This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad

by Ngontang Mba, Danielle-Claude

  I remember Noor; she lost her dress within the first hour and kept close to the bar all night. She was flirting with Enrique our bartender.

  “My baby sister needs to nurse her broken heart with Johnny Walker, Enrique. Indulge us!” she flirted. She leaned across the bar, offering him an amazing view of her cleavage.

  “I miss him,” I mumbled, sitting next to her.

  She took me in her arms and mumbled, “I know, honey. Now drink up.”

  I feel like hitting myself in the head! “Lelly, am I a total mess?” I certainly feel like one right now.

  She takes my hand and brings me to the back garden. “Right now, I would still put my money on you and not Noor,” she tells me. She gets my phone out of her pocket and hands it to me.

  “Oh my God! Did I…?” I ask, but she shakes her head.

  “I took it away after your third drink. I wanted to avoid any drunk dialing. Not just to Marcus,” she tells me with a smile. “You’re not bad; you’re just a bit lost that’s all. If you’re still this way on Yum Kippur then I’ll worry.”

  Yum Kippur? “Are you using my own lines on me?” I laugh. “Why Yum Kippur? Since when are we Jewish? It’s in two weeks you know.”

  “Closest holiday I could think of, Annie going to school and all,” she says.

  “Thanksgiving is right around the corner, Lelly.”

  “My point exactly. So please get back on your cute feet by then. You, incredible you!” she laughs, walking away.

  Yesterday – or day-minus-three as Noor’s tank top said – we spent our morning walking around the property to decide where we would install the tent. Noor and Andrew finally agreed on an outdoor ceremony. They could either have it in the back garden or the little private park on the side, just on the boundaries of Hampstead Heath. The private park has been chosen for the pictures after the ceremony; we would also have some pictures taken on the first-floor balcony. The Regency style architecture would look amazing in the pictures.

  “The tent will be twenty feet tall and will cover three quarters of the garden…in case it rains,” the wedding planner explained.

  “What does the weather channel say?” I asked Noor.

  She took a sip of her detox shake. “Who knows and who cares? I just don’t wanna risk it,” she answered.

  The ceremony would be at 7.00 p.m. because Andrew and Noor want a sunset ceremony and pictures. The cocktail hour would be inside, in the renovated small ballroom. We would go back outside for dinner and dancing, where the tent would have been redecorated.

  “As per Granddaddy’s request, we will be keeping our casino room for our more mature guests who want to gamble and smoke cigars,” I told the wedding planner.

  “Right. I think it’s an amazing idea,” she said and turned to Noor. Andrew was at dance rehearsals so it was up to her to finish up with the last details. “About the guest list; I received a few changes that may affect the seating charts. I emailed them to you yesterday and need a response by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I saw it this morning. I’ll look into it and let you know,” she nervously told her. Poor sweetie; she must have been so tired.

  “Hey, anything I can do to help?” I asked her.

  She looked at me for a couple minutes. “I’m good, love. Just keep the detox coming and don’t blow any more hair appointments off. We’re cutting it short… Not your hair,” she joked.

  I hugged her as we walked back toward the house. “I’m sorry. But every time I party with you, this kind of shit happens,” I told her. I took a cigarette out and lighted it.

  She took the cigarette out of my hand and took a puff.

  “Fucking London!” we said, laughing.

  Day-minus-two – or today – found me and the rest of the bridal party at the hair salon only a few hours after dawn. Noor took over my hair and one of my wedding gifts was to not complain about it.

  “Are you sure this product isn’t going to straighten my hair permanently?” I ask the mother of all brides for the third time today. I could just have my hair done on the day of the wedding; there’s no need for this kind of product. She takes a sip of her detox shake. Should I be concern about the drinking? I don’t want her to sound like a nineteenth-century White Chapel whore on her wedding day.

  “It’s completely safe. I’ve been doing it for years, alright!”

  “Nooradine, I haven’t seen your hair curly in two years!” I scream. I get up to go to the washing station. “Get this shit off my hair now!”

  “Stop, you drama queen. In three weeks it will be back to normal. Sit down!” She says takes her iPad out,“I still need to confirm the guest list and all.”

  I sit back down, refusing to face my stylist, and keep drinking my coffee. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol since the bachelorette and I probably won’t until after the ceremony. I’m not counting Magda’s daily tea and shortbreads.

  Noor is changing her hair color back to dark red; it will go with her wedding colors: white, black, grey and burgundy; her black and white wedding dress to be exact. The groom, his groomsmen and the bridesmaids will all be wearing grey.

  “How are all you guys doing?” I ask the bride party. We’re all having our last hair rehearsal today; the same stylists will come to the house early in the afternoon on Saturday to do our hair and makeup. In the morning we will all go to a spa, another one of my wedding gifts.

  “Alright,” my stylist tells me, giving me the book for the colors. “Which shade of brown would you like?”

  “Whatever you do, please match most of my highlights to this shade of brown,” I tell her, giving a picture of Axelle.

  “That’s a great, natural color. This should be your darkest or lightest color?” she asks me.

  “Lightest please. But I guess I have to lose my black hair,” I tell her. Only because I love you, Nooradine.

  Noor and I end up at the washing station at the same time. “Can’t wait to see the finished product,” I hear her telling me. I close my eyes to enjoy the scalp massage. “You as a brunette. Brilliant, just brilliant,” she adds.

  “Only because I love you, mother of all brides,” I tease.

  I received an email from Beesly last night regarding Second Coming’s first single. It’s not going to be the title song, “Second Coming”, but one of the ballads Marcus wrote – “Pazza”: Crazy Lady. We changed the original title after the G Band and I rerecorded the musical track. The song is about a musician obsessed with a lounge singer with big, grey eyes… Wait a minute?

  “Should I hit you in the head?” Noor asks me.

  That freaking gag order is ruining my life! “No. I was just thinking about Beesly and the album. They’re releasing the first single next week. Tatata wrote it, but I composed the music with him and played Evelyn as well with the G Band. It’s a big deal.”

  “And you’re not going to be in the video?” Tara Lee-Riddell asks me, her head deep in the sink. She’s only having a touch up and a trim and will be leaving her trademark sexy hair down at the wedding.

  “There’s no need for this one. But I can’t wait to listen to it on the radio next week,” I tell them.

  Teddy Lee-Riddell comes and sits next to her identical twin sister, her highlight foils still in her hair. “Speaking of which; are we cancelling this afternoon’s dance rehearsal?”

  “Yes. The last one will be tomorrow morning. Then we’re done,” Carolyn Riddell says under the hair dryer. She turns to Hélène and Sasha Mpobo sitting not far from her. “You’re so lucky you don’t have to go through all those dancing routines,” she tells them.

  “Yes we are,” they both answer between a few laughs.

  “Kiki and Patricia have to do it,” Sasha says with her thick Italian accent.

  “They studied ballet; we didn’t,” Hélène says.

  These are all Uncle Alfonse’s daughters with his three wives; Papa’s older brother never really knew where to stop as Papa used to say. Hélène and Sasha have the same mother, Tata Laura, who
is from Naples where my cousins grew up and have their own prêt à porter store. Kiki and Patti have a Belgian mother, Maman Alfonsine; I’m not kidding. They grew up between Bangui and Brussels where they studied ballet. They’re both about a couple of years older than me. Then you have Young Samirah, named after her mother, Old Samirah, and Sumaya, born and raised in Brussels where my uncle has been living for the past twenty-five years. They are the youngest in our group right now, but at least they are legal and, boy, can they handle their liquors. And that’s only his daughters; he has four sons with them as well. Where’s Catherine, Tata Céline’s only child? She and my mother were pregnant at the same time but I arrived a couple of weeks early. Just as I think this, she enters the salon with Juliet Riddell. They both keep their hair very short and free of any chemicals, unlike us.

  “I’m starving,” Juliet tells her sister, Carolyn.

  “It’s not even twelve yet. We should be done by then and just eat a small plate before heading back to Grandpa’s,” Tara says.

  We all nod in agreement. With our hair mostly done now, it will take less than thirty minutes per bridesmaid to style on the wedding day.

  “Let’s go to Hartley’s Pub. We can drop Samirah and Sumaya off to our townhouse on our way back to Hampstead,” I propose. They have the best Yorkshire puddings in London.

  “No!” Noor says out of the blue. “The food is too rich there. No more rich food until Saturday! I want you to fit in those dresses,” she tells us.

  “What?” Teddy says.

  “I haven’t gained a single pound in ten years!” Juliet looks so offended.

  “We’re bloody Riddell. We eat like pigs and don’t gain weight,” Tara says.

  “That wasn’t open for debate, ladies. We will go eat a salad or something,” mother of all brides proclaims and closes the subject.

  “I think I lost weight with all the dancing we’ve been doing in the past week,” Kiki says and gives me “say-something” looks.

  “Sweetie, we can order light dishes or share. We really like the Hartley’s food,” I gently tell her.

  “I said no.”

  “We’re not the ones having to drink a detox shake every morning. Talk about wasted calories!” I tell her. There it is! I said it! Now where should I hide?

  No scream; instead she takes my hand. “Luce, we’re not going there today. Okay?” she almost whispers.

  “Alright, Crazy. It’s your wedding,” I tell her. She’s freaking me out. I need to complete the exit strategy plan and soon. “We’ll go for sashimi instead.”

  “Thanks. Raw food poisoning sounds much better,” she says.

  “There’s just no pleasing you, woman!” I tell her. Mother of all brides, my ass!

  Straight hair feels so strange on my face and it’s almost down to the middle of my back. It’s day-minus-zero! And the mother of all brides still hasn’t come down yet. The movers, decorators and caterers have been here since 7.00 a.m., transforming the entire estate and preparing the dishes for the cocktail and reception. They have taken over the kitchen and I need fresh coffee in my system.

  “Good morning,” I tell them. They have at least three hot sous-chefs in their group. I flip my new sexy hair. “What does a girl need to do to get some decent coffee around here?” I say. The hot sous-chefs are looking and smiling. I should have done this hair thing a long time ago.

  “We just made a fresh pot,” hot sous-chef number one tells me and pours me a cup.

  “Sweetie, could I get a mug? It’s going to be a long day,” I tell him. Hot sous-chef number two is hunting down a mug for me. Must be my new yoga pants; my butt looks fantastic in them. “Thank you,” I tell him when he hands me a large fresh batch.

  I step outside for my first and only smoke of the day, I promise myself. It’s a real circus with about twenty people installing the gigantic tent. I can’t wait to see the finished product. I hope they will at least be done with all the chandeliers and the white, grey and black curtains by the time we’re back from the spa.

  “I heard you and Alfie are shaking it up again,” I hear the sweetest voice saying. Arthur Riddell the Third woke up bright and early for the wedding of his second granddaughter. He looks good these days. Madga has been taking a good care of him. Don’t they say that seventy-six is the new sixty? If people want to know where we got those big, grey eyes from, well, search no more. They are staring back at me right now and are full of love.

  “Hi Granddaddy.” I give him a big hug and just hang there in his arms for a little while longer. “Madga got him for me. He was in the attic!” I put down my cigarette.

  “He always made you feel better, Cassi,” he says. He rarely calls me Lucia. Cassidy Ann was his grandmother’s name and everyone used to call her Cassi. She was the original, beautiful, grey-eyed ballet dancer who started the female Riddell tradition.

  “British lasses don’t call their grandfathers granddaddy. Not unless they have some Cajun blood,” he laughs. “But I love you all for doing it.”

  “This is amazing!” I’m looking at the tent taking over the entire back garden. We will be able to have at least a hundred and fifty guests inside the fancy installation. “Don’t you think?”

  “I may keep it for our next garden party,” he says. He takes out a cigar and lights it. “What? Life is in the little pleasures my dear.” He starts to smoke, “Please don’t tell Magda.”

  I have missed my granddaddy. I take the cigar away. “I would like to keep you around a little longer please,” I joke and take a small puff before giving it back to him.

  “Bloody London!” he says and we both laugh. Truths being told, the Riddells are not really big fans of London. Arthur Riddell spent most of his time up north in our family estate outside York. He bought this house for my grandmother. “But I’m happy to have all my grandchildren here,” he tells me.

  “I’m beyond happy to be here with you all,” I tell him. And another hug, more kisses, a bit of a tear and the day is still young.

  “Look at you, Cassi. I know I told you that yesterday, but with your hair like that you look just like Eleanor. Even more than Axelle usually does,” he says, brushing my hair. “Your father would have been so happy for his dashing girls today,” he adds.

  “Yes, I bet he would have. We’ll just have to make him proud then,” I tell him and wipes my tears.

  “Come on, love. Let’s go back inside and get some breakfast upstairs,” he says, finishing his cigar. “Where’s our lovely bride?”

  “Not nursing a hangover. I kept her away from everything but tea yesterday,” I tell him.

  “Tea?” he teases.

  “Not Magda’s,” I say, laughing. That’s for my own comfort. “She should be up now. We have to leave in less than forty-five minutes,” I tell him.

  “We better get a move on.”

  We walk back inside and pass the decorators, more movers, the wedding planner and even Axelle and aunt Shirley giving directions. My Noor is really getting married today. Breathe Lucia.

  You’re mighty, you’re forceful, all and all beautiful and you shall be mine forever.

  Three and a half hour later, we’re all back in the house, scrubbed and massaged from head to toe. Our nails have been polished and colored, our eyebrows have been threaded and for some of us, the entire face needed an intervention. I had to beg Axelle to join us. Paul arrived earlier in the day with his parents, Aunt Shirley, Tata Céline and Maman Alfonsine were all taking care of the wedding preparations; Axelle could leave the children and the house for a few hours.

  “There is still so much to do,” she says, supervising the ballroom decoration. Noor hasn’t chosen the easiest concept. We have rented several large, grey and while sofas, tables and sheer curtains to transform the room into a sophisticated lounge, with dimmed lights and protected candles.

  “We have four aunts here and Magda that could help, Lelly,” I told her.

  “They’re not coming to the spa?” she asked me.

  �
�They all went yesterday and Madga too.” I took the checklist away and gave it to one of the decorators. “Please take this to Céline Mpobo in the hallway,” I told him and took Lelly’s arm. “Let’s go. We’re already behind schedule.”

  “Did you pay for them too?” she asked me, walking next to me to her room.

  “Yes. We couldn’t all go today.”

  “Are you finally spending your insurance’s money, Luce?” she teased while gathering her things.

  “Nah!” I said as I opened the door. We really needed to get a move on. We had to be back by 2.00 p.m. for our hair and makeup. “I quit Noël-Sarrow instead,” I blurted out, walking away.

  “Stop right here, Lucia Cassidy Ann,” she screamed from the top of the stairs.

  There, I’ve done it again.

  “You did what?” She came down the stairs and followed me outside.

  “I wanted to wait until after the wedding to tell you,” I said once we were in the second van. I made the decision shortly after finalizing Second Coming. “I sent my contract to our lawyer a month ago and they told me that I have fulfilled all my listed obligations. I could leave if I wanted to and will be paid for my royalties. So I quit. I don’t want to be back door anymore; the next job will be on my own terms.”

  “And Lloyd and Callia?” she asked.

  “Are throwing me a real farewell party after my return. They also contacted our lawyer-turned-agent and hired me as a consultant for Second Coming until its full release in November… Three times more than what they used to pay me.”

  “That’s fantastic news!”

  “What is?” Kiki asked.

  “Lucia is her own boss now,” Axelle told our cousin.

  “Luce, we need to work on something together!” she told me, all excited.

  “Sure, we can talk about it after the wedding.”

  You would think that on a day like today we would all be on edge. But no; once back from the spa with an hour to spare, we all went upstairs…for a nap. I went to sleep with Alfie one last time, taking Mitch up with me for his nap. I was informed by Noor that I would have to lend my room to Andrew’s parents for the night and would have to sleep in our childhood home tonight. I’ve already packed a small overnight bag and will be bringing Belinda home with me. But most importantly, Carolyn gave us one Xanax each during breakfast – what a team player! We didn’t ask where she got them from; after all, it was her gift. We should have saved one for Axelle but I did put a couple aside for Noor…just in case. The day was still young.