Grace looks about as ready to be a bridesmaid as someone who has just mucked out a farmyard. But it’s not just the jeans, lack of make-up and general state of dishevelment that is the most striking thing about her. It’s the look on her face. As if she’s about to explode.
‘You,’ she says, pointing at Charlotte. ‘You and I have got some talking to do.’
‘Grace!’ shrieks Valentina. ‘There’s no time for talking–we need to get your hair in curlers!’
‘I’m sorry, Valentina,’ says Grace, ‘but I’ve got something more important to do at the moment than get my hair done.’
‘What could
possibly
be more important than getting your hair done?’ asks the bride-to-be. ‘The service is happening in less than forty minutes.’
Grace turns back to Charlotte.
‘Do you want to do this here, or outside?’ she demands.
Valentina looks horrified.
‘Listen, Grace,’ she says, ‘I know how difficult Evie can be sometimes, but really, can’t you just put your differences aside for the moment? At least until the
High Life
! team has gone home.’
Poor Valentina obviously thinks it’s me Grace has fallen out with.
‘Well, Charlotte, what’s it to be?’ asks Grace.
Charlotte’s entire face and chest have turned so red it looks like she needs extinguishing.
‘Grace,’ she says, her mouth quivering as if she’s about to say something. But nothing comes out.
‘Right,’ says Valentina, taking charge. ‘Enough’s enough. What’s going on?’
Grace’s face crumples.
‘How could you, Charlotte?’ she says. ‘How could you do it after being my friend for so many years? After seeing my children growing up? After being my bridesmaid?’
Now Charlotte looks at the floor silently, her lip still quivering.
‘You’ve acted like Miss Sweetness and Light for as long as I’ve known you, Charlotte. But tell everyone what you’ve done. Go on.’
Charlotte doesn’t move and still doesn’t say anything.
‘No? Well, let me tell everyone instead,’ Grace says. ‘Charlotte has been trying to steal my husband from me.’
‘What?’ says Valentina. ‘Grace, have you been drinking?’
‘Just ask her,’ Grace says. ‘Ask her about attempting to seduce Patrick–at your mum’s wedding, Evie.’
I bite my lip and look at the floor, suddenly aware that Patrick hasn’t told her that I know. I have about 0.2 seconds to feel relieved, when Grace does a double-take.
‘You knew!’ she yells at me.
‘The thing is, Grace…’ I begin to protest.
‘You bloody knew!’ she continues. ‘Jesus, I don’t believe this.’
‘
I
didn’t,’ stresses Valentina. ‘Why am I always the last to know these things?’
Charlotte, shaking and red, suddenly looks defiant.
‘Okay, Grace,’ she says. ‘How could I? Well, I’ll tell you how.’
The whole room is suddenly very, very quiet.
‘Because I love him,’ she says. Valentina looks like she’s going to pass out.
‘I love him more than I suspect you’ve ever loved him,’ continues Charlotte. ‘I’d do anything for him. I’d die for him. Can you honestly say that?’
Grace doesn’t answer.
‘No,’ says Charlotte. ‘I didn’t think so.’
Grace slumps onto a chair, suddenly looking very weary.
‘If it means anything,’ Charlotte adds solemnly, ‘I did feel guilty–about you and the kids. It wasn’t as if I didn’t think about you and them at all.’
Grace, her face filled with emotion, stands up again and walks towards Charlotte. For a second, it looks like she’s about to hug her. But when she gets within a foot of Charlotte, she punches her square in the face.
‘I ’ad no idea English weddings were zis exciting,’ says Federico as we trundle along in the Cinderella carriage.
‘Oh shut up,’ says Valentina, as Georgia puts a supportive hand on hers.
The carriage has the sort of suspension you’d expect from the back end of a tractor, and whoever hired the horses at the front of the carriage just may have found the four most flatulent beasts in Britain. On the plus side, however, Valentina is somehow slightly calmer now, even though we’re downwind of the most horrendous whiff outside the elephant enclosure of Chester Zoo.
She’s even managed to stop hyperventilating about the fact that she’s now one bridesmaid down, having had to dispatch Charlotte to Accident and Emergency. And the fact that three of her other bridesmaids now have the slight but unmistakable splatter of blood and snot–the resulting debris from Grace’s punch–across their dresses.
Mine is the worst, with a big gory blob right on the front of my skirt that was only made worse by a frantic amount of scrubbing. But if I position my bouquet in a certain way I can almost cover it, and Drusilla from
High Life!
has assured
Valentina that they’ll be able to airbrush any excess off before they go to print.
‘Grace,’ I say, as we bump up and down, negotiating a section of road with more pot-holes than a third-world dirt track, ‘can we talk about this?’
‘Yes, please do,’ insists Valentina. ‘Make friends, for God’s sake. Or at least start smiling like you’re all meant to.’
‘I’m too angry and upset to talk about it,’ says Grace, a fraction away from tears. ‘Now isn’t the time.’
‘No,’ says Valentina. ‘No, you’re probably right. No more drama today, thank you. But
do
smile, won’t you?
Please
.’
We slow down at a set of traffic-lights, but before we get a chance to stop, the carriage starts to make a strange sound. A very strange sound indeed. A cracking sound.
Valentina’s eyes widen and we all look at each other in alarm. Then, all of a sudden, the cracking sound gets louder and one corner of the carriage plummets to the ground, catapulting bridesmaids and posies and satin shoes and veils and tiaras into all directions.
‘What the fuck—’ cries Valentina as she bangs her head on the windowframe, completely forgetting her role as the demure bride.
‘What ze ’ell is going on?’ shouts Federico.
We climb out of the carriage and the sight before us doesn’t look promising at all.
‘The goddamn bloody goddamn wheel has broken,’ screams Valentina, apparently directing this tirade at the driver.
He scratches his head and looks exceptionally calm about the whole thing, which is completely inappropriate in the circumstances.
‘Oh dear,’ he says.
‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ she asks hysterically.
He shrugs. ‘Not sure really,’ he says. ‘You can’t just call the AA with one o’ these.’
Valentina fans her forehead.
‘So how do you propose I get to the church?’ she growls.
He shrugs again. ‘You could always hitch-hike, love.’
We’d thought at first he was joking. But with everyone we know already in church with their mobile phones switched off and not a taxi in sight, hitch-hiking suddenly became the only option.
So we split ourselves into two parties, and my group piles into the rear of a van belonging to a fish merchant just on his way back from the wholesalers. Having left the house smelling of Vera Wang, we arrive at the church smelling of
eau de haddock
.
But for the other group–the bride and her ‘father’–we reserve a vehicle we all agreed would
almost
pass for a wedding car–if the
High Life!
photographer and the video man catch her at the right angle, that is.
‘You might need to do a bit of editing of this,’ I tell the video man as we wait outside the church for them to arrive.
‘Why?’ he says. ‘What is it she’s coming in exactly?’
‘Er, you’ll see,’ I say. ‘Just do your best, will you?’
As Valentina and Federico’s vehicle comes into the driveway head on, nothing at all looks amiss from a distance. It’s only when it has to make a right turn to park that all becomes clear. The video man and the
High Life!
photographer gasp so
dramatically, you’d think they’d both just received a sharp kick in the groin.
‘Tell me she’s not in a hearse,’ breathes the
High Life!
photographer. ‘She
can’t
be in a bloody hearse, surely?’
‘Like I said,’ I tell him, trying to retain a sense of calm, ‘if you photograph her getting out from the front, it could easily look like a wedding car.’
‘But what about the flowers in the window?’ he asks. ‘They’re arranged to spell out RIP BILLY.’
‘I know, I know,’ I say, realizing we must be presenting one of the biggest challenges to his professional career to date. ‘But they’ve said we can shove those in the back with the coffin for a couple of shots. Come on, we’ll have to be quick.’
As Valentina emerges from her hearse, beaming from ear to ear and apparently unfazed by the fact that she’s just shared her journey with a corpse
and
Federico, I start to see her in a whole new light.
‘I’m bloody impressed,’ I say to her as we stand at the back of the church, ready to go in. ‘You’re taking all this incredibly well.’
She smiles.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘It suddenly struck me on the way here: I’m about to get married. Why would I let anything else bother me?’
I strongly suspect that I’ll never be able to go to a wedding again without thinking about Jack.
It’s not just the fact that our brief but oh so sweet courtship both started and finished at occasions just like these. It’s also that everything weddings are meant to represent–love, commitment, happiness–are things I now honestly believe I’m never going to find with anyone else.
I know that sounds about as positive as the average suicide note, but I’m just being realistic. I mean, why would I find love with anyone else when I hadn’t even come close beforehand? I had my chance and I blew it. Simple as that.
‘What’s up with you?’ Seb asks when we get to the reception. ‘You looked as miserable as sin throughout that whole service.’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine.’
‘Well, I wish you’d cheer up. You’re putting
me
in a bad mood,’ he says.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, leaning over and whirling his tongue around my ear with all the subtlety of a St Bernard devouring a lamb chop. ‘You can make it up to me later.’
He puts his hand on my backside and squeezes it as if he’s trying to determine the ripeness of a Gala melon.
‘Don’t, Seb,’ I grimace. ‘Not at a wedding.’
In fact, not wanting to be groped is something I can only partly put down to the occasion. It’s also because, despite trying very hard to make this work, I can now barely look at Seb without wishing he was somewhere else. Like Outer Mongolia.
As the guests start to pour into the main dining room of Knowsley Hall, it quickly becomes evident that the bride’s and groom’s camps aren’t mixing. I’m not sure why it happens exactly and I’m sure they’re not doing it intentionally. It’s just that those in the groom’s party seem to feel a little ill-at-ease speaking to anyone who isn’t wearing a twinset and pearls; ditto the bride’s party and anyone without a facelift.
I haven’t eaten anything all day, but as I turn down a smoked salmon canapé for the fourth time, I realise I couldn’t feel less like eating if I’d just had three super-sized McDonald’s.
‘I’m just going to the gents for a bit of a pick-me-up,’ whispers Seb, winking. ‘To get me through the speeches.’
I’m sipping my champagne when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Whatever happened to Charlotte?’ asks my mum.
Today’s outfit consists of a purple velvet culotte suit and matching Robin Hood hat, the feather of which made several guests sneeze throughout the entire ceremony.
‘It’s a long story,’ I say.
‘Well, as long as she’s okay,’ Mum says.
‘She will be,’ I reply, not entirely confidently.
When Seb returns, he looks slightly taken aback to come face to face with my mum. Sarah often has this effect on people, but they don’t usually greet her with quite the same look of distaste.
‘Hello,’ she says brightly. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Sarah, Evie’s mum.’
‘Hi,’ he says dismissively, and grabs the last glass of champagne for himself from a passing tray.
‘I think you were at Georgia’s wedding, weren’t you?’ Mum continues, smiling. ‘You might not remember me, but I was there too.’
‘I remember you all right,’ he sniggers, and turns away.
At first, Mum looks a little thrown by his comment. And I’m so startled that, for once, I can’t think of anything to say.
‘Well,’ she says, forcing a smile, ‘I’m sure I’ll see you later. Enjoy the rest of the day.’
When she’s out of earshot I turn to Seb.
‘Don’t take the piss out of my mum,’ I say, in a tone that makes it clear he’s unlikely to get his tongue anywhere near my ear canal again.
‘Oh, come on–all I said was I remembered her,’ he says carelessly.
‘You said:
I remember you all right
,’ I tell him.
‘Well, Christ, how could I not have, the way she looked?’
‘Why are you so obsessed with the way people look?’ I ask. ‘My mum is a wonderful person–and if you’d bothered to speak to her, then I’m sure you’d have discovered that.’
‘What-
ever
,’ he says, sounding like a stroppy teenager. ‘Christ, when did you become such a bloody drag? Anyway, it was just a joke.’
He takes another swig from his glass, apparently finding
the whole thing more entertaining than a trip to the seaside.
‘I know,’ I say matter-of-factly. ‘But the thing is, Seb, I just don’t get your jokes.’
The smile is wiped off his face in a second.
‘I suppose,’ I continue, ‘I don’t want to see you any more. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re dumping me at a wedding?’ he asks, incredulous. ‘I haven’t even had my dinner yet.’
‘I’m sorry, Seb,’ I say. ‘But I’m in love with someone else.’
‘You?’ he sneers. ‘In love? Ha–don’t make me laugh.’
‘It’s true,’ I say forlornly.
‘Evie, it’ll last five minutes, just like they all do,’ he says, turning dramatically on his heel.
I watch as Seb storms across the room and heads for the door, before I sense someone next to me and turn to look. The video man is happily filming away as if he’s gathering footage for a David Attenborough programme.
‘Do you
mind
?’ I snap. ‘Can’t a girl expect a little privacy when she’s dumping someone these days?’
‘Oh, sorry,’ he tells me. ‘I was just told to film as many guests as I could.’