‘Right, that’s enough wallowing,’ Mum says briskly, releasing me. ‘Now here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to clear all this nonsense up and then I’m sending you out for a drink with Charlie. Remember him?’
Instantly I start to panic again. ‘But that’s all wrong! We’re not supposed to see each other the night before the wedding!’
Mum’s response is to raise her eyes, and her hands, to heaven. ‘Did I bring her up to be superstitious?’ she asks an unknown listener somewhere on the ceiling. ‘Or to be an independent-thinking feminist?’
I think the ‘superstitious’ accusation is a bit rich considering Mum’s devotion to homeopathy, but I decide not to go there. ‘I don’t even know what he’s doing,’ I point out. ‘He might be out with his dad and brother for all I know.’
In response, Mum pulls out her phone and instructs me to get dressed. When I come back five minutes later, she tells me, ‘You’re meeting Charlie in the King Edward and I want you back by ten thirty. No later.’
‘OK,’ I say, quite happy for once to feel about fourteen.
Twenty minutes later, Charlie and I are sitting holding hands in the pub down the road from the B&B where he, his best man and his brother are staying. To hell with superstition: after just five minutes with him, I feel calmer and saner. After one look at me, Charlie asked if I’d eaten dinner, and when I said not really, promptly ordered me a burger and chips.
‘I am glad Mum sent me out,’ I admit. ‘I was one glue gun away from a total meltdown. Which is ironic really, given that we wanted something simple and DIY.’
‘I think we confused “simple and DIY” with “easy and stress-free”,’ says Charlie. ‘They’re not the same thing, are they? I’m glad you talked me out of doing the catering, by the way. The cake was plenty.’
I squeeze his hand as I remember all the trial icing, hair-tearing and stress that went into Charlie’s creation. At least I got to eat the mistakes. ‘I just hope everyone has a good time. And that the flowers don’t look too ropy. And that my dad doesn’t say anything too weird in his speech.’
I was in two minds whether to ask my dad to do a traditional father-of-the-bride speech. After all, he did drop the ball when he moved to Saudi when I was twelve, and he hasn’t exactly been Father of the Year since then – sending me oddly age-inappropriate presents like anti-wrinkle cream when I was fifteen. But I figured I was already snubbing him by having my mum walk me down the aisle, so it was a sort of peace gesture. As was letting him bring his new girlfriend, who judging from Facebook looks younger than me. I can’t even start to imagine what kind of chats she’ll be having with my mum.
‘He’ll be fine,’ says Charlie. ‘And at least my grandma’s not giving a speech.’
Charlie’s Grandma Flo is a sweet little white-haired lady who is also quite racist. I’ve warned Mum about her, and she says she’s just relieved that my grandma, who’s now retired to Jamaica and doesn’t like to fly, can’t be there. It’s one less thing to worry about.
‘You two all ready for tomorrow?’ asks a passing woman carrying a clutch of pints. I recognise her as one of my mum’s many cronies from the bead shop, which is her local hangout.
‘Enjoy it,’ she adds. ‘It all goes by so fast!’
We smile and nod, but as soon as she’s gone I turn to Charlie. ‘Have you noticed everyone keeps saying that? It goes by so fast! Blink and you’ll miss it! Over in seconds! Honestly, it makes me wonder why we’re bothering with this at all.’ I break off, realising that I’ve just put my foot in it. But Charlie is grinning.
‘You know I didn’t mean that,’ I add quickly.
‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘I’m just thinking how much I’m looking forward to hearing you rant about stuff for the rest of my life.’
I lean forward and kiss him. ‘Me too.’ And suddenly I realise that all the squabbling relatives and wilting flowers in the world aren’t going to spoil what’s happening tomorrow. I’ve met the love of my life and we’re getting married!
The next morning, when I wake up in Mum’s spare room (my old bedroom for a few years while I was home from uni), it feels like Christmas or a birthday when I was small. It’s normal, but also not. I’m just smiling to myself at the thought of Charlie seeing me in my dress, and wondering what he’s doing now, when I feel something throbbing on my forehead. It’s as if I’ve been bitten or stung. Worried, I hop out of bed and go to the mirror to investigate.
It’s a huge spot, literally right in the middle of my forehead, glowing red like a traffic light. I don’t even get spots that often: I’ve never had anything like it before in my life. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life.
‘Really?’ I say aloud. ‘Really, universe?’
I try to dab at it with my Rimmel cover stick, but it’s one of those spots that laughs at concealer and emerges triumphantly from even the heaviest layer of make-up. I can’t believe I thought wilting flowers were a problem. I’ve got a spot that would survive the Apocalypse. And it dominates my whole face. Never mind my mum or dad: my spot will be walking me down the aisle.
‘Poppy? Your friends are downstairs. And I’ve brought you some breakfast.’ After a knock, Mum comes in bearing tea and toast. ‘Ooh,’ she says, putting down the tray and staring at me.
‘It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?’ I ask.
‘Not too,’ she says unconvincingly, her eyes fixed a few centimetres above mine. ‘Just let me get at it with some tea tree oil …’
‘Mum! No! Don’t touch it! That will make it worse!’ I back away. The last thing I want is Mum attacking my face with her home remedies. She might have great skin herself, but this is a medical emergency.
‘I know,’ Mum says. ‘Why don’t you make a feature of it? Like a bindi? I’ve got some sequins …’
‘Mum! No!’ Now I feel fourteen again, but in a bad way. Spots, fights with my mother; am I going to my wedding or a school disco?
There’s another knock at the door. ‘Poppy? Can we come in?’
‘Yes,’ I say, mournfully.
Alice and Lily step into the room, their words of wedding excitement dying on their lips as they’re struck speechless by the sight of me. And not in a good way.
‘You don’t have to say anything. Or pretend not to notice it,’ I tell them. ‘It’s like another person in the room.’
‘It’s really not that bad,’ says Alice. ‘Honestly. You just need a bit of concealer on it.’ Which is all well and good coming from someone who’s glowing with Californian tan and not a trace of jet lag since she and Sam arrived last week.
Lily, meanwhile, is rummaging through a bulging bag. I told her I was doing my own make-up, but she’s clearly brought an extra arsenal and I can’t help feeling glad.
‘This,’ she says, waving a stick aloft. ‘This is what you need. They use it on set in the movies. It covers scars, tattoos, everything.’
She presses it on using a brush, and they all stand back and study me. ‘Well?’ I ask.
I don’t even need to look; their faces tell the story. The spot is concealed at the edges, but the centre is already starting to emerge from the cover-up. It’s literally indestructible. And I know it’s really shallow of me, but I can feel tears coming to my eyes. All the time I spent choosing my dress, and my shoes, and deciding to have my hair down not up, and I’m going to be foiled by a stupid spot?
‘This spot is going to be the third person in our marriage,’ I mutter, trying to make a joke of it.
‘Look, don’t panic, Poppy,’ Lily says. ‘I promise we’ll think of something. For now, why don’t you have some tea and toast before it gets cold? You really need to eat.’
I let them fuss over me and feed me tea and toast while I try telling myself that I’m thirty years old and I shouldn’t be losing my mind over a spot. I have a faint hope that it might die down once I’ve had a shower, but no: it’s still burning brightly even when Mum brings me an ice cube and I press it to my face for five minutes.
‘I know it’s not much consolation, but remember Photoshop,’ says Alice. ‘It’s a force for good as well as evil.’
‘Yes! We’ll remove it in post-production,’ says Lily. She glances at her watch. ‘Poppy, you’d better get into your dress. You’ll feel better once you have it on anyway.’
‘It is the most beautiful dress,’ says Alice encouragingly.
It really is. It’s an ivory silk 1930s number with a draped bodice, a fitted dropped waist, delicate lace cap sleeves and a little puddle train. It’s very Downton Abbey, but I can actually get into it and wear a bra, which is really rare with vintage numbers. I adore it. As my mum buttons me up, I start to feel calm again. What’s so bad about a spot, anyway? It’s not like anyone will be looking at me up close.
Until I see the others staring at something under my arm.
‘Oh God, what now?’
‘Nothing,’ says Alice in a strange voice. ‘Just a slight … hole situation.’
‘What?’ I race to the mirror and see for myself a rash of little holes all down the left side of the dress, which make a lovely contrast with my brown skin underneath.
‘Oh dear,’ says Mum. ‘I didn’t think the moths would get up to your bedroom, love.’
A few responses come to mind – among them ‘You have MOTHS?’ – but I bite my tongue. It’s not worth it. I may as well accept that this is just not my day. I’m going to have to go up the aisle in a moth-eaten dress, with a huge spot, and pretend to be happy because otherwise everyone will say I’m a bridezilla when I’m not. I’m the opposite of a bridezilla! I hate the wedding! I wish we’d just got married in jeans with strangers off the street as witnesses!
‘It’s fine,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady and make a joke of it. ‘Charlie has to marry me anyway, right? No matter what a sight I look?’
‘Don’t panic,’ says Lily. ‘Here’s an idea. Have you got a teddy or a camisole?’
‘I don’t have anything here! Unless you count my combats from my All Saints phase when I was nineteen. The only teddy I have here is Mr Bear.’ And in the state I’m in, I might need him soon for moral support.
‘I do!’ says Mum. She rushes off and returns a few minutes later with a short ivory camisole which is nearly the exact colour of the dress. It’s a bit too big for me, but it fits under the dress, and when I lift my arm you can’t see a thing.
‘That’s amazing,’ I say, shaky with relief.
‘And that’s not all,’ says Lily. ‘I’ve got an idea for your, um, face problem. Flower crown!’
‘Flower crown?’ I repeat, dazed.
‘Yep. Like this?’ She produces a beautiful boho concoction made of white flowers of different sizes; they look so real that I have to touch them to see that they’re silk. ‘You could wear it on the back of your head, but if we try it low down on your forehead, Kate Moss style, then … voilà!’
It’s a miracle. The crown just hides my spot, and it goes perfectly with the dress, making it look effortlessly chic rather than costume drama; I don’t know why I didn’t think of wearing something like this before.
‘And you just happened to have this in your bag? Along with industrial-strength concealer?’
She nods. ‘It’s useful for hair-mares. And obviously also for spots. I should have thought of it earlier really. And I’ll also make a note to have a spare camisole.’
‘Lily, I don’t know what they’re paying you in your wedding-planning biz, but it’s not enough,’ I tell her, awed.
‘Oh, they don’t pay me much, don’t worry. Now you’ve got two something borroweds!’ says Lily. ‘Something old is the dress, something new is your shoes – not that you have to bother with all that,’ she adds, obviously not wanting to stress me out further. ‘But what’s your something blue?’
‘Have you forgotten?’ I wave my engagement ring with its sapphires at her, and Lily blushes.
‘What’s this?’ asks Mum.
‘Oh – Lily helped Charlie with the ring,’ I say smoothly. It’s mostly true – and after Lily’s just saved my bacon, I’m not going to tell Mum about her near-brush with marriage fraud.
I slip on my low silver shoes – bought from a professional dance shop, because I want to be able to dance the night away – and do my make-up while Mum and the girls get into their dresses. I’m not having bridesmaids, but I’ve asked Alice, Maggie, Lily and Rachel to be an informal bridal posse. I can’t wait to see them all today. In fact I can’t wait for today – all of it. I don’t care if the cake gets smashed to bits or if the flowers look like pondweed: as long as Charlie and I actually get successfully married, I’m happy. And we’re all going to have a good time, and if anyone doesn’t, that’s their problem.
I flip through my iPod until I find ‘You Never Can Tell’ by Chuck Berry, which is going to be my first dance with Charlie. I woke up in the middle of the night recently worrying that the reference to teenagers getting married might make people think of the age difference between me and Charlie, but now I don’t care. I hop up and start demonstrating the moves we’ve practised while the girls all cheer and clap, and when we’ve finished I yell, ‘Let’s get married!’
Everyone was right: it does go by really fast. It seems only seconds later that I’m in the Regency Room at the town hall, walking in to ‘What the World Needs Now’ by Burt Bacharach. I thought I would start crying when I saw Charlie, but actually we’re both beaming and tearing up at the same time. The whole thing feels like a dream; it’s hard to believe that all the people we love are really together in one room for us, and that this packed, excited space is the same place where we had our rehearsal last week. And it’s hard to believe that we’re saying the words that make us husband and wife, but we are. It’s happening. And then the registrar, who like everyone in Brighton is a friend of my mum’s, says, ‘You may kiss the groom’ and everyone laughs.
The confetti doesn’t quite go according to plan because everyone’s still waiting for us in the lobby, rather than on the steps as we’d planned. So Charlie’s best man Dave has to shoo them outside and we have to go inside and come back out again. But it doesn’t matter. We’re floating on a wave of happiness that takes us out of the town hall, down the street and towards the square where the party is happening.
One of Mum’s friends happens to own a house on Park Crescent, a Georgian terrace with a beautiful private garden surrounded by white wedding-cake houses. She’s very kindly let us use it for the day. Lily has been working away with Mum and the caterers to set up some tables under a big white tent hung with pink and white paper streamers made by me and Mum. And the sun is shining; it’s actually blazing down from a blue July sky, the perfect day for strolling around on the lawn and drinking champagne.
‘You look stunning, Poppy! And by the way, I love your flowers,’ says a friend from work, hugging me. I smile, remembering that she’s also engaged. I had totally forgotten about the flowers, and I couldn’t even tell you if they’re on the tables or not. I’m so busy taking in all the things I hadn’t planned. Like Alice and Sam playing with my little cousins, and my mum having what looks like a very civil chat with Dad’s new girlfriend, and Dave making Charlie pose for photos beside his cake, which is a total triumph – chocolate Guinness, three tiers, vanilla buttercream icing – and worth all the stress and late nights.
The only thing is that everyone else seems to have a drink except me. I’m in ten different conversations at once and I’m having too much fun to go to the bar. Except I would quite like a drink now.
‘Champagne for the bride?’ says a voice behind me. I turn around, thrilled, to see Rachel and Maggie carrying a bottle and a cluster of glasses. They both look great, Maggie in a blue lace dress and Rachel in a very snazzy fuchsia jacket and black-and-white skirt, which is just the right side of eighties chic.
‘You stars,’ I say, gratefully taking a flute. ‘How did you know that was just what I wanted?’
‘I’ve been to too many weddings where
the bride doesn’t have a chance to have a drink until the speeches, practically,’ Rachel observes, pouring champagne with one expert hand. ‘It’s probably a good thing from the point of view of pacing yourself, but I would want a drink, personally.’
‘You look absolutely stunning, Poppy,’ Maggie says. ‘Just perfect. And this place! It’s like a Richard Curtis film. Speaking of which, let us know if you have to go and get pictures taken or something like that. I always feel guilty talking to the bride at a wedding, in case she needs to talk to more important people.’
‘Don’t be crazy! You’re the important people. Anyway, we did the pictures before the ceremony; makes life a lot easier. Where’s John?’
‘He’s over there,’ she says, pointing. ‘Having a manly chat with Oliver about bikes, I think.’
I smile. Bikes are one of the few things John gets chatty about; he’s the tall, strong, silent type, and does something complicated in IT. He’s very different from Maggie, but ever since they met in New York, they’ve been inseparable. They’ve even shared their Gmail calendars, whatever that means. I have a feeling that Maggie could be the next one to have a meltdown over her flower arrangements. Unless Rachel beats her to it, of course.
‘I love this,’ Maggie adds, touching my flower crown.
‘Oh yeah,’ I say, laughing. ‘It’s actually hiding a massive spot. Lily magicked it out of her box of tricks this morning. She’s been unbelievable – she helped Mum find the caterers, the tent and the booze, all from Los Angeles.’
‘Did I hear my name?’ says an excited voice, and Lily bounces up to us. Rachel pours her some champagne and says, ‘Poppy was just saying what good work you did with the wedding planning. You’re obviously a natural. How’s the new job going? Not so new now, I suppose.’
‘It’s brilliant,’ Lily says happily. ‘I love it. I thought at first it might be a bit tame, but a wedding is a lot more meaningful than a product launch for some new eye cream.’
Girls on Tour Page 38