The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  He and Kell know where this exhaustion is coming from and it’s fun having the secret to share. Though Daniel is no locked vault. I have to keep stopping him from rubbing my tummy in front of people. They’ll either catch on that I’m pregnant or think I’ve got trapped wind.

  ‘Sure, total relaxation,’ I say. ‘Except for the wedding. And finding a job.’

  Daniel frowns. ‘But you don’t need to worry about the job. There’s no reason to go through that effort now, right?’

  There’s something wrong about the way he says this, about which word he puts the emphasis on. He said ‘There’s no reason to go through that effort now’, not ‘There’s no reason to go through that effort now’. Kell and I trade glances. ‘No, not right this second while we plan the wedding,’ I say, ‘but I’d like to find something by the autumn.’

  ‘Your days selling scooters are numbered,’ says Kell. ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘If you want them to be,’ Daniel murmurs. ‘You should be relaxing now.’

  It’s not the time to get into an argument about my job plans. Until now I didn’t think there might be a reason to.

  ‘Except that if we don’t find a reception venue soon,’ I say instead, ‘we’ll end up sitting on the pavement and toasting the marriage with cans of Stella.’

  I’ve already thanked Uncle Colin for the offer to use the pub so he’s not expecting to throw the party here. There’s got to be a better option, something fit for Philippa and her crowd.

  Even Mum agrees after meeting her that we need to step up our game. Pints in the Cock and Crown will never do for them. Mum knows better than to mention the ring again, though. We’ve got champagne tastes with a beer purse, that’s what Dad says.

  ‘I wish you’d let me find somewhere,’ says Daniel. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t trust me.’

  ‘Oh, I definitely trust you to find somewhere gorgeous,’ I say. ‘But let’s be honest. Your idea of frugal is buying non-vintage champagne.’

  He grimaces but can’t really object.

  ‘You’d find the perfect place that we definitely can’t afford and then we’d fight over it.’

  ‘So you don’t trust me,’ he says quietly. Suddenly we’re not joking. Fear creeps up my neck.

  ‘I do trust you, Daniel, of course I do.’ This is true. I would trust him with my life. It’s his spending that I have to keep an eye on. ‘I wouldn’t be marrying you if I didn’t trust you. You’re just…’

  ‘What?’ he challenges. ‘What am I?’

  ‘You have good taste, that’s all I’m saying. See? This is what I mean. Now we’re fighting.’

  ‘Pssh, you amateur!’ Kell says. ‘That’s not a fight.’

  ‘It is for us,’ I say. When I reach for Daniel’s hand he takes it.

  ‘Like I said, you’re amateurs. You should ask the brain trust in here for some ideas. Someone must know of space in an old building or under the arches.’

  Of course! We’ve been looking in the wrong direction. I can’t out-posh someone like Philippa, but I may be able to out-romance her. ‘You know how I love a distressed look,’ I say.

  ‘How we love a distressed look,’ Kell answers.

  A few years ago, we gave our everyday bedroom furniture a French country makeover. It turned out okay on Gran’s reproduction Queen Anne table but not so good on Ikea’s boxy veneer bed frame.

  Now I’m picturing something whimsically, grandly derelict for our party, like a mini Taj Mahal with peeling paint. More likely it’ll be a fume-filled garage where we’ll have to hand out facemasks at the door.

  ‘There’s no question you’d get distressed under the arches,’ Kell says, standing up to address the room. ‘Right, hello. Hellooooo.’ Nobody pays her any attention.

  Sticking her fingers in her mouth, she lets rip with an ear-piercing whistle.

  All conversation stops in its tracks.

  ‘Lor’, Kell, I’m deaf,’ Doreen shouts.

  ‘Sorry, Doreen. Right, you lot, our girl needs help. As you know, these fine people are getting married. So where can we throw a party cheap for what, sixty? Sixty people. Anywhere at all?’

  The suggestions come thick and fast, starting with the pub – it’s an obvious first option – and the hair salon next door if they can move all the chairs and hairdryers out of the way.

  ‘What about the church?’ Doreen asks. ‘Vicar, couldn’t they have a party there, in the hall where the Slimming World is? Or even out back?’

  Our vicar, Del, sips his pint as he considers his answer. Well, I say ‘our’ vicar. Like my family has ever heard one of his sermons first-hand.

  ‘There’d be no libations allowed,’ he says. ‘Those in authority frown on our celebrations, no matter how wholesome, ever since our patriotic support of the Euro tournament last year.’ He drains his beer.

  ‘In fairness, there was a lot of damage,’ Uncle Colin points out. ‘And the neighbours complained about the noise.’

  ‘The lads were just showing their support,’ says Del.

  I should explain about our vicar, since he’s probably not what you’re imagining. He came late to vicaring after a colourful career in football hooliganism. Tattooed from his fingers to the back of his shaven head, he’d terrify a person in a dark alley, but, now reformed and totally repentant, he’s a giant marshmallowy pushover. As long as you don’t cross him.

  Uncle Colin takes Del’s glass to pour him another pint. ‘Just tell me how I can contribute to your day though, Emma,’ Del says. ‘Are you in need of my services for the ceremony?’ Taking his beer, he moves to the upright piano that sits against the wall under Frank Lampard’s signed West Ham shirt. It’s Uncle Colin’s pride and joy. The shirt, not the piano.

  ‘No, thanks, Del, we’ve booked Bromley Public Hall,’ I tell him. I hope this doesn’t offend him. It shouldn’t, since he’s never known my family spiritually.

  ‘Well, I’m happy to be of assistance in any way I can,’ he says, seating himself at the piano. The first few bars of ‘I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts’ starts everyone’s toes tapping.

  Our vicar plays beautifully, all the old-timey songs that everyone knows the words to. Even when he’s seven or eight pints into his night, his playing is faultless.

  Auntie Rose and her ladies love him. They can remember when most of the pubs had pianos and they’re usually the ones to start the singalongs at Uncle Colin’s. They like to recall when Del’s grandad used to play.

  ‘I’m afraid any place with a roof will probably cost some dosh,’ Uncle Colin says.

  Any place with a roof… any place with a roof. ‘What about somewhere without one?’ I wonder. ‘Maybe there’s an outdoor space, like a park or a garden.’

  Though Philippa will be expecting Kew Gardens if I tell her the wedding is outside. She won’t like sharing a bench in the park with the local lads.

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Kell says as Del starts playing ‘Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini’. ‘Too bad there’s no beach close by. They’re public, right?’

  ‘The Queen owns them,’ Auntie Rose says. ‘Or she owns the sea, I forget. She owns something.’

  ‘The swans,’ Doreen says.

  ‘Hey, Councillor,’ Uncle Colin calls to the slender man nursing his pint at the end of the bar. He’s one of our long-suffering elected officials. People are always complaining to him while he’s trying to enjoy his pint. Given the state of the council, personally I’d drink at home if I were him. ‘What about it? Could they do a party in a park?’

  ‘You could,’ he says, turning to us. ‘You’d just need to apply for a license, fill in a form and pay the fee.’

  He tells us the council decides the fee depending on things like the size of the space and what’s being set up. It’s definitely more than a hundred quid, he says, though the exact amount is negotiable.

  So much for that idea then, I think, just as Del ends his piano playing with an ominous Da Da Da Dum and walks over to
the man. Clamping his meaty hand on his shoulder, he says, ‘Well, Councillor, it seems to me that if it’s negotiable, we should start negotiating, yeah?’

  His words are friendly, but there’s no mistaking his tone, or the grip he’s got on the councillor’s shoulder.

  ‘But… you don’t even know where you want it.’ The councillor sounds nervous.

  ‘Let Emma and her fiancé work that one out,’ Del says smoothly. ‘You and I’ll negotiate the terms, yeah? And remember, you’re dealing with a man of God.’

  Yeah, I think, a man of God who’s been inside.

  Everyone acts like we haven’t just witnessed the extortion and probable corruption of a city official. Uncle Barbara scoots into the booth beside me, adjusting the top of his wrap dress as he sits. The clingy material isn’t doing anything for his beer belly, but the bright blue suits him. I know what he’s going to ask before he opens his mouth. My eyes shift away from his. They’re so hopeful, so full of kindness. I do want him to be a bridesmaid. I’m just struggling to imagine what Daniel’s family and friends will think seeing him walking up the aisle with Kelly, Cressida and Abby.

  Daniel was totally fine about the idea of my uncle wearing a dress in our wedding party. I mentioned it to him back when Uncle Barbara first started hinting. ‘Your family won’t think it’s weird?’ I’d asked him.

  ‘Oh, no, they’ll find it completely bonkers, but who cares? You should have whom you want at our wedding. We’re supposed to be surrounded by the people we love, yah?’

  That was easy for him to say when he’s already in his family. They have to accept him. The jury is still out on me.

  But our wedding party is uneven without Uncle Barbara and he knows it. Not that that’s a reason to make someone a bridesmaid if you don’t want to. Like I said, I really do want him there with me. ‘Uncle Barbara.’ I sit up straight. He does the same. ‘Will you be one of my bridesmaids?’

  ‘Oh, love, it would be an absolute honour!’ he says like my offer has come out of the blue. ‘You’re like me daughter, Emma. You know that.’ He reaches for his hankie.

  Daniel grasps my hand and Barbara’s, looking like he’s about to go off too. This is going to turn into a real snotfest in a minute. Luckily Kell recognises my delicate condition because she says, ‘Good. It’s about time you got around to asking him. Barbara can come dress shopping with us.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, ‘We’re meeting the others on Oxford Street to get some ideas. But you will shave on the day, won’t you?’

  Uncle Barbara beams as tears glisten in his soft brown eyes. ‘I’ll do anything you want me to, Emma, me love. Thank you.’

  The next morning I get Philippa’s guest list, but there’s a mistake. I ring Daniel at work. ‘Have you seen your mum’s email?’

  ‘Right, yah.’ He sounds distracted like always at work. He’s probably busy thinking about all the poor African children who need wells built. ‘Finally, now we can send out the invites.’

  ‘Well, yes… to about half the list. Did you open the attachment?’

  ‘Yah, why?’

  ‘Did you see both pages?’ I can hear his keyboard clicking.

  ‘Yah, Emma, I saw. I do know how to open an attachment, you know.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. Do you also know how to count? Because I tallied seventy guests from your side and that doesn’t include all the “and families” she’s put on there. You know we’re planning on sixty guests in total.’

  He laughs, but there’s nothing funny about this. ‘I told you it would be more. We’ll have to pay the extra fee and open up the whole room at the registry. We can’t not invite people to our wedding, can we? We'll just have to stretch the budget.'

  He’s treating this all like a bit of a challenge, like it’s fun pretending to be poor. He has no idea what it's like when there really isn't more money.

  ‘The important thing is that we can send out the invitations now,’ he goes on. ‘And, we’re saving money by not having to do Save the Date cards first.’

  ‘That’s beside the point, Daniel. We can’t afford to fund a party for all of your mother’s friends!’ When I say I’m going to call her, suddenly he gives me his full attention. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t insult her. I’ll just find out how close all of these people really are. We need to keep the invites to close family and friends, Daniel.’

  ‘And we will. Why don’t you let me ring her? You shouldn’t have to do it.’

  I would like to save my debut as the bitchy daughter-in-law until later if possible. And I think I can trust him to fight our corner. ‘Yes, please. Ring me back as soon as you’ve talked to her?’

  ‘I’ll ring her right now. Will report back.’

  He does ring back, more than an hour later, but his news isn’t good. ‘I’m afraid there rahly isn’t anyone we can take off that list,’ he says.

  ‘Do you even know who everyone is?’

  ‘Right, I knew you’d ask me that, and I do now that I’ve asked Mummy. Go ahead and quiz me. I know you’re dying to.’

  I just so happen to have the list printed out in front of me. I start reading from the bottom where Philippa probably put the random guests she thought of last. ‘Who's Dame Edwina Hislop?’

  ‘Mum’s boarding school chum,’ he says. ‘They ran away from school in Switzerland together. Mum was her bridesmaid. Her son is Mummy’s godson.’

  ‘Fine, they can stay. Professor and Mr Henderson?’

  ‘They’ve been our next-door neighbours since I was a child. She’s a heart surgeon, not a uni professor.’

  ‘Abdullah Sharaf?’

  ‘The Jordanian ambassador. Or consulate general, I forget. He’s an old chum of Father’s from Oxford.’

  ‘The Crawford-Blacks? Sir Renwick? The Meyer-Mannings?’

  ‘My cousins, Abby’s godfather and Mum’s best friends, respectively,’ he says. ‘You met the Meyer-Mannings at the party.’

  I’m starting to see that this is a pointless exercise. ‘There really isn’t anyone we can cull from this list?’

  ‘I don’t see how without offending my parents.’

  And I definitely can’t do that if I want to be in Daniel’s family. ‘So we’re throwing a wedding for dames and sirs and ambassadors.’

  ‘And lords and ladies, I’m afraid. Shall we just elope?’

  ‘Can we??’

  ‘Emma, I was only joking. You and I can do this. Having the party outside is an inspired idea. It doesn’t have to be expensive. We’ll just get a big tent.’

  ‘Maybe we won’t need one if the weather is good.’

  He laughs. ‘I don’t think we can take that chance. Leave it to me. Didn’t I find a bargain on the chauffeur? I’ll find us a reasonable marquee.’

  I doubt that, but he sounds so pleased to be helping. He’s still touchy about what I said last night and I don’t want to argue again. ‘Great, thanks,’ I tell him. If we blow the budget, then the marquee company can always lose our booking.

  ‘I suppose we should ring the town hall about that extra room?’ Daniel suggests.

  ‘All right, I’ll do it.’

  ‘No, Em, let’s ring him together. Just give me the number and I’ll conference call us.’

  This wedding is officially going to be bigger than I imagined.

  Uncle Barbara is clean-shaven, wearing jeans and a jumper and Dr. Martens when we meet outside Debenhams on Oxford Street. I’ve never asked him where he gets his usual outfits. He doesn’t shop down the market and anyway, Stacy Boyle probably couldn’t find shoes in his size.

  I was ten when Uncle Barbara’s wife left and we started noticing some changes. He didn’t pop out of the back room of the pub one day with a ‘Ta-dah!’ and a prom dress, though. He started wearing silky blouses when he came for tea or a dangly necklace with his polo shirt. His socks got louder and his clothes got softer. Clip-on earrings and cardigans eventually found their way into his ensembles, but it happened so gradually that nobody was completely s
ure if he was making a transition or just having a crisis from the divorce. Then one night he turned up in flowing wide-legged trousers and a wrap top and the penny dropped. Uncle Mark didn’t look like Uncle Mark anymore.

  Over the years his wardrobe has suffered mission creep and now he’s almost always in a dress. There came a point when he stopped being Uncle Mark. Even now in his man-clothes he’s Uncle Barbara to me.

  Abby and Cressida smile warmly when I make introductions. They’ve been briefed, of course, about why Uncle Barbara is dress-shopping with us, just to avoid any awkward questions. Not that he’d mind answering them.

  He doesn’t usually dress up outside the neighbourhood. That’s what Mum and Dad call it: dressing up. He’s safe with us, but it would only take one intolerant gobshite to turn Uncle Barbara’s world into a very scary place.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says, kissing their offered cheeks. ‘It’s been ages since I’ve been on a shopping spree. Thank you for letting me come along.’

  ‘It’s our pleasure,’ Abby says. ‘The more the merrier when it comes to shopping. Personally, I hate it, so any distraction is welcome.’

  I warn them again that we’re only looking for ideas today. Under no circumstances must we come home with dresses. But as I walk toward Debenhams’ door, Cressida and Abby turn the other way.

  Cressida’s forehead furrows. ‘We’re going in there?’ She says this like it’s a brothel.

  ‘What’s wrong with Debenhams?’ Kell demands, squaring her shoulders.

  ‘Nothing at all! I just thought we were starting at Selfridges. I mentioned to Emma – they’ve got all the same concessions plus the designers upstairs. Honestly, though, let’s go here.’

  ‘No, let’s go to Selfridges,’ says Kell, as if Cressida has just challenged her to a duel.

  Selfridges! I’d wanted to start at Primark and work my way up to H&M. Debenhams is upscale for my purse.

  ‘It won’t hurt to look,’ Kell murmurs to me as we walk further along the pavement to Selfridges. ‘Like you said, we’re not buying today. She’s just showing off anyway. “Ooh, the designers are upstairs.” She’s probably going to say she knows them personally.’