Page 142 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘Oh yeah, Dad was terrifying,’ Wendy laughs.
At that moment, the organ strikes up and they stand, twisting and craning to catch a glimpse of the bride. And now here she is, looking incredible in a simple off-white shot-silk dress and a veil with a daisy-adorned headband.
Everyone holds their breath for an instant as the bride leans down, kisses her father on the cheek, and then straightens and begins pushing his wheelchair down the aisle.
‘How wonderful,’ Wendy says, looking at the happiness on their faces, looking at the sunlight streaming through the high church windows, smelling the incense and losing herself in the deep bone-shaking swell of the ‘Wedding March’. Harry reaches for her hand and she squeezes his back and turns just long enough to see that his eyes are watering too.
The service is short and sweet – barely religious, yet religious all the same, but also elegant, almost literary in a way – and then soon, too soon almost, they are outside in the sunshine, mingling, smoking, everyone chatting about how lovely it all is as they stroll towards the White Hart which, like the church, is almost absurdly English.
‘I can’t believe people still live like this,’ Harry says, as they cross the road. ‘It’s like a flashback to 1965.’
Thanks to the good weather, the reception has been set up outside, two lines of tables side by side to host forty – beautifully set with white tablecloths and silverware. Miraculously, the floral displays have travelled undamaged from the church to the rear of the buffet, which is protected by two side-by-side gazebos.
The guests mill around, waiting to be told where to sit. The name cards are not yet in place.
Fiona immediately starts chatting to the best man’s girlfriend, who it would appear she knows, and with Todd being in constant demand plus Sue and Neil having momentarily vanished, Wendy and Harry find themselves cast adrift, stranded in the middle of the proceedings.
‘Look at us,’ Harry says, sipping his Champagne. ‘Johnny no mates. Just you and me.’
‘Thank God you’re here,’ Wendy says, though even now, even after six months sober she secretly wishes he wasn’t holding a glass of Champagne so close to her face. ‘I can’t bear these sort of things if I’m on my own.’
‘I know,’ Harry says. ‘I know that about you. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to save you from standing on your own looking forlorn.’
‘You’d actually be fine without me, wouldn’t you?’
Harry shrugs and sips his drink. ‘I’d just wander up to someone and start talking. I’ve never understood why that’s so hard.’
‘Who?’ Wendy asks, looking around. ‘Go on, who would you pick?’
‘Er… that old girl in the massive purple hat, maybe?’ Harry says. ‘She looks crazy enough to be fun.’
Wendy studies the woman. Her lipstick looks like it’s been printed slightly off-register and her eyeliner is almostfluorescent blue. She has about fifteen roses tucked into the band of a wide-brimmed purple hat. ‘Great shoes,’ Wendy says. ‘Good on her for balancing in those at her age.’
‘Ah, these Surrey girls live forever,’ Harry says. ‘Sexy shoes until the very end.’
‘Maybe she’s fifty,’ Wendy jokes. ‘Maybe all that Champagne makes them age really badly.’
‘Christ,’ Harry says, feigning fear and looking at his glass. ‘I’ve had two. Am I looking older?’
‘Nah, you’re looking gorgeous,’ Wendy says, checking him out. ‘The sexiest man here, by far.’
Everything goes to plan and it really does feel like the whole thing has been exquisitely directed by Richard Curtis.
Wendy finds herself comfortably seated between Fiona and Sue, opposite her brother Neil, and Harry. The food is traditional and tasty if lacking in vegetarian options. But Wendy’s never been averse, in a pinch, to a bit of fish, and lets herself enjoy the smoked salmon starter, plus the caramelised vegetables of the main course even though they taste suspiciously of duck. The sun continues to shine and the speeches are that perfect British mix of embarrassing anecdote, snide humour and repressed love. Everybody seems to be smiling, and Todd and Amanda look wonderfully happy. The bubble of chatter mixes perfectly with the clink of silverware meeting porcelain, and the jazzy music drifting from indoors.
Once the meal is over, the wedding cake is cut and the joint honeymoon kitty – to which they have all contributed – is revealed to be a staggering £4,000. Finally, people start to drift indoors where a DJ has set up his gear. About four, Todd and Amanda open the dance with a slow to Robbie Williams’s ‘Angels’, joined by Todd’s rowdy friends and Amanda’s more restrained girlfriends as the tempo picks up.
After a brief embarrassing slow on the dancefloor with Harry, Wendy takes a seat at the far end of the pub next to the unplugged jukebox and waits for him to return from the bar.
‘You’re sure you’re OK with me drinking?’ he asks, when he finally returns with a pint and her ginger beer.
‘Yes, it’s fine,’ Wendy says. Harry is already well on his way to drunkenness. ‘I’m perfectly happy to drive home.’
‘Lucky me,’ Harry says. ‘A dedicated designated driver. God, that’s like a tongue twister.’
They chat, superficially, to various people, about the food, and the weather, and the music, about Todd and Amanda, Kent and Surrey. As afternoon drifts towards evening, the music gets louder and some of the older participants start to drift away. Just after six, someone manages to get the disco lights working, too.
Harry, bless him, does his best to stick by Wendy’s side, but he can’t help slipping into conversations with all and sundry – conversations which, as he drinks, become increasingly incomprehensible. It’s the first time in years that Wendy has been surrounded by drunken people, and she marvels at how difficult it is to fit in without drinking, how difficult it is to even listen to – let alone enjoy – all the slurring rubbish that’s being said.
