The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  Daniel’s got one of those naturally friendly faces that means strangers are always stopping him for directions, and he’s so nice that sometimes he even walks them to their destination. I love that he’s always striking up conversations like this. If he didn’t, we’d never have met.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived,’ he murmurs as we edge out of earshot of Lord Mucking. ‘You’re ever-so brave to face this mob on your own.’

  I think it’s kind of brave too. But then I’m going to have to get used to it sooner rather than later. ‘You didn’t mention that you’re stonking rich,’ I say. ‘I thought you took our course because you were interested in historical architecture of stately homes. Not because your family lives in one.’

  His expression is slightly bemused, like he’s seeing the room for the first time. It’s about the size of one of the galleries at Tate Britain, and if I’m not mistaken, the painting on the burnished panelling over the fireplace is a Constable. They could have put velvet ropes around Lord and Lady Mucking and charged an entrance fee.

  ‘But I did tell you what Father does,’ he says.

  Something for Lloyds, he told me. We used to have a Lloyds branch not far from us, but it closed down. Nobody working there looked like they could afford all this, even if they were the manager.

  But I’ve got it wrong. It’s not Lloyds the bank but an insurer by the same name, and Daniel’s father is a lot bigger than a branch manager.

  ‘He helps underwrite their insurance.’ Daniel catches my expression and shrugs. ‘It means he provides the money to pay out when insurance claims are made.’

  ‘Like when someone wrecks his car or gets his phone nicked,’ I say. ‘What’s in it for him if he’s fronting all this money?’

  ‘They give him a percentage of the insurance premiums and he hopes there aren’t too many claims. They’re specialist insurers so they underwrite bigger things than stolen phones. More like military coups and earthquakes. Or Michael Flatley’s legs or Bruce Springsteen’s vocal chords or…’ He clasps his chest. ‘Dolly Parton’s breasts.’

  ‘Dolly Parton’s breasts are definitely bigger than a mobile phone. And your dad gets a cut of these premiums.’ My head swims as I take this in. ‘I see. Is this his only job? I only ask because keeping up a gaff like this must be expensive. My dad had the same problem with our council flat, so he was a taxi driver and a trader down the market, as you know.’

  He laughs at my lame joke. ‘He’s got his own investment portfolio too. I’ve told you, it really doesn’t matter.’ Pronounced rahly. He looks worried that I might bolt at the news that he’s genuinely minted. ‘You’re marrying me, not my family.’

  ‘I know, it’s just that I’m not used to a house quite like this.’ That’s the understatement of a lifetime, considering that I share a bedroom with Auntie Rose at home.

  He runs his fingers through his blond thatch. ‘Right, darling, I haven’t been completely honest with you, but please promise you won’t judge me.’ He waits for me to nod, though my tummy is starting a series of forward rolls that doesn’t feel nice. ‘I did mean to tell you about my family. I don’t usually have to say anything when I meet people in our circles. Everyone knows everyone, at least by reputation. But we met and I liked you so much and it’s just that you’re so…’

  ‘Poor? Working class? Not like you?’

  ‘Normal. I was going to say normal, Em. And we got along so well that our backgrounds didn’t seem to matter. Or at least I hoped they didn’t. You can see why I didn’t mention anything at first, can’t you? Then as time went on it got harder to say “Oh, by the way, my family is wealthy” without sounding like a tosser. Besides, that’s them, not me. I only work for a charity, remember?’

  He looks honestly anguished about his family. ‘You make it sound like they’re criminals,’ I say. ‘So you’re a rich boy done good, eh? Breaking that horrible cycle of wealth?’

  That makes him laugh. ‘I sound like a spoiled wanker, I know, I’m sorry. It sounds ridiculous no matter how I explain it, but wealth does seem like a crime to some people.’

  ‘And you were worried that I might think so too?’

  ‘I was too bowled over by you to take a chance like that, even though I should have known you wouldn’t judge. I’m rahly sorry my family is wealthy,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing I can do about that.’

  So he did shield me from the worst of it. I mean the best of it. I’ve got to stop saying that. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get over it,’ I tell him. ‘Somehow I’ll manage to overlook your bank account.’

  ‘My bank account only has my salary in it… and not even much of that these days.’

  ‘There you are!’ Abby bounces toward us. It’s a welcome interruption, to be honest. I’m not wild about the idea that Daniel kept all this from me, but I have to admit I see why he did it. It’s been tricky enough breaking the news to my side that I’m in love with a public school-educated bloke who shops organic. I’m not going to be the one to tell them that the prime minister is probably on his family’s Christmas card list too.

  Abby is Daniel’s little sister and could have been cloned from their mum, except she’s a few inches shorter with longer blonde hair, the same shade as Daniel’s. Watching them together always makes me think of golden retrievers. ‘How long do I have to stay?’

  ‘Are you not enjoying our engagement party?’ Daniel asks.

  She rolls her blue eyes. ‘It’s the same people we always see. Besides, nobody does these engagement things anymore. Not since Mummy and Daddy were married back in the dark ages.’

  I feel the flush creeping up my neck as I think about the party Mum wanted to throw for us.

  Daniel remembers it too, because he says, ‘Do try and keep up. Everyone’s doing them now.’ He puts his arm around me. ‘Come along, Em, duty calls. We’ll say hellair to all the bores and then we can relax.’

  It’s not easy keeping track of who’s a lord and who’s a sir, so I just end up nodding and smiling at everyone as Daniel lets his mother drag us round the room. Every so often she pulls my hand in front of one of her friends for inspection.

  I haven’t been able to stop staring at the ring since Daniel put it on my finger. Mum nearly fell over when she saw it.

  Frankly, I’d have been just as happy if he’d stuck a Foster’s beer pull on my ring finger. I can’t wait to marry this man.

  ‘Emma works for a Vespa dealer!’ Philippa volunteers to the group I’ve just met. ‘You know, those darling little Italian scooters that are so fun.’

  I thought she was just being polite when I first told her where I work, but for some reason she thinks selling scooters is interesting. Maybe it’s because everyone else she knows is busy running boring old banks or funding coups or whatever Daniel’s dad does.

  ‘Do you know that Anna Green got them for her grandchildren at Christmas? To ride round the estate,’ says one of Philippa’s friends.

  If anyone rode a Vespa round the estates near me, it’d get nicked before it turned the first corner. I’m guessing Anna Green’s estate is a bit different. It would be, if she’s handing out five-thousand-quid scooters to her grandkids.

  ‘And not only that,’ Philippa carries on like nobody has mentioned Anna Green and her grandchildren, ‘she’s about to graduate from uni! Working and studying, clever girl! I couldn’t do both.’

  ‘You’ve barely done either,’ says one of Philippa’s interchangeable friends, though Philippa doesn’t seem to hear her. ‘When’s the big day?’

  Everybody’s eyebrows rise toward the ornately plastered ceiling when I tell them we’re doing it in three months.

  ‘There’s no reason to wait,’ Daniel explains. ‘I’d marry Emma next week if Mummy wasn’t so set on the party.’

  Everyone asks us this question and believe me, we’ve looked at it from all angles. No matter how we do our sums, we won’t have much more money in a year than we’ve got now. Sure, we could save a bit if we moved
in together, but then my rent would go to a landlord instead of my mum and dad, and that would cause a whole other set of problems. They don’t like to talk about it, but my parents can really use that money. So if anything, it’s not the approaching wedding that worries me but the dent that my moving out is going to put in their household budget.

  ‘It won’t be a big wedding, though,’ I say. ‘Maybe sixty people? Just our families and close friends.’ We could go over the top and take an age to plan a big do, but we’re not bothered about the groomsmen’s bowties matching the serviettes or making photo montages of Daniel and me drooling through our childhoods. We just need someone to marry us. Throw in a bit of food and lots of drinks and everyone will be happy.

  ‘Sixty!’ Philippa laughs. ‘We’ve got more than that just from our side, darlings. It’ll have to be bigger, but don’t worry, I’ve got lots of ideas.’

  My mouth feels a little dry.

  ‘What kind of ideas?’ her friend asks as Daniel’s godfather, Harold, and his wife join us. There was a slightly awkward moment when Daniel first introduced me to Harold and I said, ‘So you’re The Godfather,’ making Italian hand gestures and talking like I had a mouth full of cotton. Everyone stared at me and I had to pretend I hadn’t just done that. Harold is a lord too, but I don’t curtsy or anything. The less attention I draw to myself, the better.

  ‘I thought that as it will be summer we could have the whole thing under arched trellises that make a roof woven with flowers. Yah, and hang them with crystal chandeliers!’ Philippa beams. ‘Or even build a structure to suspend an entire hanging garden!’

  The assembled crowd all nod, murmuring yah, yah. Philippa’s got a feverish glint in her eye that’s making me nervous. Hanging gardens? Where are we – Babylon?

  ‘I’m not sure–’

  Bless her, she picks up right away on my discomfort. ‘Oh, darling, I don’t want to step on your toes, not at all! Maybe chandeliers aren’t your style. Of course we could use whatever you’d like. Maybe something more modern, like those gorgeous exposed lightbulbs that Heston has at his restaurant in the Mandarin. Only we could have hundreds of them lighting up the night. Wouldn’t that be romantic? Imagine!’

  Yeah, imagine. Imagine the cost. I bet Heston didn’t get his lights from the B&Q sales bin like I’m planning to do.

  And imagine Mum and Dad’s reaction if I tell them we’re building hanging gardens so we can suspend chandeliers. They’d send me straight to the GP to have my head examined. No, they wouldn’t need to. I’d make the appointment myself.

  But Philippa looks perfectly serious. ‘If you want something more traditional, we could do crystal, yah, for the tables, and silver cutlery. Or gold? Does anyone do gold anymore? I can’t keep up with all the trends! And a gorgeous vintage pattern for the plates. We could even use my pattern if you like it, though you’d need to hire since I’ve only got place settings for forty-eight.’

  Who has actual china for forty-eight people? The only time I’ve sat down to eat with that many people was at Uncle Colin’s fundraiser for the RNLI. We ate off the Tesco Value range.

  Now’s probably not the time to tell my future mother-in-law that Mum and Dad suggested a casual get-together in Uncle Colin’s pub after the wedding. Actually, it’s probably not the time to tell Daniel, either. He looks pretty excited about his mother’s ideas. We’ll need to talk about this.

  ‘What do you think of fish?’ Philippa asks.

  ‘I like fish.’ Though I wasn’t thinking of a sit-down meal. Maybe some snacks. We could splurge and get them from fancy Marks & Spencer.

  ‘You could have enormous tanks of the most beautiful fish!’ Philippa says. ‘We could give them away in little bowls to the guests after the party. Wouldn’t that be fun!’

  Yah, yah, everyone but me says.

  ‘Couldn’t we just return them to the pet shop after the wedding?’

  Listen to me. Like I’m actually considering aquariums at our wedding.

  ‘Oh darling, you are hilarious. We’ll need favours for the guests anyhow. This way we can double up. Although maybe you’d rather do jewellery or key fobs? Harrods has beautiful things.’

  ‘We’d like to keep the costs down,’ Daniel says. Finally, the voice of reason. ‘We’re only a young couple!’

  Right. The last thing we want is to end up twenty grand in debt.

  ‘Of course, darlings. You just give me a budget and tell me whatever you want. I’ll find it for you.’

  ‘You’ll marry in St Stephen’s?’ asks Philippa’s other friend. Daniel’s father and godfather and the other men have stood silently while their wives fire off the questions. They’re probably mulling over football scores, or whatever rich people think about when they’re not counting their money.

  ‘Actually we were thinking of a registry wedding. In a nice registry, though.’

  ‘Not church?’

  ‘My family’s not really religious,’ I say.

  ‘Right. St Stephen’s is only C of E,’ Philippa’s friend assures me. ‘It’s not religious either.’

  That still wouldn’t go over well with Dad, but I’m not going to be the one to argue with Philippa’s friend.

  Somehow I’ve got to get the discussion away from gold cutlery and chandeliers or next they’ll start demanding swans. With Harrods jewellery.

  ‘Have you been to East London at all?’ I ask everyone.

  Harold, Daniel’s godfather, comes to life suddenly. He cuts an imposing figure in the room with his tall, broad-shouldered physique and thick white hair that streams, mane-like, from his head. ‘Yah, when I worked in the City, before we moved to the wharf,’ he says. ‘We used to go to Brick Lane quite a lot for a curry.’

  ‘And probably to Shoreditch for a lap dance!’ I add. Whoops. Perhaps I shouldn’t have accused Lord Godfather of stuffing money into G-strings.

  But he roars with laughter. ‘Indeed, yes!’

  His wife smiles indulgently. ‘Oh, Harold.’

  This is truly another world. If Dad ever confessed that in front of Mum, she’d knock his teeth out.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like Daniel’s family. They’ve been nothing but kind to me and I’m sure all their friends are nice too. It’s just that I’m not exactly up to their usual standard, am I? It’s so constantly apparent that they can’t help but notice it. So far they’ve been too polite to say anything, but it’s just a matter of time.

  I’m dead on my feet when we get back to Daniel’s, and pleased to see that his flatmate, Jacob, isn’t home. Not that I ever feel like the third wheel even when he is. I know technically he should be the extra wheel, not me, but since he and Daniel have been mates since school, there was potential for some tension. Far from it. Jacob made me feel completely welcome despite my crashing his lad’s pad. In fact, at first he acted like I was the first girl Daniel had ever brought home. Needless to say I like him all the better for that.

  It probably helps that even though it’s not a big flat it never feels cramped. Its layout is all nineteenth-century higgledy-piggledy, with the front door all the way down a winding set of stairs at the bottom of the building, the high-ceilinged eat-in kitchen at the opposite end to the cosy lounge and Daniel’s bedroom set under the eaves up in the converted loft.

  It’s dinnertime, but I feel a little sick from all the canapes. I’ve had to get used to eating like this since meeting Daniel. His family and friends like to have what they call ‘nibbles’. Philippa laid on enough canapes to feed an army. So don’t blame me for eating like a cadet. Emma Liddell, reporting for eating, Sir!

  ‘God, I’m glad that’s over,’ Daniel says as he throws himself down beside me on the lumpy old settee and offers to rub my sore feet. My shoes might look Fendi-esque, but the blisters are pure Primark. ‘Now that you’ve been properly introduced, Harold said you’ll have to come along for supper with me next month.’ His thumb finds the spot in the middle of my foot that he knows I love to have massaged.

  ‘I had to be
properly introduced first?’ Maybe I should have curtseyed.

  Daniel laughs. It was that laugh that I first noticed when we met. He throws himself into it with his entire body. I dare anyone not to at least smile when they hear him. ‘He’s old-fashioned,’ he explains. ‘I hope you weren’t awfully uncomfortable today. Mummy does like a party, and I know those social engagements can be tedious. I’ve always hated them. But now it’s just us again.’ He leans over to kiss me. ‘So, formalities finished, we can focus on our wedding.’

  ‘Aw, have you been dreaming about being a bride ever since you were a little girl?’ I tease.

  ‘Who do you think you’re talking to, Emma Liddell? I’ve always thought of myself as an independent woman,’ he says. ‘No man is going to tell me what to do.’ He snaps his fingers, then laughs at his own joke. ‘In all honesty I never imagined myself being married.’ His eyes meet mine. ‘Until I met you.’

  This should be cheesy, right? But Daniel says things like that a lot, and with such feeling that I have to bite down my urge to tease him. That’s just my nerves anyway. I’m not used to being loved so obviously. Okay, I’m not used to being loved at all. I’ve had exactly six boyfriends in my life and two of those might not even agree with the title. Still, not such a bad track record for a twenty-four-year-old living at home who’s known ninety per cent of the men in her neighbourhood since she was in nappies.

  I’ve never been in love with any of them like I am with Daniel. Sometimes that frightens me, but then I see him and know he’s in just as deep. ‘I’ve never wanted to marry anyone else either,’ I say. ‘There’s just one thing…’

  His thumb stops its rubbing. ‘What is it, Em?’

  ‘Nothing bad! It’s just that your mum has a lot of ideas about the wedding.’

  He starts working on my other foot. ‘She’s ever-so excited. It is the first wedding in the family.’

  ‘I know, and I want her to be involved. It’s just that everything sounds kind of expensive.’ Kind of expensive? I’ve already calculated what it would cost to give all our guests a cheap necklace from Accessorize. It’s about half my savings. ‘Like you said, your parents might be able to clear the UK national debt, but we don’t have a lot of money ourselves and we really shouldn’t be going in to debt for a party, right? Would you mind very much if we keep it really low-key?’