by Sharon Owens
Julie laughed her head off and said they were the wildest pair she’d ever met in her life, which cheered them up no end. I wondered how much dosh they were getting from selling the photographs. But still, there’s an awful lot of unhappiness in the world, I said to myself, and at least this ‘wacky’ wedding will give the readers something to talk about. So, yes, Julie said, we’d have some spare Rock Chick and Vampire costumes made up and stored in the marquee in case any of the guests didn’t get round to renting or making their own. I had an upsetting vision of some old dears staggering across the lawn of an ancient castle wearing fishnet stockings and satin bustiers, but luckily our clients didn’t see me making a face. Another potential You’ve Been Framed moment, I think you’ll agree, when the cloaked-up grannies and granddads go wading into a bunch of fresh cowpats. Note to self! I made a mental note to get the ‘housekeeping’ staff to remove any cowpats and wash down the grass well before the wedding began.
Thankfully, we were almost at the end of the meeting by this point.
Last up on the agenda: the goody bags. Our clients said they wanted to give out the ‘coolest freakin’ gift bags in the entire world’ at the end of the night. Well, that was no problem for our Julie. She was probably born clutching a goody bag, she told them. She had dozens of ideas for Rock Chick and Vampire gift bags, as it transpired. Vouchers for designer lingerie from Josephine’s boutique in the city centre. Lucky old Josephine, she always does well out of Dream Weddings. By the way, Josephine offers a mail-order service for the really hot stuff so customers can buy all the gear they want without having to ask for it face to face. So Julie said she would pop a brochure and a voucher into every bag, for starters. Then there’d be lots of other lovely things. Red scented candles, toffee apples bearing the date of the wedding, black leather mobile-phone covers. Pots of scented face-and-body glitter, silver fountain pens and bottles of black ink. Semi-precious skull cufflinks, strawberry-centre truffles in a black cardboard box, mini-bottles of pink champagne. Letter-openers shaped like daggers. The list was endless. So was the string of zeros on the end of the rock star’s budget. Each individual goody bag (and remember there were 666 invited guests) was going to be worth £200 alone. That’s £133,200 on goody bags, I told them, whipping out the office calculator. Our man didn’t look surprised in the least. In fact, he looked thoughtful for a moment and then said to make it £300 as he didn’t want to look cheap. So, £200K on gifts. Well, that’s an awful lot of money, isn’t it?
Rock and roll, babe.
His words, not mine.
I had to excuse myself and stagger up to the kitchenette for a glass of water when I heard how much moola they’d set aside to pay for this ‘for the glossies’ wedding. I daresay the magazine was going to finance most of it. And it wouldn’t do either of their careers any harm. But still, the sheer scale of the event was very daunting to me. The expense of it all, the organization involved. Keeping the media at bay but still interested, the countless health and safety restrictions we’d have to get round. But Julie carried on like we get this sort of brief every day of the week. I was very impressed with Julie in spite of my various doubts and misgivings about her relationship with Jay. For a while in that meeting, she was the same old Julie I’d grown so fond of. Her ‘I can do anything’ attitude was an inspiration.
The rock star and his lovely lady refused our offer of coffee and pastries when the meeting was over. They were just on their way to the airport, as it happened. Fashion show in Milan, they said. Julie air-kissed them both several times and said she had so many ideas she didn’t know where to start. They handed over the cheque and we all swapped contact numbers. I saw them safely down the lighthouse stairs and waved them off in their blacked-out limousine. When I got back up to the office, Julie was casually checking her make-up before going to visit Jay.
‘Start making preliminary calls, Mags,’ she said slowly, crayoning on red lipstick. ‘But don’t confirm anything until I okay it. Right? I’m just nipping out for a couple of hours. And if Gary phones tell him I’m having my nails done. He’d never dream of ringing the salon.’
Julie’s second home, the salon. It’s called the Beauty Spot.
Lovely little place.
‘Actually, Jay quite fancies me having a Brazilian wax. Or a Hollywood. Isn’t he outrageous? You know, I might just pop into the Beauty Spot on my way to Saintfield and see if they can fit me in. Hope it doesn’t hurt too much!’
And off she went skipping down the steps of the lighthouse, singing some sugary pop tune and happily swinging her big white handbag with the heavy bunch of glass and silver charms attached. There was no point reasoning with her so I didn’t bother. I just sighed heavily, made a pot of tea in the kitchenette and prepared for a strange afternoon researching fantasy-cake design, the collecting and releasing of live bats (bound to be a law against the releasing of live bats for fun, I thought), red velvet suits, health and safety issues regarding ancient ruins and the hiring of busloads of security staff. All of it very vexing. Particularly the security staff. We didn’t want to go hiring the wrong sort who might cause more trouble than they were being hired to prevent. After two hours on the phone, I hadn’t come up with an awful lot so I did three things. I took a taxi into town to lodge the massive cheque in the bank for safekeeping. I bought some emulsion paint and various things to fix up the office in the lighthouse. And I sent Emma a massive bouquet of pink and white roses with a nice message attached. Since we now knew where the clinic was. They said it would be helpful if Emma got some cards and letters each week.
The message said how truly sorry I was about everything.
Really sorry for hurting Emma’s feelings, and best wishes from all of us.
Well, I was sorry. I couldn’t believe Emma was actually close to death that day in the lecture theatre, and only weeks before I’d hated her so much that I wanted to shove her down the stairs for tormenting my Alexander into giving up his architecture degree. I hoped the clinic would let Emma keep the roses when they arrived because they were very expensive indeed. Gosh, but I’m very good at spending money. Once you get started and over the initial guilt it’s very hard to stop. Then, fingers crossed, I went back to the lighthouse and set out my paint-roller and tray in the office. I’m very quick at painting walls: years of practice, I suppose. I fervently hoped Julie wouldn’t land back to work when I was only halfway through and be cross with me for wasting time. But then I remembered her Brazilian/Hollywood surprise for Jay and I knew she’d be fully occupied for the rest of the day.
As it were.
It’s so good for taking your mind off your worries, painting walls with a gentle shade of chocolate. If you take it nice and slowly and really concentrate on getting the edges crisp and clean, you can almost forget your only daughter is in Australia and your boss is making a fool of herself with a younger man. Just before the shops closed, I nipped into town once more for some new light bulbs and a few decorative sachets of cinnamon and mixed spice. And then home to pick up our old sofa bed. By the time Julie did show up at the lighthouse the following afternoon, the office had been completely transformed. The walls were a luxurious pale chocolate colour and there was a matching rug on the floor. The desks had been placed closer to the main window and there was a big tasselly lamp standing on each of them. Lovely boudoir lamps with feathers and beads round the edges of the shade. And the bases were made of mottled brown glass. I’d brought in some dried grasses and twigs, and pots from home to fill up the empty spaces and there was a length of cream muslin wrapped round a gold-coloured pole above the big window. A huge bunch of fake white lilies stood in a tall glass vase by the door and our small sofa bed (it was fine with a cream throw over it) was squeezed in too, for good measure. Luckily, it’s very light and comes apart easily so I was able to trail it up the stairs in three pieces. There were comfy beige velvet cushions on the office chairs and a small gold star-burst mirror on the wall. It was thoroughly gorgeous, I have to say: very sophisticate
d and comfortable. The acoustics were softened too. My voice on the telephone even sounded different, more sexy and authoritative somehow. There was enough paint left over to give the kitchenette a coat of Soft Truffle and I also put a bunch of twigs in there, on the counter beside the kettle and mugs. Oh, it was so much nicer than before, I can’t tell you. And with the cinnamon sachets dotted round the room, it smelt lovely as well. I dared Julie to say it wasn’t gorgeous and she didn’t disappoint me.
‘It’s gorgeous, Mags,’ she said, taking it all in. ‘Really it is. Absolutely gorgeous. You have been busy, thanks very much. The clients will love this. I suppose we should have done it years ago.’
‘Oh, great! Ta, Julie! You’re not just saying that to humour me?’
‘No, I love it. It’s very cosy. I’ve been spending a lot more time at my flat than before and all-white is a bit tiring on the retinas, I’ll be honest with you.’
She did look exhausted.
‘What is it, Julie?’ I said then. ‘Has Jay done a bunk with your DVD player?’
I can’t resist saying that – DVD player. It’s about the only gadget I can remember the name of.
‘No, Jay has not done a bunk with anything,’ Julie said crossly. ‘Why would you say something nasty and mean to me like that?’
‘I’m sorry, Julie,’ I said at once. ‘I meant it to sound funny. What’s the matter?’
‘It’s worse than Jay scarpering with the hi-fi, actually,’ she suddenly admitted, slumping heavily onto the sofa bed and closing her eyes. I noticed she’d trowelled on the foundation that day, presumably to cover her under-eye shadows. ‘I think I could cope if Jay left me. I never thought he wouldn’t leave me some day. But that bikini wax I had yesterday drove him clean wild. We didn’t sleep once last night, not for a single minute. He was on his knees for hours. He said he loved me.’
I was a bit shocked, both with the mental image this confession conjured up and also with Jay’s insistence that he was in love with Julie.
Too much information, dear! I was trying not to get involved.
‘I forgot to tell you, Julie, we’re nearly out of envelopes,’ I said, interrupting her mid-flight. ‘Should I get onto our supplier and order some more? What about changing the shade to buff? That’s very in right now. And it would go with our new interior. We could have business cards made up with a little picture of the office on them? You know, like the card you got from the spa in Galway?’
‘Whatever you like! For heaven’s sake, it’s only stationery. Are you not listening to me, woman? Jay said he loved me, Mags. He must have said it a hundred times yesterday. He wants us – oh, you won’t believe this – but he wants us to get married. He knows I can’t have children but he wants us to get married straight away.’
‘Oh, Julie!’
‘I mean, the age gap is silly and we’ve known each other only two minutes but Jay said he’s found his soulmate. And that would be bad enough, but so does Gary. I mean, Gary wants us to get married as soon as possible. All last night he was going on and on about the meaning of life, et cetera. He says he doesn’t want a big expensive wedding now, after the trauma of the car accident and all. And he forgives me for having a silly little flirtation in Galway. Thanks for telling him about that, Mags, by the way. Not! He says the car crash made him realize life is short and we should live every day as if it’s going to be our last. He wants us to get married in a quiet ceremony and go away on an extended honeymoon as soon as we can arrange it. And until his leg is better he can’t work with the horses anyway so what are we waiting for?’
‘Oh, Julie.’
‘Is that all you can say? Advice please, Margaret! I have two men wanting to marry me and proposing to me on a daily basis. What should I do, Mags? I’m getting all confused and I’m never out of the shower these days, what with all the hanky-panky. My hands are shrivelled away to raisins, look!’ She showed them to me. ‘What will I do? My engagement ring keeps falling off. Is that a sign I should leave Gary, do you think? I mean, I only stayed with him out of sympathy, and guilt. I mean, he only broke his leg because he was speeding down to Galway to rescue me from having an affair.’
‘Julie Sultana,’ I said carefully, ‘I have absolutely no idea what you should do. No idea at all. No idea whatsoever.’
‘Oh, now, Margaret Grimsdale, don’t be coy, you must have some opinion! You’re the most opinionated person I’ve ever met in my entire life. You’ve often said you could set the world to rights if you were left in charge for just one day. So come on, advise me. Should I be clever and agree to marry sensible-head Gary and go straight out to Saintfield and finish with Jay today? Or should I leave Gary for good like I originally planned, and live with Jay in the apartment for a while and get to know him better? Or should I go completely mad and marry Jay and just see what happens? Although I’ll make him sign a pre-nup first, of course. I’m quite a wealthy woman, you know. Or should I leave both of them and stay single for a while? You know, live a celibate existence? That’s very zen right now. Get into meditation? Give my bits and pieces a chance to recover? I’m starting to chafe down below. How on earth do prozzies manage, I wonder. I suppose they go a bit numb after a while and the drink’s bound to be a comfort.’ And she made a face at me to show she was in considerable discomfort in the ‘intimate feminine area’ as they always describe it on advertisements for sanitary towels, tampons, panty-liners, moist wipes and so on.
God, I do wish they’d stop all this in-your-face ‘bodily function’ advertising. And ban the babies’ nappies and that silly blue water, while they’re at it. Most upsetting to see ads that remind you of blood and urine (and the rest) when you’re trying to relax of an evening. They irritate me, those ads. Which is why I probably spoke out of turn to Julie.
‘Celibacy would be a tough call for you, Julie,’ I said quietly, thumping some keys on my computer. ‘Your nether regions might go into shock.’
‘What do you mean by that, you cheeky monkey? Are you implying I’m some sort of bad woman? Are you, Mags? You’re not going all saintly on me, are you? Because I couldn’t stand that, I’ll tell you now. I’m not working with a moralistic bore. I couldn’t bear it!’
‘No, actually, I’m not a moralistic bore, Julie. You can do what you like with Gary and Jay. Introduce them to one another and have a threesome, if you fancy a change. It’s a free country. Mind you, I don’t think pre-nups are valid in the UK. Each case is tested on its own merits, so I believe. So you might want to make an appointment with a good solicitor before you run off and marry your toy boy. Just give me a bit of notice, will you? Because I’m going to book myself two weeks’ holiday on a desert island to get away from Gary Devine. He’ll blame me for all of this, you know? For not telling him.’
‘Mags, are you cross with me?’ Julie asked then, her lovely face creased with hurt and confusion. Maybe I’d been a bit too sharp with her, I decided, remembering Charlotte and Sidney’s crazy antics many years before. ‘Have I done something to annoy you?’
‘Now, Julie, you listen to me,’ I said kindly but firmly. ‘You’re my best and dearest friend and I love you like a sister. More than a sister, actually. Because my sisters can be a bit touchy sometimes on the subject of marriage and children. And I can talk to you without worrying about saying the wrong thing every time. But I am not, repeat not getting emotionally involved in this situation with yourself and Jay O’Hanlon and Gary Devine. I’ve just buried my father and seen Alicia-Rose off to Australia, and my eldest son’s girlfriend is in a psychiatric hospital at death’s door from anorexia. And he’s dropped out of a top course at university and is now spending his days putting toilets together, wearing Bill’s old overalls. I’m missing my sisters like mad, and Bill and I are almost broke after forking out in advance for a stonking great Celtic headstone complete with Gaelic engraving. Basically, I have more than enough to contend with at the moment, and I’m worn out styling this blessed bob properly every morning but, if I don’t style it, it look
s like a wild hedge in a storm. So you do what you think is best regarding Gary and Jay but please, please, please don’t ask me for advice. Because whatever I say will be wrong, total rubbish, absolutely irrelevant and I’ll get the blame if anything disastrous happens. All I’ll say is this: we cannot legally release live bats at the wedding of the century. So I’m planning to commission some art students to make fake ones and we’ll get some puppeteers to raise them up on invisible threads from a purpose-built platform, which will have to be concealed behind a round tower or whatever high wall we can find when we eventually select a venue. Okay?’
Meaning, when Julie stopped bunking off work to shag Jay O’Hanlon, and helped me for a change.
‘So you’re not going to give me any advice at all, then?’
‘I’m sorry, Julie, but no, I’m not.’
‘Right,’ she said, flinging her handbag onto the desk. ‘Let’s get down to business. If that’s the way you want to play it! Double-check with our clients they don’t mind having fake bats at their wedding, then give the students the go-ahead and make sure you get receipts for the materials, construction of the platform and the puppeteers’ expenses. And do make sure you get planning permission for the platform before you do anything else. I’ll go through these brochures again and settle on a venue today, right?’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘You do that.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘I will.’
And a grim silence descended upon us.