Nathalia Buttface and The Totally Embarrassing Bridesmaid Disaster

by Nigel Smith

  “Party?” said the man, shocked now.

  “That’s all they care about. But we’ve been planning this for months.”

  “Planning? Who’s been planning it?”

  “Mostly me and my dad,” said Nat, “but Darius has helped, the little monster.”

  “Monster? I hope you don’t mean that,” said the man, looking worried.

  But by now Nat had plonked herself down at the keyboard and wasn’t listening.

  “Budge over,” she said, “let’s liven this up.”

  “Stress, I suppose,” said the organist to himself. He looked over the balcony. “I think the car is here. Stay strong, little girl.”

  “A one, a two, a one two three four…” said Nat, brightly.

  “Not THAT strong,” muttered the organist.

  Dah, dah dee-daaaah, Nat bashed out.

  It was a very familiar tune. “Here comes the bride,” sang Nat, “two metres wide…”

  She heard a murmur of voices from the congregation below. Angry voices.

  “What are you doing?” said the organist.

  “It’s the tune she wanted,” said Nat, bashing the chords out.

  “Are you absolutely sure it’s appropriate?”

  “Do you think it should be more lively?”

  “Lively?”

  “Yeah, to get everyone in a good mood early. I think people take these things way too seriously.”

  “That’s because it is serious,” said the organist. “I can’t think of anything much more serious.”

  “Nat, Nat!” said Dad, running up the stairs. “Stop playing, you’ve made a mistake.”

  “Oh come on, I’m not that bad,” said Nat, firmly. “It’s about time I enjoyed myself,” she said to the organist, “it’s been making me ever so miserable.”

  “You’re supposed to be miserable today, you wicked child!”

  But Nat wasn’t listening. She pressed her foot on the volume pedal and drowned out the man’s words.

  “DA DA DA DAAAAAH!” Blared the organ. Now there were shouts from below.

  “Tough audience,” shouted Nat, who was loving the deep rich sound of the organ.

  “Get off there,” said the organist, grabbing her shoulders.

  “What is your problem?” shouted Nat. “Gerrof me.”

  “Have some respect, remember, THIS IS A FUNERAL.”

  “Nat,” said Dad, now at the top of the stairs, “it’s the wrong church.”

  Nat made a strange, strangulated, squealing noise, taking her hands off the keys like they were made of molten lava. She jumped up and ran past Dad down the tiny spiral stairs out into the sunlight through the churchyard.

  And straight into a hole in the ground.

  A hole in the ground?

  Who digs a hole in the ground?

  Why would anyone, she spluttered, spitting gritty bits of earth out of her mouth, why would ANYONE leave a dirty great hole in the ground?

  In a churchyard.

  At a funeral.

  Then she understood.

  “AAAAAARGH!”

  she shouted, scrabbling out in terror. “AAAAARRRGH!!!!!”

  “What’s the matter?” came a man’s voice.

  ““G-g-grave! Grave. I fell in a grave,” yelled Nat, who now had a tulip growing out of her head.

  “That’s not a grave,” laughed the gardener, leaning on his spade, “it’s just where I’m digging a new flower bed.”

  “Oh,” said Nat, pulling herself together. “Then I am sorry to trouble you, good sir.”

  She walked stiffly out of the churchyard.

  “Could have gone better,” she said as Dad grabbed her and bundled her into the Atomic Dustbin.

  Within minutes they were outside St Mary’s church. Darius was reading over the wedding checklist.

  “What about the photographer?” he said. “You know, the mad woman, does wars.”

  “I’d forgotten about her,” said Dad, “but she’s been booked, I’m sure of it.”

  “Clara Bonkers? Didn’t Tiffannee sack her?” said Nat. “I thought you were going to hire someone else.”

  “No, I hired her back,” said Dad, “I thought she was good. But I don’t think she’s confirmed. Check my emails,” he said chucking his phone to Nat while he parked the van. “I’m a bit behind on them.”

  Nat did a quick search. “Great, Clara the loony photographer emailed you last night, really late,” said Nat.

  “Phew,” said Dad. “I expect she was just writing from a local restaurant or something, saying she’ll definitely be here today and there wasn’t any need for me to worry?”

  “No,” said Nat, “she wrote the email from inside a tank. She says it all kicked off again in that place where it always kicks off and she’d rather take her chances with the SAS than with horrible bridesmaids and a vomity goblin.”

  “Does that mean she won’t be taking the pictures?” said Dad.

  “I know she’s got a long lens dad, but she can’t see us from inside a tank IN ANOTHER COUNTRY.”

  “Oh heck, so we need to get Tiffannee a photographer,” said Dad, as he turned off the engine. A small group of excited wedding guests were milling about outside the church, all dressed up in bright sunny outfits; big hats and flouncy dresses, or smart suits with big colourful buttonholes. Plenty of them had cameras.

  “I mean, this is ridiculous. Everyone takes pictures these days, everyone’s got a camera. We must be able to find someone around here to take a few pictures.”

  “It can’t be anyone she knows though, Dad,” said Nat as they got out of the van, “it has to look like we’ve got a professional.”

  An elderly tourist with a large camera was strolling past.

  “Hello,” he said, “I am Henrik Henriksson from Norway, pleased to meet you.”

  “Um, pleased to meet you too,” said Dad, “must dash, organising a wedding, sorry.”

  “I overhear you need picture? I come from Norway, taking the pictures of the pretty churches. I take pictures for you, yes?”

  “Yes!” said Dad, seizing him by the shoulders. “You take pictures. Take all the pictures.”

  “Do you have a camera?” said the man.

  “No, you do,” said Dad. “It’s that big thing with a lens around your neck.”

  “No, Dad, he’s expecting you to give him your camera,” said Nat. “He thinks you want him to take a picture of us, on your camera, obviously.”

  “I have a better idea,” said Dad, as he heard the clip-clopping of a horse-drawn carriage. “You stand there with your big camera.”

  “Please?” said the man, confused. “I am Henrik Henriksonn, from Norway. I like to take the pictures of the pretty churches.”

  “Yes we know, take loads,” said Dad. “Fill your church-loving Norwegian boots, just make sure you get lots of pictures of the bride too.”

  “Oh, OK,” said the man, unsure.

  “And hold your big camera up,” said Dad, “make sure the bride sees you with it.”

  “It’s a custom in England,” said Nat, desperately. “If anyone asks, say you’re the wedding photographer. It’s for good luck.”

  “I’m not the wedding photographer, I am Henrik Henriksonn a tourist from Norway and I am here to take the photos of the pretty—”

  “Yes, we know,” said Nat, “but look, if you take some pictures you can have um…” She tried to think of something to offer him. “Cake! Do you like cake?”

  “I don’t like cake. So I say goodbye to you now.”

  The man started to move away, but Darius grabbed his sleeve.

  “If you take lots of pictures for us,” he said, “the vicar will show you bits of the church no one ever sees. Secret church stuff.”

  “This is good,” said the man, smiling. “I go home with best church pictures. I am in a photography club.”

  “That’s interesting, great,” said Nat. “I’m pleased for you. “Have you got a big flash on that thing?”

  “
Peter Petersonn always wins competitions with his stupid church pictures at night. Big deal, night it is boring.”

  “Mmm, even more interesting,” said Nat. “Anyway, just point your camera at the bride a lot, OK?”

  “But then I will be taking the secret church photos?”

  “Promise,” said Nat and Darius, fibbing in unison.

  Henrik Henriksonn pottered off to take pictures of the bride.

  “That was easy,” said Dad cheerfully. “Now, I need to go and do some ushering. Nat, get inside and get playing. This is definitely the right church this time. And take your coat off.”

  Nat took a deep breath and threw off her jacket to reveal the full glory/horror of the Perfect Fairy Princess Bridesmaid outfit. Her pink wings shimmered in the morning sun.

  “Darius, you massive chimp,” she said, “help me out. As I walk in, everyone’s gonna want pictures of this stupid dress. I want as few pictures of me as possible, OK?”

  “I’ll distract them, don’t worry,” he said with an evil grin.

  “Right, I’m going in, cover me.”

  She skipped quickly through the throng of wedding guests, who all ooohed and aaaahed at the pretty little fairy princess. But just as the guests were reaching for their cameras and phones, a huge, farty trumpety sound ripped through the air.

  Whoa, you’re gonna injure yourself doing that, thought Nat.

  But Darius was blowing a real trumpet. Well, a flugelhorn. It was Uncle Spiro’s flugelhorn, the one he used at the circus. It made a sound like a flatulent warthog that’s spent a week eating baked-bean-and-cabbage sandwiches.

  No one wanted to look at the fairy princess; they were all too busy looking out for wiffy warthogs.

  Nat dashed up the church steps where the organist was waiting for her.

  “You’re just in time,” he said. “I’ve got the music ready. Do you need to warm up?”

  “No, I’ve played it once already this morning,” said Nat, shuddering.

  The flugelhorn stopped with a kind of strangled note and Nat guessed someone was wrestling it off Darius. Or possibly inserting it up his nostril.

  Nat played the first few breathy chords on the organ. It sounded deep and rich and lovely. She craned her neck over the balcony to see the altar where Hiram, in a beautiful white silk suit, was waiting nervously.

  That reminded her of Oswald’s wedding to come in under an hour and for the zillionth time she checked her pocket for the pair of special, irreplaceable wedding rings.

  They weren’t there.

  Nat hit a horrible chord in panic.

  “You said you’d warmed up,” said the organist, holding his hands over his ears.

  “It’s a new version,” snapped Nat, “it’s a remix.”

  She went back to the tune, as the crowd inside the church turned, excited, to welcome the arrival of the bride.

  Her panic made her fingers hit a lot of the wrong notes, but she didn’t care.

  She pounded the keyboard with her tiny fists in frustration.

  “This is awful,” said the organist, trying to drag her away.

  “You’re telling me it’s awful,” shouted Nat. “I’ve got another wedding in a bit and if I don’t find these rings, Oswald Bagley will kill me.”

  The organist stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Oswald Bagley?”

  “Oh, have you heard of him?”

  The organist shuddered. “You’ll have to emigrate,” he said. Yeah, you’ve heard of him, thought Nat, hitting more dodgy notes. “I know I put the rings on the table by the door,” she said, thinking hard as she pounded tunelessly away at the organ, which shrieked and howled in protest. “And I thought I picked them up but…”

  Suddenly she knew where they were! The rings were still on the side table by the front door… where Annie Chicken slammed down the bouquet. Tiffannee must have scooped up the rings and the flowers together!

  Tiffannee was walking up the aisle.

  “Look in her flowers, look in her flowers,” she told the organist. “Can you see anything?”

  The organist put on his gasses and squinted down at the bride. Tiffannee had stopped in the middle of the church, trying to see why the heck Nat was making such a horrible racket.

  “Yes! There’s something glinting in the blooms,” he said.

  “Great,” said Nat, breathing a sigh of relief and actually playing the right notes at last. “I’m saved.”

  “Just make sure you catch the bouquet…” said the organist. “I knew someone who upset Oswald Bagley once. He had to move to Wolverhampton.”

  “Poor man,” said Nat, playing rather well.

  The tune ended and Nat hopped off the stool.

  “You’re up,” she said, “they need me up the front end now.”

  “Good luck!” said the organist as Nat skittered down the steps and ran to join Tiffannee, Hiram and the two remaining evil bridesmaids.

  As she trotted down the aisle she looked at all the relatives and butterflies took off in her stomach. There were SO MANY family members here. So many people to watch everything go wrong. If it did. When it did.

  “Something’s bound to go wrong,” she heard a voice say and for a second she thought she might have said it herself, out loud. But then she realised it was just Bad News Nan.

  Bad News Nan, in her swamp thing outfit, was sitting next to a thin old lady, her sister Nelly who was Tiffannee’s gran. Both women were wearing gigantic hats that were locked together in what looked like alien mortal combat. Though Bad News Nan’s hat was winning, thought Nat.

  “I’ve never known a wedding where there hasn’t been a disaster,” droned Bad News Nan.

  “Me too,” sniffed Nelly, not to be out Bad-Newsed.

  “But I get invited to more weddings than you,” said Bad News Nan, “because a lot of people say you’re a bad omen. Like a big black cloud of gloom, people say. Not me, of course, I don’t say that, I just think you’re unlucky.”

  Nelly pursed her lips and shuffled away from her sister, which was hard, as Bad News Nan’s outfit just sort of flowed over her.

  At the business end of the church, by the vicar, Hiram’s best man, another American, known as Mike J Stenkowitz Jr, was holding up a laptop, and frowning.

  “Where’s Daddy?” asked Tiffannee, looking like she might cry. “He’s supposed to be online. He has to give me away. That’s the rule. I want my dad.”

  “Sorry, baby,” said Hiram, “looks like he couldn’t make it.”

  Nat watched Tiffannee’s perfect face crumble. She felt awful for her. Nat looked over at her own daft Dad, sitting in the front row, reading the massive wedding planner, muttering to himself and sweating nervously. A huge wave of affection washed over her. She couldn’t imagine getting married, but she knew that if she ever did she couldn’t imagine it without him.

  The big idiot.

  Dad looked up and saw her. He gave his usual Dad lopsided grin and Nat thought she might actually cry.

  “Look at little miss perfect fairy,” hissed horrid Daisy Wetwipe to Tilly Saddle. “Now she’s pretending to cry.”

  I’m so gonna get you today, vowed Nat, silently furious. You just wait.

  The vicar had just started to say a few words of welcome when the church doors flew open and a man’s voice rang out:

  “STOP THE WEDDING!”

  There was a pause. Everyone in church held their breath.

  “It’ll be something terrible,” came a voice from the crowd. “Ooooh, it’s a complete disaster, I said it would be.”

  It was Bad News Nan’s voice, obvs.

  But she was wrong. It wasn’t bad news at all. In fact it was brilliant news.

  “Daddy!” yelled Tiffannee and ran the length of the church to throw her arms around her father. They had a massive hug and the whole church exploded with applause.

  “I wasn’t gonna let my little girl get married without me,” said Raymonde.

  Nat looked at her dad. Big fat tears were
welling up in his eyes.

  Oh stoppit, thought Nat, dabbing her own.

  She looked at her watch. Eek they were running late. Hurry up, she thought, I’ve got another wedding to go to.

  But no one was in a hurry and the whole church was weeping now.

  “Who are those men in dark suits and sunglasses, Daddy?” said Tiffannee, looking over her dad’s shoulder.

  “Oh they’re just a couple of FBI agents, making sure I go back to the States, you know, ’cos of that tiny oil spill thing. They said I could come as long as they get an invite to the party.” Nat noticed Tiffannee cringe.

  “Shush Dad,” said the bride, “don’t tell everyone.”

  “People might just notice these two enormous men, love,” said Raymonde.

  It ISN’T just my dad who’s loopy and embarrassing then, thought Nat. Interesting…

  Raymonde hugged his mum, Granny Nelly, who spat on her hanky and wiped something off his cheek.

  “Are they feeding you alright in that prison?” said Granny Nelly.

  “Mum – I’m not in prison yet,” said Raymonde, “and can you keep your voice down.”

  You know, thought Nat, I bet there’s cave paintings of our family embarrassing each other during woolly mammoth hunts.

  Soon – though not soon enough for nervous Nat, who was aware that the Bagley wedding was due to start any minute – the ceremony got underway. And everything else went according to plan, which Nat found hard to believe.

  Even though Nat was obsessed by the ticking of the wedding clock, she had to admit the actual moment Tiffannee and Hiram got married was…

  Flipping lovely.

  If a bit soppy.

  Finally the deed was done. Everyone trooped outside to wait for the newly-weds.

  Next would be that magic moment when the bride throws away her bouquet. The bouquet with the Bagley rings! Nat heard Tilly Saddle say: “That bouquet is mine. I’ve been going out with Gary Axminster for three years, and it’s about time he proposed.”

  We’ll see about that, thought Nat, grimly. She grabbed Darius and whispered something in his ear.

  Then she said: “Do you EVER wash your ears? I could make a candle with all that wax.”

  Tiffannee and Hiram, man and wife, finally emerged into bright sunlight and people threw confetti, despite the big signs saying PLEASE DON’T THROW CONFETTI.