The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say quietly. ‘Kell, you’re such a muppet sometimes. How can you lose me when you’re the best friend I have ever had, and the best friend I will ever have?’ I lean in to her ear to whisper, ‘Who was the first person to know I was pregnant? I mean the very first person? You were. Even before Daniel.’ Then, so everyone can hear, ‘Look at me. Would I be dressed like this for anyone but you?’

  Her smile is sad. ‘I am a muppet. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring everyone down tonight.’

  ‘It’s not me you need to apologise to.’

  Kell shakes her head. ‘No. It’s Cressida. I know. I am sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re a nice person and I’ve been horrible. I can’t promise I’ll never be a bitch again.’ She laughs. ‘I seem to have a gift for it, but I’d like it if we could at least start over.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Cressida says, and she seems to mean it.

  ‘Group hug!’ says Uncle Barbara. ‘Come on, gather it in everyone.’

  There’s a half-hearted cheer when we get back to Uncle Colin’s, but the joke loses some traction for the men the second time around. Mum, Auntie Rose and the ladies are waiting for us. Luckily they aren’t in spandex. We’ve just managed to get everyone round one table when the pub door swings open. ‘It's a policeman, for Emma!’ Abby cries, pulling notes from her purse. 'Finally, the stripper.'

  My blood runs cold at the announcement.

  ‘A stripper!’ June says, reaching for her own purse.

  'Put your glasses on, for pity’s sake,’ says Auntie Rose. ‘It's only Billy Bramble.'

  If Billy is about to strip for us, then everyone had better keep their glasses off. ‘Billy, please tell me there’s not Velcro in that uniform.’

  June starts thumping her fists on the table shouting ‘Take ’em off!’. That should definitely be her last sherry.

  ‘No, it’s only that I’ve got a line on tents for you. Kell mentioned you need some.’

  ‘S’cuse me just a sec. Boring wedding arrangements,’ I say to everyone before following Billy to the bar.

  I’ve been obsessing over the weather forecasts for weeks. Yes, forecasts, plural. Sometimes I have to look at eight or nine different sites before I find one that promises a sunny wedding day. That forecast better be right because otherwise Philippa can forget about silver frames or personalised chocolate bars. We’ll have to hand out rubber boots and rain hats.

  ‘I can get you all the tents you need,’ Billy says, looking pleased with himself. His somewhat small eyes would look piggy if he didn’t smile all the time. He always seems to be on the cusp of a joke that he never actually tells.

  ‘That’s such a kind offer, Billy, thank you, but we haven’t got a lot of money to pay for tents. I’m just hoping it doesn’t rain. I’ve been rubbing rabbit’s feet a lot for luck.’

  ‘There’s no cost. Just let me know how many you need. I can borrow them from work. They’re event tents.’

  Of course! Police are always having fundraisers and such.

  ‘A couple of us can set them up for you on the morning. I wouldn’t risk putting them up in the square overnight unless there’s someone to watch them. You’re not thinking of setting up before, are you?’

  Uncle Colin hears his question. ‘We’ll all do it on the morning. A load of us are going over first thing to take care of it all. Not you.’ He points at me. ‘Your mum said to make sure you’re not running around on your own wedding day. We’ll do everything. Have you sorted the bar? I can’t have me taps gettin’ pinched you know. You need somewhere secure.’

  I thought maybe a couple of the lads could keep an eye on them, but Uncle Colin’s not so sure. They won’t be much use after a few drinks. But there really isn’t anywhere we can lock up if we need to. We’d need a shed of some kind for that, and we can’t start putting up sheds in the square. Just a little stall of some kind – if it had solid sides – would do, but everyone down the market uses barrows and tables and tents. The barrows may look a hundred years old with their chipping red-painted wheels and warped wagon bed, but that’s because they are a hundred years old. They do have a shabby kind of charm.

  Could we rig solid sides on one of the fishmonger barrows? It’s an idea. A rolling bar. And we could pile ice on the base, just like he does with the fish, only with lager.

  A rolling fishmonger. Of course. Why didn’t I think of it before? The fish van! ‘Kelly!’

  She thinks it’s a wonderful idea and Uncle Colin is happy to let his taps, barrels and glasses be loaded into her van for the day. ‘You’ve got the toilets hired, right?’ he says as I’m congratulating myself on my ingenuity. ‘All that beer needs somewhere to go.’

  ‘Oh, poo.’

  ‘A lot of wee too,’ he says. ‘And permits, I expect. Right, Councillor?’

  The councillor confirms that we can’t just park a Portaloo at the roadside. And we must have them. Philippa won’t enjoy squatting behind the hedge.

  But that’s hundreds of pounds we don’t have, and a stinky temporary toilet doesn’t exactly scream luxury. I’ve got to find a better way.

  When I drive over to the square the next day after work, it’s even prettier than I remember. Everything is so lush and green and the little brick terraced houses surrounding the square are chocolate-box pretty. Even through my biased eyes it’s an impressive sight – romantic, historic and perfectly London.

  I hope the residents realise how lucky they are to live here. I think they must. All the houses look well-tended in this little oasis, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the city. They’ve got everything they could want here – only steps from the main road, the markets, pubs, restaurants and cafés. There was even a café on the square, though it looks like it’s closed down. I wonder why? I’d love to have a café just next door.

  Peering through the scratches in one of the large soaped-up front windows, I can see that it used to be a pub. The curved bar at the back is piled with boxes, and tables and chairs are still dotted around. Someone tried their hand at a shabby chic décor to turn it into a tearoom – china teapots and cups sit on antiqued white shelving and a chalkboard with a long list of teas leans against the bar. It would have been a cosy place for a cuppa. So what happened?

  ‘Arrears,’ the councillor tells me when I see him later in the pub. He shakes his head. I’m not sure if that’s a reaction to the café’s demise or because I’ve bothered him when he’s trying to have his pint in peace. ‘I worked with the owners for over a year. Even wrote off a chunk of their arrears, but they kept falling behind. You’ve never heard excuses like theirs. Their dog practically ate their rent cheques.’

  ‘So what’s happened to them?’

  He shrugs. ‘Gone to screw over another council, I imagine.’

  ‘They’re definitely gone? And the council owns the building?’

  He starts to look like a hunted animal. ‘Why are you so curious?’

  ‘Well, I suppose they must have toilets in there? Ones we might be able to use for the party? If we promise to clean up after?’

  ‘More promises,’ he says, noting that I’m not going away. He probably could resist me if the vicar wasn’t listening to our conversation. He knows he can’t resist the vicar.

  ‘Well done on the loos,’ Uncle Colin says later. ‘We’ll make a few signs so the punters know they can go into the café. So it looks like everything is just about ready. Barbara’s shown you the flowers, yeah?’

  ‘Flowers? No.’

  Uncle Colin shakes his head. As the older brother by four minutes, he does this a lot to Uncle Barbara. ‘Useless. Come out back.’

  There’s a decent-sized garden attached to the back of the pub. It used to be open to pub-goers, but Uncle Colin wanted space to grow his tomatoes, so he converted it to private after he took over and moved in upstairs.

  He flips on the floodlight. Dozens of plant pots are neatly lined up on the decking between the barbeque and Uncle Barbara’s su
nlounger.

  ‘Barbara and Zane got them from the park.’

  I gasp, looking at the riot of colourful flowering plants. ‘They nicked them?’

  He laughs. ‘When has Barbara ever broken the law in his life? He ain’t no tea leaf. They rang the ranger and asked to have ’em when they replanted the beds. He and Zane went over and dug ’em up. He’s been tending them for weeks for you, so you’ll have something for the tables.’

  They must be full of pollen because I can feel my eyes begin to water.

  Chapter 18

  ‘I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,’ says Daniel’s godfather, Harold, stirring the risotto on his gleaming industrial cooker as we perch on the stools around the polished concrete kitchen island. It’s a huge space, but Harold isn’t diminished by it. Maybe his shock of white hair gives him the gravitas to fill it. It looks positively leonine against the black jumper and jeans he’s wearing. Or maybe it’s just his big personality.

  His house might look like Philippa’s from the outside – huge, white and imposing – but it couldn’t be more different within. There’s nothing traditional about Harold’s gaff. He and his wife had it gutted when they bought it, he tells me. Having grown up in our fifties council house, where the only period feature was the avocado bathroom, it seems a shame to strip out all the character, but Harold is a man who looks to the future, not the past.

  ‘It was the eighties,’ he says, gesturing with his ladle around the kitchen. It’s a giant white cube in the basement of the house, with a conservatory leading out to a long narrow garden. The kitchen table is black Formica and steel, the tall chairs clad in shiny black leather. It looks like Harold’s wife – currently spa-ing in the countryside – might have tried adding a feminine touch here and there, but it’s lost in all the leatherosterone. I hope Daniel doesn’t get his taste from his godfather.

  ‘Nobody wanted overstuffed sofas or Edwardian tables,’ Harold explains. ‘All the old paintings felt oppressive when we were young, too much like the houses of our parents.’

  ‘Mummy and Father didn’t seem bothered by the old stuff, though,’ Daniel says. ‘Most of our furniture has come down through the family. I wonder if I’ll be more traditional when it comes time to decorate our flat. I’ve never had anywhere to live with my own furniture.’

  Somehow I doubt our children will cherish my dad’s reclining chair or my French-Ikea bedroom set. ‘I like modern things with a traditional twist,’ I say. ‘So maybe we won’t fight too much about it.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you two arguing about anything,’ Harold says.

  I startle them both with my laugh. ‘We didn’t argue before planning the wedding,’ I explain.

  ‘We haven’t argued very much,’ Daniel objects. ‘It’s just that Emma’s much better at budgeting than I am. But I’ll learn, darling, I promise.’

  ‘Miriam called off our wedding,’ he says. ‘Twice. Once over the guest list and another time when my mother cancelled the band without telling us. Philippa has been her usual helpful self, I take it?’

  I can’t be sure, but I think he’s teasing.

  ‘Silence from the future daughter-in-law says it all,’ he says with a laugh. ‘You’re right. Discretion is the better part of valour.’

  The more I talk to Harold, the more I like him. He’s a big friendly man who doesn’t seem to take himself or the world too seriously and it’s easy to see why Daniel wanted to spend most of his school holidays here. The house might be black and white and sterile but Daniel’s godfather is anything but.

  Over dinner Harold catches me up on his life so far and by the time I’m yawning into my treacle tart – which has nothing to do with the company – I think I might love him a bit too.

  He and Daniel’s dad landed right into the start of the greed-is-good eighties when they finished university. ‘That’s out of fashion now, of course, but not then,’ he says. ‘Your father and I went straight into the City, as everyone did. It doesn’t seem like that could be nearly forty years ago, but that’s what happens. If you’re not paying attention, you’ll miss it.’

  ‘You’ll miss what?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘Everything that really matters.’

  Even though Daniel must have heard it a million times, he looks as riveted as I feel as Harold recounts his early life for my benefit. His success was meteoric. Too fast, he admits, for a twenty-one-year-old with more money than sense. He was already with Miriam by the time he graduated and it was always on the cards for them to marry.

  ‘Have you got children, Harold?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘We had two choices. One can either get them out of the way early or wait till the fun gets old to have them. Daniel’s father didn’t meet Philippa till our late twenties and they weren’t in any rush. I wasn’t about to stop the party if Hugh didn’t have to, so we waited. Miriam was just getting going in her career anyhow and it was no hardship jetting off every free weekend.’

  ‘How old was your mum when she had you?’ I ask Daniel.

  ‘Thirty-five,’ he says.

  I knew she was at least sixty! Mum’ll enjoy that fact.

  ‘Our bet went against us, though,’ says Harold. ‘We got caught short, so it didn’t happen for us.’ There’s a tinge of sadness in his voice. ‘But I’ve got you. Best of both worlds. All the fun with none of the shitty nappies.’

  Now I’m starting to see why Daniel is like a son to Harold. ‘He’s nearly toilet-trained now, though,’ I tease.

  Harold laughs. ‘Your work has just started. Wait until you have to house-train a husband.’

  ‘I nearly had Harold as my best man, you know,’ Daniel tells me later as we make our way back to his flat. ‘He is rahly the person I’m closest to.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you ask him? Or at least have him be co-best man with Jacob?’

  ‘Yah, no, it wouldn’t look right to have Harold standing up with me when everyone knows he’s like a second father. It’s all right. Harold understands.’

  ‘But if I can have Uncle Barbara as my bridesmaid, then surely you could have Harold as your best man.’ Especially if that’s who he really wants beside him when we get married. I hate thinking of him not being as happy as he might be on the best day of our lives.

  His arm tightens around me. ‘No, it’s just not proper. That’s all right. There’s a right way to do things and my family will never understand if those rules are broken.’

  My tummy lurches thinking about our wedding. We’re never going to get away with this.

  It’s with this worry playing on my mind that I go to see the finished bridesmaids’ dresses at Mrs Delaney’s. They do look beautiful as she carefully shakes each one out to hang on a brass hook. Now that the front window display case is gone the light floods the little tailor shop and shows them off to perfection. But will the fabric hold up to scrutiny? It looks fine to me, but my eyes are calibrated for H&M, not Dolce & Gabbana.

  But it would be insulting to tell Mrs Delaney that when she’s worked so hard on them. ‘In a way it’s a shame I’m selling up,’ she says, running her hand over the old sewing machine. ‘I did enjoy doing these. It makes a change from hemming suit trousers. Though I don’t suppose there’s much of a market in hand-making knock-off dresses.’

  ‘There’s no rush to sell if you don’t want to,’ I say. It would be hard to give up something you’ve done for fifty years. Longer than that, since Mrs Delaney’s parents had the shop first, and their parents before that. Actually, it’s awfully sad when you think about that. Mrs Delany has to close down her entire family business. It will disappear when she sells up.

  I bet her grandparents never dreamed it would end like this. I hope she doesn’t feel like she’s failed them somehow just because the business is folding under her watch.

  This could even be the end of an era in the neighbourhood if another dressmaker doesn’t take over the shop. Soon this might become the home of overpriced soya lattes and there’ll be no t
race left of Mrs Delaney’s century-old business.

  ‘My daughter’s put the business package together for me and listed it with a few agents, so we may get some interest soon.’

  ‘Are you very sad?’ I ask her, fighting back a sniffle myself.

  ‘Sad? Are you mad, girl? As soon as I offload this place I’m goin’ to Tenerife for a month! Ooh, it’ll be so good for me arthritis. I might even find me a boyfriend over there. A nice Spaniard. Del keeps sayin’ there’s some life in this old bird yet.’

  It’s so nice to know that our vicar looks after his flock’s sex lives as well as their spiritual ones.

  Outside, I catch Stacy Boyle just as she’s about to close up the shoe stall.

  ‘All right, Emma? Not long now!’

  ‘A week from this Saturday. I just saw the bridesmaids’ dresses and the girls are going to love them.’

  Of course she knows about the switch. She and Shahrzad have no secrets. They like the idea that they’re helping pull one over on the poshies, as they call them. Though after meeting Abby and Cressida the other night, they’re much kinder about Daniel’s side. Robustly mocking, I’d say, instead of downright hostile.

  ‘Stacy, I wonder if you can do something for me.’

  ‘Anything, doll, just name it.’

  I might not be able to give my bridesmaids Manolos, but I have a feeling that Stacy might know exactly where to find some Ma-nearlies. She’s nodding before I even finish describing what I’m looking for. ‘Tell me the sizes. I can have them for you by the end of the week.’

  I feel like everything is in motion, creeping slowly toward me from all directions, and there’s no way to stop the progress now. Everything I’ve done these past few months – all the planning, scrimping, wondering and worrying – has been for one day in just over a week. I’m struggling to put into words how much it means to me to pull this off. To have Daniel and his family and friends look around on the day and say to each other, ‘We couldn’t have done it better ourselves.’ No matter what Philippa may think of me in the future, once she knows I’m pregnant, no matter how much I might somehow screw up Christmas or use the wrong fork at dinner parties or introduce myself to the maid, I’ll have set the standard with our wedding.