Revenge of the Wedding Planner (7 page)

Anyway, Bill worked a miracle on the house on Eglantine. He really did. Ripped out the kitchen the day after we moved in and we had to live on sandwiches for a few weeks while he replaced it with freestanding pieces from various salvage yards. We had a Belfast sink years before they became popular again, a pine dresser with shiny red plates in neat rows and a big wicker basket full of red apples on the kitchen table. It’s all country-chic nowadays in the magazines but Bill had the vision, twenty years ago, to transform that house – and he was so sexy-looking when he was covered in rubble and dust! Combined with an exquisitely shaped bare back and Billy Idol looks, well, let’s just say we had no problems conceiving a sister for Alexander after he was born in 1985. Alicia-Rose, we called her – she was born in 1986. And then two more boys after that, Andrew and Christopher, 1987 and 1988. (None of it was planned, naturally, but I think we were such a perfect match hormonally it was inevitable we’d have four children within four years.) Alexander, Alicia-Rose, Andrew and Christopher. Our children! We were a proper family with a laundry basket on every landing and neat rows of shoe-shelves that Bill made for the cupboard under the stairs in the hall. A bottle-green carpet in the playroom for the boys (in what had been the drawing room) with beanbags and a big television. A white four-poster
for Alicia-Rose with yellow fairy lights on the ceiling. It was all so utterly perfect.

And when the youngest started school in 1992, I looked about for a little part-time job and that’s how I met Julie.

At the time I did wonder why a glamorous woman like Julie would want to hire someone like me to share a very small office with her. (We started off in a Portakabin on the Boucher Road.) But now I know it was because she glanced into my shopping basket during the interview and saw a packet of custard creams nestling beside my hat and gloves. The only thing she’d felt any affection for in her life to date.

6. The Smith Wedding

So next day, good as her word, Julie simply dropped off the radar. I woke up in Bill’s arms, missing her already. Our bedroom is gorgeous, I just have to tell you about it before I go any further. The walls and the ceiling are painted a very soothing shade of ivory. (Bill relented on the colour front eventually.) There’s a clear-glass chandelier from Homebase, though it really does look antique, and we have a magnificent nickel-coloured Victorian-style bed complete with curly headboard and footboard, handy to hang vintage handbags on. Fat white pillows and duvet, and a fluffy red wool throw and cushions for warmth. The curtains are red too and there’s a big silver-edged mirror opposite the window. Two white bedside tables with stacks of CDs on them in wicker baskets and no less than four alarm clocks in case we sleep in. A huge white-painted wardrobe with white hatboxes on the top, full of my junk-jewellery and the children’s keepsakes: their first shoes, first winter mittens, first cuddly toys, school reports and photos.

None of the kids are Goths, by the way. That would have been pushing it. We never dressed them in black, not even for family funerals. All four are completely conservative dressers by nature. Alicia-Rose is a vision with her poker-straight blonde hair and diamanté-studded jeans. She’s very fond of white – sometimes we tease her
that she looks like a commercial for Philadelphia cheese. The boys wear baggy jeans and casual tops mostly.

We enrolled them all at non-denominational private schools and we were tremendously proud of them. Alexander was studying architecture at Queen’s. Alicia-Rose was at Art College. The two youngest boys played rugby for their school in national competitions. I loved my children so much it made my heart ache sometimes. For years I had been dreading the day they all moved out and scattered across the country or maybe even the globe, God forbid.

So, with Julie vanishing off to the top-notch spa in Galway (the one with the shocking-pink armchairs), I had to attend the wedding of Janine Smith on my own. And then I was going to have to call Gary and tell him Julie and himself were no longer an item. I wished I could just ask someone else to live the next twenty-four hours for me, and go back to sleep. But obviously that wasn’t going to happen so I sat up and reached for my robe.

‘Oh, Bill, I’m not looking forward to this particular wedding,’ I said grumpily. ‘I’d better book a taxi now to take me to the bride’s house and I hope she’s not had second thoughts about the pink tulle. They look like the sort of family who might turn nasty if anything goes wrong. I so wish Julie was going to be there.’

‘Where is Julie?’ Bill mumbled from deep under the duvet. ‘You didn’t say she was going away.’

‘She’s visiting her mother,’ I replied, quick as a flash. ‘Just took a notion.’

Julie’s mother, Charlotte, lives in Dublin nowadays in a one-bed penthouse apartment in Malahide village. She runs a tiny fashion boutique there, about eight foot across at its
widest point. But she’s used to confined spaces, I daresay, after that three-year sit-in, in her bedroom in the back-to-front mansion all those years ago. The boutique’s painted lime-green inside and furnished with turquoise cabinets, and oval mirrors with pink and red glitter frames. She stocks French jeans and handbags, as well as cute peep-toe shoes from Italy. Everything Charlotte sells comes gift-wrapped in the softest tissue paper and accompanied by a free keyring in the shape of a glass strawberry. That’s the name of her boutique: the Glass Strawberry. Charlotte’s hair is about one inch long and dyed pillar-box red. She has loads of celebrity friends and you’d never guess she was the type of woman who once spat on her husband’s grave and danced a jig on the table when she first heard he was dead. Just goes to show how the human psyche can recover from difficult circumstances. She’s never remarried, though. She says one life sentence is enough for any woman and two would be foolhardy. She has a miniature dog of some kind for company. His name is Jasper.

‘Look, I’ll move my plumbing jobs to tomorrow and I’ll drive you to the bride’s house,’ Bill said sleepily. ‘Will that do?’

‘Would you really?’ I gasped, absolutely delighted. ‘That would be fantastic, Bill! The rest of the week, there’re only phone calls and paperwork to get through. It’ll be a cinch.’

Famous last words.

‘Sure, no problem. I’ll wait outside in the car all morning. And you can take a couple of spare frocks from the lighthouse stockroom with you in case the bride has changed her mind about the pink whatsit.’

‘Bill Grimsdale, I love you,’ I said, almost in tears.

‘Love you too,’ he said and went back to sleep for half an hour.

I raced happily down to the kitchen, put the kettle on and made a big pot of tea. I could hear the kids stirring in their rooms, feet padding into various bathrooms. I used to love mornings in that big house when the sun was filtering through the lace curtains in the breakfast room. Listening to the clatter and crash of cereal bowls and juice glasses. The best thing about teenagers is that they can dress themselves and brush their own teeth. Well, usually they can. Unless they’re already twenty minutes late for school and then it takes them half an hour to tie their shoelaces and comb their hair. And if you shout at them to hurry up, they forget their science projects and games kits and have to come back again to fetch them.

So there we were, an hour and a half later. The children off to school. Bill and myself all tidy and presentable, cruising back from the lighthouse with the boot of the car full of demure white silk and some tasteful accessories, when my mobile phone rang. It was Gary.

‘Hi, Gary,’ I said at once, way too brightly. Bill gave me a look.

‘Have you seen Julie yet, today?’ Gary asked, a note of worry in his voice. ‘Only she looked a bit down in the dumps this morning at breakfast and I wondered if there was anything going on? She said goodbye instead of see-ya. Julie never says goodbye.’

‘Um, Gary, listen,’ I blurted out, ‘can I call you back later, some time this evening? I’m a bit busy at the moment. En route to a big wedding as we speak.’

‘Sure,’ he said in a puzzled voice, ‘though I’ll have seen Julie myself by then, won’t I? Cheerio.’ He switched off.

‘What was that about?’ Bill asked, taking a left turn.

‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ I said, pretending to check my make-up in the passenger’s mirror to avoid having to look at my husband. ‘Gary’s just getting impatient for Julie to set a date for their wedding, that’s all. He’s trying to work out why she’s taking so long to choose a venue, but I’m not getting involved.’

‘But you said you’d call him later.’

‘Oh, I know I did, but I’ll forget to!’

‘Good girl! Though I have to say, I’m looking forward to Julie’s wedding,’ said Bill, smiling. ‘Lordy, lordy, there’ll be some style on that momentous occasion. No doubt you’ll be roped in to play matron of honour? I’ve never seen you in peach satin before!’

‘And you never will, my darling! I wouldn’t wear peach satin for all the money in the world.’

‘I would!’ Bill laughed. ‘I’d wear a peach satin G-string to the Vatican. On second thoughts –’

‘Don’t even go there,’ I scolded him, in fits of laughter, and the tricky subject of Julie’s wedding was mercifully dropped.

I couldn’t tell Gary, you see. Or Bill. I couldn’t tell anyone. I was buying myself some time that day; even a few hours might have made all the difference. I remember telling myself not to worry, that Julie would take the head-staggers in Galway and come rushing back to tell me she was only suffering from monumental PMT or she’d just freaked out because she was forty-one. And Gary would never have to know that she’d been considering leaving him. And Bill
would never have to know Julie’s personal business. I felt very protective towards Julie. After all, she did have to witness her mother setting fire to her father’s final resting place (that fake grass apparently smelt horrendous when it went up), so she was obviously worried sick about becoming a wife herself.

I’d been planning to tell Gary that Julie was just off on a little mystery holiday for a day or two (I couldn’t say she was visiting Charlotte in Malahide because he might have tried to call her there) and she’d be home soon and everything would be back to normal.

‘Do you think I look nice?’ I said to Bill then, because I knew that he knew there was something fishy going on.

They’re quite easily distracted, men.

‘Lovely, as ever,’ Bill replied automatically. ‘I like that big green flower in your hair.’

I was trying to look classy that day. I had on a black trouser suit with a green-glass choker and several moss-green velvet bracelets. My hair was pinned up in a loose topknot with the big silk rose tucked in at the side. And I was wearing green faux-suede shoes and clutching a matching handbag. My eye make-up was very restrained also, and my lippy was bronze not red.

I had all the accoutrements I might need for the day and I was fairly confident I could manage, now that Bill was going to be sitting outside in the car providing much-needed moral support.

We arrived at the house. I took a few deep breaths and went in. It was much smaller and shabbier than I’d expected, considering what had been spent on the
wedding. But you find that sometimes. Those living on a tight budget like to show off at weddings while the wealthiest clients opt for a plain white shift-dress, and one tiny orchid and a few blades of ornamental grass in their bouquet. They have nothing to prove, I daresay.

I was so unbelievably grateful that Bill was outside in the Chrysler because as soon as the front door closed behind me, I knew there was going to be a problem. The atmosphere was very strained. Mrs Smith was shaking some yellow tablets into her hand out of a little brown bottle and Mr Smith was pouring himself an extra-large vodka.

‘Okay, tell me what’s wrong,’ I said, taking another deep breath.

They both pointed to the ceiling and shook their heads wordlessly. They’d clearly driven themselves hoarse begging Janine to be sensible. The bride-to-be was locked in the bathroom, sobbing loudly and occasionally throwing jumbo bottles of shampoo and bubble bath against the door.

‘I’m not coming out!’ she shouted suddenly. ‘I’m not coming out and none of you can make me!’

‘Janine? Are you all right?’ I said cheerily, advancing up the stairs. ‘You can tell me, sweetheart. Tell your Aunty Mags!’

‘She won’t listen to reason,’ said her mother crossly, coming up behind me, and then the poor lady coughed noisily before swallowing her yellow tablets.

‘What is it?’ I asked quickly. ‘Is it the dress? Has it been damaged during delivery? Maybe we can rearrange the layers?’

‘Oh, the bloody dress is fine,’ said her mother. ‘But one of her so-called mates told our Janine last night that
the gown of her dreams is a glorified toilet-roll cover and the entire street is killing themselves laughing over it. She’s been crying ever since. All night she’s been crying. I could string that vicious cow up by the ears, I really could. She’s only jealous. Our Janine adored that blasted dress and now she won’t wear it and it’s too late to get another one. I swear, when it comes to marriage the women in this family are cursed.’

By this stage, Mr Smith had wandered out to the hall where he propped himself up against the front door and watched us with eyes that seemed unable to focus properly. Mrs Smith gave her husband a hard stare and he swallowed the vodka in one go and burped loudly.

‘And it’s not because she’s changed her mind about getting married?’ I whispered extra softly. ‘She hasn’t had a falling-out with her young man?’

‘Oh, no, she still wants
him
but not the pink dress. She must think we’re made of money,’ said Mrs Smith. And then she leaned in towards the bathroom door and shouted, ‘We’re not made of money!’

‘Go away! I hate all of you!’ roared Janine and she dissolved into a fresh bout of sobbing.

At this rate she’d be dehydrated, I thought to myself. Another typical day in the life of Dream Weddings. I realized Janine Smith had just discovered she wasn’t a diva after all, but a normal shy girl who just wanted to get through the biggest day of her life without anything going wrong. Plans you dream up in the privacy of your own bedroom can be a whole different ball game in real life.