The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  The walk to Kelly’s fish van the next afternoon is as familiar as my walk to the corner shop each morning to pick up Auntie Rose’s Telegraph. Long before Kell became the reigning fishmonger in her family business empire (if a single van can be called an empire), we used to come together after school to beg spending money off her dad. Going bass fishing, that’s what we called it. We’d get some coins, or not, depending on whether he’d shifted the sea bass – a big ticket item that only the people in the houses on Stepney Green splashed out on. So Kell’s pocket money was dependent on who wanted fancy fish for tea.

  We’ve been inseparable since childhood, except for a terrible two weeks in year six when we stopped speaking over something neither of us can remember, so Kell knows everything there is to know about me. Which should give her hours of material for her bridesmaid’s speech.

  I tell her about Auntie Rose’s advice after making her swear not to mention it at the wedding. She reminds me a lot of her dad when she’s working, and not just because she wears the same white coat and white mesh trilby hat that he always did. They’ve also got the same relaxed, efficient way that makes it seem like they’re not bothered when customers take all day to make up their minds. Her dad, Mr McCarthy, doesn’t come to the market as much now, preferring to take care of the buying and the restaurant deliveries, so Kell does most of the retail trade. She ends up covered in fish scales, but it’s better than getting up at 4 a.m. to haggle over the day’s catch at Billingsgate.

  She’s slicing a trout from gills to tail and stripping out its guts. ‘You want me to take the heads off, right?’ she asks the customer standing next to me.

  ‘Yeah, but I’ll keep ’em,’ says the woman. ‘Don’t throw ’em away!’

  ‘You’re here every week, my love. Have I ever thrown them away?’

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  Kell wipes her hands on the apron over her coat. ‘She’s probably right,’ she says to me, meaning Rose about the wedding, not the customer about her fish heads. ‘Give me five minutes to pack up, okay? I’ve got a change of clothes in the van. I can close up and move it when we come back. Sorry, my darlin’, I’m closing,’ she tells the grey-haired black man who’s just arrived. ‘Unless you want the fillets. The snapper, yeah? Okay, give me a minute.’

  I wander down the row of market stalls to wait till Kelly’s ready. Not that there’s anything new to see since I was here a few days ago. It’s busy, as usual, with mostly women shopping. I like to think I know my way around a kitchen, but I haven’t got a clue what some of the fruit and veg is on the Asian stalls. If you promised me a hundred quid, I couldn’t cook it for you. Mrs Ishtiaque next door buys it all the time, though. She’s definitely the best cook in our road, but I’d never admit that to Mum when she needles me. It’s just different food, I tell her. Of course curries are more interesting than plain old roasts when they’ve got all those spices in them.

  Auntie Rose won’t eat any spice at all. She’s even suspicious of basil and won’t touch garlic. ‘I like me food good and plain,’ she says. It’s definitely plain, but I don’t know about good.

  Stacy Boyle is at my favourite shoe stall, on her phone as usual. ‘All right?’ I ask her, because I know she can carry on at least three conversations at once.

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ she answers, pushing her silvery pink fringe off her face. ‘How were the shoes for your party?’ Then, to her caller she says, ‘’e’s got no right. Well, tell him to sod off.’

  I don’t have the heart to tell her they killed my feet so I tell her everyone loved them instead. Stacy’s grandad was a cobbler. Her dad was too till it got cheaper to buy new shoes than fix old ones. Like Kelly’s dad, he comes to the stall sometimes, but mostly it’s Stacy who works here now. When my parents were my age the Boyles had a tiny shop just behind the stall. It’s like that with a lot of the market traders. Take Kelly, for instance. She’s a fourth-generation fishmonger. But instead of a stall, she has a repurposed ice cream van, with a big window in the side. Mr McCarthy had that converted into a fold-down display area to hold the fresh fish on ice. He also wanted to turn the giant ice cream cone on the roof into a sea bass, but Kelly didn’t think that painting scales on it would fool anyone. They sold the cone, which is a shame.

  ‘’e’s always saying that,’ Stacy says. Then, to me, ‘Anything else for you today?’

  ‘Nah, I’m just waiting for Kell to finish, thanks. We’re going to look at some venues for the wedding.’ Just saying it is exciting!

  ‘All right for some,’ Stacy says, either to me or her caller as Kelly approaches. ‘Good luck!’

  Kell’s been working on a list of places to check out for the reception. Not that she’s telling me anything about her ideas.

  She’s not the only one with ideas. Philippa barely waited for me to leave the party before she started firing off emails. Wouldn’t it be amazing, she’d written, to have it at Kensington Palace? Yes, the Kensington Palace, where the future king of England lives. Like we’re the Middletons or something.

  ‘I don’t suppose we’re going to West London?’ I ask Kelly as we shuffle down the bus to make room for a lady with a double pram.

  She gives me the same look she’s done since we started school together. To me, she doesn’t look that different than she did then. She’s got the pale round face and upturned nose of her Irish ancestors, and her eyes turn into crescents when she smiles. She says her thick straight brown hair just hangs in her face to annoy her, which is why she wears it in a ponytail with a heavy fringe.

  ‘We don’t need West London,’ she says. ‘We’ve got better.’

  Kelly’s always been suspicious of anything that’s outside our postcode. It may as well be France as far as she’s concerned. She’s not interested in going there, either.

  I used to think the same thing till I started taking courses in Central London. It’s no use trying to convince Kelly that there’s a world west of the City, though.

  The bus lurches past grand stone buildings that are tall enough to block the sunshine from the narrow streets weaving between them. It’s easy to imagine men in bowler hats hurrying from their clerking jobs instead of the office workers who are all walking with their mobile phones out.

  She pushes the button to let us off near a tiny lane. There’s a low arch between buildings leading into a big square. ‘Holy hell, Kell, this isn’t for us. It looks like a church. You know Dad–’

  Her eyes crinkle. ‘Keep your wig on, it’s not a church. It’s for your party. You wanted something to impress Lord and Lady Muck.’

  ‘Mucking.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Its Portland stone façade and huge arched windows look official, like a town hall.

  ‘It’s Stationer’s Hall,’ she explains as we look around outside. ‘You know, one of the guildhalls, for stationers and newspapers, publishers and the like. It’s as close to books as I could get and still be posh. I figured you wouldn’t want your wedding at the newsagent’s and you’re such a book nerd that I thought you’d like this.’

  I love it. Plus, I know my great grandfather was only a newsvendor, but I like this slight connection to my family. ‘How’d you even know it was possible to have a reception in a place like this? I figured it’d have to be in a hotel.’

  Kelly nods. ‘I know. That’s why you made me your bridesmaid.’ She taps her forehead. ‘Lateral thinking.’

  ‘I thought I made you my bridesmaid because you threatened to kill me otherwise.’

  ‘I only threatened to kill you when you made Cressida bridesmaid.’

  ‘Don’t start on Cressida, please.’ Her feelings about Daniel’s friend are a whole story that’s not worth getting into just now.

  She pretends not to hear me. ‘With me you get your life, and you get your lateral thinking for free.’

  ‘A two-for-one offer.’ Once a market trader, always a market trader.

  She leads us down some steps to a big wooden door that swings open as soo
n as she presses the bell.

  The man standing in the doorway might be around our age, but he’s got about nine strands of blond hair left on his head, which are swept back with some kind of unfortunate gel that makes it look like the raked sand in a Japanese Zen garden.

  We just about keep straight faces when he calls us Miss Liddell and Miss McCarthy and introduces himself as Mr Thompson-Smythe. He’ll make a perfect head teacher if this job doesn’t work out.

  ‘After you, Miss,’ Kell says to me.

  ‘No, after you, Miss,’ I say back.

  Mr Thompson-Smythe smiles blandly.

  He leads us down a corridor lined with oil paintings of old men who all look like Margaret Thatcher, asking about my wedding plans so far. I feel his disappointment when I say there aren’t many. Emma must try harder.

  ‘We’re keeping it small,’ I offer him. ‘Maybe around sixty?’ As long as Philippa doesn’t go overboard with the invitations.

  ‘Terrific,’ he says. Sixty is obviously the perfect number for a wedding in his opinion. ‘Well, this is the Stock Room. It can seat up to sixty guests or have a hundred guests standing. Are you thinking of dinner or just a drinks reception?’

  ‘Er, I don’t know,’ I say, looking up. Giant brass chandeliers hang from the lofty ceiling, which is painted white, gold and blue. It’s not a huge room, and with the walls all clad in dark wood and covered in livery shields, it feels a little oppressive.

  ‘Terrific,’ says Mr Thompson-Smythe again to reward my indecision. ‘The oak panelling dates from the seventeenth century and we do allow candlelight in this room.’

  Seventeenth-century panelling! I wouldn’t let anyone light a candle near it.

  Mr Thompson-Smythe pushes through the wooden double doors at one end of the room to let us into a huge hall that’s panelled like the one we just came from. It’s a lot brighter, though, thanks to an enormous stained-glass window at one end.

  Henry VIII banqueting tables are pushed up against the walls and a few colourful flags hang high up to round out the medieval feel.

  Mr Thompson-Smythe watches us take it all in. ‘The floors and panelling in this room are oak and date from the sixteenth century. The original liveries are on the carved shields above the panelling and candlelight is allowed in here too. Would you have candles?’

  He’s really pushing the candlelight. Maybe they’re trying to keep the electricity bills down. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  I’m starting to suspect he’s not really paying attention to my answers.

  ‘What do you think?’ Kelly whispers as Mr Thompson-Smythe scurries away to pretend not to listen.

  It’s definitely right up my future mother-in-law’s street. ‘I like it, but… it just feels a bit formal. That’s not it, exactly, but do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Too posh for us? It’s like royals would have a party here.’

  ‘Mmm, no, just not our style.’ I smile at Mr Thompson-Smythe, who creeps back to our side.

  ‘Do you have any questions?’ he asks. ‘Miss McCarthy checked and the hall is free on your proposed wedding day.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ I say, not wanting to reject his sixteenth-century décor and hurt his feelings. ‘It’s very beautiful. And there’d be plenty of room for us. What’s the cost to hire it?’

  ‘The hire fee is four thousand and seven hundred pounds, plus VAT. We’d require a small deposit to hold the booking.’

  ‘Terrific,’ I say, casually leaning on one of the banqueting tables to keep my legs from going. ‘And does that include… food?’

  ‘No, it’s the hire fee only. We can supply you with a list of caterers, though.’

  Unless they supply me with a bank account to pay them, this is never going to work.

  ‘The fee does include the whole building,’ he continues, ‘so you’ll have use of all the rooms, and the garden as well. You could have a pre-dinner drinks reception outside, for example, if the weather is nice, then dinner in the Livery Hall and dancing in the Stock Room. We’re very flexible.’

  For nearly five thousand quid they should be more flexible than a circus contortionist.

  Kelly can see I’m having trouble breathing. ‘We’ve got more venues to see, so can we get back in touch in a few days?’

  ‘Of course. Would you like to see the Court Room?’

  He can tell he’s losing his audience.

  ‘Nah, that’s okay, thanks,’ she says. ‘We’ll ring you, okay?’

  I can’t get out of there fast enough.

  Four thousand seven hundred quid to hire a room for the day? They must be insane. All that panelling and candle wax has addled Mr Thompson-Smythe’s brain. I’m trying not to panic, but it’s hitting me just how hard this is going to be.

  ‘I thought Daniel’s family offered to help,’ Kelly says. ‘Do you need to sit down? You don’t look good.’

  I sigh. ‘They did offer, but Dad’s adamant that he doesn’t want their help. He says he should be able to take care of his own family.’

  ‘That’s so sad, with everything he’s been through,’ says Kell. ‘I feel sorry for him.’

  A lump wells up in my throat. That’s been happening a lot lately when I think about how Dad must feel. ‘At first I thought he was just being his usual stubborn self, but it’s really important to him that he and Mum do this for me. He’d be crushed if he thought someone else had to pay for my wedding. I’ve got to figure out a way to do this.’

  Kell puts her arm around me as we turn our backs on the Stationers’ Hall. ‘You don’t have to do it on your own. I’ve got some savings that you could have if you need it.’

  ‘Thank you, but even all our money together won’t cover the cost of something like this. And it’s just the start. We’ll need food and drink too.’

  Kelly purses her lips. ‘What if we did a takeaway, fish and chips or a curry or something? That’d only be six or seven quid a head. That’s not too expensive.’

  I nod. ‘It’s a bargain. Then we’d just need another five thousand quid to have somewhere to eat our takeaway. No, this is going to have to be on a shoestring. And by shoestring, I mean the flimsiest piece of thread you’ve ever seen.’

  The problem is, Daniel’s family is expecting those shoestrings to lace up a fancy pair of Manolos. I’ve got the sinking feeling that a curry and a can of lager isn’t going to cut it for them.

  ‘There is another place closer to home,’ she says as our bus pulls up. ‘It’s the library at Queen Mary. You could even walk there on your wedding day. Save a few bob on bus fare.’

  ‘That one pound fifty will come in handy, but it doesn’t really make a dent in the hire fee, does it?’

  There has to be another option that’s within our budget and, since I can be as stubborn as my dad, I’ll just have to find it.

  Chapter 3

  Kell and I did go see the library at Queen Mary’s, but my heart wasn’t really in it. Or at least, my wallet wasn’t. It would have been perfect, grand and Victorian and stuffed with books – two soaring balconies surrounding the huge and airy octagon-shaped room with sunshine streaming through enormous windows to light the elegant vaulted dome high above. It was slightly less expensive than Stationer’s Hall, in the way that sirloin steak is slightly less expensive than a fillet. No matter how many places we’ve visited, and it seems to be all we’ve done for the last two weeks, Kell and I can’t find a nice, cheap burger of a venue. At this rate we really are going to end up under the arches. Won’t Daniel’s mother just love that?

  This is turning out to be so much harder than I imagined. I can’t concentrate on my coursework with the wedding hanging over me. I’ve been rereading the same page for the last twenty minutes. Anti-social behaviour, looting, blah blah blah.

  But my final exams start in two weeks and I haven’t gone to uni for the past five years to bungle it now. It’s been hard enough getting this far.

  Just try telling everyone you know that you’re studyin
g criminology when everyone you know has at least second-hand experience with the Old Bill. The mistrust of authority round here won’t go away just because one of their own has enrolled at the Open University.

  People only tolerate our neighbour, PC Billy Bramble, because he gets them out of scrapes and drinks in the Cock and Crown.

  Dad still suspects I’m going to end up working for the Met like Billy, that one day he’ll see me walking the beat in a Kevlar stab vest and one of those hats with the checkerboard bands. And Mum wishes I would for the pension, as long as I find a nice, safe desk job.

  Dad doesn’t have to worry, though, and Mum shouldn’t hope. I don’t want to be the one catching or punishing the kids who go off the rails. I’d rather be the one making sure they don’t derail in the first place. I’m not exactly sure yet where I’ll work, but I can imagine what the job will look like. It’ll be something that keeps kids in school and out of prison or gives them interesting things to do so they don’t feel so hopeless.

  A couple of do-gooders, that’s what Kell calls Daniel and me. She’s right. Daniel’s kids walk miles for clean water and, once I find my job, I’ll have to keep mine from nicking stuff.

  I knew all about Daniel’s kindness streak by the time we had our first date, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when he took me to a fundraising gig that his charity was doing. I was tempted to ring Kell when we walked into the venue and I saw who was playing. She’d headlined at Glastonbury and won Grammies. And there she was sitting on a stool, in a jumper and jeans, with her voice floating over the piano that accompanied her. I’d never been that close to someone so famous.

  ‘We don’t need to stay long,’ he’d said into my ear. ‘I’ve just promised my boss I’d stop by, that’s all.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me your job was so glamorous.’ As far as I knew, he was just a lowly staffer at a water charity.

  He’d laughed and grabbed my hand, shifting our month-long flirtation up a gear. My tummy flipped. ‘It’s usually very unglamorous. I talk about drilling and well specifications with engineers a lot,’ he’d said. ‘This fundraiser has been a treat. She even came into the offices to see what we do. I was completely tongue-tied when I met her.’