Much Ado About Sweet Nothing

by Alison May

  She laughs and then she keeps laughing. I sort of feel pressured to say something else funny, like I’m now in laughter credit and need to redress the situation.

  ‘Actually, I know he told her. I have to sleep in the next room to the practical sessions.’ I’m not sure that was funny enough.

  ‘Ben!’ She punches my arm, but she’s smiling. I think she might be being playful. I’m not really sure.

  She looks at the flowers. ‘These are …’ She pauses and looks at me. ‘These are flowers.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought. Fortunately, the florist explained it to me.’ I point at the bouquet. ‘These blue ones, for example, are a particular sort of flower,that represents something.’

  ‘Represents what?’

  ‘You know, something. Something nice probably.’

  She pokes me in the ribs. If this is playfulness, then it causes more bruises than the name suggests. ‘I’m not convinced you really took in all the details.’

  ‘I thought flowers were more your area. You know, romance and beauty and all that?’

  I’m making a real effort to keep my tone light. I don’t want to wind her up today, but I don’t feel ready to leave yet either.

  ‘Not hearts and flowers! Proper romance, with guts and tears and meaning to it.’

  ‘Guts and tears? Really, I can’t see why they don’t get you writing Valentine’s cards.’

  ‘Very funny. Seriously though, romance should mean something. It shouldn’t just be a pretty gesture.’

  She’s not looking at me any more, but sort of muttering to the floor. ‘It should be deeper than that. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah. I know what you mean.’

  Then neither of us says anything for a colossal period of time. At least it feels colossal, and I have no social skills. If it feels too long to me it’s probably been about a year and a half. Henri and Claudio probably have twins by now. They probably named them after us in memory of how we mysteriously disappeared on their wedding day.

  Stop thinking. Say something. And then we both speak at once, and then both stop again, and then both speak again. I stop. ‘You go.’

  She steps back. ‘I was just going to say thank you for bringing the flowers.’

  I nod. ‘That’s OK.’

  She looks at the clock. ‘Well, I suppose I’m going to have to interrupt Tony’s little chat.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I mean she needs to start getting ready. Only ...’ She looks at the clock again. ‘Only five hours to go.’

  To me five hours sounds like enough time to redecorate the spare room and then start getting ready, but I will trust Trix’s feminine judgement.

  I start to leave. In the doorway I stop. ‘Ok then. See you at the altar.’ See you at the altar? ‘I mean not at the altar exactly, just, you know, near it ...’

  She’s laughing, so I laugh too. And then we stop laughing, and sort of look at each other, and she says. ‘Right then.’

  And I say, ‘Yeah.’

  I turn and walk too quickly back to the car. It’s a good job I’m making allowances for the fact that she’s hopelessly in love with me. Otherwise that would have been really awkward.

  Chapter Thirty

  Trix

  Five hours to get ready? He must truly think I’ve lost it. He does think I’ve truly lost it. He practically ran back to his car. Was I always this bad at this sort of thing? Not that I’m planning any sort of thing, but if I was, you know, I just feel that I used to be more adept in that whole area. Yes. Right. Well, I’m glad that’s clear.

  I can’t justify interrupting Tony for at least another two hours. In fact, I’m kind of grateful that his fatherly wisdom is keeping her occupied. She rang my doorbell at 8.30 this morning. 8.30am! On a Saturday! I was half surprised she wasn’t already in her dress. If we run the day on Henri’s schedule we’ll be at the church several hours before Claudio. I did try to talk her through the notion that brides are expected to be fashionably late, but she screwed her face up at me and said. ‘I’m getting married at three o’clock.’

  I suggested that five past three would be perfectly fine, but apparently five past three would be perfectly terrible. The hairdresser is coming here at noon, and I really would like to keep Henri distracted from any ‘getting-ready’ activities until then. At least that will give us a chance of not being embarrassingly early.

  All of that leaves me with some unexpected time to fill. That always happens on days like this. You mentally block out the whole weekend for The Wedding, but it actually only takes up about twelve hours. The rest of the time you’re just kicking about wondering why you don’t have anything to do.

  Ben’s book is lying on the coffee table, where it’s been being ignored for the last six weeks. Reading on Henri’s Big Day feels slightly inappropriate but I don’t have anything else to do, so I lie down on the sofa and pick up the book.

  Chapter 2: What The Romans Did For Us

  What did the Romans do for us? Well, in this case, actually nothing. Although, technically, that is quite wrong. The Romans failed utterly to do Nothing for us. They had no symbol for it, no number for it, no mathematical concept for it. So far as the idea of Zero goes the Romans had nothing.

  It is, for many, one of the great mathematical mysteries of the past. The Romans were, in their time, almost unparalleled as practical engineers. They were great road and bridge builders, and designers of complex symmetric buildings, and even more complex systems to heat them. And, yet, they had a system of writing numbers that is unique only in the extent of its impracticality and ability to confuse.

  After the mathematical inventions of the Babylonians, and their great breakthrough in recognising the value of the empty column, the Romans took maths on a giant trip backwards.

  A giant trip backwards? How apposite. I turn to the cover page and inspect the picture of the author again. It’s one of those black and white head and shoulders shots that only ever appear as author photos in the back of books. Black and white suits Ben though; it fits with his view of the world. This is ridiculous. I get angry just looking at his picture. Is it wrong to quite like getting angry?

  ‘Trix!’

  Henri is standing in the doorway in her bathrobe. I sit up to look at her.

  ‘Trix, can I start getting ready yet?’

  ‘Not until the hairdresser gets here.’

  She crinkles her nose and comes and sits down next to me. ‘That’s ages.’

  ‘Well getting ready now won’t make the wedding happen quicker.’

  She’s swinging her feet and banging them against the settee. It doesn’t seem possible that she’s old enough to get married.

  ‘Where’s your dad?’

  ‘He’s taking the cake to the hotel. He’ll be back about one.’

  I nod.

  ‘Is one early enough? We don’t want to be rushing. Should I ring him and tell him to come earlier?’

  ‘It’s early enough. It’s two whole hours before the wedding, and the church is only twenty minutes away.’

  ‘Yeah, but we don’t want to be late, do we?’

  ‘We won’t be late. Anyway, you’re supposed to be late. You’re the bride.’

  She gives me her special ‘I’ve decided not to understand’ face, and so I drop the subject. Tradition or not, Henri is going to be one punctual bride.

  ‘We could open the champagne.’ Even as I say it I’m not convinced that it’s my best idea. If we start drinking now, then I’ll probably have to eat something later and will mess up my make-up and get crumbs down my dress, but champagne seems like a wedding morning sort of thing to do, and it might distract Henri for a few more minutes.

  ‘You said not until the hairdresser arrives.’

  ‘Well, you’re the one that wanted to start getting ready.’

  ‘Yes but, if there’s a plan you can’t just go changing the plan. Then there’s just no system at all.’

  She looks properly put out now. She�
��s like this at work too. Everything she’s involved in has a perfectly typed up plan, with targets and perfectly thought out SMART objectives. The first session she ever did for art club, she did this beautiful plan. When I read it I suggested to her that she might need to be more flexible. I asked her what happened if one of the children asked a question. She said that the plan allowed for 4.5 minutes of questions.

  The doorbell rings. Henri dives off the sofa. ‘The hairdresser!’

  She’s early. In the circumstances, I have no idea whether that’s a good thing or not. ‘Go answer it then. I’ll get the champagne.’

  I’m feeling like I need it.

  Henrietta

  The hairdresser is a special one who mainly does ‘up-dos’ for weddings. That must be odd for a hairdresser, to just decide you don’t like cutting hair any more and you’re just going to make a living out of posh ponytails. What she’s doing is a lot more than a posh ponytail though really. I think it might be art.

  She’s managed to make all these little tiny curls and pile them all up on top, with more curls falling down around my face. I had no idea I had so much hair. When she’s finished she starts on my make-up. Normally make-up makes my face feel all hot and too tight. Today I let her take over though. Hair and make-up are part of the schedule; they’re part of making me the perfect bride for the perfect wedding.

  Trix sits on the bed drinking her champagne while I’m being ‘done’. I’ve conceded that she can wear her hair down. It took enough effort to get her to agree to the dress. And her hair is lovely anyway. She has all these thick beautiful red curls that just bounce around her. It’s taking quite a lot of time and chemistry to get mine to create a similar effect.

  After the hairdresser has finished Trix says I have to eat something before I put the dress on. I know she’s right. We won’t be eating the wedding breakfast until about 6 o’clock. I don’t know why it’s called breakfast, but it is. The lady at the hotel keeps calling it that, so it must be right.

  When my dad gets back he makes us sandwiches, with white bread and real butter and proper ham. Trix says, they’re the sorts of sandwiches they have in the Enid Blyton novels, all full of childhood and good intentions.

  And then finally, after the sandwiches, and after I’ve brushed my teeth and Trix’s redone my lipstick, it’s time for the dress. Trix and I go upstairs to her room, which she has tidied especially for the occasion. I sit on the bed while Trix gets dressed. She says we have to do my dress last. I can’t wait. I got it from the shop on Wednesday, and I’ve kept having to sneak little looks at it, to make sure it’s just how I remember it. It is. It’s going to make me perfect.

  Eventually, at quarter past two, Trix agrees that I can put the dress on. She unzips it and holds it for me to step into, and then fastens the dress up my back, and ties the loose fabric around me. She walks around in front of me and grins before she turns me towards the mirror.

  ‘Ta-dah! Rapunzel, ready for Prince Charming.’

  I start to well up when I look in the mirror, but Trix tells me I can’t cry because of my mascara. Actually, the hairdresser said the mascara was triple-waterproof because brides always get teary, so I can cry if I want to, but Trix tells me not to, so I’d better not.

  We go downstairs to my dad, and he does cry. He keeps saying I’m his little princess, and he’s so proud, which is lovely, and exactly what the father of the bride ought to say when he sees his little girl in her wedding dress.

  He takes about fifty pictures of me, and then about another twenty of me and Trix, and then Trix takes some of me and my dad. I suspect that they’re just trying to delay me, because Trix thinks the bride should be fashionably late. But I am walking down that aisle at 3pm, and no one is going to stop me.

  I can picture it. The church is going to look beautiful. We’ve got flowers all over it. And I love looking at the congregation at weddings. There’s always so much colour. Normally, everything’s all black and grey and brown and navy and denim, but at weddings it looks as if everyone has blossomed. Whatever Trix says, I’m going to be bang on time; I am not going to be late for my perfect wedding.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Trix

  For some reason I get a car all to myself to the church. I’m not allowed to share with Henri and her dad because that’s ‘not traditional’ apparently. I’m supposed to arrive before Henri to make sure everything’s ready. I have no idea what I’ll do if it’s not.

  Fortunately, Ben is standing on his own in the doorway at the back of the church, wearing a morning coat, waistcoat and cravat, so I can pass some time laughing at him. I open with, ‘You look silly.’

  He turns towards me. ‘And you look,’ he pauses. ‘You look beautiful.’

  I don’t quite know what to say in response. Now I feel bad about saying he looks silly. ‘You look OK really.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. I look silly. I think women do better than men in terms of wedding outfits.’

  ‘Not always. She was threatening me with peach.’

  Ben grins. ‘I’m going to assume that would be bad.’

  ‘Very bad.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s the longest conversation I’ve ever had about clothes.’

  ‘You coped admirably. Jolly well done you.’

  He claps his hands together. ‘Right then. Nearly time to get this show on the road.’

  I nod. ‘Henri should be here in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Sort of perky but psychotic. How’s the groom?’

  ‘OK.’ He pauses again. ‘Quiet, but OK. I think.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  He grins again. ‘Pre-wedding jitters. It’s a big day.’

  ‘It certainly is. And then you get to share your home with newlyweds.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  ‘They’ll be fine.’

  ‘They’ll be nauseating. Maybe I could come and live with you.’

  It’s a joke. It’s very clearly a joke. I should be laughing to show that I know it’s a joke. I’m not. I’m just sort of gazing at him. Honestly, I really did used to be better at this.

  Henri’s car pulls up outside and saves me from popping his name on the answering machine right here and now. I gesture towards the car, ‘Showtime.’

  He nods. ‘I’ll let them know we’re ready.’

  He turns to walk away, and then turns back. ‘At least tell me I can drop round and see you occasionally, you know when they’re particularly annoying.’

  ‘Sure. Anytime.’ Anytime? That’s great. Don’t try to sound like you have a life or anything. No. You just commit to sitting at home for the rest of your life on the off-chance that he pops in. Well done Trix. You’re a walking talking masterclass in how not to play it cool.

  I resist the urge to watch him walk away, and go and help Henri out of the car. In the church doorway I fiddle a bit with her skirt and loosen a curl that’s got itself caught up in her earring. I’m feeling quite excited when the music starts and her dad leads her down the aisle in front of me.

  The wedding service is beautiful. Danny reads that bit from Corinthians that they always have at weddings.

  ‘Love keeps no record of wrongs,’ he reads. I glance over at Ben, and I think I catch him looking and quickly looking away. I look away too. He was definitely looking at me. Probably. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just staring into space and now he thinks I was looking at him.

  I force myself to concentrate on the actual ceremony. It gets to the bit where the vicar asks the congregation if they know of any reason why Henri and Claudio can’t get married. In my opinion, the vicar milks it a bit. He does a lot of dramatic looking around and pauses for longer than I would think really necessary. I suppose he doesn’t get that much other opportunity to ham it up. It’s not really appropriate at funerals, is it?

  Claudio is staring straight ahead with his face fixed on the vicar. Ben was right. He does look properly nervous. It’s h
is turn first.

  The vicar turns to him and asks him the questions. You know the drill; it goes something like this:

  ‘Claudio, will you take Henrietta to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?’

  ‘No.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Trix

  Well, I didn’t think he was that nervous. There’s a sort of ripple of laughter through the congregation, because he must be joking. It’s weird, and horrible, and not even a little bit funny, but clearly, it must be some sort of bad, bad joke.

  Henri is just staring at him. She hasn’t said a word, but her mouth is open with no sound coming out. The vicar leans forward, and pats Claudio on the arm. He looks towards the congregation and smiles. ‘What a time to fluff your lines? We’ll try that again.’

  There’s another ripple of half-laughter. I look over at Ben and I can see him whispering to Danny who seems to be shrugging in response. It seems to take an age for the vicar to speak again, but it’s probably no more than a few seconds.

  Very quietly and very slowly he repeats the question, just the same as before. Love, comfort, honour, protect, forsake others; it’s all there. Everyone is staring at Claudio, waiting for his answer.

  ‘No.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ben

  I collect two bottles of beer from the bar and go and put one down in front of Trix.

  ‘Want some company?’

  She shrugs, which isn’t ‘No,’ so I sit down. She might want company or not, but she’s stuck with me. We’re in the bar at the hotel. I figured telling them the reception was off might be a best man duty, although it wasn’t on the list that Henri wrote out for me. Trix came with me. I think she wanted something to do.

  ‘Do you know how Henri is?’

  Trix shakes her head. ‘How do you think?’