As people tuck into the starter, slopping more and more wine into each other’s glasses, an appreciative buzz hums round the barn and I actually catch murmurs of ‘delicious’, and ‘wonderful’ as crab cakes are chomped on and my special salad dressing is savoured. And quite right too. This is none of the usual school dinner-type crap you usually get at weddings. Perfect, stamped out rounds of lukewarm reconstituted turkey. Mash Get Smash potato, served with an ice-cream scoop. Chilly carrots. Lumpy gravy. Frozen peas. Oh no. My grub is Ritz standard, at the very least. When the main course has been cleared, there isn’t a scrap on the plates. And, I have to admit, I’m quietly thrilled.
Time for my pièce de résistance. An adults’ version of the old school favourite. Chocolate Toothpaste. Only my chocolate toothpaste is darker, richer, smoother and a thousand times more sinful than its predecessor, with a dollop of clotted cream on the top so thick it barely drips off the spoon. Or there are individual sticky toffee puddings, served with lashings of thick caramel sauce. Better than sex. And as we clear plates, bring coffee and chocolate mints, get more champagne, Poppy comes rushing, tripping over her fairy princess dress to congratulate me. I’ve made her day. It’s been a success. I’m on my way. I’m a star.
But it’s only when the speeches are finished that I finally allow myself to relax. And, as a divine-looking Poppy and Seb take the floor to the tune of ‘My Funny Valentine’, I spot Sam and Pussy talking together. She’s looking up at him adoringly, just as she did to the assorted males who were prey to her charms last night. I almost can’t bear to watch it.
‘Bitch,’ Janice, seeing me spying on the pair of them, says citrically. ‘Look at her. Why doesn’t she just come straight out with it and say, “Oooh, Sam, I do think your face would look sooo much better with me sitting on it”?’
She can talk. She and Jasper spend the rest of the evening canoodling in the conservatory, which Sam and David have laced with scarlet Chinese lanterns and strings of red and green chilli pepper fairylights. I watch in fascinated disgust as they feed each other apricots and figs from the fruit bowl in some frenzied pre-coital ritual. Well, I say pre-coital. According to Janice, she still hasn’t had to sleep with him yet. Only a few days ago she was describing the ten-inch kidney wiper attached to a nice bit o’rough she picked up over the free-range chickens in Sainsbury’s in vein popping detail.
‘It’s not as if he’s going to find out, is it?’ she asked me. ‘Jasper, I mean.’
‘Guess not.’ I sighed. ‘Do you really find him that repulsive then? I mean, I know he’s a lot older than us, but is he really that bad?’
‘S’not that,’ she said. ‘It’s just if I give in so soon he’ll be off like a bride’s nightie. So I have to get it elsewhere, if you know what I mean.’
I nodded. I knew all right. I could hardly expect a girl who’s usually dropping her M&S specials before you can say ‘doggy style’ to go without sex for longer than a month.
So while Janice tries to wangle herself a place in Jasper’s affections (and therefore wallet) with fruit and stolen kisses, I watch, stiff with boredom, as Pussy crosses one thigh the width of a strip of linguine over the other and throws back her golden mane, twittering with laughter at every tiny joke Sam makes. I’m saved by Poppy, coming over to talk to me again. I beam at her, mentally preparing myself for another gushing torrent of congratulations. This catering lark is all right. I’ll have to think of a name for my new company. Neat Eats, perhaps? Not bad.
This time, though, it’s not congratulations she’s offering.
‘Katie, thank God you’re here. It’s George.’
‘George? Is he ill?’
‘No. He’s been accused of stealing by one of Seb’s mum’s friends.’
‘Stealing? Stealing what?’
‘A baby.’
Jesus H. Christ. Why me?
I look around for David, but he’s nowhere to be seen. And Poppy is worried. Can I come? Now?
Buggery, buggery fuck.
I’ve got a feeling in my waters that everything just might be about to go tits up. Trust George to do his best to fuck up my big day.
Still, I can hardly be held responsible for George’s behaviour, can I? I mean I’m only the cook, at the end of the day. So as long as I don’t poison anyone, I’m all right, Jack. Aren’t I?
Or did I automatically accept responsibility for Sam, George and David’s behaviour when I asked them to help me out by being waiters for the day? If so, then it’s all wrong. I’m not reliable enough to be responsible for anyone else. I can’t even be relied upon to remember when to change my Tampax, for God’s sake.