The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  Suddenly we’re all thrown forward against our seatbelts as Kelly slams on the brakes. Car horns sound off behind us. ‘What the hell, Kell?!’

  ‘Oxfam!’ she says, throwing on her signal to pull over. It’s no use mentioning that she could have done that before hitting her brakes. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’ She pulls out her phone. ‘Here, look. I’m sure– Yes, look. Oxfam has wedding dresses. And… there’s a shop in Leatherhead. Let’s go look!’

  She’s about to pull out into traffic again when I say, ‘Hang on. A donated dress? I’m not sure.’

  I don’t know why this idea bothers me, exactly. I love a good charity shop find as much as the next person. It’s where I get a lot of my clothes. People get rid of some really nice things.

  But why would someone donate her wedding dress? Because she’ll never wear it again? Maybe, but everyone has clothes in their closet that’ll never see the light of day. Why get rid of your wedding dress? Unless you weren’t happy in it.

  ‘I don’t want someone else’s bad karma,’ I say. ‘Happy brides don’t get rid of their wedding dresses.’

  ‘Some must.’

  ‘But how will I know whether mine’s from a happy bride or a divorced one?’

  ‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ says Kell as she eases back into the driving lane. ‘We’ll have to come up with something else. We will, though. We’ll find something.’

  As soon as we get back from Kent, Dad says, ‘That came for you,’ pointing to a large flat box.

  ‘I haven’t ordered anything.’

  ‘Something from Daniel?’ Kelly asks as she throws herself down on the settee. ‘Open it!’

  I need a knife from the kitchen to get the box open. Whatever it is, it’s well packed.

  ‘I don’t get it.’ I pull out stacks of fabrics in every shade of white, cream, pale yellow, blue and green you can imagine. ‘What are these for?’

  ‘Serviettes,’ says Auntie Rose, rubbing one of them between her fingers. ‘This is top quality linen, by the feel of it. Why would Daniel send you serviettes?’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t, Auntie Rose.’

  ‘His mum?’ Mum asks, picking up a few that have faint patterns on them. ‘Damask,’ she murmurs.

  ‘I guess they’re from Philippa, though she didn’t mention anything.’ I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with them. There must be fifty.

  Kelly picks one up. ‘Is this what she wants you to have at your wedding?’ She pulls out her phone to google the company. ‘Holy shit, look at this! These are a tenner each.’

  We all crowd round her phone to look as she scrolls down the page. ‘A few are cheaper but not by much. This one’s fourteen quid. Emma, you can’t afford this.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I say. ‘Ten quid for a serviette? Imagine how much she expects us to pay for the plates and cutlery.’ I reach for my phone, then put it away again. I want to ring Daniel, but I feel like all I’ve done lately is moan about wedding expenses. Instead, I go in to the kitchen so I can ring Philippa without my family pulling horrified faces at me.

  ‘Hellair, darling!’ she says when she answers. ‘How did your dress shopping go?’

  ‘It was nice, thanks, Philippa. We’re still looking.’ I don’t mention that the boutique we went to today ends in the word ‘warehouse’.

  ‘Yah, yah, wonderful, just let me know when you’d like to go back to Sarah’s.’

  ‘I will, thanks. Did you happen to send me a box of serviettes?’

  She’s quiet for a second. ‘Right. The napkins, yah. I’m awfully sorry, I think I probably got carried away, but they had such delicious things that I couldn’t stop! I thought they might give you some ideas for colours for your tables. Anyhow, see if you like any of them. They can order them in within two weeks, so there’s no rush. You’ll want to have a head count anyway before you order them.’

  ‘The head count will be sixty,’ I remind her.

  She laughs. ‘Well, these things do have a way of creeping up. I’m sorry, darling, I’m just about to have my massage. Can I ring you back after?’

  ‘No, no, that’s okay. I just wanted to say thanks for the serv– napkins.’

  I know she just wants to help, but Philippa’s suggestions feel like more than suggestions.

  When I return to the lounge, Kell says, ‘We’ve got a great idea. There are forty-two serviettes here. You can use them for the wedding and make up the rest with normal ones.’

  ‘They’re all different colours and patterns,’ I say. ‘I’m supposed to choose one.’ Though nobody I know would care that they’re mismatched. They’d be impressed that they aren’t paper.

  ‘Well, that’s a waste,’ says Auntie Rose. ‘What will you do with the rest of them?’

  ‘It’s more than a waste. It’s four hundred quid’s worth of linen!’ Kell says. ‘I bet we could sell them down the market.’

  But I shake my head. ‘Nobody wants to buy mismatched serviettes. Philippa didn’t even sound like it was a big deal when I rang. Maybe she spends this much on serviettes all the time.’

  ‘Maybe she does,’ Auntie Rose says. ‘All right for some.’

  Mum starts packing them carefully back into the box. ‘Put them away, Emma, we don’t want to get them dirty.’ She stops to look me in the eye. ‘My love, you’re not really thinking of spending this much on serviettes?’

  ‘Of course not, Mum.’

  She nods, looking as worried as I feel.

  Chapter 6

  Four hundred quid on serviettes. I feel like I’ve slipped down the rabbit hole and emerged in the middle of Harrods. Daniel wasn’t surprised about his mum’s suggestion, but he agrees that it’s ridiculous to shell out that much on serviettes. Though he’ll probably want something besides kitchen roll on the tables.

  Philippa’s suggestions made me uncomfortable at first. Now they’ve got me completely panicked. What is this woman expecting for her only son’s wedding?

  My tummy rumbles as I throw three tins of on-sale tuna in my basket along with a loaf of sliced bread. I’ve been eating so much tuna lately that I may grow gills by the wedding. Do you, Daniel, take this cod to be your lawfully wedded wife?

  But homemade sandwiches fill me up for lunch and that’s the main thing. I can splurge on takeaways again after the wedding.

  Mmm, takeaways. I stick my face into the carrier bag, inhaling the scent of Mrs Delaney’s fried fish, vinegar and chips.

  Actually, that makes me feel a bit sick on an empty stomach. The quicker I deliver Mrs Delaney’s lunch, the quicker I can eat my own.

  Her tailoring shop has been beside the Vespa dealership for over a hundred years, though neither she nor the Vespa dealership have been around that long. It looks like it hasn’t changed its window display since it opened. Swathes of faded lace drape the window and bolts of silks and velvets stand upright in a crate in the middle. The glass is sparkling clean, though, and there’s not a speck of dust on the display floor. Mrs Delaney climbs in there every week with her vinegar and newspapers and dusting cloths.

  No easy feat for someone in her seventies.

  ‘I’m back, Mrs Delaney!’ I call through the curtain into the back of the shop. Even though I’ve been in here dozens of times it never seems right to just barge in back there.

  Mrs Delaney slowly emerges from the curtain in a cloud of Crabtree & Evelyn rosewater powder. I can’t pass a garden in summer without being reminded of her.

  She does everything slowly because of her arthritis. It hasn’t crippled her hands yet, but everything from the waist down creaks with effort. ‘Thank you, my love,’ she says, reaching for the carrier bag. ‘Would you like some?’

  She asks the same thing every time I deliver her fish and chips. I can’t accept her offer, though, when I know that order feeds her for a few days. ‘No, thank you. I’ve got my lunch right here.’

  As she unwraps her fish I stare around the shop. It’s long and narrow, with floor-to-ceiling shelves for a
ll the bolts of cloth that a tailor needs. I guess when Mrs Delaney had a thriving business those shelves were full. Now there’s lots of empty space. It’s dark in here, but she doesn’t turn on the lights unless she’s got a customer.

  Now most of her work comes from the big shops on Oxford Street and in West London. Every time one of the fancy retail shops offers to hem your trousers or take in your skirt, it’s someone like Mrs Delaney wielding the needle.

  She does still get a few commissions, mainly for handmade suits, but I hardly ever see anyone in here. Which is a shame, because Mrs Delaney loves company. That’s why I come in whenever I can to say hello or, like today, to deliver her lunch.

  Her wide blue eyes dance with excitement as she asks about the wedding plans. She’s a very elegant lady, with a trim figure that’s always in a dress, and a salt-and-pepper pixie cut she’s had since the sixties, because she loved the way Mia Farrow looked with it. ‘Have you found your dress?’

  If I’d found my dress, then the whole neighbourhood would have heard about it already. Good news travels almost as fast as bad news round here. ‘Not yet, and Mum says that having something made would still be pretty expensive.’

  Mrs Delaney nods, deflating the tiny hope I’d harboured that Mum was wrong. ‘The fabric alone can run to several hundred pounds. Plus the tailoring. Of course, I could do you a deal on that, but even so, it wouldn’t be cheap.’

  I can feel my shoulders slump. ‘We’ve got a tight budget.’

  That’s an understatement. Our budget’s in a Vulcan Death Grip.

  ‘I take it eloping’s not an option?’ she asks, dipping a chip into the little pile of salt she’s made. ‘Then it seems to me you need someone else’s dress for free. I’d ask my Patty, but you wouldn’t want a twenty-five-year-old dress.’

  I smile. ‘Does it have big puffy sleeves and satin on it?’ I’m imagining Princess Di on her wedding day.

  Mrs Delaney returns my grin. ‘And a bustier neckline and all-over lace and a bustle. I made it myself and it was gorgeous, though no one would be caught dead in it now!’

  That makes me think of my mum’s dress. ‘Could you alter a dress like that, though? I don’t mean Patty’s but if I got another one? Could you alter it into something more up-to-date?’

  ‘Of course, girl. I could put together a whole new dress for you from the scraps of the old one.’

  ‘You’re incredible, Mrs Delaney. Would it be expensive? To update one instead of making one from scratch?’

  ‘It might be just a few quid for an easy job. We won’t know till we see what needs doing.’

  Then I’m definitely going to make sure Mum digs out her dress when I get home after work. It might not be my dream dress, but it’ll be my mum’s, and that might be even better.

  Back at the dealership, my mobile rings just as I’m hovering behind the counter about to bite into my sandwich. If it wasn’t Dad, I’d ignore the call.

  ‘Auntie Rose has left,’ he says before I even say hello. ‘She was here for Homes Under the Hammer but gone by the time Bargain Hunt started.’

  ‘Pretend I use a regular clock, Dad, not the TV Guide to tell time.’

  He sighs. ‘She’d escaped by twelve-fifteen.’

  I check my phone. Quarter past one. ‘I’ll check the pub first. Did she say anything before she left? Anything that might give us a clue where she’s gone? Where was Homes Under the Hammer this time? Anything that could have sparked a memory?’

  ‘No, it was up north somewhere. Wait. They did an intro where everyone was dressed up like the sixties, dancing to psychedelic music.’

  I find Auntie Rose half an hour later wandering the cramped aisles of the Jiffy Mart on Mile End Road. ‘Auntie Rose? What are you looking for?’

  ‘Oh, nothing in particular. I’m just waiting for everyone.’ She picks up a tin of dog food.

  I’m never sure if she really knows who I am when she’s wandering. Part of me doesn’t want to ask. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

  She nods. ‘You know we are, if the others ever get here!’ She laughs. ‘I’ve never seen such a crowd for turning up late.’ She sets the tin down to check the dainty silver watch at her wrist. ‘We’ll miss the first act if we don’t hurry.’ Her worried look pulls at my heart.

  ‘That’s okay, they’re going on late,’ I tell her. ‘We’ve got time.’

  I feel guilty when I see her expression relax, but what else can I do? I don’t want my seventy-something auntie in distress because she’s afraid of missing a gig that probably happened back in 1967.

  The young guy behind the till catches my eye. I answer his mouthed ‘Okay?’ with a nod. It’s not the first time Auntie Rose has been in here. I didn’t understand why she kept coming back here until I noticed the old pub sign on the wall outside. She and my gran used to come here to dance to the latest cover band hits.

  ‘Have you got everything you need, my love?’ she asks a few minutes later, consulting her watch again.

  ‘I’ve got everything I need. Have you?’

  ‘I don’t need anything,’ she says. ‘Shall we go home?’

  And just like that, Auntie Rose is back in the twenty-first century.

  It’s not Alzheimer’s or dementia, according to the GP. This time-hopping streak apparently runs in Mum’s family and she’s not worried about it, so I usually try not to worry either. Who knows? I might enjoy popping back a few decades myself when I’m her age.

  Daniel flings his window open when I pull up outside his flat. Of course he’s heard me arrive. My old Vespa sounds like angry bees.

  ‘Supper’s almost ready,’ he calls down. ‘Though my panna cotta might not be wobbly enough.’

  That’s the kind of thing I’d never have expected to hear before meeting Daniel. Having a guy cook for me is unusual enough. But having one who’s concerned about the wobble in his pudding? ‘I’m sure your wobble is perfect,’ I say, making my way upstairs.

  Of course it is. Everything he cooks tastes delicious, and I’m not only saying that because I’m not the one doing the work.

  He says Harold taught him to cook. Godfathers, it seems, instruct on recipes as much as religion.

  I love being in Daniel and Jacob’s flat. It feels grown-up sipping a glass of wine and talking about our days while he stirs his pots and I set the table in the kitchen. Sometimes I pretend it’s ours and we’ll get to live here forever.

  It’s only wishful thinking. Jacob’s so nice that he probably would move out if he didn’t own the flat. And so far the only alternative in our price range is a narrowboat where we’d have to chop wood for heating and dispose of our own toilet waste.

  This all seemed so easy when Daniel asked me to marry him. Everything fell into place in my head. We’d have a simple ceremony surrounded by loved ones and then live happily ever after. Friends would come to our gorgeous new flat for meals that we knocked up together and we’d spend weekends on the settee feeding each other toast and marmalade and generally being in love.

  Instead, we’re living on opposite sides of London, trying to find somewhere to live that doesn’t need life jackets, while planning a wedding in ten weeks that’s fit for the aristocracy.

  Meanwhile, I’ll take every second of time alone with Daniel that I can get. Even when Jacob is in the flat there’s more room to be a couple here than at home with my family.

  That never bothered me growing up. When my gran was alive she was at our house every day. It’s normal to have family all around, all the time. There wasn’t even any conversation about Auntie Rose moving into my bedroom with me after Gran died. Though it’s understandable for an eighteen-year-old not to want to share her bedroom with a snoring pensioner, it would have felt weirder to say no than yes. Most people I know have aunties or grandparents living with them.

  ‘Auntie Rose wandered to the Jiffy Mart again,’ I tell him as he throws some salt into boiling water.

  He stops what he’s doing. ‘Poor Auntie Rose. Is she okay? She’s b
ack safe at home?’

  Daniel was really close to his granny on his mum’s side. He even lived with her during summers when his parents were travelling. She only died two years ago and he still mentions her a lot. So he understands how much Auntie Rose means to me.

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘I found her waiting for her friends to listen to a band there. She never seems upset when she gets confused, so I guess that’s good. I’m just grateful that she’s got us to look after her.’

  She moved in with my gran to keep her company after my grandad died, but they were really company for each other. They bickered like crazy, but they were close. ‘That’s the problem with being an only child,’ I warn him. ‘You can try pawning me off on Kell, but you’ll probably have to look after me if I start wandering when I get old.’

  He reaches for my hand. ‘I’ll wander with you. We’ll be old and doddery and get lost together.’

  I don’t want to rush us into incontinence pads and free bus passes, but I am looking forward to growing old with Daniel.

  I get to be young with him first, though. ‘I really didn’t think one little wedding would be so expensive,’ I tell him over dinner.

  ‘It would be easier if you’d let my parents help.’

  ‘It’s not me that’s stopping them, Daniel, it’s my Dad. Can’t you understand how he feels to go from supporting his family to being out of work and in a wheelchair most of the time? He feels helpless enough as it is. He hates that he’s not bringing in a pay cheque anymore, even though it’s not his fault, it’s the stupid disease. He doesn’t want to accept any handouts.’ I put up my hand at Daniel’s objection. ‘I know it’s not really a handout, but that’s how he sees it. Someone else has to step in and pay for what he can’t. Being in his situation with the MS has made him really sensitive about that. You should have heard him when Mum first talked about applying for the disability allowance. He acted like she was telling him she was going begging in the street. Even if I could sneak some money past him, I can’t lie to him. He’s proud, Daniel, and it would seem like a betrayal, even though he’d probably never find out. I’m afraid we’ll have to make do with a small budget. I’m sorry about that, but can’t you understand why?’