“Blue, I’ve got the ‘hic,’ hiccups!” I whisper worriedly, covering my midsentence-hic with my hand.
He smiles and leans down to my ear,
“I didn’t think you got any cuter.”
My brain goes into analytical overdrive. He thinks I’m cute? When did he start to think I was cute? What, between Sweet Dreams, booze sweats, the peanut costume and a black eye? How can he think I’m cute if he doesn’t even like me? You don’t constantly patronise and tease someone you like. Do you?
For the first time since last Friday I look at him. As in I really, really look at him. His hair isn’t curly nor straight, but tousled. It’s rebelliously untidy but looks clean, and soft. His jaw is roughened by blonde stubble. His blue eyes are on me, and they’re sparkling liquid. They’re as deep and radiant as one of those bottles of Sky vodka.
I turn away and distract myself by watching Angrypants making her way down the aisle. She showed me plenty of pics of the dress in the months leading up to today. It had taken her over a year to pick the perfect design but the time and energy have clearly paid off. It pains me to say this, but she looks mighty fine. The dress hugs her slim waist then flows out. Diamonds sparkle at her earlobes and around her neck. The veil is long and laced. She is a vision, even with a couple of her trademark stress-wrinkles peeking through under the layers of makeup. I try my hardest to be happy for her, because being a hateful bitch is not a good look. I should know, I’ve worked with one for five years.
I continue to hiccup as the ceremony unfolds. It’s your usual twenty-five minute shebang, nothing out of the ordinary. I almost do a great big HIC during one of the readings (that ‘love is patient love is kind’ one that features in every single freekin’ wedding I’ve ever been to) but I hold it in, albeit painfully. Scotch seemed liked such a good idea at the time. No regrets.
As the priest starts wrapping a ribbon on this puppy I find my hiccups are becoming ever more difficult to control.
“I Sarah Daye…”
Hic. My thirtieth hiccup, held in successfully.
“… take you Neville McPhillips…”
“HIC!”
Shit. The hiccup echoes off the stone walls. The couple with the baby sitting in front of us turn with looks of quiet amusement. The whole church has heard it and I’m so embarrassed I want to die. I cover my mouth and look down at my lap, blushing crimson. I can feel Blue’s eyes on me. Angrypants pauses for the briefest of moments before continuing. Maybe she didn’t hear? We are sitting in one of the back aisles, after all.
The ceremony finishes with no more rogue hics. Angrypants and the new Mr Angrypants walk down the aisle to the cheers of the crowd, hand in hand. I can’t help wondering, are they actually happy? Angrypants is smiling but it’s a thin, suspicious smile. Neville looks merrier but isn’t exactly a beaming mama bridegroom. Surely the one time you should be at your most joyful is now, after reciting such beautiful promises to each other? And technically they’ve checked out of the horrors of single life forever. Unless they get divorced I suppose…
As the masses start emptying the pews to follow the newlyweds outside, I look around and notice that I know no one here. Angrypants hasn’t invited anyone else from work, not even her devoted PA. There are about a hundred and fifty guests, almost all couples with young kids. When did all these people decide to get married and have babies? And why? Young lassies walk past me decked out in pearls and floral prints, premature transformations into their mothers. Am I the only almost-thirty year old who isn’t even remotely ready for that life yet?
Blue and I mill around the front of the church for a few minutes. It’s always a little awkward, isn’t it, that bit after the ceremony where people don’t quite know what to do with themselves? The bride looks confused, the groom looks confused, they end up on the top step outside the church waiting for instructions. More often than not a queue of people form to offer their congratulations, and this wedding is no exception. Angrypants and Neville’s families approach first then their closest friends follow. Blue and I diligently take our place in the queue of well-wishers.
We watch the big guy in front of us pull Neville into a bear hug, then try to give Angrypants a kiss on the cheek. She pulls back ever so slightly,
“Sorry Nico, your face is sweating and you’ll smudge my make up.”
The big guy laughs jovially, ignoring her sneer,
“Sarah, you are as lovely as a rose!”
His accent reminds me of a Polish one, but softer, as if a Russian accent married a French accent then had a Norwegian-accented baby.
“No thanks to being kept up all night by you and Neville playing X-Box.”
Nico laughs again and slaps her on the back before moving on. I like this guy!
It’s our turn next. I continue to hiccup quietly as I wish Neville all the best (I’ve only met him a handful of times but he seems a nice enough guy) and introduce him to Blue. Then I turn to Angrypants,
“Congratulations Sarah, I’m so happy for you and you look ‘hic’ gorgeous.”
“That was you who had the hiccups?”
She says it with a smile so disarming it unbalances me. Literally. I sway into her and clutch her arm.
“Yeah… I’m sorry about that. Come ‘ere, you old married gal.”
I try to give her a hug but she jerks back sharply,
“Jonesy, is that whiskey on your breath?”
“Scotch.”
Blue sniggers. Sarah looks up with a look so cold it would freeze hell over. Blue’s smile vanishes. He suddenly looks like a frightened kid about to enter kindergarten for the first time. Sarah stares him down for a few moments, then turns back to me,
“Why won’t you take off your sunglasses?”
“My… ugh, doorman gave me conjunctivitis.”
“What’s your doorman’s name?”
“It’s Sergeant… Timothy… Suicide. Wait a minute, I don’t know. I don’t have a doorman… My doorman’s name is Bill.”
Shut up shut up shut up! Or just tell the truth, you know you don’t lie well.
“Okay fine, I have a black eye. It’s a long story involving Latin American orphans. Oh and this is my friend Blue, he’s standing in for Chloe and the Spanish guy who both stood me up today. But hey, first world problems right?”
Angrypants gives me those strange eyes, like she’s still deciding whether she hates me or likes me. It’s been five years already, come on and pick a side!
“His name is Blue?”
“Yep, surname Eyes. When we have a kid I’m going to call him Magenta. He’ll be the good version of Magneto.”
She realises I’m juiced and talking shit, sighs exasperatedly and motions for us to keep moving. The queue of friends has grown large behind us. Blue and I start off, and as soon as Angrypants is out of earshot he says,
“Holy shit. That was your boss? She’s scarier than a tornado full of razor blades, and that’s no exaggeration.”
I nod as we walk out the gate of the church, in the direction of the beach.
“Yep, and that’s her in a good mood. I’m so sorry I dragged you to this.”
“No it’s great, love a dose of female terrorism. Makes me glad I don’t ovulate.”
I slap his shoulder and laugh despite myself. I shouldn’t, because clearly he’s a raging chauvinist, but somehow it feels good to let go. Plus I’m drunk and everything is really funny at the moment. As we walk along I pick a daisy and place it behind my ear. We eventually arrive at the pier and Blue starts kicking stones. We’re silent for a few seconds.
“So the reception doesn’t start til six. Where do you fancy killing a few hours?” I ask.
“How about lining that little stomach of yours with some grub?”
I’m liking his style again.
“Definitely! I saw a nice looking pub restaurant place on the way, want to check it out?”
I notice with relief that my hiccups have gone. As we turn back to town Blue motions with his arm towards
me. His elbow is jutting out the tiniest bit, an invitation to link arms. I could probably use the support, my heels keep snagging in the path-gaps. I take his arm and we begin the walk back. He’s a full head taller than me even in my heels. The day is glorious, sunny and bright, with a beach crowded with sunbathers.
Thoughts of the Stranger are far, far, far away.
Soon we’re at the pub but it turns out we’re not the only wedding guests with the idea. The place is swarming with people from the church. It’s mostly those premature married couples with their screaming toddlers. A little girl is insisting on wearing what look like 3D glasses, which I think is fair enough, but her Dad doesn’t want her to wear them while she eats so she’s having a strop. One kid is getting smacked because he tried to shove is fist down his baby sister’s mouth. A toddler who looks like he’s styled his hair on Phil Collins’ (tiny clump on top of a shiny white melon) is sitting in his high chair and it appears he’s putting spaghetti up his bum.
“Let’s hide at the bar,” I suggest, moving towards the counter.
“Indeed. Wouldn’t want you frightening people with that gaping black eye hole.”
I had lifted my sunnies onto my head as we entered the pub. It was the first time they’d left my face since Sainsbury’s. I swivel around, furious,
“And here I was about to get the first round, but you know what, forget it!”
I plonk down heavily on the bar stool and sulkily place my sunglasses back over my eyes. Blue takes the seat next to me,
“Come on I was only joking. What do you want me to say, that you still look incredible regardless of your eye? That whenever I look at you a Billie Joel song runs through my head?”
“Well, yeah.”
“That you have the most perfect body I’ve ever seen and sometimes I run behind you in Hyde Park to give me motivation to keep going?”
“Now you’re bordering on creepy.”
“That you’re the one thing in my miserable, lonely existence that I have to look forward to? That you’re a beacon of light in a grey and merciless world?”
I raise my good eyebrow and tell him to stop. He’s ruining a perfectly nice moment. I focus on getting the bar guy’s attention but can’t help noticing Blue has sat himself really close. I’m not sure if he’s doing it on purpose or because the bar is so full. Why does it feel nice to have him sitting beside me? The sudden surge of comfort I get from his body warmth propels me to do something I would never normally do. I take out my phone as the drinks arrive. I check and as expected, no word from the Stranger, just a concerned text from Mags. I start typing to the Prick Who Stood Me Up,
Hi. I’m ever so grateful for all you’ve done for me in the past, but I only see us as friends. Now that that’s over, you should know that I think Disney’s Robin Hood has more charisma in his sexy little snout than you could ever hope to achieve. Good bye.
Bitchy, yes. Passive aggressive, definitely. But I feel like I need to cut all ties and somehow get some Hand back. Plus, it felt good confessing my weird childhood crush on an anthropomorphic rodent.
The next four hours with Blue are an improvement on the emotionally charged scotch-fueled breakfast of the morning. True, he does keep ribbing into my ego, but good-naturedly. It’s taken me a while to figure out that he’s doing it out of a sense of fun rather than maliciousness. Then again, maybe our newfound friendship is all down to the jugs of Pims we’re imbibing.
An hour before we’re due at the reception Blue starts insisting we order some food. I steadfastly refuse. What’s the point when all that yummy reception nourishment is waiting for us? Plus, my belly is full of liquid and protesting at the thought of having more stuff shoved into it. Sometimes I feel sorry for my stomach, and other organs. I’ve got myself down as an organ donor and should the unforeseeable happen, I truly feel for the person who ends up with my liver.
The wedding guests start rolling out of the pub. The little girl with the 3D glasses has managed to get them back on and saunters past, proud as a peacock. I give her a smile and she responds with two thumbs up (I guess she likes that I’m wearing my sunnies inside too). What a little cutie.
“You like kids?” Blue asks, noticing mine and 3D girls’ dark-lensed connection.
“I choose not to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me.”
Do I like kids? I liked that little girl, she seemed cool. The Phil Collins look-a-like with the spaghetti fetish? Not so much.
We stand unsteadily. We make our way outside and hail a cab. Destination? Hotel Mercure. When we arrive concierge directs us to the Ball Room. Wandering round the front of the gorgeous stone facade we spot the wedding party on the back beach posing for photos. It’s become rather windy and I see that pretty lace veil of Sarah’s flying around all over the place. Should make for some dramatic pics. We wander into the front room where the guests are milling about, eating canapés and drinking from flutes.
“What do you consider proper etiquette around canapés?” I ask Blue, waving over a waiter with a tray.
“What do you mean, my little Peanut?”
(He switched from calling me Young Peanut to ‘my little’ a few hours ago).
I don’t really want to tell him my history of canapé ‘incidents’. I adore food, so when a scrumptious tray laden with decorative gastronomic treats passes under my nose, it takes a Herculean effort to restrain myself. Don’t tell me you haven’t been there. We’ve all been there. You’re dressed up to the nines in your evening gown and heels, and suddenly the hors d’oeuvres appear. All that sophistication dissolves into a furious hunger and you turn into a snarling bear ripping at a picnic basket, but it’s not a picnic basket, it’s a terrified waiter and you’ve just thrown yourself at his tray. He leaves with a ripped shirt, tousled hair and an empty tray with bite marks on it.
Am I the only one this has happened to? Right. Okay. Moving on then…
“Well, you’re a waiter, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Not really, I only help out at Cat and Canary when my brother’s short staffed.”
“Your brother owns that place?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Nice. So I guess you’ve never catered before?”
“Not on your nelly.”
The waiter is beside us and I check out his offerings. Oh my god they look amazing. I know I’m not supposed to do this but I balance my glass of wine under my elbow while gathering as many canapés as I can into my cupped hand. Fuck it, it’s not like I know anyone here. Besides Blue of course, but he’s already seen me at my worst. Several times.
Blue laughs at my mountain of treats. He delicately takes one breaded prawn from the tray and whispers so the waiter doesn’t overhear,
“Babe, I promise another tray will be around again soon.”
“What if it’s not?” I on the other hand, am not whispering, I’m speaking loudly and looking directly at the waiter, “what if it’s my one and only chance to eat tonight?”
The waiter smiles,
“Ma’am, I promise I’ll be back.”
“And rest assured I’ll be charging across the room to meet you when that happens.”
Blue shakes his head as the waiter moves on,
“I knew I should’ve fed you at the pub. That’s the last time I listen to you.”
I don’t answer because I just shoved a salmon crostini into my salivating mouth. But this was obviously a large salmon crostini, meant to be eaten in two elegant bites as opposed to an overambitious one-er. I navigate the food around my mouth, chewing slowly. I look up and see Blue looking at me in wonder. He takes a sip of champagne,
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl love food so much.”
“It’s all the running,” I answer after a big swallow, “I’ve had the appetite of a lumberjack since I was fifteen.”
We trade more canapé stories while I continue to shove the tiny delights into my mouth. If there’s anything better in life than a fried cheese stuffed courgette flower, I
want to know what it is (because then I’ll want to eat it). As a drinks tray passes us Blue politely takes two glasses. He hands me one as I drain the last of my wine.
Lo and behold, the first waiter does indeed return with another round of canapés. I decide not to chase him around like I’ve never seen food before.
The food hits my tummy a few minutes later and I start feeling like a whole new person. My head clears, I bury thoughts of mean bosses and rotten Spanish men and childhood Disney loves (which include Aladdin and Li Shang from Mulan) as the splinter pain of hunger eases.
The MC announces it’s time to enter the dining hall, interrupting our chat. We’ve been talking about what we do for a living. I’ve confessed I’m a lawyer and have asked him to reserve judgement. We start into the dining hall, following the other guests.
“So if you only wait tables when your brother is short staffed does that mean you’re an actual DJ?” I ask.
“You could say that. I opened for Disclosure last year.”
“What’s Disclosure?”
“Never mind.”
“What kind of DJ are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
I take a sip of champagne before answering,
“Oh you know, there are lots of types. The club resident who has his regular slot on weekends, the trailer park DJ who belts our Kenny Rogers all night then gets into a fight for refusing to play Jay-Z, the wedding DJ, the student party DJ, the old people’s home DJ...”
He laughs as I trail off,
“Don’t laugh,” I continue, “we’ll all be old someday and pensioners need entertainment too.”
“I’m a superstar DJ.”
“Yeah, in your dreams.”
We approach our table which Angrypants told me earlier in the week was “lucky number 13”, quote end quote. Blue pulls out the seat for me, and although I’m touched by his gentlemanly gesture I can’t let go of the DJ-thing,
“You can’t be a superstar if you don’t respect the legend of Annie Lennox.”
“That’s preposterous, why would you think that? I consider the Eurythmics one of the best singles bands of the 80s.”
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 16
