It is happening. It is actually happening.

      


 


 


 


Mr. & Mrs. Christopher Leverett-Masson


 


                  request the pleasure of your company


                     at the marriage of their daughter


 


                                  Helen Juno


 


                              to


 


         Mr. Jasper Stephen Aubrey Bland


 


        at St. Twee’s Church,  Little Stockbrokerton


                             on Saturday 21st May


                                    at 2 o'clock


                               and afterwards at


                 The Prohibitively Expensive Hotel


 


 


R.S.V.P.


The Leverett-Masson family pile


Middle England


 


 


 


 
12.5.05 10:59


The invitation was propped up on the mantelpiece for a couple of months.


Lucy (who, as we all know, loves a wedding as it allows her to indulge her passion for extravagant millinery) had immediately sent off the RSVP slip with a big, fat tick in the "Of course we will attend the humiliation of Late in front of all his family and friends wedding" box. After that there was nothing to do except stare morosely at the ivory card monstrosity with its over-fussy embossed writing and try to ignore the sense of impending doom that was crowding into my skull.


Eventually, I tacked it to a wall and threw darts at it. We don't even have a dartboard - I had to go out to Argos specially (it was a very reasonable £7.99, including 2 sets of arrows).


And all the while, I secretly hoped, I believed, that Nell was going to call it off. She'd done it before. She did it to me. She did it to the poor sap who came afterwards (what was his name again? David? Duncan? I wonder if he's out of therapy yet). She would do it to Jasper, too. Of this I was certain. And I would graciously help him pick up the pieces afterwards, when he's so depressed that he can't even brush his teeth without wanting to choke himself on his own toothbrush. I wouldn't even say "I told you so". Well, maybe I would. Just the once. To get it out of the way. But after that, it would be 100% compassion. Sympathy would be my middle name. Yep, Late Sympathy Bland. And I wouldn't avoid him when the grief made him sob in public or forget to wash or accidentally go out in his pyjamas. Hell, no.


(Mentally, I rubbed my hands in glee. This would be the comeuppance to end all comeuppances).


But no.


No. Seemingly, the wedding is On. In two weeks's time, Nell will become Mrs Jasper Bland.


 


Two weeks.


There's still time...


 


 


This whole business is making me a Bad Person.
12.5.05 11:44


Burn, Baby, Burn

Two days until the wedding.


Still no sign that Nell is going to do a runner.


I must accept that, this time, she is actually going to get married. ("But... perhaps... maybe...", whispers a tiny, incessant voice in my head). And, thus, I am actually going to have to show up to the church, go to the reception, congratulate the bride and groom.


Aside from the obvious issues I have with this scenario, I am also faced with the problem of what to wear. Debrett's is curiously silent on the subject of what is to be worn at the wedding of one's ex-fiancee to one's cousin. And even if there was a section entitled "Correct Attire For The Marriage Of The Woman Who Wrecked One's Life To One's Double-Crossing Weasel Of A Cousin", I very much doubt that it would recommend wearing a shabby single-breasted suit with a suspect stain on the lapel. In fact, I imagine that is the sort of thing that Debrett's would specifically warn one against wearing. However, I took this minor problem in my stride, reacting in my usual cool, detached way.


Me:  What in the name of fuck am I going to wear to this bastard bloody wedding? (suit thrown in an arc across flat, lands on table, breaks wine glass).


Lucy was unimpressed. She told me in no uncertain terms that I was being (a) foolish, (b) over-dramatic, (c) annoyingly whiney and (d) did she mention foolish? She then declared that she was going to take me shopping this afternoon.


Me:  We can't just go shopping. Marxist Jim isn't going to let us swan off for some retail therapy when there's wine to be sold.


Lucy:  We'll see about that.


I shook my head condescendingly. Poor, deluded Lucy. Didn't she realise that asking Marxist Jim for time off was akin to asking if you could anally violate him with a £25 bottle of Chateau Corbin 1998? The last person to ask him for time off was Dylan the Idiot Boy - Marxist Jim's response was so expletive-ridden that I'm surprised Dylan didn't get facial burns a la Richard Dreyfuss in 'Close Encounters...'


So this morning Lucy skipped into what Marxist Jim laughingly calls his "office" (actually just a storeroom with a shonky old Ikea desk and chair in it, along with a stack of back issues of that fine publication, 'Off Licence News', that threatens to topple over and crush the chair's occupant) to ask our volatile employer for the afternoon off. The sound of voices. Not wishing to hear my beloved being screamed at (or the sound of my sweet one doing some screaming of her own, for that matter - I get enough of that at home), I turned the volume of the shop stereo up a couple of notches. A few minutes of Beck wailing about some girl called Debra later, Lucy skipped out again, beaming like the cat that got not only the cream, but also the creme fraiche, the fromage frais and the mascarpone.


Lucy:  Let's go shopping!


"Surprised" doesn't even begin to cover how I felt.


Me:  How in Hades did you manage that? I didn't even hear any shouting.


Lucy:  I explained to Marxist Jim that this was a very difficult time for you, and that going to the wedding looking like a scruffier version of Jarvis Cocker...


Me:  Gee, thanks.


Lucy: ...Was not going to help your self-image one little bit, and would in all likelihood lead to you having yet another nervous breakdown in front of all your family and friends.


Me:  And that worked?


Lucy:  Nope. But then I said that I'd burn down the shop unless he gave us the afternoon off. That seemed to work a treat.


Me:  You wouldn't burn down the shop.


Lucy gave me a Look, one that conveyed both the willingness and the ability to send the Bottle Shop the way of Joan of Arc.


Me:  I love you, you fucking maniac.


 


Would Nell offer to burn down Jasper's place of work? I very much doubt it. So I'm off shopping now, and on Saturday I am going to go to the wedding wearing whatever it is I buy. And Lucy will be there, and I'm going to be okay.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Wynns Coonawarra Shiraz 2002 (Australia). A complex, elegant wine with a rich, fruity pepperiness. And I'm not going to be about to sell it because out there is a charity shop suit with my name on it. Let the shopping commence. £7.99
19.5.05 14:18


Give us a twirl

We came. We saw. We Shopped.


It was a mighty struggle. The charity shops daunted us with their smell of death and wee and old Robert Ludlum paperbacks (The Scarlatti Inheritance, only 40p!). Little old ladies in cardigans attempted to thwart us at every turn. But lo! We did prevail.


Yes, a pair of Zones 1-6 travelcards, thirty-odd charity shops and a hell of a lot of junk later (at one point it looked like I was going to have to attend Nell and Jasper's nuptials in stonewash jeans and a Global Hypercolour t-shirt with major discoloration in the armpit area), I give you Late 'n' Lucy's Wedding Outfits.


For him:  a grey wool three-piece suit from Reiss - £30, a perfect fit and seemingly brand new (they certainly do have a better class of charity shop in Muswell Hill) - teamed with white linen shirt (a fiver, haggled down from fifteen) and brogues (ten quid, literally dead man's shoes). No tie, because "ties are for undertakers and wankers", according to the divine Miss L. Socks and underpants are the model's own.


For her:  a white 1950s cinch-waist dress with cherries printed all over it and some sort of net tutu underneath (thirty-five of your British pounds) and red sparkly ballet shoes (£4) that have seemingly been nicked from the set of 'The Wizard of Oz' and will be useful if the wedding proves just too awful ("click your heels together, Lucy, take us home.") Oh, and a hat. Naturally. It's white, pillbox-shaped, and has a veil.


Me:  Isn't it bad form to wear white at someone else's wedding? You'll steal the bride's thunder.


Lucy:  Consider for a moment exactly who the bride is, Late.


I considered.


Me:  An excellent point, well made. Go forth and pilfer as much thunder as you like.


 


I am not, by nature, a vain man. But damn me, I look fine in my charity shop ensemble. And Lucy looks utterly divine, a veritable Botticelli Venus, only with more attitude. And more tulle.


We are ready. Let's go to a wedding.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Chateau d'Yquem 1er Cru 1967 (France). If the Gods drank wine, this would be it - pure ambrosia (and I ain't talking about the creamed rice). And Lucy and I look like this wine tastes - a million dollars. Or, more precisely, £13125.
20.5.05 16:36


Someone else's wedding bells (1)

It is Saturday morning, and your beloved narrator is wrapped in his 13-tog duck down duvet. His slumber is deep and undisturbed. A small line of drool connects the corner of his mouth to a damp patch on the pillow. Starlings twitter outside. The world is at peace.


GRROOON. GRROOON. GRROOOOON.


Me:  Whuh? Mmph. ShuddupI'msleepin. Pooth.


GRRROOOON.


I open a reluctant eye. The bedside clock is cheerily winking "07:17". I flick it the V-sign and blearily cast my gaze around the bedroom. Lucy is at the window, starkers, peering down at something in the street below. I momentarily contemplate her bottom, and get a sudden craving for peaches.


GRROOON. GRROOON.


Me:  (my fruit-based reverie shattered) Urgh. Shut up.


GRROOON. GROOON.


Me:  Luce, there's somebody outside saying "Grrooon". Can you go downstairs and tell them to shut the fuck up?


Lucy:  That's my Great-Aunt Rosalee.


Me:  Your aunt's a baritone?


Lucy:  No, but her car is.


GRRROOOOOON.


Me:  Well, can you tell your Great-Aunt Rosie-Lee...


Lucy:  RosAlee.


Me:  ...Whatever, can you tell her to take her baritone car somewhere else because I have an important rendezvous with my bed.


Lucy:  But she's lending us her car so we can get to the wedding.


Me:  Oh. That's very kind of her. But if it means I can get back to sleep then I'd rather take the train, thank you very much.


Lucy:  You wouldn't say that if you saw the car. Come and see. Come and see, Late.


Muttering sotto voce obscenities, I begrudgingly leave the warm womb of my bed and come to the window. Only to see a slightly manic-looking pensioner with a vivid blue rinse waving from the driving seat of one of these zippy little beauties:

Me:  Cripes.


 


Lucy's Great-Aunt Rosalee was a game old bird (although obviously a few currants short of the full Dundee cake) and lent us the car on the proviso that we don't wrap it round a tree or get up to any naughties whilst inside it. "I've just had it valeted," announced Great-Aunt Rosalee, "so I don't want to find any semen stains on the upholstery. Although you'd have trouble doing anything other than kissing, the inside is so small, especially with Stretch here." She eyed me in a way that was worryingly lascivious. "Is it true what they say about tall men, eh Lucy?" Both great-aunt and great-niece laughed hysterically while I studiously examined an invisible speck on the car's paintwork.


Eventually, Great-Aunt Rosalee stumped off, announcing that she was going to visit her "boyfriend" (this information was imparted with a distinct leer), leaving us the proud - albeit temporary - owners of a shiny blue 1978 Morgan.


Me:  Your Great-Aunt Rosalee's a bit of a one.


Lucy:  She used to be an exotic dancer, you know.


Me:  That surprises me not one jot.


And so it was that, after a good deal of showering and shaving and primping and preening, a perfectly groomed Late and Lucy stepped out of their flat and into a gleaming sports car and whizzed off to The Wedding. I haven't felt so good in a long, long time.


But then we arrived at the church.


                                                    to be continued...
25.5.05 12:01


Someone else's wedding bells (2)

So there we are, zooming through the English countryside in our little open-top sports car, wind whipping through our hair and (mercifully) carrying away the sound of Lucy singing a medley of Julie Andrews hits. My internal monologue is proceeeding thusly:


"Man, this is fun. Who cares that we're going to my ex-fiancee's wedding? Hoo, not me, that's for sure. No siree, I care not one fig that I'm off to watch my cousin get hitched to my ex. No way, Jose. Because I'm driving a sports car, the sun is out and I'm looking good. Yep, Late is looking fi-i-ine (catching sight of self in rear-view mirror) oh holy crap, look at my hair."


Having left the flat looking something like this (with apologies to my twin, the future Doctor Who):

 

I now, after an hour and a half of inadvertent re-styling, looked like this:

 

Which is to say, I looked like I'd tried to end it all by sticking my fingers into a plug socket. And that is not a good look under any circumstances.


Me:  Shit, Luce, look at the state of my hair.


Lucy:  Oh, don't worry, it'll calm down once we stop.


It didn't, of course. We arrived at the church and Lucy (who merely looked charmingly tousled) attempted to fix my wayward barnet by damping it down with Evian (like some sort of crinitory Red Adair - Red Ahair, perhaps). Which had the result of making me look like I'd dunked my head in a water-butt.


Suddenly, I felt a whole heap less confident.


Still, the show must go on. So I grabbed Lucy's hand and walked purposefully towards the crowd of people in hats and morning suits that were milling around outside the church. I saw my mother, dressed in an alarming fuschia concoction, looking for all the world like the Hindenburg in a hat, talking animatedly to my Aunt Laura (who resembled a skeleton in a curtain).


I tried to hide behind a nearby yew ("approximately 500 years old" announced a helpful plaque), but to no avail. Like a particularly pink and stately galleon, my mother sailed towards us, bellowing at a most unresonable level. "Late! Lucy! We were beginning to think you weren't coming!" An enveloping hug, a choking fug of Aromatics Elixir. "What have you done to your hair? You look like a drowned rat! And where is your tie? You can't go in dressed like that! You're not in London now, darling, people have standards, you know, you're letting the side down, but your father brought a spare tie for you, he knew you'd forget, "I'll bring a spare tie," he said, "because Late's bound to forget." And he was right, wasn't he? I don't know, sometimes I can't believe you're actually 35, you're still acting like a teenager, and I don't want you sulking during the service or making a scene, you've got to accept it all with good grace, heavens your hair is a state, let me just give it a brush for you. Don't pull away darling, I only want you to look your best..."


And so on and so forth. Eventually Lucy saved me by pointing excitedly in the direction of the church and exclaiming, "My God, is that Michael Portillo over there?" - my mother spun round (actually, lumbered round would be more accurate) and we made good our escape.


Me:  Christ Almighty. I don't know if I can go through with this.


Lucy:  Sure you can. Do you want a wee drop of vodka to take the edge off?


Me:  You have vodka?


With a flourish, Lucy withdrew a hip flask from under her skirt.


Me:  That's pretty nifty.


I was just lifting flask to lips when a hand clapped me on the back, hard. "Late! On the sauce already, I see." Jasper. Beaming, perfectly coiffed and looking sharp as a fucking razor in morning suit and buttonhole. He blanked Lucy and pointed at my still-soggy hair. "You know that the wet look went out in the 80s?"


I forced myself to smile. "Well, I didn't want to upstage you, mate. Don't want Nell getting second thoughts again, do we? Or should that be third thoughts?" (That was beneath me. I shouldn't have said that. Why am I allowing myself to get so riled?)


Jasper's face clouded over. "Late, don't make this difficult. We didn't have to invite you. Nell didn't want to. But I insisted. I said to her, "I'm not getting married without my favourite cousin, and that's that." So just have a drink, get your arse into the church and shut the fuck up."


He stalked off. "I'm your only bloody cousin," I muttered at his receding back.


Jasper suddenly stopped, wheeled around, yelled across the churchyard. "And don't even think about standing up during the 'any lawful impediment' part. Because I will crucify you, my friend."


"Well that wasn't embarrassing in the slightest," I murmured, as a throng of behatted heads turned to see who it was that was to be crucified. Lucy waved at everybody until they got bored of staring at the crazy waving lady and the blushing guy with the wet hair, then she took my arm and marched me into the church. We ensconced ourselves in a pew, ignoring my mother who was waving at me from across the aisle.


Me:  This is horrible.


Lucy:  Don't worry, only ten more hours to go.


I picked up the order of service. Printed on the inside of the cover was a motto:


"Today I marry my friend; the one I laugh with, live for, dream with, love."


I experienced an almost overwhelming urge to projectile vomit over the order of service, the pews, the altar, the best man, the groom and all the assembled congregation. Instead, I confined myself to a few hard pulls on the hip flask. The organ started wheezing out an asthmatic version of the Wedding March and everybody stood, craning their heads to catch a sight of Nell.


And man, did she look beautiful. Really, really beautiful. But, strangely, I didn't feel as destroyed by the sight of her in a wedding dress as I though I was going to be. Because, however beautiful Nell looked, I realised she wasn't a patch on Lucy (who was standing beside me singing along to the wedding march with words of her own devising). I took her hand and smiled, whispered in her ear, "I think I'm going to be okay."


"The vodka's working, then?" she replied, loudly, at the point when the organist stopped playing. For the second time in ten minutes, the whole wedding party stared at us. The vicar frowned. Lucy waved imperiously, told him to "Please, continue" and sat down with the sort of dignity usually only seen in dowager duchesses. Still frowning, the vicar launched into the service. When he got to the "is there anyone present who knows of a reason why you may not lawfully marry", a very expectant pause settled on the congregation. Both Jasper and Nell turned to glare at Lucy and I. She saluted; I blew them a kiss. Satisfied that nobody was going to further interrupt the smooth running of things, the vicar resumed the service and, a few mumbled hymns and a deadly dull sermon later, the whole shooting match was over. Helen Juno Leverett-Masson was no more; step forward Mrs. Jasper Bland.


And Mr. Late Bland? What of him?


He pulled stupid faces in the wedding photographs, then went to the reception, got riotously drunk and danced the tango with the divine Miss Lucy Miller. And then they went back to their hotel and rutted like beasts of the field until the people in the rooms above, below and either side of them had to complain to the hotel manager.


And that, my friends, is that.
26.5.05 16:31