My Fake Wedding(48)
‘We won’t.’
‘And the waitresses all wear sovereign rings and pink gingham smocks to match their eczema.’
‘You’re such a snob,’ I accuse him.
‘I am not.’ He looks absolutely astounded at the very suggestion. ‘I slept with someone from Sheffield once. And I’ve been to Leeds. They’ve got a Harvey Nicks there now, you know.’
‘Bully for them.’
‘And I had a very lengthy telephone conversation with a Welsh person only last week.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Well, I say conversation,’ he adds. ‘In the loosest sense of the word of course. I was the only one actually forming whole sentences. Do you know, when I picked up that phone I was convinced the woman was speaking another language? God only knows what the viewers are going to think. Still, it was a toss-up between her and some slack-titted bint from Solihull when it came down to it so…’
‘So?’
‘Solihull.’ George looks at me as though I’m some kind of retard. ‘Solihull in the West Midlands? As in “close proximity to Birmingham”? We can’t go having Brummies on the show left, right and centre, darling. The accent makes people feel ill.’
The train dawdles through Didcot and chugs through Chippenham and, bored, Janice and I unpack the luxury Fortnum’s hamper we’ve bought the happy couple as a wedding gift and start to work our way through a box of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts.
‘They probably won’t open them until they get back from honeymoon,’ Janice reasons.
‘Exactly.’ I wedge in another one. ‘And we can’t risk them getting left by a radiator or something and going all squidgy, can we?’
At last, the solid tower of Bath Abbey looms into view. I hurriedly bunch shimmering gold cellophane around what’s left of Poppy and Seb’s gift and re-tie the white and gold ribbon.
‘Think they’ll notice?’
‘Probably won’t care.’
A watery sun warms the glowing clusters of butterscotch stone buildings on the surrounding hillsides as we pull into the station. Bath looks terribly pretty in the April sunshine. We jump in a taxi and watch, fascinated, as the car meanders through narrow cobbledy streets teeming with tourists. There are foreigners everywhere. Trendy Japanese with cameras slung round their necks like gas masks. Fat Americans in sparkling white trainers and lemon casualwear. And crocodiles of gabbling French schoolchildren with identical blue and white backpacks.
Poppy’s parents live just outside the city, in an enormous pile built of Bath stone. As we arrive, festivities of some sort are already in full swing. Poppy’s mother, a minuscule, elegant woman in an immaculate cream trouser suit, hands us a glass of mulled wine as we clomp through the door and greets us as though we’re long lost friends.
‘How marvellous.’ She beams. ‘The caterer and the bridesmaid. Well, we won’t have to worry about you turning up on time tomorrow, now will we? Of course you’ll be wanting to unpack.’
‘Not really,’ I say at exactly the same time as George and Janice say, ‘Oooh, yes please.’
Poppy’s mother takes us up the grand staircase and shows us all to our rooms. Janice and Jasper get a bedroom at the front, while George and I get back bedrooms from which, she assures us, we’ll be able to see the canal winding through the valley when we wake up tomorrow. Then it’s downstairs with the lot of us to eat, drink and be merry.
‘Are you having a marquee?’ George asks as we wend our way downstairs, me trying, not very successfully, not to spill my wine all over the immaculate soft yellow carpet.
‘No.’ Poppy’s mother shakes her head. ‘The barn’s plenty big enough. We thought we’d decorate that instead. That OK with you, Katie?’
‘Erm.’ I don’t suppose I have any choice.
The house is chock-a-block with Poppy’s relations, all drinking and laughing and patting each other on the back. And while Poppy races around the hall, decorating the place with bits of holly and ivy and generally panicking about every tiny little thing, Janice, George and I take advantage of the free pre-wedding champagne, gratefully golloping every drop that’s being poured into our glasses at any given opportunity.
‘So you’re the caterer, are you?’ asks a tall streak of nothing in a silvery dress. She’s got white glitter around her eyes, which gives her an unearthly, angelic look. I can’t help noticing that she’s constantly looking over my shouder for people to flirt with.
‘Yes.’ I hate her almost on sight. ‘I’m also a person.’