Don't Tell the Groom

by Anna Bell

  Which means I have to come up with something equally fabulous. I sigh an overly dramatic sigh and Lou gives me that look. It’s the look that says don’t give up. She’s given it to me a number of times over the years. From when we were trying to find a man to snog on Saturday night when were at sixth-form college to when we tried spinning at the gym.

  ‘Perhaps you need some inspiration.’

  Lou steals the computer away from me and starts tapping away furiously.

  The Google home page transforms into large thumbnails of amazing-looking cakes. They aren’t your average cakes; they are all weird and wonderful, unusual shapes. There is a cake in the shape of a mountain with hikers on top, one that looks like a Disney castle, and another in the shape of a giant guitar.

  ‘Who has these cakes?’ I ask in disbelief.

  ‘I think they’re kind of cool,’ says Lou.

  ‘Yeah, I’m not saying they’re not, but I could never afford something like this.’

  ‘Well, let’s think about this laterally. What could we make? Let’s think of hobbies you have.’

  ‘Mark has golf … I have … well, I’m not having bingo balls.’

  I can see Lou’s trying not to laugh. A cake of hobbies wasn’t really me or Mark.

  ‘What about your honeymoon? We could make it Mexican.’

  My head is suddenly confused with cakes made of rolled fajitas and topped with jalapeños. Or worse, tequila-flavoured cake in the colours of a bright poncho, with a sombrero on top.

  I’m wrinkling my nose up in disapproval while Lou is hot on the keys again. The next thing I know she’s brought up the M&S cakes website again.

  ‘Here: this is my idea,’ says Lou.

  I look at the screen and all I see are the rectangular iced cakes used solely for cutting extra slices.

  ‘I know they’re cheap but we can’t use them,’ I say.

  ‘Sure we can. We get a load of them and we stack them up like a pyramid you know – like the Mexican pyramids. We’ll get some edible gold icing dusting glitter and voilà. You’ll have Mexican cake.’

  I look at Lou and I look back at the cutting cakes. I turn my head sideways and squint my eyes. It could just work. Or it could be a disaster. But at least this way we can have lots of different-flavoured cake.

  ‘OK, sod it. Let’s do it. But you’re in charge.’

  ‘As long as I’m not baking then I don’t care,’ says Lou.

  Taking back control of the laptop, I start adding the cake to my virtual basket. To make the pyramid I reckon that I will need six sets of cutting cake, and the bonus is that they are on three for two, so it only costs me £42. Bargain.

  And ten minutes later I’ve bought the edible gold dusting glitter and two claydough figures that look vaguely like Mark and me.

  We are on a roll.

  By the time the Thai food turns up I’ve even bought a flower cutter so that we can make our own table confetti. I’m going to gloss over the fact that it means every night from now until the wedding I’m going to be punching cardboard flowers. But again, I need it to look like I’ve put some thought into this wedding.

  ‘Now we just need to sort out the music for the reception,’ I say, shovelling a spoonful of Pad Thai into my mouth.

  ‘OK, how much money have you got for it?’

  ‘About five hundred pounds.’

  Lou has her game face on. Which is a bit like the ‘don’t give up’ face, only with a more furrowed brow.

  ‘What about reggae?’ she asks.

  Thoughts of calypso drums and brightly coloured shirts pop into my head as well as the unmistakeable smell of ganja. Lou and I went to the Notting Hill Carnival in our early twenties and the three have never been separated in my head since then.

  I’ve decided the wrinkle nose is very handy. It means that I don’t have to say anything any more and Lou knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  ‘What about this woman?’ she asks.

  ‘She’s a wedding singer? I don’t think I like the idea of just one person by themselves. I think if I’m going to do it, it has to be a full band.’

  Lou’s brows are getting ever more furrowed and I’m worried that I am causing stress to her unborn baby.

  ‘How about this? They’re a swing quartet. They’re six hundred pounds. Is that too much?’

  ‘What do they play?’ I ask, my ears pricking up at something being within budget.

  ‘Let me see. Here you go. “Fly Me to the Moon”, “I Get a Kick Out of You”, they even do stuff like “Twist and Shout”.’

  ‘They sound perfect! Have they got a phone number?’

  ‘Yep,’ says Lou, nodding her head. ‘And they’re not booked the night of your wedding.’

  ‘Read it out to me!’

  I’m so excited I might wee myself. I never thought we’d actually find an affordable band. And to think I was going to pay two thousand pounds for the full seventeen-piece band when I could have booked these guys. We are streaming their sample songs online and they sound pretty good.

  Lou reads me out the number and I hit Call.

  Please, please let them be in. Although if they’re any good I guess they’ll probably be out playing a gig tonight. Please, please let them be out. Answerphone. Yes, I smile. They’re clearly good. Or people love them because they’re cheap.

  ‘Hi. Um, my name is Penny Holmes. I’m getting married in two weeks’ time and I know it’s ridiculously short notice, but I see from your website that you’re free and I wondered if I could hire you?’

  I start waffling on about where the wedding is being held and how excited I am, and I only just manage to fit in the number before the second beep. If they ever call me back it will be a miracle.

  ‘What’s left on the list?’ asks Lou.

  ‘Aside from presents, which I’m planning to get tomorrow, I’ve mainly got stuff for me to sort out. Wedding shoes, who’s going to do my hair and make-up.’

  ‘I can do your hair for you if you like. And I’m sure your sister can do your make-up. She’s still the only person I know who can apply liquid eyeliner.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I say.

  My sister has got off quite lightly with the whole wedding planning. Mainly because I haven’t been able to tell her what is going on. I’m sure she would be quite relieved if all she had to do was do the make-up.

  ‘Have you looked at shoes on eBay?’ asks Lou.

  ‘I might be broke, but there’s no way I’m going to put my feet into other people’s shoes when they’ve been worn.’

  Yuck, imagine that. You’d never know where those sweaty feet had been.

  ‘You do get new shoes on eBay too,’ says Lou.

  ‘I don’t really like eBay, though. It all gets a bit too tense for me, and at the last minute I find myself panic-buying and bidding way over what it’s worth.’

  And I don’t say it to Lou, but it is too much like online bingo for me. For some reason bidding on an online auction doesn’t feel like I’m spending real money and that, as we all know, is extremely dangerous for me.

  ‘OK, what about Amazon?’

  ‘I need shoes, not books,’ I say, in exasperation.

  ‘Amazon sells shoes. Look.’

  I stare at the computer screen in disbelief. There, in all shades of ivory are pretty wedding shoes, and – Wow! – at an amazing price to boot. Twenty pounds for a pair of shoes. How did I not know about this before?

  I don’t really care if they’re last season’s wedding shoes. At this rate I’m just pleased I’ll be getting married with something on my feet that isn’t my favourite Converse (and my mum has already forbidden me from doing that). Too bad I didn’t have the giant princess dress as then she would never know what was under it.

  ‘Those ones. I want those ones,’ I say, pointing at the screen like a small child. They’re beautiful peep-toes with not too high a heel. They are a dark ivory colour, just like my dress, and they have a small glittery bow above the peep-toe.


  I mentally add ‘Get a pedicure’ to my list of ever-increasing things to do before the wedding. It would be just my luck if I forget and slip my foot into the shoe the day of the wedding and see my half-and-half nail situation. Half real nail, half old nail polish from the last time I wore open-toed sandals, which was for my work Christmas party.

  Feeling suddenly decisive for the first time in this whole wedding-planning process, I click Purchase. With one-click Checkout, the shoes are now winging their way to me. I’m not even going to think about the possibility that they won’t fit; I’ll leave that drama for when the postman knocks on my door.

  The sound of The Lemonheads fills the room as ‘Mrs Robinson’ starts to play. I don’t think I was even thinking about becoming Mrs Robinson; perhaps it is tapping into my subconscious mind. Scary.

  ‘Are you going to answer your phone?’ asks Lou, passing it to me.

  It is then that I realise that The Lemonheads is coming from the phone and not my head. I don’t have time to worry about my new ringtone as the caller’s number isn’t in my phone and my first thought is that there has been a terrible shooting in Scotland. Overly dramatic, me? Never.

  ‘Hello,’ I say cautiously.

  ‘Hello, is that Penny?’

  Oh my God. It’s a proper man’s voice. He sounds just like a policemen.

  ‘Yes, this is Penny.’

  I’m so nervous that something has happened to Mark that I almost drop the phone in surprise when the man introduces himself as Chris from the band.

  ‘We’re just on a break at a gig, so I can’t chat for long. But we are free on the 18th of May - we recently had a cancellation. Bride pulled out of the wedding. So we’d be delighted to play for you. Did you want to come and watch us before you confirm?’

  ‘I would love to, but I don’t think I’ve got any free time between now and the wedding, so I’ll just have to trust what I saw on the internet. There is just one thing. Would you be able to play “Mrs Robinson”?’

  ‘The Simon and Garfunkel song?’

  ‘I was thinking more like The Lemonheads’ version?’

  ‘I’m sure we could put something together.’

  ‘That would be amazing,’ I say.

  ‘OK, great. Well, in that case I’ll pencil you in and I’ll give you a ring in the week to talk deposits and song lists.’

  ‘Great! I’m so happy I could kiss you!’

  Did I just say that out loud? I’m going to die on the spot when I meet him now.

  ‘Don’t do that. That’s why the other bride had to cancel her wedding. Not that she kissed me – it was some other fella. But anyway, I’ll give you a ring in the week.’

  ‘Thanks, Chris.’

  I put the phone down on the table and just stare at it.

  ‘Get you and your new ringtone,’ says Lou, laughing.

  ‘In my defence, that must have been Mark. But at least it reminded me to ask the band if they could play that song.’

  I can’t believe it. All the pieces of this wedding puzzle are falling into place. And so what if it doesn’t look anything like my extravagant mood boards? It is still going to be the best wedding ever.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Waking up the next morning feels strange for a number of reasons. Firstly, I’m not hung over. Which in all the years I’ve known Lou has only happened on a few occasions after a night in with her. Pregnant Lou, and soon-to-be Mummy Lou is going to take a lot of getting used to.

  It’s also strange as when I roll over to Mark’s side of the bed it’s empty and cold. There isn’t the head-shaped dent in the pillows and there isn’t the smell of his aftershave on them either. Not that I smell his pillows or anything. It’s just that sometimes when he gets up and showers first, I roll on to his side of the bed as I’m convinced it’s more comfy, and the first thing that hits me is the smell of Hugo Boss. It’s the second nicest thing to wake up to, the first being actual Mark.

  I know it sounds stupid to say that I miss Mark as he only went yesterday morning. But I do really miss him. And I don’t think it’s because he’s away; I think it’s because I haven’t been able to open up to him lately, which is making me miss him more.

  But this is the last-ever secret I’m keeping from Mark. Once the wedding is out of the way there will be no other secrets that I keep from him. I mean it. I will even tell him about my secret shoe stash in the spare room. I will, honestly.

  Without the excuse of a hangover to legitimise my lie-in, I really should get up. I don’t want to get out of bed, but I have to as I promised Mark that I’d go and chat to Nanny Violet.

  I haven’t seen her since the time we were at the fête, and then I only saw her bright red shoes. And with the wedding only two weeks away I really want to get to the bottom of why she’s acting so strangely around me. It was her insistence that we get married quickly and now it seems like she’s getting cold feet.

  Maybe I’ll just go back to sleep for ten more minutes; after all, she’ll be at church for hours yet.

  By the time I finally summon the courage to go over to Nanny Violet’s house it is after two o’clock in the afternoon. I found lots of important things to do at home like tidy out the kitchen cupboards and deep-clean the fridge. All things that really needed doing two weeks before I got married. And Mark says I can’t prioritise tasks properly.

  I ring the doorbell and the first thought that pops into my head is ‘Please don’t be in’. Followed by my second thought, that I’m the meanest woman alive for thinking that. This is an old widow who looks forward to her relatives visiting her at the weekend and I want to be anywhere but here.

  ‘Ah, Penelope. How nice to see you. Do come in,’ says Violet, opening the door.

  I smile at Nanny Violet, but she’s turned and is racing up the hallway to the kitchen before I can do my usual air kiss. Something is definitely not right.

  I follow her into her kitchen. The kitchen is always roasting hot, no matter what the outside temperature is, as the Aga is permanantly on. Usually there’s something comforting about sitting in Nanny Violet’s kitchen but today there seems to be a chill in the air, and with the Aga on it has to be coming from Violet.

  ‘Did you want a cup of tea, love?’

  ‘Yes, that would be great. Thank you.’

  I’m hovering in the doorway, not too sure whether I should sit down at the little breakfast bar or whether we’re going to go into the formal lounge that Violet keeps for Sundays and visitors. It is Sunday, I suppose, and I am a visitor, so I just continue to hover.

  ‘Why don’t you go and take a seat in the sitting room and I’ll bring it through.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, yes. Go and sit down.’

  It sounds a bit like an order and I go into the lounge.

  I obviously haven’t been here for a while as everything seems just a little bit different. I can’t put my finger on it at first but then it dawns on me; the floral wallpaper has been replaced by a deep yellow paint. It suddenly makes the room feel warm and homely.

  And look at those photos. Along the wall behind the sofa are a series of framed pictures of Violet’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Phew, I’m even in one of the photos. I’m sitting on Mark’s lap and we’re gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. I have no memory of the photo being taken.

  I know the photo must have been taken on Christmas Day as I’m wearing my ridiculously lovely reindeer jumper that everyone in the world, apart from me, hates. Mark says he takes offence to it as the red nose on the reindeer hovers where my left nipple is in real life, and he says that he has difficulty not just reaching out and giving it a squeeze. I think he’s worried that other men might follow suit.

  I must have had one Bailey’s too many on that Christmas Day as I wasn’t even aware of anyone with a camera. Except maybe Mark’s brother, Howard. But surely he couldn’t have taken these wonderful photos, could he?

  ‘There you go,’ says Violet, entering the roo
m. She places my cup of tea on the coffee table before she takes up her normal position in the armchair.

  ‘I love the new decoration,’ I say, as I sit down on the rigid sofa. You can always tell when a sofa isn’t sat on very much as your bum doesn’t mould properly into the seat.

  ‘Thank you, dear. Howard did it for me. I’m afraid he had it forced on him as little Rose drew on the wallpaper with crayons. To tell you the truth I’d always hated the wallpaper anyway. My husband had a number of talents, but hanging wallpaper straight was not one of them and the more I sat in this room the more I noticed.

  ‘Have a cake, dear,’ she says, taking the plate of cakes off the tray.

  Oh, I really am in the doghouse as far as Violet is concerned. She’s only gone and bought in Viennese Whirls. I hate them with a passion and she knows it. I just find the cream so sickly. But not taking a cake in Violet’s house is a sin in itself, so I reach over and take one anyway.

  ‘Did Howard take the photos?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, he’s quite good, isn’t he? Ever since Caroline bought him that fancy camera at Christmas he’s been inseparable from it. You should see the photos he shows me of the children. Poor little loves. I bet being at home for them is worse then being a celebrity on the red carpet.’

  The whole Howard and camera thing had passed me by. I guess we haven’t seen them a lot lately. Maybe I’ll pop round and see them after this. Not that Howard will be there though – he’ll be doing goodness knows what with my husband-to-be. I wonder if I can ask his wife about him taking the photos for the wedding as she wears the trousers in their relationship anyway, from what I can tell.

  I bite into the shortbread that would be so delicious if that was all that was in it, and then the taste of the warm cream and jam hits me. They’re wrong, wrong, wrong.

  ‘So how are the wedding plans going? Getting any lastminute jitters?’

  I’m ignoring the hopeful tone in Violet’s voice like she is willing me to be having second thoughts.

  ‘No. No jitters. I’m just really excited. I can’t believe that I’m going to get married in two weeks!’