The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square
Page 7
Pure hell drinking champagne and trying on gorgeous dresses. Let’s meet! Emx
Daniel’s friends always go to the same pub in Chelsea. It’s pretty, atmospheric and comfortable and they usually manage to get a table even when it’s full, like now. It’s not miles different from the Cock and Crown, except for the people.
Daniel’s flatmate, Jacob, waves when he sees me and nudges Daniel who, judging by his flapping arms, is in the middle of telling Cressida a story. I’ve no idea where he gets it, but he’s practically Mediterranean when it comes to hand gestures.
He jumps up when he sees me. ‘No dress?’ His lips find mine.
‘No, not yet, and I wouldn’t bring it here even if I did get one. You’re not allowed to see it till the wedding.’
‘Seven years of bad luck,’ Jacob says.
When he speaks his pronounced Adam’s apple bobs up and down. You couldn’t call his skinny face, receding chin and giant beak attractive. He looked familiar when Daniel first introduced us. It took me a few meetings to realise why. Dad once took me to see the old Disney film, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and Jacob is the spitting image of cartoon Ichabod Crane. He’s super nice, though, which is why he’s usually seeing someone, despite looking like a caricature.
‘That’s for smashing a mirror, you berk,’ Cressida tells him, unfolding herself from the booth. ‘Mwah, mwah.’ She kisses the air above my ears. I can smell the perfume in her long, straight chestnut hair. It’s something sharp and citrusy, almost like a man’s cologne. I air-kiss back without the sound effects. She’d know I was taking the piss.
Cressida comes standard as part of Daniel’s friends and family package. I met her within weeks of our first date. As she’s his good friend Seb’s little sister and a regular fixture on his nights out, I think Daniel was keen to put my mind at ease. Just because Cressida is gorgeous and they’re nearly best friends who’ve gone away on exotic holidays together their entire lives doesn’t mean I should be concerned. You get the picture. She sounds like a nightmare, right?
I was all set to pretend to like her, so no one was more surprised than me when I actually did.
‘Daniel says you’ve been summoned to the great Godfather’s for the next supper,’ she says.
‘Should I be worried?’
‘Yah, no, Harold is richer than Croesus, but he’s not too big a bore. Besides, you’re with Daniel and Daniel can do no wrong. He’s the golden boy.’
‘What would you like, Em?’ Daniel asks. ‘It’s my round. Cressida?’
‘Here, try this first,’ she suggests, grabbing a bottle of pink wine from a sweating ice bucket to pour me a glass. ‘We got them to stock it and it’s finally warm enough to drink.’ She means the weather, not the wine. ‘Maybe your uncle would like it for his pub.’
‘Mmm, that’s good!’ I say, trying to imagine Uncle Colin serving rosé to the Cock and Crown regulars. He won’t even have Chardonnay. ‘This is fine, Daniel, thanks.’
I slide into his spot beside Cressida as he goes to the bar.
Even if Daniel hadn’t so obviously loved her – and platonic or not, love is love – I’d have obsessed over Cressida, especially since I suppose I’ve let mum’s opinions about the la-di-das, as she calls them, cloud my view. They speak differently and have double-barrelled surnames and all come from the same schools.
But Cressida has been nothing but kind to me and I really, truly was happy when Daniel asked if she could be one of our bridesmaids.
‘We drank cases of it last summer when we were in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, remember, Jacob?’ she says. ‘It’s such a shame you couldn’t come with us, Emma, you’d have loved it there! Nothing to do for two weeks but drink wine by the pool. It was divine. Which reminds me. What if we did something similar for your hen do? Or even hire the same place. I’m sure we could get the villa again, and you can have all your friends and family there under the same roof! It’ll easily sleep twenty and it’s so much more personal than having hotel rooms on some city break. I think your Auntie Rose would love it. There are a few steps down to the pool, but we could always help her up and down.’
Her deep brown eyes dance with delight at the idea. She’s never met Auntie Rose and thinks she’s a genteel East London Miss Marple.
‘Well, I did only know Daniel a few weeks when you went away,’ I say. ‘It was a bit early to crash his holidays.’
‘We’d have loved having you there,’ she says. ‘You’re such a breath of fresh air for us.’
She’s always saying things like this and they sound like compliments, but I could also be the cut-price flavour of the month. I never feel like I know for sure.
There’s no doubt we’re different, a fact that she’s either hyper-aware of or seems to completely forget.
Take my hen do. She’s got completely bonkers ideas about where to go. I’m not sure whether staying in a French villa would be more or less pricey than the long weekend at the spa in Baden-Baden she suggested last week, or going to see the Bolshoi Ballet in St Petersburg. That’s St Petersburg, Russia, not some theatre in Kent, in case you wondered.
It’s these kinds of ideas that make Kelly hate everything about Cressida. And they haven’t met yet, so Kell doesn’t even know that they might be coming from her good, if misguided, heart.
Something tells me that introducing them in a villa in France won’t be the best idea. ‘I think Kelly will plan something low-key and local,’ I say.
‘Oh, of course. Just tell me to shut up, will you?’ She waves away my objection. ‘There’s nothing worse than an interloper barging in on an old friendship. I just get overexcited sometimes because Daniel loves you so much.’
‘Who do I love?’ Daniel says as he comes back with pints for him and Jacob.
‘You’re such an arsehole,’ Cressida says fondly. ‘You know who.’ She stares at him pointedly. Then, taking a sip of her wine, she says, ‘What about your stag do? Or is it secret?’
Jacob’s face splits into an enormous grin. ‘I can tell them, yah? Anyhow, Emma should know in case she needs to post bail or something. We’re starting with stuntman training at Ealing Studios,’ he says. ‘The name’s Bond. Jacob Bond.’
‘You chaps? Stunt training?’ Cressida laughs. ‘It sounds more like an Ealing comedy than a Bond film.’
Jacob ignores her barb. ‘Then we’re going paintballing in tanks and then on to Scotland on a whisky-tasting tour.’
‘Where’s all this manliness suddenly coming from?’ I ask. Daniel gets manicures and he and Jacob like to meet for afternoon tea. He’s not exactly a survivalist.
‘The usual stag locations won’t do for my chum,’ Jacob says, clapping Daniel on the back and making him spill a bit of his pint. Carefully he mops it off the table with one of the cocktail napkins. ‘We looked into deer stalking, but we’d have to go in half-t, which is after the season ends.’
‘Yes, well, naturally you need to plan your hunting around the schoolchildren,’ Cressida says. ‘As any self-respecting caveman would do.’
Jacob is a geography teacher at one of London’s exclusive public schools. Like Daniel, he decided to break with family tradition and do something that doesn’t involve making squillions of pounds.
‘That sounds like a nice weekend,’ I say.
Daniel pretends to be shocked. ‘Nice? Nice?! You can’t call a stag weekend nice, Emma. That takes all the fun out of it.’
‘Sorry. I mean it sounds really dangerous. Are you sure it’s safe? You might get a little stiff from the stuntman training and not be able to sit in the armoured tank shooting at each other.’
Actually, I know all about the stag plans already. Daniel hasn’t been able to keep them to himself. He made me promise to act surprised when Jacob told me. ‘What about you?’ Jacob asks me. ‘What’s your big idea for the hen do?’
‘Emma’s still deciding,’ Cressida says. ‘Whatever it is, it’ll be fabulous and a lot more fun than driving tanks and getting whisky hangovers.’
Chapter 5
It’s Groundhog Day. If I see my wedding dress today, I won’t have to deal with six more weeks of looking.
Mum doesn’t know I’ve been here before, of course. Well, not here, exactly.
Philippa’s boutique was about as far from here as I can imagine.
We’re driving round a dire trading estate in Kent trying to find some trace of a wedding dress warehouse.
‘Sorry. This way’s definitely not a dead end, though,’ says Kell, signalling another turn in the completely empty car park. ‘I’m really sorry about this.’
Her voice sounds small even though I’m wedged between her and Mum across the front seat of her cramped fish van. The windows are down to air it out, but we’ll probably go into the dress shop smelling faintly of mackerel.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell her again. ‘The map from the website was useless. They should have better directions if they want people to buy their dresses.’
Even if it takes all day to find this place, I’m not about to do anything to make Kelly feel bad. Today is too important to her.
Mum too. I sneak a sideways glance at her as we circle again around one of the warehouses. ‘You okay, Mum?’
‘I just want this to be a nice day for you,’ she says. She sounds as wobbly as Kelly.
‘It is a nice day!’ I grab both of their arms. ‘I’m with you two, what could be better?’
‘Finding the bloody shop,’ Kell mutters as we circle the warehouse again.
But it’s not a shop, at least not the way Philippa would imagine it. And it’s not on that trading estate we’ve been circling for twenty minutes but the one across the road.
‘Well, if you can’t find something here…’ says Mum over the echoing clamour of our footsteps on the concrete. We’ve climbed three sets of steps that remind me of a dangerous parking garage you shouldn’t risk after dark. ‘… you’re not trying.’
We’re adrift on a sea of white. Rail upon rail of dresses run the length of the warehouse, harshly lit by the strip-lighting in the ceiling. I guess if a dress looks good under fluorescents, it’ll look good anywhere.
Kelly’s already halfway down the first row. ‘Gawd, will you look at this?’ She holds a spangly strapless dress to herself. It’s got layer upon layer of ruffles. With ribbons. ‘You’d look like Little Bo Peep. Baaaa. On the Vegas Strip.’
‘Or this?’ I say, pulling another one from the rail. It has no skirt in front. The many layers – which remind me of the nets in our lounge – sweep away from a pair of white satin short shorts. ‘For the exhibitionist bride.’
We don’t need champagne or whispering sales clerks. Even without the drinks, this is more fun than the shop with Philippa. We rush to find more horrible dresses.
‘Girls.’ It’s Mum. ‘We’re not here to have fun. We’re here to find Emma a dress.’
Chastened, Kelly returns to where Mum is standing.
‘Do you have any idea what kind of dress you might want?’ Mum asks.
Both their faces light up as I describe the perfect dress back in Chelsea – the soft material and cinched-in waist. The tiny buttons up the back and the not-too-high-but-not-too-low neckline. I’ve been thinking about that dress all week. Dreaming about it.
But no amount of searching – up one row, down the other and back again – uncovers anything even close to my dress. ‘I can’t afford these anyway!’ I don’t mean to well up, but even the gaudy fire hazards are too expensive.
Kell smothers me in a hug. ‘You git, stop snivelling, will you? We’ll find your dress – we just have to look harder and be smart. Do you definitely want a standard wedding dress? What about something less traditional?’
I wish I’d never gone with Philippa and Abby to that boutique. I wouldn’t miss what I’d never seen. Ignorance really would be bliss. Instead, I’ve got a vision of me in that flowing wedding dress and it’s not going away. ‘I really do want a traditional dress,’ I say.
‘Then we’re going to find you one,’ answers Mum as she walks off toward the front, tucking her ginger bob behind her ear. She means business.
‘Pardon me,’ she says to one of the bored-looking women sitting on plastic chairs next to the till. ‘Have you got a sale rail?’
The older of the women cocks her head. ‘Everything is discounted.’
‘But do you have a sale rail?’ Mum persists.
‘Some are marked down. You’ll have to look.’
There’s no chance of getting a glass of bubbly off these two.
‘Right, then that’s what we’ll do. Come on, girls.’ She heads for the first row again. ‘We’re finding you a sale dress that you’ll love.’
This is one of the biggest reasons that my mum is such a star. If it means her pulling each dress out to find the price tag hidden in its hideous folds, that’s exactly what she’s going to do, and I wouldn’t want to be the one to try stopping her.
I know she’s doing her best to keep our spirits up, but revisiting every dress in the warehouse just makes me surer that I don’t want to wear any of them on my wedding day.
But I can’t disappoint Mum. ‘I’ll try these,’ I tell her as we reach the last row. I just hope nobody lights a match or I’ll go up like Guy Fawkes on Bonfire Night.
Kelly comes into the fitting room with me while Mum stands around outside, waiting for the big reveal. Neither of the women near the till offers her a seat. That woman, Sarah, back at Philippa’s shop would have made herself into a human bench to give Mum somewhere to rest her feet.
The first dress that Kell puts over my head has an underlay that crinkles. I’ll walk down the aisle sounding like an empty bag of crisps. She does up the back and we both stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
‘Hmm,’ she says.
‘Yeah. Hmm.’
It’s not that the dress is horrible. It fits, generally speaking. But my waist looks thick and there’s no escaping the glare from the fluorescent lights reflecting off the fabric.
‘At least your boobs look good,’ says Kell. ‘Massive, in fact.’ She frowns at her own rather flat chest.
‘That’s not what I’m looking for in a wedding dress, though.’
‘Is it on?’ Mum calls from outside. ‘Let me see.’
I walk through the curtain knowing Mum’s eyes will well up when she sees me, her only daughter, in a wedding dress for the first time. Her little girl, who she nursed through chicken pox and scarlet fever, scared the monsters from under her bed and watched grow into a young woman about to start her own independent life. I’m getting a little choked up myself just thinking about it.
So I’m not prepared to see her wince and shake her head. ‘You look a bit… un-slim in that,’ she says. ‘Try one of the other ones and see if they’re better.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ So much for the emotion of the moment. Now I don’t feel so bad for not having her with me the other day.
I go through the motions, but it’s no use. The strapless ones all make my chest look too big, and the material is either too itchy or stiff or slippery.
We’re pretty quiet in the van on the way back home. The cheapest dress Mum found was still too pricey. It was a size four and had a big lipstick smear up the front.
‘Do you remember where you got your dress, Mum?’
‘Your gran made it for me,’ she says. ‘She was an excellent seamstress till she got cataracts. She used to do the alterations for one of those Savile Row tailors, as you know. We always had the most beautiful suits hanging in the house.’
‘Can you sew?’ I ask her. I’ve never seen her do it, but then I didn’t know she could tile a bathroom till she ripped out the old en suite one weekend. Mum is full of surprises.
Mrs Delaney at the tailor shop near where I wo
rk mostly just alters men’s suits nowadays, but she used to make some gorgeous clothes too. Not that I could ever afford to pay someone to make my dress. But maybe Mum could do something for me? It could start a tradition in the family, with mothers making dresses for their daughters’ wedding day. Except I can’t sew, so I’d have to have sons.
‘No, I never really got the hang of it,’ she says, deflating my handmade bubble. ‘It was the last thing I wanted to do anyway. All that fine work would’ve ruined me eyes too.’ She laughs, rubbing her knees. ‘Like cleaning houses is so much easier.’ She thinks for a minute. ‘None of us followed her, though your Uncle Barbara’s ex-wife sews. I know she’s not related, but she used to make beautiful dresses. Still does, I imagine.’
‘Maybe she’d make your dress!’ says Kell.
Mum laughs. ‘I doubt that. She caught Uncle Barbara wearing something she’d made. I think that bothered her more than his cross-dressing did. We haven’t really spoken to her since she left.’
‘So she probably wouldn’t want to sew me a free dress.’ It was a nice idea anyway.
‘Speaking of Uncle Barbara, have you thought any more about having him as a bridesmaid?’ Mum asks. ‘He’s dying to be included, you know.’
‘I know, and I really want him to be. I’m just not sure that Daniel’s side would be open to the idea.’
She gives me one of her looks.
‘So shoot me if I’m not sure I want a bearded man in a dress walking up the aisle at my wedding!’ I say. But then I feel bad. He’s not just any man in a dress. He’s my uncle and I love him. ‘Have you still got your dress?’ I ask Mum to get her to stop looking at me like that. ‘I’d love to see it.’
I’m sure I’ve seen photos of their wedding day. They were all just snapshots, though, and I don’t remember Mum’s dress very well. I do know that she didn’t have to grapple with the question of a cross-dressing bridesmaid. Uncle Barbara wore a suit like everyone else in those days.
‘Oh, it’s somewhere in the house,’ she says. ‘In one of the cupboards, probably. It would still be dear to get the fabric, you know, even if the tailoring was free. Those silks and laces don’t come cheap. A ready-made dress would be better.’