The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

No sooner do I congratulate myself for pulling in every favour I can to throw this wedding, than I realise that it’s never really been about the budget. Thank goodness for all my friends and family, but even without them we could have had a tiny ceremony and a drink at the pub after, like Mum and Dad did.

  This is about Daniel’s family. They can’t know it’s a simple affair on a shoestring, not with all Philippa’s champagne and chocolate and hanging garden and chandelier and silver frame suggestions. I can’t be the cause of her falafel cart shame. It’s got to look as slick as Will and Kate’s wedding, with all the pomp and glory that entails. Philippa and her lords and ladies are expecting the wedding of the century. We can’t deliver anything less or I’ll always be the daughter-in-law from the council estate. Of course it’s all smoke and mirrors. Like the Wizard of Oz, I can’t let them see the man behind the curtain.

  Cressida and Abby are due at Mrs Delaney’s any minute. I feel bad chucking Mum off the sewing machine when she’s so carefully hemming the serviettes. ‘They don’t know we’re making them ourselves,’ I explain, collecting the squares of cloth. ‘The less detail that Daniel’s side knows about everything, the better.’

  ‘I wish you weren’t so worried about what Daniel’s family think,’ she says, gathering her bag up to go. ‘I know you want to make a good impression. I just worry that you’re trying to be something you’re not, when you’re fine just the way you are now.’

  That’s rich coming from my mum. My Twiggy-wearing, take-photos-of-the-bogs, redecorate-the-lounge mum. Instead of getting angry when I say this to her, though, she just looks sad, and then I feel bad. Sometimes it’s not worth standing up, even when you know you’re right.

  Cressida and Abby turn up exactly on time for their fittings and don’t seem to suspect any double-dealing. Kell and I have moved the old sewing machines and the gorgeous haberdashery cabinet out front along with the other props like the old irons, bobbin holders and dressmaker’s dummies. Mrs Delaney has dressed one with an elegant gold evening dress that she made for her fortieth birthday party, and a beautiful pale blue fifties style one for the other. She’s even got one of Mr Delaney’s handmade tweed suits – may he rest in peace – hanging from a brass hook on the wall. Hopefully it doesn’t whiff too badly of mothballs.

  ‘Such a gorgeous little vintage shop,’ Cressida says to Mrs Delaney, who accepts the compliment with a regal nod of her head. ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘My great grandparents were the first here,’ she says. I can tell Cressida is imagining an old East End full of chipper Eliza Doolittles selling posies and having hearts of gold. People often do that. There’s romance in hindsight.

  ‘Look at this suit!’ Abby says, rushing to Mr Delaney’s tweed. ‘Wouldn’t it look fabulous on me?’

  Kelly laughs. ‘You’d be swamped in tweed.’

  ‘Yah, no, but I could have something like it made in my size.’

  Mrs Delaney nods. ‘Of course, if you’d like me to. I’ll show you the tweed samples. First, though, let me get you both measured.’ She hands them the fabric swatch that we cut from the dress. ‘Emma has chosen this. So if you’d like to pick a lining, any colour here, I’ll run it up for you.’ She gestures grandly to the pastel bolts of cloth.

  ‘I’ve only had handmade clothes once, when I was in Bangkok,’ Cressida says as Mrs Delaney quickly measures her. ‘Usually I just go to Harrods or Harvey Nicks, but this is so much better! I’m going to have you make all my clothes.’

  Mrs Delaney nods before throwing me a look behind Cressida’s back. She’s trying to get rid of her shop, not find new customers.

  Daniel and his groomsmen are waiting for us at the Tube after the fittings. ‘And the Krays murdered their rivals in a pub just down there,’ Daniel is saying, pointing in the wrong direction. He’s obviously enjoying playing tour guide for his best friends, unfettered by historical or geographical accuracy.

  ‘Actually, it was one Kray killing one rival, and it’s not all about murders round here,’ I say, introducing Kelly to Daniel’s flatmate and his best friend, Seb.

  There’s a slight chance that if Kelly can manage to get on well with Seb, when he’s Cressida’s brother and nearly identical in personality, it might be harder for Kell to hate her.

  There’s nothing to dislike about Seb. He’s as friendly as Daniel and Jacob, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s tall and broad-shouldered with thick brown hair and green eyes that are fringed with dark lashes. Like the others he does like his coloured chinos, but then Kelly once went out with a goth so she’s no stranger to awkward fashion. A pair of yellow trousers shouldn’t faze her much.

  The walk to the pub is loud and laughy and I’m the only one who knows that Kelly is being quieter than usual. She’s still smarting over our argument earlier, which was a stupid one to have in the first place. You’d have thought I was rejecting our very way of life when I dared suggest somewhere nicer than the Cock and Crown to take everyone tonight. What’s good enough for us should be good enough for them, she’d claimed. Maybe I’d rather just go out in West London and not even let them see where we live.

  That hurt, to be honest. She’s acting like I’m ashamed of where I come from when I’m just trying to make a good first impression. As any normal person would. You wouldn’t turn up to someone’s house for the first time without making an effort, right? That’s all I’m doing: making an effort for our guests.

  ‘There’s not a free table,’ she complains when we squeeze into the bar That Is Not Her Choice. It’s a typical Victorian East London boozer with dark wood panelling and shiny brass fixtures. ‘There’s always a free table at the Cock.’

  ‘There’s a nice selection of ales, though,’ says Jacob, scanning the taps. ‘This is a great pub, Emma, thanks for finding it.’

  Kelly can’t say much to that.

  ‘It looks like there might be a table leaving outside,’ Seb says. ‘Shall I go hover? It’ll be a squeeze, but we’re all friends.’

  Abby goes with him to lend her five-foot-nothing intimidation, leaving the rest of us to tussle over the round. The men agree to split it, with Kell and me getting the next one.

  ‘Leave me here, I could die a happy man,’ Daniel says. ‘I’m in ale heaven!’ One of the few things he and his dad have in common is their avid support for the Campaign for Real Ale. Though I think most of their enthusiasm comes from drinking, not conservation.

  He gets sad sometimes about not being closer to his dad. I can’t imagine not being close to a parent, given how much time you spend together. But maybe that’s part of the problem when you go away to boarding school. He’s dead set against sending our child away. As if I’d ever let him anyway.

  ‘I’ve found us an option for music,’ I say when he’s ordered the drinks. I’ve got to make this sound most appealing, so forgive me for what I’m about to say. ‘I thought it would be fun to incorporate some East London traditions into the wedding, since we’re getting married here. So I’ve arranged an authentic, ehem, vocal pianist for the party.’ My glance at Kelly begs her to back me up. I hope she knows I mean Del. Vocal pianist?! ‘It’s one of our wedding traditions. Everybody does it.’

  Kelly nods. ‘There used to be a… vocal pianist in every pub in East London in the olden days, so I guess it was natural that we started having them at our weddings. All weddings have one… they’re good luck. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it sooner.’

  Maybe we can pass off the entire wedding as an East London tradition. Would they believe that unmatched serviettes bring good luck too?

  He’s probably imagining a grand piano, top hat and tails, not a drunken vicar balancing a pint of lager on an upright.

  We all sit outside at the picnic table sipping our drinks in the evening sun and chatting easily. Even Kelly is relaxing. She won’t talk directly to Cressida yet, but at least they’re at the same table.

  Then Abby says, ‘Mummy has an amahzing idea. Wouldn’t it be fun if we all wore super gla
m false eyelashes for the wedding? She thought it would make Barbara feel comfortable.’

  ‘I’m not sure super glam falsies would suit me,’ Jacob jokes.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ I say, ‘but Uncle Barbara doesn’t wear make-up. He’s not trying to look like a woman. He just likes dresses.’

  ‘Right, Mummy will be disappointed,’ Daniel says. ‘She thought he went all out with the wig and make-up and everything.’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Well, anyway, she had another idea that you’re going to love,’ he says.

  ‘Even better than the chocolate fountain?’ Seb says. I can’t tell if he’s taking the piss.

  ‘I’m really sorry that didn’t work out,’ says I. ‘Terrible to go out of business in the middle of the wedding season like that. And with the others already booked up.’

  ‘I know, that was bad luck,’ Daniel says. ‘But this idea is even better.’ He grasps my hand. ‘Butterflies!’

  ‘… butterflies what?’

  ‘To release after the ceremony. Everyone can have a little box to open for when we come out of the hall. Instead of rice.’

  I frown. ‘You want our friends and family to throw butterflies at us?’

  ‘Right, yah, no, they’d just flutter around us. Mummy can source local species for us.’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Cressida murmurs. Yah, yah, yah, they all say.

  I can just imagine the poor confused insects let loose into traffic on the main road. They’ll end up decorating everyone’s windscreens. ‘But, Daniel, practicalities aside, I’m not sure the budget is going to stretch to a live butterfly release.’

  ‘Well, darling, there’d be plenty of money if you’d stop being so stubborn and let my family help,’ he murmurs.

  ‘You know why we can’t do that,’ I snap. ‘We’ve talked about it and you agreed, remember? So indulging your mother in these impossible ideas isn’t helping anyone.’

  ‘What am I to do, Emma? She only wants to be involved, and I’m constantly having to disappoint her. Frankly, that’s not nice for me or for her and I’m getting weary of doing it. I’ve been stuck in the middle between the two of you for months.’

  And I’ve been stuck with a fiancé who just can’t get his head around the fact that we have a budget.

  Jacob raises his glass. ‘Welcome to marriage. Isn’t this fun?’

  Everybody laughs while Daniel and I glare at each other.

  Chapter 16

  There are paint swatches taped all over the lounge wall when I get in from work. ‘Mum?’

  ‘They’re coming,’ she says. ‘This magnolia doesn’t work. What colour was Philippa’s lounge? Have we got time to have Dad’s chair re-covered? These covers don’t zip off.’ There’s a butter knife on the seat. Has she been trying to pry the fabric off the chair? Her eyes follow mine to the bald settee cushions. ‘I’ve sent Dad and Auntie Rose out to get those cleaned.’ Her hand dives into the blue carrier bag she’s holding. ‘Is this the right bar soap? What kind did Philippa have?’

  ‘How should I know, Mum?’

  ‘Well, you used it. What did it smell like? You did use it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course I used it. I just didn’t know that it was a detail I’d have to recall later. I take it this is all about Philippa and Hugh?’

  She’s examining the table tops and muttering ‘beeswax’ to herself. ‘Daniel rang here. They can come on Thursday. They want an authentic East London experience. I could kill your father for mentioning the pub. What are we going to do?!’

  ‘Do you want me to ring Daniel and cancel them?’

  ‘God, no, what would they think? Help me move this settee. It’ll look less common in front of the window.’

  ‘Mum, please, you’ve got to calm down. And you can’t repaint the house. Philippa’s not the Queen. They don’t even have to come here. We’ll meet at a restaurant or something.’

  But Mum shakes her head. ‘They’re driving over.’

  Now I get it. She isn’t about to miss the chance for Sheila Larkin to see Hugh’s Rolls-Royce in front of our house. ‘Maybe they could drop off you and Dad after dinner instead and you could drive round and round the estate until Sheila looks out her window.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be flippant if you’d seen how that Sheila Larkin lorded her car over your father and me. She once offered to give us a ride, like we were street urchins. Well, she’s not the only one with a flash motor.’

  ‘Except it’s not our motor, Mum.’

  ‘They’re your in-laws. As good as.’

  I know better than to argue with Mom when it comes to that Sheila Larkin, and our settee could use a clean anyway, so I leave her to it.

  My concern is for Dad, not whether our cushions are fluffed enough for my mother-in-law’s inspection. He did go see Helen for tests, but we didn’t need to wait for the results to know that he’s relapsing. We can all see it. Both his hands are trembling now and though he still won’t admit he’s in pain, his gasps give him away when his legs spasm. ‘Dad, we have to talk,’ I say when he’s returned from the dry cleaners. ‘You need to go in for treatment. You know you do.’

  ‘I’m not having this conversation.’ When he starts to wheel himself away, something breaks in me. I throw one of the cushions at his wheels. ‘No. You have to talk to me.’

  He tries manoeuvring around the cushion, but it’s stuck under his wheel. ‘Emma. You’re actually hindering a disabled man?’

  ‘If you mean a selfish pig-headed disabled man who won’t get the treatment he needs, then absolutely. Oh, yes. I did say selfish. Because that’s what you’re being. Stubborn and selfish. How am I supposed to enjoy my wedding day knowing you’re in pain? Or not even there! How’s Mum supposed to feel about it, huh, tell me that? Dad, you have to have the treatment now. It’s the only chance you’ve got to be well in time.’

  He runs his shaking hand through his hair, making it stand on end. ‘And what if I end up stuck in hospital for your wedding? What about that? You know what happened last time.’

  ‘I want to take that chance. And you should too. If you’re in hospital, then at least I’ll know you’re getting the treatment you need to feel better. Dad, I love you. I don’t want to see you hurting like this.’

  ‘I hate this disease,’ he growls. ‘It’s taking me away bit by bit.’

  I kneel down beside his chair, pulling the cushion from under the wheel. I feel a little bad about that now. ‘But it’s not. You’re still here. I need you here.’ I put my head on his knee and he strokes my hair like he used to do when I was little.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he murmurs. ‘For you and your mum.’

  ‘Thank you, Dad.’

  The house smells like fresh paint, the bar soap nestles in its new dish in the bog and the settee cushions never looked so good. Dad put his foot down when Mum tried to move his chair to the back garden, so she’s filled it with throw cushions and is hoping for the best.

  Dad’s nervy but not because of Daniel’s parents. He doesn’t really care whether they’re impressed with our fancy bog soap. He’ll start his treatment tomorrow at hospital. He’ll need an IV drip for the super-strong steroids they’ll use to try to alleviate his symptoms. That makes tonight his last hurrah, hopefully for just a week or so. He’s taking it awfully well, considering that Mum’s making him hurrah with Philippa and Hugh.

  Their arrival in the Rolls-Royce couldn’t be more perfect. Sheila Larkin is out front watering her window boxes. ‘All right, Sheila?’ Mum calls across the road as she goes to greet the car at the curb. All the closer to see that Sheila Larkin’s face. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Emma’s fiancé and his parents?’ Mum’s look of triumph is almost worth the two coats of definitely-not-magnolia paint she made me put on the lounge wall.

  ‘What a lovely garden!’ Philippa shouts, admiring Mrs Ishtiaque’s borders. ‘All the gardens look so nice.’

  Mum deflates a bit, since Sheila Larkin’s window boxes are obviously included in
the compliment.

  Daniel sweeps me up in his arms for a kiss. It didn’t take long after the pub for us to make up, but we can’t kiss away the underlying problem. All this time I’ve blamed Philippa for having to put on such a flash wedding, but it isn’t only her. She’s trying to help, and she’s excited about the wedding, but it’s Daniel who keeps missing the point. He might say he understands about the budget, but I don’t think he really does. When you’re born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you don’t expect plastic ones at your wedding.

  And I’m not about to be the one to let our wedding be a disappointment. If Daniel, Philippa and the others want something special, then they’re going to get it. Just as long as they don’t look too closely into the details.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Daniel whispers in my ear as I bat his hand away from my tummy.

  Right, gorgeous and fat. My jeans are undone under my top. There’s no doubt now that I’m pregnant, though at least I’m only feeling sick some of the time. It’s the need to sleep that’s killing me. Zane covers for me at the dealership so I can kip on the floor behind the counter, but he’s about to start catering college. Who’s going to guard my nap breaks when he goes?

  You’d think Philippa’s never seen a ceiling light or a carpet before, the way she oohs and aahs over every little thing in our house. This delights Mum, naturally, who doesn’t need any encouragement. If we don’t get out of the house soon, she’ll be opening her wardrobe for Philippa to show off her M&S dress collection.

  At the fish and chip shop, we have to wait for a table that can accommodate Dad’s wheelchair. He really didn’t want Daniel’s family to see him in it, but his leg spasms make walking too tricky even with crutches. He eats hardly anything when our orders come, claiming he’s not hungry. But I can see his hands shaking. He’s afraid he’ll throw bits of fish and chips all over the table and embarrass us.

  Despite having absolutely nothing in common except Daniel and me, our parents manage to keep the conversation moving. It’s only when it turns to weddings that I feel my shoulders start to tense up. ‘Our friends literally cannot wait for the wedding!’ says Philippa. ‘George and India were at a gorgeous do in Italy the other week, right on Lake Lugano. Have you been? Right, you must go, it’s rahly spectacular. The guests all took speedboats from the ceremony to the reception!’ She turns to me. ‘How will we get to the reception, darling?’