Wedding Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  ‘I gave them a list of suggested readings and hymns and music, and they have just chosen the top one off every list,’ I say. ‘Or at least that’s what it feels like.’

  ‘That poor vicar is going to fall off his perch with boredom!’

  ‘Not long now,’ I say, giving the thumbs up to the chauffeur, who is smoking by the gate to the church.

  He flicks his cigarette on the ground and walks towards me. ‘D’you know what?’ he says. ‘I have seen all sorts in the back of that car. Brides being sick because they are pissed, hungover or just nervous. I have seen the father and daughter polish off the best part of a half-bottle of brandy on the way to the church. I have even had a couple shag on the way back from the church. But I have never seen that.’ He sniffs. ‘I didn’t know where to look.’

  ‘Straight ahead?’ suggests Bernard, looking up at the sky. ‘It’s going to bloody rain.’

  The reedy strains of ‘Dear Lord and Father’ drift down the path towards us.

  ‘Not long now,’ I say. ‘I think we should get to our posts.’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ Bernard says down the telephone, before hanging up. ‘I’m just off to get a few more umbrellas from the car.’

  By the time he’s back, the organist is banging out the opening bars of Vivaldi and the bride and groom are striding down the aisle, followed by the attentive and ever-snapping Mike. Just as they reach the entrance to the church, there is a rumble of thunder and the first few heavy splatters of rain. The congregation pours out of the church, applauding and cheering and throwing fistfuls of rose petals. Alice is buzzing, loving her moment and rushing from cheek to cheek as all her friends queue up to kiss the bride. Bernard tries to follow her with an umbrella, but he can’t keep up. The result is that Alice’s face and shoulders become splattered in rain and then covered in rose petals, which stick to her skin like splashes of paint. It is not the look she was after, but there is little anyone can do at the moment. Richard is otherwise occupied, having his hand practically shaken off by all his mates. Alistair tops up the alcohol in his system with a quick slurp from a miniature brandy he has in his pocket, and while Richard’s mother walks slowly towards the car, her hand tucked firmly underneath Granny’s armpit, Richard’s dad, a short bald man who exudes an unfathomable pomposity, stands around next to his second wife, Bev – a grey-permed carbon copy of his first. Katie and Liberty make a mad dash for the car, while Grace smokes a cigarette and bats away the early attentions of an alcohol-fuelled usher. Louise is in a bit of a flap. Rain was not part of her plan and she doesn’t quite know where to put herself. She fusses around and forgets her umbrella.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Louise,’ shouts Bernard across the crowd. ‘Put one up yourself!’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get her to do that for years,’ replies Alistair, unscrewing his bottle again. ‘Might give her a sense of humour.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ I say, just loud enough for Bernard to hear me. ‘Look.’

  We both turn to see a large funeral cortège making its mournful way up the lane towards the church.

  ‘Oh bugger,’ says Reverend Dave, appearing next to me. ‘That’s a bit of a clash of atmospheres.’

  ‘Also, we don’t want the bride to be blocked in by the hearse,’ says Bernard, his eyes narrowing. ‘I think I’d better sort this out.’

  ‘Um . . .’ starts Dave, but it is too late. Bernard is already walking down the path towards the cortège to take command of the situation. Unfortunately, he appears to have forgotten that he is wielding a pink-plastic princess brolly above his head, which could somewhat undermine his authority. Dave and I watch as he ingratiates himself with the grief-stricken widow and her three children. Somehow he manages to persuade the driver of the hearse to drive past the church, so that the white Rolls can depart. It is an extraordinary sight as the multicoloured wedding party crosses paths with the black-clad mourners. Richard and Alice are perched in the back of the white car, each sporting a leopard-print umbrella, as they slowly crawl past the long line of black limousines that are parked up against the bank.

  ‘All we need now is a christening,’ says Dave, ‘and our work is done.’

  By the time Bernard and I get back to the house, after quickly filleting the church of all its bridal flowers to make way for the funeral, the wedding party is in full swing. Mike has managed to take an unifying set of photographs of the bride and groom with various dysfunctional members of their family, and is now trying to get as many jolly party shots as possible. The weather has thankfully cheered up a bit and the champagne is flowing. Alice and Richard are on meet and greet, shaking hands with everyone and lapping up the compliments and congratulations.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I turn around to find Carol blinking at me from underneath the shiny brim of her pistachio-coloured hat. ‘This is Gran.’ She indicates towards a more decrepit version of herself, sitting on a chair taking in the view. She has a cup of tea on her lap, and her ankles, which are the same width as her knees, are crossed. ‘She has many problems,’ shares Carol. ‘But the most important one is that she is a diabetic, so on no account is she allowed to drink any alcohol.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Does she know this?’

  ‘She is very well aware of it. But she likes a tipple, so keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ I reply. ‘I shall inform the staff.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ replies Carol, immediately leaving Gran on her own as she goes off in search of some company and canapés.

  Bernard is patrolling the place like a meerkat on crack. I keep seeing his face popping up, scanning the marquee and surrounding garden for problems and hitches. He is Nigel’s eyes and ears, and his constant trips backstage keep everyone on their toes. He pre-empts the lack of prawn-and-coriander kebabs on the terrace and the dearth of cold champagne on arrival. The guests are obviously terribly thirsty, although strangely not for the elderflower fizz with real blooms that is slowly warming in the weak afternoon sun. The Parma ham and asparagus is being consumed almost as soon as it gets out of the kitchen and the smoked salmon rolls are being picked off at the pass. The party is becoming more lubricated, the noise level is increasing, the laughter is getting louder and everyone is clearly so much more entertaining than they were forty minutes ago.

  ‘This isn’t quite as bad as I expected it to be,’ says Grace, sidling up to me at the back of the marquee. ‘I think people are having a nice time.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, as I check that the placement cards are straight on the tables.

  ‘Well, everyone except Carol, I think,’ she says, taking a sip of her champagne.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She keeps trying to talk to Mum, and Mum just keeps ignoring her, like she genuinely can’t hear her.’ She smirks. ‘You should have heard Mum this morning, telling Dad that after today she never wants to see that family ever again. She keeps saying that if she can get through the day then she deserves a medal.’

  ‘And does Carol know?’ I ask.

  ‘Know? Mum says it in front of her. Richard and Alice are going to be dodging bullets all through dinner.’ She smiles. ‘That should be entertaining.’

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ says Bernard. ‘The bride needs you. Also keep an eye on Granny – every time a drink is put down on the table next to her, she bloody pinches it.’

  ‘OK. Where’s the bride?’

  ‘Round the back.’

  I walk through the tent and down the tunnel, past Nigel, who is controlling his waiters like supercharged synchronized swimmers, conducting their entrances and exits with a nod of his stooped head. Eventually I find Alice behind the Portaloos, hopping from one foot to the other.

  ‘Hi,’ she grins. She is a little edgy. I wonder if she’s been with her dad again. ‘I need the loo.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, somewhat taken aback. ‘You are right by them.’

  ‘I can’t use those, I might get blue chemicals all over my dress,’ she sniffs. She has definitely been with her dad.
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  ‘How about the house?’

  ‘They are locked. Mum locked them to stop people having sex in them,’ she says, rubbing her nose. ‘Bernard said something about a bridal potty?’

  ‘Oh that,’ I sigh. Bernard does keep a bridal potty with him, which is basically a large child’s potty for use when the size of the bride’s dress prohibits her from sitting on the lavatory.

  ‘He says it is in his tent.’

  ‘The admin tent?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s it,’ she nods. ‘Please hurry, I am desperate.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Just behind the two catering marquees is a tiny tent where the staff have put their coats and bags and where Bernard has organized a small desk for himself with a chair and a place to charge his phone. At larger or celebrity weddings, this is a more solid structure that can be used as a mini satellite office during the build-up to the wedding. Here, however, it is a dumping ground for staff rubbish.

  ‘There!’ says Alice, spotting the potty in the corner. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Do you want to pee here?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s as good a place as any,’ she replies, clearly desperate.

  ‘OK,’ I nod, getting down on my knees.

  ‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘Let me get my pants off.’ I turn my back to much huffing and puffing and ruffling of silk. ‘Ready,’ she says, standing there clutching a pair of white lace knickers in her hand.

  ‘Right, then,’ I say, getting back down on my knees. I grab the potty and shove it under her skirt. ‘OK then—’

  She squats down a tiny bit, appears to concentrate for a minute and then she releases. I was expecting a gentle girly tinkle of some sort, but she is like a horse. A great jet of warm urine fills the potty and splashes all over my hand, sleeve and arm. Whatever desire I had for the girl disappears in an instant.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she says as she finishes. ‘Did I get you?’

  ‘No, no,’ I reply. There is no point in embarrassing the girl.

  ‘Do you have a tissue?’ she asks.

  ‘Yup.’ I pull out a Handy Andy.

  ‘Cheers,’ she says, as she hands me her tepid pants. ‘Can you look after these? I can’t be bothered to put them back on again.’

  Bernard is utterly nonplussed when I tell him the bride has just pissed on my hand.

  ‘Think yourself lucky,’ he says, monitoring events over my shoulder. ‘Sad fucks pay thousands for water sports. Anyway, it happens all the time. That bloody granny!’ he hisses. ‘She’s just swiped another glass. What time is it now?’ he asks, not bothering to look at his own watch.

  ‘Just gone six,’ I say, dutifully checking my own, thankfully on my dry wrist.

  ‘We should be having the speeches now,’ he says. ‘I am going to talk to the groom.’

  It takes another ten minutes before the wedding party gathers in the marquee and the noise dies down enough for the speeches to begin. I can see Nigel pacing like a stallion out of the corner of my eye, but there is very little that either Bernard or I can do.

  First up is Alistair. As the father of the bride, his job is to thank the assembled company for gathering, say something sweet about his daughter and toast the happy couple. He weaves his way through the crowd with a tiny scrap of paper; the man is very obviously drunk. The worst pissed speech I have ever heard was delivered by a best man so plastered that he lay down on three chairs to speak. Alistair is not that bad, but he is not far off.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he slurs, hitting his nose on the mike as he lurches forward. ‘Thank you for coming.’ He then sniffs into the mike and appears to lose his train of thought entirely. ‘Um, welcome.’

  ‘Get on with it!’ yells a sweaty bloke at the back.

  ‘Oh!’ he says, sounding genuinely taken aback. ‘My first heckle.’

  ‘Hurry up!’ shouts another pink-faced youth nearby.

  ‘Oh, a second!’ He wobbles slightly. ‘Welcome,’ he starts again. ‘To this very happy day!’ There is a ripple of applause. ‘I’d like to say some lovely things about my daughter, because she is so lovely.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ agree a few in the crowd.

  And so he staggers on for another two excruciating minutes, forgetting what he wants to say, stumbling over his words and slurring the name of his ex-wife. Finally he toasts the happy couple, and everyone is mightily relieved to see him go.

  ‘One really must question the quality of his cocaine,’ Bernard whispers in my ear as Alistair vacates the stage. ‘Usually it makes you sharp as a chat-show host.’

  Richard is up next, ready to thank everyone all over again and raise a toast to Liberty and Grace. He apologizes in advance for his speech, because his sweaty hands have caused the whole thing to run, so he says he is going to keep it brief.

  ‘Thank God!’ shouts a wag at the back, and in the far corner of the marquee I can see Nigel mop his sweaty brow in agreement.

  Richard battles on with all the wit of an accountant, which is what he is. He regales the crowd with pleasantries about Louise, during which she preens, puffing her bosom out over the top of her jacket. He then turns his attention to his own mother, who smiles, despite the derogatory snorts coming from the ex-Mrs Oxford. Paul is pleased with his mention, Alistair is too drunk to hear his thank-you, and both Trisha and Bev are irritated to be omitted from the roll call of the important. By the time he gets around to thanking the bridesmaids, the level of mumbling and murmuring chat is beginning to rise at the back.

  A few of the more drunk and shameless disappear for a fag in the garden as Andrew steps up to the mike. He is not the most inspiring-looking of characters, with his weak chin, side parting and pink complexion, so you can hardly blame them. He clears this throat.

  ‘I suppose it was love at first sight.’ He smiles. A few diehard romantics cheer. ‘When Richard walked into the bar at university.’ Suddenly everyone is paying attention. ‘Maybe it was his generous smile or sharp wit, or his enormous zest for life, but either way we have been joined at the hip ever since. And the things we have done together, the things we have been through. Other couples can only really dream of the relationship that we have. Like when we went white-water rafting in the Amazon and I got soaked and you – Rich – you took off your jumper and gave me your T-shirt!’ He laughs and looks across at Richard. ‘You have been such a good friend to me. So many things. So many good times and so many bad. Like when I had my appendix out and you came to the hospital and brought me grapes . . . You ate them all, of course, leaving me only the pips as a reminder of your presence.’ He laughs again. ‘You’re so funny. I love it when you crack a joke and your lips smile before the punchline, or when . . .’

  ‘This is weird,’ I whisper to Bernard.

  ‘It’s marvellous!’ he replies. ‘Best speech I have ever heard.’

  ‘Is he coming out to the groom?’ I ask.

  ‘Sounds like it to me,’ he nods. ‘Look at Nigel.’

  Over at the other end of the marquee, Nigel is standing in the doorway, surrounded by chefs and waiters, who are totally riveted.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Andrew, clearing his throat, ‘what I really wanted to say is that Alice is very lucky. If she only knew half the man I know then she will be a happy lady. Rich is so sensitive and kind and funny. She will be very lucky – yes, very lucky indeed.’ His lips purse. ‘So I raise my glass to the happy couple. I love you.’ He looks across at Richard. ‘Um – both,’ he adds quickly. ‘Thank you.’

  The muttering and the applauding fight each other for dominance as he leaves the podium. No one can quite believe what they have just heard. Did he come out? Did he just say that he was in love with the groom? Both Richard and Alice stood stock still as he raised his glass to them. They neither looked at each other or at him. They both stared into the middle distance, unable to decide what the hell to make of it all.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen – dinner is served!’ announces Nigel with a dramatic clap of his hands.

  Everyone
ambles over to their places; the bride and groom make their way towards the top table and the butlers fan out into the room, carrying fish starter selections on their square plates.

  I watch Alice knock back a whole glass of champagne in one swig, before she straightens her veil and finds a weak smile to put back on her face. The girl looks miserable. She has her new father-in-law on one side of her and her new husband on the other, both of whom are talking to other people. Richard is trying to charm the increasingly drunk and annoyed Louise, while Paul is doing his best to entertain Trisha, who by some quirk of fate and seating has managed to make top table.

  The starters are down and the wine has been poured and Bernard is looking a little less uptight.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he suddenly says, looking up at top table. ‘What’s happened to Granny?’ I follow his gaze to see her passed out head-first in her supper, with Alistair, who is sitting next to her, looking completely the other way. ‘Shit,’ adds Bernard. ‘Is she dead?’ Carol is the only one who notices Granny’s predicament; she leaves her seat and removes the old woman’s face from her food. Wetting a napkin, she wipes her face down and seemingly revives her in the process. ‘Oh, thank God,’ says Bernard, clutching his chest. ‘She is back with us.’

  Backstage things are heating up, quite literally. The ovens are on full-blast, warming the pre-cooked lamb, and there are cauldrons of boiling vegetables awaiting placement on the plates. There’s a queue of butlers waiting, the tension is mounting and the air is redolent with steam and sweat.

  Finally the lamb is served, a little drier than Nigel would have liked, but who cares about timings when the best man is outing himself in his speech? The butlers pour the quite decent red wine that Bernard managed to source this morning. And I weave between the tables, checking on the service. I spot Grace sitting between two boys who both have their heads in her cleavage; she raises her glass at me and gives me a wink and a wave. Reverend Dave is on the next-door table with Liberty on one side of him, who is picking the peas out of the assortment of vegetables, and an earnest female on the other side who I can hear discussing her theology degree. The poor man continues to sip his water and looks like he wants to kill himself.