Leftovers (26 page)

Too pink, need a tan for that one.

Ah, now this dress could work, but where’s the belt? Can’t find the belt, doesn’t work without the belt …

How about this one? Black: lace, slightly-off-the-shoulder from Autograph. It’s sexy and ladylike. This is fail-safe usually, though today it’s making me look drained. I thought little black dresses were always meant to save the day. Brilliant. I’ve got nothing to wear at all.

Oh, but hold on. Hold on one minute … Now this one I love. I’ve forgotten all about this dress because it’s too nice to wear, and if you spill something on it then it’s a hassle because it’s dry-clean only … But the colour of it is so fabulous! Purple, like an iris, and for some reason that colour makes my hair look more auburn than mouse. And with those two ribbon straps at the shoulder that form a low V at the back, classy yet really understatedly sexy. The last time I wore this dress … I think it was my second anniversary with Jake, and oh yes, that’s right … We’d gone to Claridge’s for a drink, and while he was in the loo and I was standing at the bar waiting, a beautiful Argentinian man had tried to chat me up. He’d said that I was the most elegant woman in the bar, which was the first and last time anyone’s ever said that to me. He’d kissed me on the shoulder when he’d said goodbye. All credit to the dress – it’s that kind of a dress. Yes, this is the one. And damn the discomfort, I’m wearing the five-inch silver strappy heels. If my feet hurt I’ll just drink my way through the pain.

Midday already! I pull on my jeans and a t-shirt and race out to the street. No time to walk or get the bus so I hail a cab to the hairdressers – so much for trying to save money.

‘I’ve got a 12.15 p.m. with Shelley,’ I say. ‘A wash and blow-dry with a Groupon voucher.’

Her interest slightly wanes. ‘Have a seat, she’s just finishing someone’s colour, she won’t be a moment.’

But she’s more than a moment. It’s now 12.40 p.m. and I’m shampooed but still waiting in the chair, anxiously looking at my watch. The wedding starts at 2 p.m. I should never have cut it so fine, I shouldn’t have chanced this to Groupon. I’m an idiot. I can’t be late. I’m going to be late. I can’t be late.

‘Excuse me, could someone else do the blow-dry? It’s just I’m late …’

‘She won’t be a sec, can I get you a coffee?’ says one of the other girls.

‘No, but you can get me a hairdryer?’ I say. ‘I’ll start drying it myself, if that’s OK?’

‘Better wait for Shelley,’ she says.

‘Please just get me a hairdryer,’ I say.

12.55 p.m. and I’ve dried the underneath parts OK, though not as straight or as shiny as I’d like. Now Shelley’s here and she’s obviously not happy that I’ve taken the law into my own hands, because she’s pulling my hair really very hard from my roots, and a few hairs have actually pinged out in the process. Still, she does a good enough job and I pay her thirty pounds for eight minutes of labour, then race out of the door.

OK, it’s fine. If I get a cab from my house at 1.30 p.m. I’ll be there at 1.55 p.m., it’ll be OK. I call my local minicab firm as I speedwalk down the hill but they’ve got no cars till 2 p.m. I hang up, panic rising in me. I call the other local cab company and it’s the same story. What the hell is wrong with me? Why didn’t I book this cab earlier? I meant to. Every wedding, every holiday Jake and I went on, I used to have to organise every detail and I’ve never missed a flight or been late before. Why today? By the time I get back to the flat, red-faced and sweating, it’s 1.12 p.m. I’m going to miss the ceremony.

‘Terry!’ I say, spotting him talking to the Langdons in the forecourt. ‘Terry, I’m so sorry but is there any chance you can find me a cab in the street, I’ll be down in ten?’

The Langdons give me a filthy look. First of all I’ve interrupted them complaining about the proposed new paint colour for the radiators in the communal hallway. And secondly, this is not an appropriate request to make of the caretaker.

‘I wouldn’t ask normally, but it’s my friend’s wedding and I’ve mis-timed everything.’ I point at my jeans and un-made-up face.

‘Not a problem, love. I’ll see what I can do,’ he says, delighted to have an excuse to rid himself of the Langdons, at least temporarily.

I race up to the fifth floor, and have the world’s quickest shower – sixty seconds – keeping my new hair well away from the water. Thank goodness I shaved my legs this morning, but make-up needs doing. Shit, 1.19 p.m. already …

I put on foundation and blusher and calculate if I have time to curl my eyelashes – yes, just about, ten seconds’ squeezing time each side in the little metal mangle. OK, don’t rush the eyeliner now or you’ll have to start over. Please let there be a cab out there, please Terry, don’t let me down. I can do the mascara in the cab. OK, dress on. Christ, nearly forgot deodorant. Calm down. Dress on, deodorant, perfume. Oh, and another tooth clean, bollocks! I have forgotten how to be a lady. It has been too long.

By the time I’ve sorted out cash, keys, bag, make-up touch ups, and locked my front door, it’s 1.35 p.m. I could almost cry when I see Terry downstairs, chatting to a cabbie, looking in my direction.

‘Thank you, I owe you big time,’ I say.

‘You look stunning,’ he says. ‘Terrific dress. Mind you don’t break your neck in them shoes.’

Finally. In the cab, on the way. Shit! I’ve forgotten my phone. Doesn’t matter, you don’t need a phone at a wedding …

At every red traffic light I put on a little more mascara, then lip liner and a little gloss. OK, it’s actually OK. You look nice. You’ve done OK.

We pull up at the registry office with two minutes to spare, and as I bolt up the stairs as fast as these heels will allow I vow I will never be such an idiot again. I’m nearly thirty-seven years old. I’ve been dressing myself and moving myself round this city on time for a long time now.

Everyone is already seated, looking expectantly at the door. I must be the last one in as the door shuts behind me. I take a seat at the back, smiling awkwardly and waving at Polly’s parents and at Maisie as I shuffle along the row, banging into knees and the backs of chairs. Dave is standing at the front, hands clasped nervously behind his back, looking excitedly at the door. He looks so handsome in his three-piece navy suit, a cream rose in his buttonhole. I give him a warm smile and he gives a little wave back.

Made it to my seat! And with sixty whole seconds to look around and take in the atmosphere. It’s a small ceremony – maybe sixty of us gathered. Apart from Polly’s family, everyone else is in a couple holding hands, apart from me and one other woman, about my age, in the back row. Impossible to avoid your own single-ness at a wedding. That’s fine, I think. You’re not here to pull, you’re here to celebrate with everyone. I don’t recognise many of these faces though, apart from her family. Polly and I have always been close, but she and Dave have a group of friends that I don’t know at all.

This set up is quite different from her first wedding. That was in St John’s Church in Holland Park – beautiful, traditional – and she walked down the aisle to Handel’s
Queen of Sheba
. Lovely, of course, and I cried immediately. But it was all very formal. Spencer’s parents were raging West London snobs. I could almost see the disappointment on their faces that Polly, this rag-tag regular North London girl, who’d been to a
comp
, not even a public school, had scrubbed up quite so spectacularly, and they couldn’t find anything to be snotty about.

This time round, though, Polly has decided to be true to herself. There’s a moment’s hush as the door opens again, and then Polly takes one step into the room and all our eyes light up, at fireworks. She looks extraordinary. Standing there in a silk crepe, Edwardian bias-cut dress the colour of the sky after rain just before the sun breaks through. It has a low neck and tiny flowers with seed pearls and crystal beads adorning the bodice. The sleeves are made of lighter silk with a tiny puff at the shoulder, and behind her flows a train of the same silk with the initials ‘P & D’ made into a flower, like a Rennie Mackintosh rose.

Her red hair hangs softly around her shoulders and at the crown of her head is pinned a cream lace head-dress with tiny silk rosettes sewn into the border, which falls in waves down her back. In her hands she holds a simple posy of palest pink and ivory roses and sweet peas. She looks so amazing that even though I have vowed not to blub at this wedding I immediately start to cry.

She stands there and pauses for a minute trying to compose herself but already she’s teary-eyed and can’t contain the huge smile on her face. And then the music starts. And it’s so very Polly, still a Goth at heart. No Handel this time. Instead she’s chosen The Cure’s ‘Just Like Heaven’. And as the opening bars start and she saunters down the aisle I know this is going to be a special day.

The service is wonderful. Second time round, simple vows, we’ll try our best. I’ve no doubt these two are going to make it work. They belong together. Look at them, holding each other’s fingers, both trying not to cry and laugh as they repeat their vows. There is just one reading, at the end. Polly’s dad recites a poem by Raymond Carver, called ‘Late Fragment’. Just six lines, six lines about love, but oh what lines. Even Polly’s brother has to borrow a tissue from his girlfriend. She really does look young, that one. Even if Jake wasn’t also going out with someone in her early twenties, I’m sure I’d still think it was slightly tragic. She makes him look older than he is, not younger.

It’s all over so quickly though, and it’s only as we’re standing on the steps of the registry office, confetti in hand waiting for the bride and groom to emerge, that I realise something was missing from the service. Or rather, someone: Daniel McKendall. I feel a little punch of disappointment, like a promise has been broken. I had so been looking forward to seeing him. Even at Christmas that time, I remember coming away from the pub thinking, above all else, I like who this man has become. I like talking to him. I like being around him. Still, probably just as well. He’s no doubt gone to New York to visit his wife and son, where he should be.

On the coach on the way to the restaurant, I sit next to the other single girl who was on the back row a few seats along from me during the ceremony. I smile at her but she gives me only the faintest smile back. Maybe the ceremony made her feel more single too. Still, we’re all in this together, aren’t we?

‘It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?’ I say.

‘Beautiful,’ she says.

‘And didn’t Polly look amazing? That dress, I can’t believe it wasn’t some mega designer.’

‘It wasn’t?’ she says.

‘Her friend Nanette made it, she’s brilliant,’ I say.

She nods.

‘You must be a friend of Dave then?’ I say.

‘I’m Amy. I used to work with him when he was at the
Guardian
.’

‘Ah right. Are you still there then?’

‘God no, I left six years ago. I can’t imagine working in an office ever again. I hated it.’

‘So what do you do now?’

‘I still do graphic design, but I’m freelance now and my fiancé is an illustrator, so we can work from anywhere. We’re just back from a year in Amsterdam and thinking about where to go next.’

Fiancé? Ah, yes. She has a ring. God, I’m even disappointed when the women I think are single are actually taken, let alone the men.

‘Is your fiancé not coming to the wedding then?’

‘He’s coming to the party, he couldn’t make the service, that’s all,’ she says.

Oh. I thought I’d have someone else who was single to hang out with.

‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘And when are you getting married?’

‘August Bank Holiday weekend, down in Rye.’

‘At The George?’

‘You know it?’

I do. I was lying in a bed at The George on my thirty-fifth birthday weekend, Jake in the shower, when I realised he wasn’t in love with me any more. I remember staring at the lamp on the bedside table for about twenty minutes while it dawned on me that our relationship was not what he wanted. Was not what I wanted. And that I really didn’t know what, if anything, I was going to do about it.

Nothing, as it turned out. I left the doing to him.

I hate that hotel.

The coach pulls up at the restaurant and as we climb out all I can think about is how quickly I can get to the alcohol. We leave our coats with the door check, walk through a short corridor, and then we’re in a room so gorgeous that it instantly banishes the ghost of memory that was hovering over me.

In the dining area, six long weathered wooden tables are laid out with simple white linen cloths, china plates, and silver cutlery. Instead of flowers there are glass vases from which stem dark wooden branches that have handmade paper cherry blossoms along them, and a scattering of tiny little blue feather birds nestling. Between the vases, antique silver tea light holders cast a warm, reflective glow over the room, creating pools of shimmering light.

Over to the right is a dance floor decked out with a canopy strung with warm white star-shaped fairy lights. And on a table at the back is the cake, which is hands down the best wedding cake I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe Polly managed to keep this a secret from me – it’s phenomenal. Five square tiers of white chocolate buttercream cake are stacked on top of each other. Each layer of cake is bordered by tall panels of white chocolate, at alternating heights, like a delicate, edible fence. Between each tier is a two-inch ledge that has been filled with tiny wild strawberries that mark out a scarlet border between each layer of the tower. It looks like the world’s tastiest skyscraper, the fruits gathered on each layer jostling for the best view.

A waiter comes over with a tray of Proseccos with fresh raspberries floating on the surface like jewels. I carefully take one and wander through the room, smiling randomly at people I don’t know and hoping to strike up small talk. I’m sure these people are normally friendly. But a single woman in her mid-thirties with a drink in her hand at a wedding is not so much a potential liability as a grenade. Having had a lovely chat about golf with Polly’s great uncle Cecil and caught up with her parents, I walk back over to the dining tables to have a closer inspection, putting on a smile that’s meant to convey
I’m never happier than when I’m alone at a wedding
…