolls for the bride. I have to say that there are so many bridal-car companies around, run by a hundred local businessmen, that I never particularly care how the bride chooses to get there. Just so long as the driver turns up looking smart, and doesn’t break wind or break down on the way to the church. Although last year we had a chauffeur have a stroke while the bride was in church. It was a little tricky, to say the least. Bernard called the ambulance and we popped him in the back as the bride and groom came out of the church. Fortunately, Bernard was able to drive the happy couple back to the house while the ambulance took the driver to hospital. Sadly, he didn’t make it.

  Mike is beginning to get a little twitchy; he has about seven minutes to secure a few family shots before the first wave leave for the church. He is pacing the gravel drive like some prize stallion.

  ‘Can we maybe do some bridesmaid shots and mother-of-the bride shots?’ he suggests. ‘Outside on the terrace?’

  Finally he manages to grab Louise, Grace and Liberty and get them outside, and he is just beginning to place them around one of the planters when the first drops of rain start to fall.

  ‘It’s raining,’ says Liberty, scrunching up her face and looking at the sky.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ replies Louise, poised, posed and breathing in, ready for her close-up.

  ‘Is,’ says Liberty.

  ‘Fucking not,’ replies Louise. ‘Smile everyone!’

  ‘Absolutely!’ agrees Mike. ‘Everyone ready?’

  Mike gets his shots and even manages a few sensationally stiff snaps of Louise, Trisha and Alistair before Alice’s reappearance. Devoid of much of her make-up, with a simple shiny gloss on her lips, she looks a thousand times prettier – radiant, even – and clearly feels it.

  ‘OK.’ She smiles at Mike. ‘Where do you want me?’

  The rest of the party leave for the church, while Mike gets the last few photos of Alice and her father. Spots of rain continue to fall, but no one seems to mind. They are all subscribing to that particularly English attitude to the weather: if you don’t mention it, it isn’t happening.

  Having allowed a good ten minutes since the advance party set off, Bernard arrives with the fabulous bouquet of pink peonies and roses and suggests that the bride should start making her way to the church.

  Alice looks stunning as she gets into the Rolls, the raindrops stop and she sits grinning in the back, surrounded by puffed-up layers of silk. This is it. The big day is about to begin in earnest. Alistair slips in next to her and Mike starts snapping away. They are just about to set off when a convoy of minibuses comes cruising up the lane.

  ‘Shit!’ shouts Bernard. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s more catering staff. It’s the second shift. You’ll have to wait for a few minutes. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Alice, her father, Mike and I watch as the vans come up the narrow lane, get stuck and then start reversing backwards and forwards and backwards and forwards, trying to make the tight right turn into the drive.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ assures Bernard, looking at his watch. ‘You’ve got plenty of time.’

>   ‘Oh well, while we are here,’ suggests Alistair, reaching into his pocket, ‘we may as well have a sharpener.’ He pulls down the mahogany tray in the back of the car and wipes it with the cuff of his morning suit. He then unfolds a small white envelope and pours out a pile of white powder on to the tray. Then he takes out a credit card from his top pocket and racks it up into two neat lines. He rolls up a twenty-pound note and hands it to his daughter. ‘Ladies first,’ he says.

  For a moment I see Alice hesitate, but it is not for long. ‘Ah – thanks, Dad,’ she says, popping her peonies to one side. She leans in for a snort. ‘You think of everything.’

  ‘No pictures,’ jokes Alistair, waving his hand at Mike, who for the first time since I have known him is actually lost for words.

  Saturday p.m.

  BERNARD AND I only just make it to the church before the bride. We have a bootful of umbrellas in case of a deluge, and our phones at the ready in case of delinquency. In fact we are both more than a little worried about how Alistair might behave in the church. I have seen people do lots of drugs at weddings – I’ve seen a bride pop an E before going down the aisle, I have seen couples chop out lines before the dinner, but that is the first time I’ve ever seen a father and daughter share a line before the church, or indeed share before or after anything.

  Bernard doesn’t quite know what to do or where to put himself. He mutters and mumbles all the way to the church. I don’t know what has shocked him the most – the fact that Alistair offered his daughter drugs, or that a girl so seemingly square and bourgeois as Alice would take Class As in broad daylight in front of so many people.

  ‘Mind you,’ he finally concludes as he parks our car, ‘if I had a mother like Louise I might want to anaesthetize myself on my wedding day. Talk of the devil,’ he adds as we walk towards the church carrying the brollies. ‘Check out the garb,’ he mutters through his service-industry smile. ‘Who knew there were smart gloves to match?’

  Louise is pacing up and down outside the church, swinging her hips, rather like a hooker plying for clients. A pair of matching red-lace gloves complete the full coordinated look. At least the ushers appear to be enjoying it. There is much elbowing and gawping when her back is turned.

  ‘One can only hope that is the reaction she was after,’ says Bernard, watching a couple of pink-faced boys snigger into their orders of service. ‘Good afternoon, Louise,’ he continues. ‘The bride is on her way. If you would like to take your place at the front?’

  ‘Just a few more minutes,’ she says.

  I take a look inside the church to check everything is as it should be. The place is packed and the atmosphere is very jolly and upbeat. There’s a heady mix of dresses and coats and hats and fascinators; they are all so bright and colourful, like Dolly Mixtures in a jar. The elderly are seated towards the front of the church and the back is packed with the young, chatting and gossiping, catching up as they lean against the font. Alex and Trudi have done wonders with the flowers. On either side of the aisle, bunches of sweet peas, pinks and roses hang in clusters off the end of the pews. And there is a huge display of pink and lilac flowers in a plinth by the altar. Standing by the altar, looking itchy and nervous, is Richard. I give him a small encouraging wave from the back of the church and, catching my eye, he comes rushing towards me.

  ‘Oh, thank God you’re here,’ he exclaims, smelling slightly of ale. The ushers’ lunch was clearly a success. ‘The vicar hasn’t turned up yet and I don’t have his number.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ I say. ‘I am not sure I have.’ My heart starts to race. This is the first wedding I’ve had with no vicar, and unlike chauffeuring it is not a job that either Bernard or I could fill. Surely the prospect of the Queen of Sheba, 1 Corinthians and The Prophet can’t have bored him so much that he’s decided not to show? I scroll through my telephone numbers and draw a blank.

  ‘Did the wine arrive?’ asks Richard, wringing his pink sweaty hands.

  ‘Yup,’ I reply, still looking through my phone. ‘The champagne and white are on ice.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he says. ‘At least we can all get drunk, even if we don’t get married.’

  ‘There it is! Numbers dialled. I knew I called him yesterday to find out where to collect him from.’

  ‘Thank you!’ he says, squeezing my hand.

  I dial the number and Reverend Dave picks up almost immediately. ‘I am on my way,’ he says. ‘I have been stuck in some traffic for the sodding village fête.’

  ‘That’s great news.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in five,’ he says. ‘I’d better get my skates on. Derek is coming in straight after us, there’s a funeral up next.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ he says. ‘It’s not my idea. Anyway, sorry to inconvenience you with a death, they tend to be a little unpredictable.’ He hangs up. I get the impression that he really doesn’t want to do this service.

  Alice’s car rounds the corner and I shove Richard back down the aisle. She and her father are sitting in the back with a couple of rictus grins gripping their faces. Fortunately the rain has stopped, so we can keep her in the car for a few more minutes waiting for Reverend Dave to arrive. They are unsurprisingly a little twitchy as they sit there.

  ‘How long do you think we’ll have to wait?’ she asks, chewing her lip. Even though she is obviously quite wired, she is looking stunning. The windy car journey has blown out the curls at the front of her hair-do and her make-up is much softer than before. Her pale-blue eyes blink at me from under her veil. I have half a mind to pull her out of the car, take her by the hand and make a run for it over the fields.

  ‘Not long now,’ I say, scanning the lane. Thankfully there’s a screech of brakes and a metallic-blue Mini careers into view. I can see a billowing white gown through the open window. Reverend Dave pulls up in the car park, takes the keys out of the car, chucks them in the air as he leaves the driver’s door open and strides purposefully into the church. He turns at the end of aisle, gives me a broad grin and nods to the organist to start winding up the pre-processional.

  It is at this precise moment that Louise decides to make her entrance. She slips the short red veil on her hat over her eyes and, with a swing of her no longer fecund hips, sashays down the aisle. The organ music stops. The congregation holds its breath in expectation and the sound of Louise’s heels echoes around the church.

  Fortunately, Alice is too busy smoothing down her dress and arranging her veil to see her mother’s moment of glory. She is too twitching with nerves and cocaine to see beyond her own satin shoes. Alistair’s not helping matters by insisting that he stand on the left instead of the right. Grace is trying to help her sister, while Liberty is standing about rather sheepishly with her back to the wall of the church. It is not until Bernard and I line everyone up to move off that we realize why: her dress has ripped all the way down the back, leaving her white shoulders and lemon-yellow teen bra visible for all to see. Neither Bernard nor I mention it. What is the point? There is no way she can pull out now. She will just have to stand there with her back to the congregation throughout the service.

  The organist strikes up the opening chords of the Queen of Sheba and they are off. Like stampeding buffalo, Alice and her dad bolt for the altar and make it there in less than a minute. Alistair hands her over to the vicar and is seated between the ex and the current squeeze well before the music finishes. Alice just stands there with her head down. And poor Richard didn’t get the chance to admire his future wife’s approach, for no sooner had Dave given him the nod than she was standing by his side.

  Dave opens with a polite and engaging welcome, a well-worn number two in his collection, I suspect. And we move swiftly on to ‘I Vow To Thee, My Country’. Which Dave can sing with his eyes closed, so he does. Alistair makes a right tit of himself stumbling through 1 Corinthians. I can’t work out whether it is the booze, the coke or his vanity which prevents him from wearing reading glasses and so
renders him illiterate. Either way, Dave has clearly never heard a reading like it, though he looks engaged and smiles throughout. Whoever said you couldn’t reinvent the wheel?

  Bernard and I are standing at the back of the church when Dave asks if there is any unlawful impediment why Alice and Richard can’t be married. There’s a small snigger that goes around the font and some gauche looks, and then my mobile phone goes off. The whole church turns to stare at me as I blush scarlet and slip out the back.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi there, it’s me!’

  ‘Caroline!’

  ‘I was just wondering what you were up to this evening. I am on my own, and I was wondering if you fancied coming over for dinner and maybe a chat about my party. What do you say?’

  ‘I say I am at a wedding, working.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says.

  ‘Where else do you expect me to be on a Saturday night in June!’ I say, and hang up. When is she ever going to get the hint that no matter how many baby showers or birthday parties she gets me to organize, I am not going to sleep over.

  I step back into the church just in time to witness Andrew fumble for the rings and Richard and Alice stammer through their vows. Richard is louder and more sure of himself than Alice, who sniffs and stumbles over her own name. Dave then pronounces them man and wife and invites Richard to kiss the bride. A ripple of applause goes through the church, catching a couple of smokers out the back by surprise. They stub out their fags on a couple of handy gravestones and sneak back inside, to take up the applause like they have been there all along. Alice and Richard head to the vestry to sign the register while a big-breasted soprano keeps the rest of the church entertained with a rather poor ‘Ave Maria’.

  ‘Jesus,’ whispers Bernard, as we both slip outside to check on the cars and the weather, and to put a quick call through to Nigel to see if things are on schedule. We have an ETA of about twenty minutes, so he should have all his flutes and canapés at the ready. ‘That has to be one of the more terrible services I have ever been to. We didn’t have anything to do with it, did we?’