by Low, Shari
Carol, lying next to Sarah on the other double bed in the room, both of them in the same robes as Jess, interjected, ‘I always get confused between manifestos and mandates.’
‘Hello?’ I yelled, hands on hips. ‘Bride over here looking for reassurance!’
Thankfully Sarah had the ability to stay on message. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ she promised, hugging me as tightly as she could manage, given the barrier of my flared skirt. ‘I love you, Cooper,’ she whispered. ‘I can never thank you for all you’ve given me.’
‘Tell me I look like Kate Moss and we’ll call it quits,’ I joked.
As far as I was concerned, she didn’t owe me anything. I was just happy that her life was working out for her. Despite being friends since primary school, we’d all lost touch with Sarah when she’d gone off to Edinburgh University years ago. Thankfully, a chance meeting just a few months ago in the frozen foods aisle at Tesco had brought her back to us. But she wasn’t the same carefree, bundle of joy she’d been when we were teenagers. Over the next few heart-breaking hours, my sweet pal had revealed that she’d recently escaped from an abusive marriage and was back at college studying to be a teacher so she could support her two kids. The turnaround in her life had continued when I’d taken her along on stage one of the ex-boyfriend hunt. We’d found Nick, a throwback to a holiday romance when I was seventeen. It soon became clear that there was zero chemistry between us, but, sweet joy, Nick and Sarah had fallen madly in love and she, Nick and the kids, Hannah and Ryan, had been a family ever since. They were perfect for each other and the relationship had transformed her life. I couldn’t be happier for her.
‘I love you too,’ I told her, and when we eventually pulled apart, our eyes were teary with emotion. Or it might have been the mascara they’d used in the dodgy beauty salon we’d all visited that morning. It had been a last-minute decision and the only place we could get bookings for hair and make-up was a salon in SOHO run by three sisters in their sixties who looked like they’d been stuck in a time warp after being in close proximity to an explosion at a Max Factor factory in 1984. It didn’t give me much hope for my request for a natural look, but other than having to firmly refuse blue eyeliner, it had been a largely successful outing.
My blonde hair was in the pixie cut I’d been wearing since an unfortunate incident with too much hair dye the year before, and my finished face was definitely preferable to anything I could come up with using a make-up bag that I’d barely updated for a decade. The whole look had a fifties vibe, which perfectly matched the dress I’d picked for my big day. White satin, off the shoulder, tight bodice, with a tulle skirt that flared out, thanks to several underskirts, until it reached mid-calf level. Carol had used her extensive contact base of stylists and fashion insiders to find it for me and it had the whole ‘Breakfast At Tiffany’s’ vibe that I’d always pictured for my big day.
Kate, Jess, Carol and Sarah had also let the salon sisters go to work, and they all had updos that perfectly accented their style. Kate’s chestnut hair was in a sleek but understated ballerina bun, Sarah’s ebony mane was in a simple but elegant ponytail, Carol’s dark waves were intricately woven into a high-fashion, elaborate twist, with a few messy strands escaping around her face, and Jess had gone for a no-nonsense chignon that would serve her well if she ever decided to be a school teacher or Princess Anne.
Over on the chair by the window, where she was recovering from the exertion of getting me into this dress, Kate cleared her throat. She’d been emotional all day. Kate was the softest of us all. Even when we were kids, she was the caring one who looked out for the rest of us and always said the right things to make us feel better. ‘You are stunning, honey. Mark’s a lucky guy.’
There was a poignant pause, before the other three burst out laughing at the obvious absurdity of that comment. I had to agree with the implication from the majority – I was definitely the lucky one in this relationship. After I first touched tongues with Mark behind the youth club fire exit, we became love’s young dream… if the dream was punctuated with several episodes of interrupted sleep. We broke up many times over the next few years, finally going our separate ways when I ran away to live in Amsterdam in my late teens. Over the next decade, I’d somehow managed to almost marry several different men, before bumping into him again six months ago at Carol and Callum’s wedding. On the day we met again, I was single, skint, drowning in debt, and I’d made a complete arse of myself by bringing Sam, another ex, to the wedding and pretending he was my boyfriend, only for everyone to find out I was lying.
The pamphlet version of the happy ending is that Mark had scooped me up, declared his love, and I realised the right guy for me had been there all along. If I’d had a crystal ball, I could have saved myself a whole lot of heartache and air miles.
Anyway, if fairy-tale endings came with true love, unimaginable happiness, and a boyfriend who didn’t faint when he saw the size of your credit card bill, then this was it.
‘I think we all got lucky,’ Sarah said. ‘I still can’t believe I’m here.’
‘I still can’t believe I’m married,’ Jess interjected. Ah, yes, Jess. After an affair with a married MP had gone public in the Sunday tabloids, she’d got together with Mike Chapman, the journalist who’d spilled the story. Not the most conventional start to a relationship. And now she’d had a pretty unconventional start to married life too. On the flight over here, Mike had ambushed her with a vicar and they’d got married in mid-air between Heathrow and New York. They’d have to make it official when they got home, but as far as they were concerned, the deed was done.
Carol’s turn. ‘Is it just me who thinks this is just like any Saturday night back home when we were teenagers and we were all getting ready in your bedroom to go to the school disco? The only thing that’s changed is you lot have some wrinkles and George Michael has ditched Andrew Ridgeley.’
‘And there’s no way this arse is getting into those gold hot pants I bought in the Miss Selfridge sale in 1986,’ I said wistfully.
‘Not without a public indecency charge,’ Jess agreed.
‘Bugger, look at the time,’ Kate squealed. ‘The car will be here in ten minutes.’
That rustled up a flurry of activity as everyone jumped off their beds, discarded the pre-wedding drinks and swapped their robes for dresses. I hadn’t done that thing where all the bridesmaids looked so similar they could be in a girl band. Although, if we did, Kate would be Mamma Spice, Carol would be Sexy Spice, Jess would be Smart Spice, Sarah would be Survivor Spice and I’d be Mastercard Spice, the one who – thanks to her recent round-the-world search for all her ex-boyfriends – would be paying off her debts until the end of time. Instead, the girls had all picked their own pastel frocks. Carol was in a powder blue Hervé Léger dress that clung to her curves. Jess had gone for a shift dress in mint. Kate’s yellow tea dress had a similar fifties vibe to mine. And Sarah was exquisite in pale pink, bias-cut silk.
On the outside, we actually looked like a group of successful, mature, together women. The world didn’t need to know that on the inside we were still those fifteen-years-olds who loved a laugh because we knew that we were only ever one wrong turn away from a drama, a disaster or a regrettable snog at the school disco. Thankfully, we’d grown out of that last option.
We were just about to leave when I stopped at the door, causing a slight pile-up behind me as the others ground to a halt. ‘Okay, so I know we don’t do mushy stuff, but I just want you all to know I love you. You’re the best friends anyone could have.’
‘We love you too,’ Kate said, squeezing my hand.
It should have been a beautiful moment of reflection and gratitude, but Jess couldn’t bear to be late for anything. ‘Okay, that’s our sentimental interlude over. Now let’s go, and make it snappy, before Mark sees sense and makes a run for it.’
‘Oh my God, that reminds me…’ Carol exclaimed, while Jess herded us out of the door and into the corridor. ‘I was watching a talk sh
ow at the gym this morning and a brother and sister ended up ditched when their partners ran off together. So if Mark says he’s going to the bathroom and I’m not in the room…’ she let that drift off with a mischievous grin.
Maybe beautiful moments of reflection and gratitude just weren’t our thing, but I wasn’t complaining. I’d take this lot over anyone else on any day of the week. And I’d also take this unconventional wedding day too. The thought of a big, formal celebration filled me with absolute dread. My dad would get blitzed, my mother would criticise everything, and there would be all that stress about photos and cars and whether we had the right shade of napkins. It was an easy decision to go for a short-notice, destination wedding.
We’d decided on New York in a philosophical and analytical way just a month or so ago – we’d put the names of all the places we loved into one of my Converse sneakers and pulled out a winner. Thankfully, everyone we loved could make it, except my Auntie Val and Uncle Don, who were celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary on a Mediterranean cruise. She’d called from Palma the night before to wish us luck and let us know that she’d stashed away several bottles of sangria for a party when we all got home.
The wedding itself was to be low-key too. There was no booking system at the Marriage Bureau, so it was a case of turning up and hoping for a slot. If it worked out today, then great. If not, we’d come back tomorrow. It would give me a great excuse to wear my dress again. After the ceremony, we planned a quick change at the hotel, and then a jaunt to Coney Island for some serious candy floss, funfair rides and the weekly Friday night fireworks. Perfect. My mother was going to have to lie down for a week to get over the lack of pomp and formality. To be honest, I was surprised my parents had come. It was difficult for people with a loving mum and dad to imagine, but Ma and Pa Cooper were a law unto themselves. My dad would have to be prised off a bar stool to get him to the ceremony, and my mother, well, cosy mother daughter moments had never been her thing. She’d shown absolutely no interest in the wedding, until we’d decided to have it in New York. I was pretty sure she was only here for the shopping. Still, I’d tried. ‘Mum, the girls and I are getting ready in my suite then going to the registry office together. Why don’t you come over and get ready with us, then we can all travel together?’
I didn’t have to wait long for the inevitable rejection. She’d looked at me like I’d just suggested we did a line of crack behind a dumpster, ‘Darling, that would be such a hassle. I’ve already arranged for a hairdresser to come to my room and I’m not getting my dress crushed by squeezing into a cab. I’ve also booked a car for me and your father and I suppose we’ll bring your gran as well.’ Gran was dad’s mum, but at least, to her credit, my mother accepted her as part of the package. It would be uncharitable to think that the only reason for that was because she’d needed Gran’s constant babysitting service when we were kids. Definitely uncharitable. And almost definitely true. Anyway, I brushed her refusal off. I wasn’t letting my mother’s disdain and general disinterest spoil my day. Not when I was with my girls and they more than compensated for the lack of fuzzy family stuff.
And they knew how to dish out orders too.
‘Walk and talk, walk and talk,’ Jess commanded, all the way to the lifts. We made it to the front door of the hotel at one o’clock on the dot.
The Manhattan Marriage Bureau was only ten blocks from our Greenwich Village lodgings, but we’d been warned it could take an hour in mid-afternoon traffic, so we’d left ourselves plenty of time. Mark, and his best man, who just happened to be my brother, Callum, were meeting us there at two o’clock with the rest of our guests: my parents, my brother, Michael, Gran, Mark’s parents, Kate’s husband, Bruce, Jess’s husband, Mike, and Sarah’s fiancé, Nick. Hopefully we’d get a slot before it closed at 3.45 p.m.
As the car moved steadily along the streets, though, I saw that we’d been overcautious. There were a few minor hold-ups at traffic lights, but there was almost no congestion, so twenty minutes later we were sitting outside the stunning steps of the government building with forty minutes to spare until our meeting time with the rest of the wedding party. Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of the others yet.
‘There’s no way we’re going in just now,’ Carol exclaimed. ‘It’s your job to make an entrance.’
‘Want me to ask him to go around the block?’ Kate asked.
Biting my lip, I scanned the street. Carol was right. We didn’t want to be hanging about some hallway waiting for everyone to get there. It wasn’t exactly the romantic option.
‘We passed a pub just round that last corner. We could go in there for a pre-wedding drink.’
‘From your lips to Jack Daniel’s ears,’ Kate said, laughing.
We paid, hopped out, and then sprinted back across the road at the first non-jaywalking opportunity.
As soon as we opened the doors of O’Reilly’s Tavern, we knew it was our kind of place. Like so many Irish bars we’d loved before, the wood-panelled walls and traditional decor beckoned us in, and the music was playing, the chatter was loud and it had a huge free table right next to the bar.
‘In half an hour, remind me I’m getting married today, otherwise we’ll end up staying here and I’ll be starting off a sing-song by six o’clock.’ I was only half joking.
‘No problem,’ Carol agreed. ‘You know what they say…’
She paused and the rest of us waited with bated breath. Carol hadn’t got a popular saying right since, well, ever. If today was the day, it had to be a good omen for the wedding.
‘A drink in time saves nine,’ she said breezily.
Forget about that omen thing.
I’m not sure who giggled first, but it was contagious.
‘What?’ Carol asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘What did I say wrong?’
I hugged her and landed a kiss on her cheek. ‘Not a thing, Carol Cooper, but I fricking love you. I just hope you’re not on my team if we ever go on Catchphrase.’
‘Hello there, ladies! Sit yerselves down, and I’ll be over for yer demands in just a minute,’ shouted the barman, a portly gent, somewhere around his late fifties or early sixties. I recognised his accent as being from Dublin, one of my favourite cities.
That was definitely a good omen.
As promised, our pastel-clad buttocks had barely hit the seats when he appeared at our side. ‘Going somewhere fancy or is this your usual daywear?’ he asked me, with a completely straight face.
‘Usual daywear,’ I replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘I put on a wedding dress every morning and wander up and down outside the Marriage Bureau around the corner in the hope that someone will take me on.’
There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Well now, it’s yer lucky day. I get off at five, and I’m willing to give it a go. My wife might object, but she’s not so fast on her feet, so I reckon you could take her.’
‘I might never leave here,’ I announced, desperate to giggle. ‘Sorry, what’s your name? If we’re going to be married, I feel I should know that.’
‘It’s Daniel,’ he said, with a bow. ‘But you can call me sugar lips.’
That was it. I crumbled into laughter. ‘I’m Carly. Or Mrs Sugar Lips. I’ll answer to either.’
Daniel was still hooting with laughter when he headed back to the bar with our order.
One round of drinks turned to two as the bar continued to fill up. I had to raise my voice to be heard over the background music and increasing volume of chatter.
‘Can someone call Mark and tell him I’m ditching him for Daniel?’
‘I think that’s the kind of thing you should tell me to my face,’ came a voice from behind me.
My head whipped round and there was my groom, my gorgeous love, looking utterly handsome in his suit. My brother, Callum, was with him, and it was fair to say they were attracting attention. If there was a reality TV show called ‘Thirty-Somethings of Abercrombie and Fitch’, these two would be in it.
&
nbsp; ‘Babe!’
‘Eh, who’s Daniel?’ Mark asked. His eyebrows were raised, but a smile played on that entirely kissable mouth. Superstitions about not seeing him before the wedding didn’t even register. I was marrying this amazing man. That was the kind of good luck nothing could spoil.
I gestured over to Sugar Lips. ‘The barman. He says he wants to marry me just as long as his wife, Big Bernie, doesn’t kill me first.’
Mark took a moment to absorb this, then shook his head. ‘Cooper…’ Like my girlfriends, he often called me by my surname. It was an old habit from primary school because there were another two Carlys in my class. ‘I’ve left you alone for one day, and this is what happens?’
‘Yup,’ I confirmed, sheepishly.
His stern demeanour cracked into laughter as he slid in beside me. ‘And that’s why I’m marrying you,’ he said, while the others cheered. His hand went to my face and he gently tugged me towards him for a long, smoochy kiss. ‘You look incredible,’ he murmured, before kissing me again.
‘Excuse me, can you take yer hands off my future wife,’ Daniel roared from behind the bar.
‘Only if you bring me beer,’ Mark jibed right back.
Daniel bowed. ‘Sounds like a fair swap to me.’
Another tray of drinks had just materialised, when the pub door opened again, and in came our parents, my gran and my brother, Michael. It was like we were the mothership and we were calling our people home. Shocked, they stopped dead when they saw us, then came over to greet us with a flurry of hugs and kisses.
‘We were ten minutes early, so we just popped in for the ladies to use the loo,’ my dad announced. God love him, he was a terrible liar. The man had never knowingly walked past a bar in his life.
‘Budge up there, Mark Barwick, or I’ll sit on your knee.’ That was my gran. A hilarious, irrepressible force of nature.
‘But since we’re here, might as well have a quick one before we kick this wedding stuff off then,’ my dad said, before taking everyone’s requests and going off to the bar, a happy man.
