My Fake Wedding(52)

Privately, I’m just glad I’ve come to my senses. Oh yes, it’s all very romantic. And a year ago, I’d have probably been pea-green with envy as Seb, a tall, dark, handsome cliché in his top hat and tails, and Poppy, fragile, elegant and looking as though she’s about to dance the Waltz of the Snowflakes in a simple sheath of pure white silk, dotted with thousands of tiny iridescent beads, sign the register as the choir choke their way through a dubious rendition of ‘Pie Jesu’. I’d have probably been so swept up in the romance of the whole thing, I’d not even have noticed the cold, which is now turning my nips to Jelly Tots. I’d have been wishing fervently that this pomp and ceremony was all for my benefit. Fantasising that the two toddling flower girls, sweet rosebuds in ruby velvet dresses, and the older bridesmaids, skinny and plain as clothes pegs next to Janice’s big hair and sweater girl curves, were here to support me. Dreaming of my own petal-strewn aisle and blizzard of heart-shaped pink confetti. And as the happy couple emerge into the churchyard, where crocuses the colour of creme egg yolks peep through the grass, I thank God I’ve realised marriage has all the appeal of a freshly whipped dog turd.

I mean buggery bollocks. It could have been me and Jake back there, signing our sanity away in a flourish of Bic biro.

Jake.

OK, so if I’m perfectly honest, I still get a fuzzy, feedbacky sort of feeling in my tummy whenever I think about Jake. Especially when I remember he’s got a sprog on the way. That puts rather a different spin on things. If I did want him back—which of course I don’t—there’d be a whole new person to consider.

At least I found out about the poisonous sod before it was too late. But Perfect Poppy and Seb are a different story. How can they be sure they’ll be perfectly happy for the rest of their perfectly pristine lives? Sebastian, after all, is a bloke. He has a penis. So who’s to say that, even while vowing publicly to keep himself— Sebastian Willoughby Gentle—only unto Poppy Cassandra Latimer as long as they both shall live, he hasn’t got one hand in his pocket, fingers crossed as he adds silently, ‘Until we get back from Aruba, or Antigua or Acabloodypulco, wherever it is she’s decided we’re going, when hopefully I’ll have enough of a tan to talk that Monica from Accounts right out of her Janet Reger thong.’

I sneak away from the church as the bridal party pose for photos by the beribboned archway, poking my tongue out at Janice as I go in a clumsy attempt to make her laugh. I fail. She’s as miserable as sin. Back at the house, I’m hugely relieved to find that, with George out of the way, David and Sam have done a brilliant job with the arrangements. The oysters I shucked seconds before I left for the ceremony are piled globbily onto silver trays, and platters of miniature smoked salmon and brown bread sandwiches with the crusts cut off have been placed, according to my instructions, at regular intervals around the barn. I reckoned that people would get less off their faces on fizz if they had something inside them before they drank too much. Sam, ever the PR man, has done me proud with the decorations. The barn is aglow with hundreds of flickering church candles, adorning every table and windowsill, casting romantic shadows across the old stone walls. In the centre of the room stands a stone pool, once used for cows’ drinking water, now a mass of silver and gold floating candles and anemone heads in imperial purple and deep crimson. Thirty or so round tables cluster around the pool, each covered in a different coloured silk cloth; olive green, peacock blue, gold, silver, crimson, indigo, forest green. More candles, this time in wrought iron candelabra, stand in the centre of each table, lending a gothic atmosphere to the proceedings, and bowls of red roses, for love, their heads bunched tightly together to form a deep crimson mass, are on every surface. The plates and glasses, which Sam has somehow produced, like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn, as if by magic, provide the finishing touch. Iridescent and coloured like jewels in turquoise, emerald, ruby, sapphire and amber, they set everything off perfectly. Tiny silver and gold angels are entwined around the backs of wrought iron chairs and golden boxes of my homemade heart-shaped chocolates, silver sugared almonds and chocolate-covered ginger are on every guest’s plate.

‘It’s perfect,’ I breathe, a lump coming into my throat. ‘Absolutely perfect. Thanks, Sam. And David. You’ve done wonders. Thank you both, so, so much.’

Cue hugs all round as I take in their penguin suits, worn specially for the occasion. They both look gorgeous and I’m relieved to find that Sam is acting completely normally. George, of course, refuses to change out of what he’s already wearing. He might have to act like a waiter for the day but that doesn’t mean he has to bloody well look like one. I slip into a simple black dress with spaghetti straps and pull my hair back into a fat orange plait to keep it out of the food.