by Poppy Dolan
So now it’s quarter to one in the morning and Pete is standing stiffly in the kitchen doorway as I nudge my snowgroom’s top hat just a millimetre to the right.
‘I thought you’d be in bed already. Not fiddling with royal icing and looking like the Bride of Frankenstein,’ he mutters sleepily.
‘Oh, charming!’ I put my hands on my hips.
‘Your hair.’ He rubs at his eyes. ‘You’ve got two big stripes of white in your hair. Like the Bride of Frankenstein. But otherwise very gorgeous.’ Pete opens his jaws like a snake in a massive yawn. ‘So, the chairs and tables are all out, the flowers in place, seeing as Mum says the cold will preserve them overnight. Massive vat of special cider already brewed and Dad’s mate bought some mead too, which is apparently the traditional honeymoon drink for fertility.’
‘Bit late for that, hey.’ I go back to my cake-top world. Does it need more white glitter to make the snow shine? Hard to tell in the strip light of the kitchen. Hmmm. Maybe just a sprinkle more.
‘Alright, Cranky Sue. Put the spatula down and come to bed. We need plenty of energy for tomorrow and all the mental relatives and drunk friends it will bring. Besides, the cake is perfect. Very … festive.’
‘Really?’ I am so very tired. I think I could conk out on the lino actually, if it wasn’t so sticky from spilled icing sugar and white wine. I may also be a bit pissed.
‘Yes. Really. Come on, wife.’
‘OK.’ I shuffle into the bedroom behind Pete and fall asleep like log, a log soaked in wine.
Chapter Forty
I swore I set my alarm for 7 a.m. so there’d be plenty of time to have a last fiddle with the cake, put it in its specially bought case with sturdy handle and then give myself the normal hour for big event preparations: more than ten minutes spent on hair, possibly twenty on using all my best make-up, and half an hour finding a pair of tights without a run or that actually aren’t navy. But the clock is definitely saying 8.30 a.m. and now my heart is picking up pace. Christ. How will I fit it all in so we can leave at 10?
At least I know what I’m wearing. Picking an outfit for a winter wedding is actually a whole lot easier than you might think – no need to worry about loose arm fat flapping under thin dress straps; no fake tan streaks on bare legs; nice chunky heels that won’t sink into grass and all sorts of cardigan options. I’ve had my emerald dress that I bought for a work do last Christmas freshly dry-cleaned and my black patent slingbacks are as shiny as Pete’s freshly waxed hair.
I’m sitting bolt upright in a flash. Maybe I can forego hairstyling, with a bit of that dry shampoo? Then I’ll have time for final adjustments. I’m clipping five minutes here and there off my schedule – I can definitely do my make-up in the car, though it might look a bit patchy in photos – when the smell of bacon distracts me.
Pete strolls in, drop-dead handsome in his best dark grey suit and a ruby red tie. All the groomsmen are wearing them. Rich has picked a school friend as his best man which Pete admitted was a relief, because picking one brother over the other two would only lead to head-locks and sulking. He’s got one big plate of bacon sandwiches and two mugs of tea on a tray. I’d marry him again if I could.
‘Oh, amazing,’ I breathe. ‘Right, somehow I overslept so I’ll bolt this down, have a quick shower, chuck my dress on, then see to the cake.’
‘I’ve taken care of the cake,’ he says simply.
‘What?’
He smiles and puts the tray down on the bed. ‘I knew you’d been working on it all day yesterday, and I knew you’d become a little bit focused on it being perfect. So I let you sleep in while I put the ribbon on – just like in your diagram,’ he cuts across me as I am about to protest, ‘put it in the box all neat and secure, and now it’s in the car with our overnight bags and you just have to worry about having this bacon sandwich, having a nice soak in the bath and then putting on that dress I like so much because of the slits at the side.’
‘Oh. I’d forgotten about those. Do you think that’s OK for a wedding?’
‘This is a wedding taking place in a barn, and my mum is wearing something she knitted herself. Plus, the humanist celebrant goes by his first name only. I wouldn’t worry too much about decorum. And hopefully you’ll get drunk and do that wiggly dance, so the split will ride up even higher.’
If this bacon sandwich wasn’t manna from the gods, I would throw it at him. Instead, I take a deep breath and carry on chewing, as a rare feeling of calm tingles up my spine. It’s all going to be OK. Actually, it’s all going to be great.
The boys have done a spectacular job setting the house and grounds up for a wedding. There are those mesh plastic sheets that stop the ground getting too slippery and three Portaloos, each with an archway of holly and ivy around its doorway. On every tree and hedgerow there’s a chalkboard sign that points you towards ‘The Barn’, ‘Food’ and ‘Booze!’ in scruffy but endearing handwriting. And the house is the cleanest I’ve ever seen it. I mean, I actually want to eat in that kitchen now.
Bee is, appropriately, buzzing about, hiding stacks of Herbalist Monthly mags under a sofa here, shoving an Indian fertility mask there and flapping his hands every few minutes. I think this is the most stress he’s had to deal with since Pete explained the new online tax system, but overall he’s doing quite well. As I walk in and put our bags down in the hall, I see Marie go over and rub his back gently, until his hands hang loose by his sides and he exhales deeply. She whispers something in his ear and I’m reminded that her oversharing nature is actually to do with over-caring, and sometimes that’s a good thing.
Then she spots Pete and I’m also reminded why she makes me want to change my name and run for the hills, on occasion.
‘My sunflower! My strong oak! Here you are.’ She clasps him in a bear hug. Pulling back, she adds, ‘And Eleanor.’
‘Hi Mum. What’s left to do?’
‘Oh,’ she rolls her eyes, ‘our new family seem to be in charge, so don’t ask me!’ she trills. Even a flower-power mum can be passive-aggressive.
‘They’re just helping out,’ Pete replies calmly.
‘Well, they at least had flax seeds in their porridge this morning, so that’s a little victory for me.’ Marie nods knowingly at us, as if we have any idea what that’s supposed to mean.
A woman I don’t recognise, but who definitely has Skye’s colouring and her neat frame, trots down the stairs, taking off a pair of rubber gloves. ‘Well, I think that’s that,’ she says breezily to Marie. ‘Sorry, I so wanted to help out, with you having the whole wedding here. And a little bit of housework is good for the heart and soul, I always say!’
‘This is Shona, Skye’s mum,’ Pete says, introducing us.
‘Oh, hello. Lovely to meet you.’ So that’s why it’s looking so spick and span round here. Marie must be hating it. There is a God.
Pete is a sensible man, so he knows that two mothers-in-law bickering when emotions are matrimonially high is not a good thing. ‘Ells, why don’t you go and see if Skye needs anything? I’ll put the cake out, you just do the girly stuff.’ He gets a trio of withering looks for that bit.
Holding up his hands in surrender, he backs out of the door and heads towards the car.
‘Is Skye upstairs?’ I ask, to which both mums reply, ‘Yes dear,’ in tandem.
I’m legging it before they start a tug of war over the Hoover.
Skye has really nailed it. If that is ever a phrase that people usually apply to blushing brides. But seriously, she’s picked a beautiful, finely woven cashmere cream jumper with a low scoop neck and three-quarter sleeves and put it together with a long cream satin skirt cut on the bias. Plus, she tells me, as I give her the thumbs up, she has a long thermal skirt on under that, just in case the barn isn’t as well heated as Rich has promised. With a thin silver clip loaded with clusters of pearls in her hair, she really does look magical.
‘Now, can I get you a drink?’ I ask on autopilot. ‘I mean … a Buck’s Fizz? Is that
OK? Sorry, I’m used to offering friends some Dutch courage before they take the plunge.’
Skye holds out a shaky hand. ‘I think I can risk a Buck’s Fizz, in this case, thanks. You’re a lifesaver. And Pete told me yesterday how much time you put into the cake. I can’t wait to see it! Oh God, you haven’t forgotten it, have you?’
‘No,’ I laugh. ‘No, it’s here. Safe and sound.’
‘Oh, thank God. Sorry, it’s just that nothing has gone wrong so far and, weirdly, I think I’d be more relaxed if we just got a bit of a slip-up out of the way. Then I could breathe out. Mind you, I am actually trying to hold my breath in.’ She leans towards me and whispers, ‘My gran still doesn’t know I’m “in the family way”, so we’re going to pull the honeymoon baby trick on her. I have two pairs of control tights on. If the baby comes out wonky, it’s all Granny Deidre’s fault.’
I nip downstairs to forage out a semi-boozy tipple for the bride. And encounter Marie, with no friendly Shona buffer in sight.
As I hunt for a glass or a mug (I clock a huge fridge outside that I think one of the twins wangled from a friend. It is stuffed to the gills with Prosecco. I am SO glad I’m not pregnant!), Marie sidles up to me in the kitchen.
‘I must say, darling, that cake is marvellous.’
This is not what I was expecting and my head whips round at the compliment.
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, so celebratory. Not what I would have imagined from you, child. Wonderful to see you letting go more.’ She pours some just-boiled water into a mug and a wave of sour, herby smells pops out.
‘Um, thanks. Thanks, Marie.’
She gives me an insanely wide grin and looks meaningfully into my eyes. ‘We’re not so different, Eleanor, if you stop to think about it. We’re both creative, we both want to provide the best for our loved ones. And we both love Sunflower, of course.’ After another five seconds of staring at me, she gives a little ‘Hmmm’ of laughter through her closed lips and trundles off.
I literally have no idea what she’s on about. Am I still asleep? Am I having an edible dye fume hallucination? Because it almost feels like my mother-in-law was being relatively normal and lovely just then.
Shaking off the shiver running down my back, I spy a mug and then start rooting through the fridge for orange juice. Skye is the person to think about right now. This is her big day.
I have ruined her big day.
And there’s nothing I can do to fix it. It’s too late. Everything is happening super slowly, but I still can’t seem to stop it. I can’t cut the fuse wire to the bomb just in time; I can’t leap out of range of the exploding helicopter; I can’t even jump in the lead-lined fridge when the atomic explosion destroys everything around me.
No. I just have to sit here in my emerald-green dress, with my hair stiff with Elnett and a rigor mortis smile on my lips, as Skye walks down the aisle to The Cake of Doom.
It is vile.
What have I done?
Literally? What did I do along the way that turned all those perfectly sound ingredients into an edible monstrosity? I’m not an idiot, and other people were there to stop the carnage, but somehow it’s like a leftover from My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding has wandered into Don’t Tell the Bride with a heavy touch of The Twilight Zone. It’s an unexplained baking mystery.
Firstly, and worstly, I clearly went OTT with the white glitter. The thing is a mirrorball. It’s glittering so much it’s almost hard to look at. Which might be its saving grace, in fact. It’s like the essence of Liberace in a cake, which was unsurprisingly not what I set out to create. The only parts that aren’t glittering so much are these small egg-shaped dots here and there, especially around the sides. These, I realise are my fingerprints. My digits absorbed some of the glitter as I was feverishly manhandling it last night. That tiny silvery foil has probably been sucked into my bloodstream by osmosis by now. If I die from a glitter-clogged heart it will be no more than I deserve.
Secondly, I’ve given the snowbride a bush. I kept worrying that the bouquet was too high, and was hiding her cute mini bump, so I kept wriggling it down using a chopstick, agonising over its position. In the cold hard December light, the bunch of icing leaves looks like an odd, green mirkin and her hands positioned just underneath look like they’re having a good feel therein. Magical, just magical.
The snowbride’s bush next to the snowgroom’s exaggerated smile – reaching right around his head in a bright lipstick-red fondant – only impacts things, as he looks like he’s grinning madly from watching her get herself off, or maybe just from the acid he’s dropped, as his pupils are also super-sized compared to his head. I remember thinking last night that he looked too severe, too ghoulish, so pimped his smile and his coal eyes. But maybe that Pinot Grigio messed up my sense of proportion. Well, it did. There’s no maybe about it. That is one ugly snow couple.
And now here comes Skye.
The rest of the family and guests have already clocked and recoiled from my cakey nightmare as they filed in and took their seats. The awkward thing is, most people don’t know I’ve made it, so comments like, ‘Oh God, what is that?!’ and ‘Someone should ask for a refund, if you ask me,’ breeze past my burning ears. Pete squeezes my hand as each one comes our way.
‘It really isn’t that bad. It’s fun. It’s a fun cake.’
The look I gave stopped him in his well-meaning tracks. So he’s just been silent ever since.
And now of course I completely understand why Marie had been so complimentary: it’s bonkers. As bonkers as she is, so she totally got it. At least I know one slice will be eaten later.
At one point I really consider ‘accidentally’ falling against the table, or just picking the ugly thing up in a rugby tackle and sprinting for the door. But there are too many witnesses for my liking. Plus, I’d miss the actual wedding and even in my deep embarrassment I want to be there for the ‘I do’ bits. I’ll just have to suffer for my culinary crime.
And as ‘Moon River’ starts playing on the stereo at the back of the barn, I know Skye is there, waiting to make her walk up the aisle, and she’ll see the cake and she’ll know it’s all down to me and I’ll have lost my only sister-in-law ally. I mean, Estelle is awesome, but too intimidating to actually bond with. I had had high hopes for Skye as a mate.
I just want to get the moment out of the way. She’ll see the cake in the corner as she nears the top of the aisle, and gets closer to Rich, and the humanist Paul. She can’t really fail to notice it: it’s twinkling like a De Beers window display, but without any of the class. So I’m going to lock eyes with her, get it done. Enrage the bride, ruin the moment, release the burbling stomach stress by running to the Portaloo as soon as I’m able.
Skye and her dad do the one-together, two-together slowly up the aisle. All the time I’m looking at her beautifully made-up green eyes, waiting for the moment.
She sees the cake.
One perfect eyebrow raises, and quickly drops back down.
Her lips press together.
And finally she looks at me, just as she is hugging her dad and about to take Rich’s hand. Here it is, here’s the moment where her bridal heart will break into a million ivory pieces.
She smiles brightly but with no light behind her eyes. ‘Love it!’ she mouths, her smile wide.
Skye’s faking it, to save my feelings.
So maybe I do have a lovely friend of a sister-in-law, after all.
‘I do love it!’ Skye is saying emphatically, like she’s morphed into David Cameron. ‘I do! It’s so … unique. And sparkly. So sparkly. Christmassy!’ Her wedding buzz is my saviour right now: she’s as high as a kite on congratulations and confetti and that half-glass of Prosecco. My ugly cake is being masked by her wedding euphoria.
‘See?’ Pete murmurs next to me.
‘And actually,’ she gushes on, ‘I was looking for something to go wrong, to get it out of the way, so really you’ve done me a favour. Not that it went wrong, exactly,
but, um … you know!’
With such a rosy blush on her cheekbones and that bright glint in her eyes, suffused with happiness, I could forgive her anything. Rich wanders over and sneaks an arm around her slightly thickened waist.
‘Hello wife,’ he says with a proudly puffed chest, ‘we’d better do the photo thing so we can get some food into you soon. See you in a bit, guys.’ And they drift off, on a little cloud of bliss, to take a handful of snaps out in the icy midday. Luckily the sun is trying to make an appearance, with a thin, golden light picking up the sparkle of the frost on the grass. Which reminds me.
I turn back to the cake and Pete follows my line of sight.
He sighs playfully and grips me by the shoulders. ‘Eleanor Redford. You are not Mary Berry. You don’t get things right every single time. And it’s not about perfection. Your heart and soul are in that cake and I love that you cared so much about it. It’s you on a plate.’
I let my bottom lip droop. ‘Then I am very ugly.’
‘Yes,’ he pats the top of my head, ‘but I still love you. Now, are we going to get cidered up and enjoy this thing, or what?’
We did drink cider. And mead. And apple schnapps (family recipe, of course). And we danced to the wedding DJ’s set and we danced after the DJ left and someone plugged an iPhone into some speakers and then we even danced when the iPhone ran out of battery life and some crusty friend of Bee’s whipped out a ukulele – because why wouldn’t you carry one with you at all times? – and we did some mock-country dancing, round and round and round. Someone’s aunt made a rude joke about my snowbride’s bush but I laughed it off. I felt dizzy and happy and completely free of thoughts. I looked at Pete as he whirled me into a dosey-doe and I thought, ‘Let’s live here, you and me, in a drunken place where we don’t think about tomorrow. Just whether there’s any cheese and pineapple sticks left on the buffet. This is how life should be.’
Babies, telly shows, career plans; they all fell out of my head and got lost underfoot as the Caldicott brothers trampled the straw with their disorganised Gay Gordons. We had such a good time, whipped up by the romance and music and booze that we didn’t even notice that midnight had come and gone. The New Year had crept in like a wedding guest who missed the ceremony and didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. Only the last few struggling fireworks across the fields caught one of the twin’s eyes. ‘Christ!’ he bellowed, ‘Happy New Year!’ And then our country dancing shifted into a huge circle as we yelled ‘Auld Lang Syne’ as loud as we could, to cover up the fact that none of us really knew the words.
