This Could Have Been Our Song!: A coulda woulda shoulda ballad (26 page)

“
There you are!” Juliet says, appearing next to me. She hits me on the head too. A Riddell girl through and through, light-brown hair and big, grey eyes.

“
Please tell me what I did last night?” I ask them both. I’m starting to feel sick again and I’m getting weird flashbacks. All I can remember is that we decided to do something totally low-key to avoid getting arrested or too sick just before the wedding. We transformed one of the entertainment rooms into our own private casino with one black jack table, a poker one and a craps one, all with croupiers and dealers. We had a full bar with bartenders, cocktail waitresses and were even able to order food until midnight. I remember a lot of cigar smoking in the “gentlemen’s club” section of our casino and a lot of brandy and scotch drinking. I don’t remember how I got back to my room and I woke up in my underwear… Strip poker?

“
Did I leave my clothes downstairs?” I ask them.

“
No, you carried them back.” Juliet smiles and takes a sip of her own detox shake. I remember that she was the first one puking last night. Out of the fourteen of us, she was the first one to pass out! “Yes, I checked out early,” she tells me guessing my thoughts. “At least I looked pretty doing it,” she adds.

We were all wearing black cocktail dresses our cousin, H
élène Mpobo, had designed for the evening. She provided twelve dresses for the bridal party, including herself, and two extra ones for Axelle and me. Those dresses were very pretty and I kept twirling around and showed mine off last night. Oh lord! I remember what I kept saying

“
He told me that I was so beautiful with my cute feet, my shapely legs. Those are damn good legs! My flat stomach,” a very drunken me told my cousins.              

“
Sweetie, those types of blokes are pieces of rubbish!” Carolyn Riddell told me.

She was even drunker than I was. Crazy Aussie Riddell, like Juliet! Where is she today anyway?

“No...” I told her. Why hadn’t anyone shut me up yet? “Marcus is different. He’s just lost that’s all. He thinks I’m incredible,” I told her. I think I was crying a little too. Oh…kill me now! Kill me now!

I remember Noor; she lost her dress within the first hour and kept close to the bar all night. She was flirting with Enrique our bartender.

“My baby sister needs to nurse her broken heart with Johnny Walker, Enrique. Indulge us!” she flirted. She leaned across the bar, offering him an amazing view of her cleavage.

“
I miss him,” I mumbled, sitting next to her.

She took me in her arms and mumbled,
“I know, honey. Now drink up.”

I feel like hitting myself in the head!
“Lelly, am I a total mess?” I certainly feel like one right now.

She takes my hand and brings me to the back garden.
“Right now, I would still put my money on you and not Noor,” she tells me. She gets my phone out of her pocket and hands it to me.

“
Oh my God! Did I…?” I ask, but she shakes her head.

“
I took it away after your third drink. I wanted to avoid any drunk dialing. Not just to Marcus,” she tells me with a smile. “You’re not bad; you’re just a bit lost that’s all. If you’re still this way on Yum Kippur then I’ll worry.”

Yum Kippur?
“Are you using my own lines on me?” I laugh. “Why Yum Kippur? Since when are we Jewish? It’s in two weeks you know.”

“
Closest holiday I could think of, Annie going to school and all,” she says.

“
Thanksgiving is right around the corner, Lelly.”

“
My point exactly. So please get back on your cute feet by then. You, incredible you!” she laughs, walking away.

Yesterday – or day-minus-three as Noor’s tank top said – we spent our morning walking around the property to decide where we would install the tent. Noor and Andrew finally agreed on an outdoor ceremony. They could either have it in the back garden or the little private park on the side, just on the boundaries of Hampstead Heath. The private park has been chosen for the pictures after the ceremony; we would also have some pictures taken on the first-floor balcony. The Regency style architecture would look amazing in the pictures.

“
The tent will be twenty feet tall and will cover three quarters of the garden…in case it rains,” the wedding planner explained.

“
What does the weather channel say?” I asked Noor.

She took a sip of her detox shake.
“Who knows and who cares? I just don’t wanna risk it,” she answered.

The ceremony would be at 7.00 p.m. because Andrew and Noor want a sunset ceremony and pictures. The cocktail hour would be inside, in the renovated small ballroom. We would go back outside for dinner and dancing, where the tent would have been redecorated.

“As per Granddaddy’s request, we will be keeping our casino room for our more mature guests who want to gamble and smoke cigars,” I told the wedding planner.

“
Right. I think it’s an amazing idea,” she said and turned to Noor. Andrew was at dance rehearsals so it was up to her to finish up with the last details. “About the guest list; I received a few changes that may affect the seating charts. I emailed them to you yesterday and need a response by tomorrow afternoon.”

“
I saw it this morning. I’ll look into it and let you know,” she nervously told her. Poor sweetie; she must have been so tired.

“
Hey, anything I can do to help?” I asked her.

She looked at me for a couple minutes.
“I’m good, love. Just keep the detox coming and don’t blow any more hair appointments off. We’re cutting it short… Not your hair,” she joked.

I hugged her as we walked back toward the house.
“I’m sorry. But every time I party with you, this kind of shit happens,” I told her. I took a cigarette out and lighted it.

She took the cigarette out of my hand and took a puff.

“Fucking London!” we said, laughing.

Day-minus-two – or today – found me and the rest of the bridal party at the hair salon only a few hours after dawn. Noor took over my hair and one of my wedding gifts was to not complain about it.

“
Are you sure this product isn’t going to straighten my hair permanently?” I ask the mother of all brides for the third time today. I could just have my hair done on the day of the wedding; there’s no need for this kind of product. She takes a sip of her detox shake. Should I be concern about the drinking? I don’t want her to sound like a nineteenth-century White Chapel whore on her wedding day.

“
It’s completely safe. I’ve been doing it for years, alright!”

“
Nooradine, I haven’t seen your hair curly in two years!” I scream. I get up to go to the washing station. “Get this shit off my hair now!”

“
Stop, you drama queen. In three weeks it will be back to normal. Sit down!” She says takes her iPad out,“I still need to confirm the guest list and all.”

I sit back down, refusing to face my stylist, and keep drinking my coffee. I haven
’t had a sip of alcohol since the bachelorette and I probably won’t until after the ceremony. I’m not counting Magda’s daily tea and shortbreads.

Noor is changing her hair color back to dark red; it will go with her wedding colors: white, black, grey and burgundy; her black and white wedding dress to be exact. The groom, his groomsmen and the bridesmaids will all be wearing grey.

“How are all you guys doing?” I ask the bride party. We’re all having our last hair rehearsal today; the same stylists will come to the house early in the afternoon on Saturday to do our hair and makeup. In the morning we will all go to a spa, another one of my wedding gifts.

“
Alright,” my stylist tells me, giving me the book for the colors. “Which shade of brown would you like?”

“
Whatever you do, please match most of my highlights to this shade of brown,” I tell her, giving a picture of Axelle.

“
That’s a great, natural color. This should be your darkest or lightest color?” she asks me.

“
Lightest please. But I guess I have to lose my black hair,” I tell her. Only because I love you, Nooradine.

Noor and I end up at the washing station at the same time.
“Can’t wait to see the finished product,” I hear her telling me. I close my eyes to enjoy the scalp massage. “You as a brunette. Brilliant, just brilliant,” she adds.

“
Only because I love you, mother of all brides,” I tease.

I received an email from Beesly last night regarding Second Coming
’s first single. It’s not going to be the title song, “Second Coming”, but one of the ballads Marcus wrote – “Pazza”: Crazy Lady. We changed the original title after the G Band and I rerecorded the musical track. The song is about a musician obsessed with a lounge singer with big, grey eyes… Wait a minute?

“
Should I hit you in the head?” Noor asks me.

That freaking gag order is ruining my life!
“No. I was just thinking about Beesly and the album. They’re releasing the first single next week.
Tatata
wrote it, but I composed the music with him and played Evelyn as well with the G Band. It’s a big deal.”

“
And you’re not going to be in the video?” Tara Lee-Riddell asks me, her head deep in the sink. She’s only having a touch up and a trim and will be leaving her trademark sexy hair down at the wedding.

“
There’s no need for this one. But I can’t wait to listen to it on the radio next week,” I tell them.

Teddy Lee-Riddell comes and sits next to her identical twin sister, her highlight foils still in her hair.
“Speaking of which; are we cancelling this afternoon’s dance rehearsal?”

“
Yes. The last one will be tomorrow morning. Then we’re done,” Carolyn Riddell says under the hair dryer. She turns to Hélène and Sasha Mpobo sitting not far from her. “You’re so lucky you don’t have to go through all those dancing routines,” she tells them.

“
Yes we are,” they both answer between a few laughs.

“
Kiki and Patricia have to do it,” Sasha says with her thick Italian accent.

“
They studied ballet; we didn’t,” Hélène says.

These are all Uncle Alfonse
’s daughters with his three wives; Papa’s older brother never really knew where to stop as Papa used to say. Hélène and Sasha have the same mother, Tata Laura, who is from Naples where my cousins grew up and have their own prêt à porter store. Kiki and Patti have a Belgian mother, Maman Alfonsine; I’m not kidding. They grew up between Bangui and Brussels where they studied ballet. They’re both about a couple of years older than me. Then you have Young Samirah, named after her mother, Old Samirah, and Sumaya, born and raised in Brussels where my uncle has been living for the past twenty-five years. They are the youngest in our group right now, but at least they are legal and, boy, can they handle their liquors. And that’s only his daughters; he has four sons with them as well. Where’s Catherine, Tata Céline’s only child? She and my mother were pregnant at the same time but I arrived a couple of weeks early. Just as I think this, she enters the salon with Juliet Riddell. They both keep their hair very short and free of any chemicals, unlike us.

“
I’m starving,” Juliet tells her sister, Carolyn.

“
It’s not even twelve yet. We should be done by then and just eat a small plate before heading back to Grandpa’s,” Tara says.

We all nod in agreement. With our hair mostly done now, it will take less than thirty minutes per bridesmaid to style on the wedding day.

“Let’s go to Hartley’s Pub. We can drop Samirah and Sumaya off to our townhouse on our way back to Hampstead,” I propose. They have the best Yorkshire puddings in London.

“
No!” Noor says out of the blue. “The food is too rich there. No more rich food until Saturday! I want you to fit in those dresses,” she tells us.

“
What?” Teddy says.

“
I haven’t gained a single pound in ten years!” Juliet looks so offended.

“
We’re bloody Riddell. We eat like pigs and don’t gain weight,” Tara says.

“
That wasn’t open for debate, ladies. We will go eat a salad or something,” mother of all brides proclaims and closes the subject.

“
I think I lost weight with all the dancing we’ve been doing in the past week,” Kiki says and gives me “say-something” looks.

“
Sweetie, we can order light dishes or share. We really like the Hartley’s food,” I gently tell her.

“
I said no.”

“
We’re not the ones having to drink a detox shake every morning. Talk about wasted calories!” I tell her. There it is! I said it! Now where should I hide?

No scream; instead she takes my hand.
“Luce, we’re not going there today. Okay?” she almost whispers.