Revenge of the Wedding Planner

by Sharon Owens

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Emma said tearfully as Bill and I took our leave of them after that first visit to their new home. ‘We did think of asking Dream Weddings to arrange our special day for us but, really, we don’t want anything too grand or complicated. After recent events, you can see why we don’t want any fuss and fanfare. The baby and so on? I do hope you understand?’

  ‘Oh, I do understand. I do indeed,’ I assured them. ‘It all sounds heavenly, if you must know. You have everything under control. And I’d love to just turn up and be a plain old ordinary guest for once in my life. No responsibilities!’

  ‘And thank you for the gorgeous presents,’ Emma added. ‘I adore the funny little tea set, really. It reminds me of you.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ I said to her.

  And I meant it from the heart.

  17. The Wedding

  The wedding.

  Ah, the wedding of the century. The bling-tastic event that should have made Dream Weddings famous throughout the British Isles but instead became a media byword for disaster. In fact, for a time you couldn’t switch on the radio without hearing a lecture on the perils of overambition and social-climbing gone mad. Even BBC Radio 4 were having debates about the trend for ‘tasteless to the point of nihilism’ celebrity marriage ceremonies. So you can see how serious it was, if the likes of R4 were bothering themselves with common folk like us.

  Stuck-up old miseries.

  And I don’t say that lightly. I adore R4 – with those plummy-voiced presenters, it’s like Jackanory for grown-ups. Even if they’re talking about something completely obscure, like Russian food in the seventeenth century, or anything to do with classical music, I still lap it up. It’s very calming, usually, to listen to. My favourite narrator is Alan Bennett. Do you know what I’d just love to hear? Alan Bennett narrating The Borrowers, from the original books by Mary Norton. Oh, bliss…

  But back to the wedding.

  You know, over the years, I’ve seen inside the homes of quite a few so-called intellectuals and families with old money and, honestly, they wouldn’t spend Christmas. Thrifty as anything, they are. Everything falling to bits and covered with an inch of dust and dog hairs. Now, don’t get me wrong! Dust and decay and a broken Aga is all very well if it floats your boat. But please don’t go knocking the rest of us if we like to make a bit of a statement. Just because we like glitter and glitz, or gargoyles for that matter, it doesn’t make us bad people or anything.

  ‘Can you actually have too much money?’ R4 asked the listening public, practically going giddy down the microphone. ‘Literally more money than sense?’ And the public seemed to think that, yes, a person could be too rich. And that the pressure to spend the money on bigger and better weddings than your peers (and bigger houses and better holidays and so on) could surely trigger bouts of utter silliness. If not bona fide madness.

  And yet it had all begun so well.

  A Rock Chicks and Vampires theme with millionaire rock stars and leggy French models galore, £300 goody bags and gallons of pink champagne. I mean, as Julie said herself, what could possibly be described as tasteless about that lot? It was all dead classy.

  The first day of May and everything was perfect. A bright, balmy afternoon and a clear blue sky above us. A fresh breeze blowing in from across the Irish Sea and not a speck of litter anywhere. Or a cow pat; we’d borrowed a special hoover from the ferry company (the mind boggles). Seven o’clock in the evening, that’s when the wedding was due to begin. So the ceremony could take place just minutes before the celebrations kicked off. All the photographs were to be ‘action shots’ in black and white. No hanging around for hours with a light meter, you see? It was Julie’s idea. The castle’s imposing ramparts (what was left of them) were festooned with trailing silver and black bannerettes, which looked magnificent fluttering in the wind. Very Harry Potter. The butch and solemn-faced security staff were discreetly posted around the site, impeccably dressed in matt-black bomber jackets and loose-fitting slacks worn over formal dress shoes. They each had a two-way radio, a mobile phone and a First Aid kit as well as the obligatory dark glasses. The couple’s official bodyguards had their own little tent placed near the main body of the castle building and they were all ready to deal with any possible assassination attempts and (or) determined stalkers. So far, so good.

  The puppeteers were ready on their platform, belted onto it with safety harnesses, actually, the multitude of rubber bats dangling on dozens of invisible wires. The fireworks were rigged to be lit as darkness fell and were under constant scrutiny by a health and safety expert. The magistrate and the Druid were there, dressed up to the nines and looking very important and wise. Each trying to out-do the other in terms of lofty grandness. Busloads of guests began to arrive and file onto the lawn, where Julie swiftly directed them towards the pristine marquee for a pre-wedding glass of pink champagne and a selection of vegetarian nibbles. They did look a bit peculiar (the guests, not the nibbles) flapping round the site in their vampire garb. In fact, the proceedings had all the hallmarks of a downmarket magic convention. But Julie and I had no choice but to keep congratulating the groom on the magnificence of it all.

  Privately, I decided that as soon as I got home that night, or by the weekend anyway, I was going to bin my red bedroom curtains and my purple front-room drapes and consign most of the biggest candlesticks to the attic. Goth used to be great, I thought, when it was still an elitist obsession. But now that every Tom, Dick and Harry were in on the game I was beginning to go off it. Yes, I thought to myself, some nice pale and restful curtains that reminded me of stone or coffee would do the trick. Well, you never know when Bill or myself might need a doctor in the night. And I definitely didn’t want another humiliation like my father’s wake on my hands.

  But, back to the wedding.

  A small orchestra was playing a selection of Indie hits from the 1980s, with plenty of haunting cello and violin solos thrown in. ‘Eloise’ by the Damned was going down well, as was ‘Golden Brown’ by the Stranglers. The entire scene was lit with soft creamy spotlights, making everyone look younger and more attractive, despite the satin cloaks and what have you. And at the centre of it all, on a special podium in the marquee, was the magnificent wedding cake: black icing from top to bottom, complete with overhanging balconies, miniature iron railings and, yes, real working lights! The groom and his bride could cut only the top tier after the banquet, we’d warned them. The rest of it was mostly MDF casing and couldn’t be touched by anything that might conduct electricity. Such as a long-handled knife. But, all in all, it was fabulous, darling! The atmosphere was simmering like a pot-roast in gravy. Snatches of laughter and conversation drifted across the lawn and the photographers were having a field day.

  It was Dream Weddings’ finest hour.

  We didn’t worry too much when the bride was an hour late for the ceremony.

  ‘After all, it’s practically a woman’s duty to keep her future husband waiting at the altar,’ we joked to some of the guests.

  Well, to keep him waiting on the stage, really, if we’re being honest. So although the groom did seem a bit jumpy as the minutes ticked away, Julie and myself weren’t too concerned. He was in bits after the first half-hour, poor guy. He kept pacing down to the castle gates and looking at his watch. Then he ducked into the bodyguards’ tent and came out five minutes later looking a lot more relaxed. But at the time I thought nothing of it. I was too busy helping the last of the guests into their velvet coats and feathered hats and evening gloves, to be overly concerned about the bride’s no-show. And it did take quite a while to distribute the black feather corsages and so on. By eight thirty the light had begun to fade slightly in the sky. Not getting dark or anything, but just an ominous gathering of clouds that cast a shadow over the marquee and the atmosphere in general. A cold breeze stole into the castle grounds and most of the elderly guests gave up waiting and went back to the marquee to bag a good table. Some of them joking about ‘
not living for ever’, and those ladies who were wearing low-cut dresses reached for their satin and velvet wraps. Julie instructed the marquee staff to switch on the heaters and start warming the space up a little bit. We hadn’t wanted to get the heating going too early, you see. Because when the guests take their seats in a marquee it can get quite stifling, quite early on. So, anyway, the faint hum of the blow-heaters duly started up.

  And we all went on waiting.

  Nine o’clock came and went and the chef (Russian, as it happened) said that some of the food might have to be discarded as it was drying up round the edges. He’d made a lot of ice sculptures on which to display the fruit salads and they were starting to melt. And the vegetarian gravy was a write-off, and so were the sauces and garnishes. He was very annoyed that his terrific catering was being treated so shabbily and he said he would never work with such amateurs again.

  ‘This entire country is cursed when it comes to food,’ he said rudely, staring with impatience at Julie and me.

  I don’t know what he was worried about. I mean, he’d got his money and he was safely tucked away in a corner of the marquee with a nice little heater beside him and a stiff drink in his hand. Julie and I were the ones taking all the flack about the bride being so late.

  ‘Oops, watch that passionate temper of yours, my darling!’ Julie trilled but I could tell by the tone of her voice she was bricking it. We’d made dozens of calls to the bride’s hotel but we were always told by her entourage she’d be setting off shortly.

  Liars! The ground underfoot was slightly damp and I noticed my own shoes had a creeping tidemark beginning to show above the sole.

  ‘Where is she?’ we hissed to one another for the umpteenth time. We feared she’d been kidnapped by terrorists at one point, and was surely about to be ransomed back to us. There seemed no other reason why she could be so late. Well, Julie saw no other reason. I could think of one or two but I said nothing. The truth was too awful to contemplate. Julie was fit to be tied and I was trying not to throw up with nerves.

  Nine thirty came.

  Nine forty-five.

  My stomach was in knots. And I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. It was literally in knots. I honestly thought I’d need major surgery to be able to visit the toilet ever again. I decided I was definitely getting too old to be a wedding planner any more. I’d have swapped my PA status for a chippy-girl’s pinny in a heartbeat. The hairs on the back of my neck were wet with perspiration and, to make matters worse, Julie was knocking back the vodkas without even the benefit of a mixer. My throat was sore from talking, instructing, laughing, consoling and bitching.

  Ten o’clock at night.

  Suffering Jesus.

  It was pitch-black.

  It was an out-and-out crisis.

  Some of the oldest guests gave up entirely and went home, after collecting their goody bags and telling Julie and me the entire event was disappointing in the extreme. We bundled the loudest complainers into jeeps and got some of the security staff to drive them back to their various hotels. Then we discovered that there was no pink champagne left and the Russian chef had dumped half the food into a skip behind the marquee, and walked out. The Druid did his best, I have to say, casting a peace and harmony spell over the venue and providing a bit of a sideshow at the same time, but the buzz had been completely lost. That impossible-to-define special magic that lifts a wedding out of the ordinary and upwards into something life-changing, was gone. And there was nothing we could think of to bring it back.

  That’s the trouble with weddings: you can spend all the money in the world on the trappings and trimmings. But, at the end of the day, you do need an actual bride and groom (or a same-sex couple, let’s get with the programme) who’re willing and able to turn up, preferably on time, and actually get married. It was off the scale of weirdness, watching those OAP witches and warlocks collecting their luxury gift bags and buckling up in the security jeeps, shaking their heads and dismissing Julie and me as a pair of total fakes. I felt like shouting at them; had they never made a single mistake in all of their lives? I mean, just when did senior citizens become so intolerant in our society? You’d think a lifetime of experience would’ve made them see the funny side. Wouldn’t you?

  Julie was looking ashen-faced for the first time in her illustrious career. I thought she was going to faint when I suggested we make an announcement to the crowd that the wedding was cancelled, and simply wrap the whole thing up. But just then, the white bridal limousine came purring up the castle driveway and the guests began to clap and cheer. Well, the ones who weren’t already drunk as skunks did. The rest just sat tight in the marquee and tried to warm their feet on the blow-heaters, guarding the plates of food they’d managed to cadge off the furious Russian chef before he departed the event. Some of the guests were having a kip under their car blankets. It felt like there was a war on, that awful atmosphere of doom and gloom and hunger. The groom nipped back into the security tent for what I wrongly assumed was a lemonade shandy (him being off all artificial stimulants except for cigarettes, on his doctor’s strictest instructions), and then made to open the car door and lead his beautiful bride to the stage. I mean, to the altar. The magnificent, flower-laden altar where a select group of photographers and observers from the magazine were somehow still assembled and waiting with bated breath. And a battery of cameras, lights, light-reflecting umbrellas and endless loops of electrical cable. And a small generator.

  I was physically and emotionally exhausted but Julie was jubilant in a desperate sort of way. She kept smiling and then swallowing hard as if her throat was drying up. And she’d knocked back quite a few vodkas, remember, even though that is totally against Dream Weddings’ policy. We never, but never, drink on a job.

  ‘Selfish bloody tart,’ Julie whispered to me out of the corner of her mouth. She was actually shaking with relief. ‘Making us wait for three fucking hours like that, who the hell does she think she is? She’s only a gawky model with massive feet, she didn’t win a Nobel prize, for fuck’s sake. I hate her, Mags. I loathe and despise that woman with every single cell in my body. I hate her a million times over, a million million times over. A million trillion times over. I hate her so much I want to rip her head off and spit down her throat.’

  Well, this is interesting, I thought to myself.

  How could Julie ever build on that level of hatred, I wondered, say the truth did come out? Even if she was born and bred in Belfast where hatred is taught alongside the ABC (only in certain districts; we’re not all crazy). Julie had even started smoking again with the pressure of it all. I mean, cigarettes give Julie a light head usually, but she was so upset at the delay she wasn’t thinking straight.

  Here we go, I thought, as the door of the limousine clicked open with a lovely expensive sound. Here we go at last. Happy days and hooray! Quick ceremony, up with the bats, firework display goes off, everybody gets too wasted to notice the food is buggered, the dancing begins and I go home to bed.

  Come on.

  Except the bride didn’t seem that keen to disembark.

  Julie and I craned our necks to see into the back of the car. From what we could gather, the bride was sobbing gently in the back seat, a glass of brandy balanced dangerously close to the skirt of her billowing black wedding dress. Her make-up was flawless, naturally, and her dark brown hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate beehive of interlocking braids. The flowers were simply heavenly, a small round posy of blowsy white roses. The most beautiful bride I had ever seen. And also the most depressed and forlorn. Of course, I knew that if she kept on crying, her heavy eye make-up would get smudged and smeared. Oh, bugger it! She made Janine Smith look positively skittish.

  ‘What’s wrong, my darling?’ said the groom.

  Julie tried to jolly along the mood by directing the band to play a more up-tempo tune. ‘Never Take Me Alive’ by Spear of Destiny.

  We couldn’t hear the bride’s reply. She just shook her head a
nd drank the brandy and wept some more. The groom swiftly took off his red hat and clambered into the back of the car, closing the door softly behind him. Julie and I exchanged glances. There was an undercurrent of tragedy in the air and, not for the first time that day, I had a vision of Jay and the supermodel in a moment of silent ecstasy in the lighthouse office. Her massive feet on the wall above Jay’s head. His face relaxed into a satisfied smile. Oh, dear God. My heart skipped a beat as Julie looked at her watch and inhaled deeply on a long brown More cigarette. Oh, my sweet God, I thought, she has! That silly supermodel’s actually fallen in love with Jay O’Hanlon and she’s going to call off the wedding. I staggered a bit and dropped my guest list and handbag, but that might have been because the damp ground had made my feet go numb. Julie approached the bridal car to see if she could be of any assistance. Immediately, I slipped my mobile phone out of my pocket and called Bill.

  ‘Please get here immediately if not sooner,’ I said to him as quietly as I could. ‘The shit is about to hit the fan. Seriously, I think there’s going to be a riot at this blinking thing and I don’t want to have to cope with it on my own. I’ve got a feeling there’s going to be violence.’