The Birds and the Bees(17)

‘There, that wasn't too bad, was it?' said Eddie as they were crammed  together in the back of a treasured old car that belonged in a museum,  driven by someone who belonged in the same place.

‘What?' said Catherine. ‘Are you thick? If she'd shook any more, her blood would have turned to yogurt.'

‘I think I might skip the reception and go home,' said Stevie, who felt  nauseous, something that couldn't be blamed on Uncle Dennis's wild  driving. Tortoises and snails were overtaking them on both sides.

‘No chance,' said Catherine. ‘You're doing great. Think of "your plan".'

‘Did he look at me at all?' asked Stevie, thinking how the last time she  had asked Catherine that, was at the sixth-form disco about the cool  and gorgeous Oliver Thompson, resplendent in a burgundy jacket and black  trousers. She had gone totally off him twenty minutes later, after  finding him dancing like a nerd to ‘Are Friends Electric'. Ah, the  fickleness of youth!

‘I honestly don't know,' said Catherine. ‘I was trying not to look at him.'

Behind her back, Catherine's fingers were crossed on the lie. She did  not tell her friend that on the couple of occasions she had looked over,  Matthew seemed only to have eyes for Jo. It was all she could do not to  march over there and bang their heads together.

Alas, the Ivy wasn't the Ivy, but it was a very nice country hotel less  than a mile away, with a small golf range and a rather magnificent  entrance hall, where trays of sherry and malt whisky were awaiting.  Stevie's hand was shaking so much that she managed to spill most of her  sherry down her skirt. She did a quick sweep of the room to make sure no  one of importance had seen her be so clumsy.

‘Calm down,' reprimanded Catherine. ‘You look like you've got the DTs.'

Adam was laughing, circulating and being jolly Ginger Man. He looked  totally different with all that hair off, thought Stevie. She wouldn't  have said ‘softer', because no one with that nose and scar could have  looked remotely soft. ‘Less hideous', was the assessment she preferred.

Jo and Matthew were at opposite ends of the room. She was talking to  some other women, poised and elegant and not spilling her sherry.  Matthew was chatting to the best man. Stevie tried really hard not to  look over but her eyes kept gravitating towards him. She noticed that he  was trying equally hard not to let his eyes wander over to Jo, but,  like herself, he was failing.

‘Hi there!' Pam burst in and kissed them all. She had a champagne glass in one hand and a long menthol cigarette in the other.

‘Congratulations,' said Stevie. ‘You look fab.'

‘So do you actually, Stevie. Have you lost weight?'

‘A bit,' said Stevie.

‘Sorry to hear about you, hon, hope it all works out for you.'

‘Oh er, yes. Don't worry,' said Stevie, plastering on a smile and  manipulating a change in subject. ‘So, where do we put your presents? I  hope you like this.'

‘God knows, me mam's got that bit organized. Course I'll like it. I'd  like it even more if it were a pair of slippers. I tell you, my pissing  feet are killing me in these shoes. Don't know how I'm going to manage  to dance.'

Pam, the less than traditional bride, then swanned off with a ‘see ya  later' on her massive satin heels and left them standing in a quiet  triangle.

‘Sorry, but I had to tell her about you and Matthew,' said Catherine  with a little apologetic smile. ‘I didn't think you'd want to be sitting  next to him if he turned up, so I asked my Auntie Madge to alter the  seating plan.'                       
       
           



       

‘I would never have thought of that,' said Stevie. Sitting next to  Matthew would have been torture. She squeezed Catherine's hand  gratefully. ‘Thanks.' It was so typical of her thoughtfulness; no wonder  they'd been friends for so long. You would always want to hang onto  someone like her.

‘You need to sort this wedding thing out with him, quick,' Catherine  went on. ‘I don't want to upset you and so I won't say anything else,  but in the next few days you have to find out where you stand.'

‘I know,' said Stevie.

‘I'd chuffing cancel it if I were you,' said Eddie, taking a big glug of  the Barnsley Bitter he'd had to buy because Catherine had nicked his  sherry to give to Stevie. ‘He's definitely not the bloke I thought he  was at all.'

No one answered him, but, yes, they were all thinking the same.

‘Laydeees and gelmen, would ye kindly make yer way tae the dinen arearrr,' came Adam MacLean's cannon of a voice.

‘If he's doing a speech after, no one will understand a flaming word,'  said Catherine, giving Stevie a little tension-busting giggle.

They looked at the seating plan and Stevie found that she was sandwiched  between Eddie and Oh no – A. MacLean! Luckily, her mind was playing  tricks on her and it was actually A. MacLeod, who was a young  spaghetti-string of a teenage boy who kept pulling at his collar as if  it was strangling him.

Matthew was somewhere further down the table on her side and out of  spying sight and Jo was halfway down an adjacent table, between two  middle-aged men in kilts who seemed more than happy with the seating  arrangements. She certainly didn't look very victimy, considering she  was sitting five people away from her psychotic soon-to-be ex-husband,  who was behaving with remarkable dignity in the circumstances, Stevie  thought. He actually seemed very jocular. She didn't notice him glance  over at Jo once, and by crikey, she was watching for it.

‘Stop looking at them,' hissed Catherine. ‘I would kick you but I'd snag your tights.'

‘Sorry,' said Stevie, and tucked into her turkey main course. It was a  full-blown Christmas dinner. Pam had wanted a Christmas wedding, hence  the fur cape, but she didn't want to risk the weather, so she had the  best of both worlds – sunshine and turkey, except for the lone vegetarian  kid to her right, pushing a nut roast around on his plate. She had never  seen an unhealthier-looking pallor on anyone. She almost wanted to  kidnap him and force-feed him some chops and see if they might turn his  own chops a better colour.

There was Christmas pudding and mince pies to follow, then when coffee  was served, the newly-weds cut the cake – a massive three-layered  chocolate creation that apparently had more rum than butter in it,  according to the best man's speech, during which everyone laughed and  the air seemed charged with love and smiles.

Stevie's wedding wasn't going to be as big or nearly as grand as this,  but her dad was giving her away and she was having frothy pea soup,  roast beef and Yorkshire puddings, and raspberry meringue roulade or  fudge cake for afters at the White Swan, a lovely pub out in the  countryside near Penistone. Matthew's brother was flying in from Canada  to be best man and she had picked pink roses for her bouquet. Everything  was in place, and so far, he hadn't called it off.

‘So why is he wearing his suit now at someone else's wedding? And  looking gorgeous in it for someone else, not you,' said that annoying  voice in her head again. She wished it would contract a serious and  sudden case of laryngitis.

Her thoughts came back to the table as glasses were raised to ‘the Happy  Couple'. Stevie raised hers along with the others and tried hard to  smile convincingly. Matthew was sleeping with someone else and she was  in the process of moving out of his house. How feasible was it that they  were going to be ‘the happy couple' themselves in three weeks' time?

There was no ordinary disco for Pam's night entertainment, oh no. She  had a Ceilidh band and a dance demonstration team clad in Highland  clobber, stripping the willow and reeling about, not unlike Uncle Dennis  had started to do after three sherries.

‘He'll have to leave his car behind, by the looks of it,' said  Catherine, as he fell off his chair without breaking the rhythm of his  hand-clapping.

‘This is a dance called "Blooo Bunnets'" said a hairy accordion player,  who looked like a smaller, ‘before' model of Adam MacLean.

‘Blue Bonnets? I used to do this at school,' said Eddie.

‘You? Doing country dancing?' said Catherine with an amused squeak.                       
       
           



       

‘Aye, I was good an' all. All the lasses wanted me for a partner.'

‘Get on up there then, lad.' Catherine pushed him towards the dance floor.

‘Knickers! I can't remember how you do it.' He retreated shyly.

‘You don't have to – they show you.'

‘I'm still not.'