I keep my expression relaxed and finally they all nod.
“Yeah sorry, mate,” Brian mumbles. He looks around at the others. “We’ll discuss this later,” he says rather ominously. “I have some ideas about Primal Scream that I’d like to discuss in my van on the way home.”
I look admiringly at the Machiavellian genius in our midst and then clap my hands together. “Great. Glad we’ve got that settled. I’m really looking forward to hearing your set.”
I’m not, of course. I’ve seen them before, and my eardrums still haven’t recovered from the shock, but I’m very diplomatic and a born situational fibber which comes in useful in my profession. “Right. I’m off to see the bride.”
I leave them hissing like a nest of snakes wearing flares, and hasten up the stairs. As I pass the bar, I glance inside, unable to help myself. My husband isn’t standing there in a puff of red smoke, so I carry on upstairs.
The bride’s room is a predictable scene of mess, confusion, and high emotion. I’ve never been in one that wasn’t. The scent of perfume and hairspray is choking, and the radio plays quietly in the background.
Erica is standing in front of a huge mirror wearing scanty underwear and an open silk dressing gown. Her hair is done in an intricate chignon and her makeup looks dewy. However, her expression is rather fraught, and it’s easy to guess why.
Her mother is fussing at her, her face set in a discontented scowl. Erica’s cousin Mary, who’s been forced on her as a bridesmaid, is standing silently like the angel of death. She’s a pale, standoffish woman who thinks she’s better than everyone, with the exception of her Aunt Frances. The two of them scare me shitless. Meanwhile, Erica’s best friend Paula is lying on the bed tapping on her phone. She’s wearing a pair of scarlet pants and a bra, and has an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
“How are we, ladies?” I say, giving them a wide smile. They all whip around to stare at me, and I repress my instinct to step back and shield my testicles.
“Joe,” Erica cries, her face lighting up. “Was that a nice surprise for you?”
“Oh, the best,” I say, smiling so hard my face hurts. “Wonderful.”
“I’m so glad,” she says fervently.
I cross the room. “Look at you. Your hair’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Her hair is wrong,” Frances snaps.
The hairdresser grimaces discreetly and goes back to packing her rollers away.
“What exactly is wrong with it?” I say, glancing at the chignon. “It looks absolutely beautiful.”
“Thanks, Joe,” Erica says gratefully.
“It needs to be higher,” Frances snaps. “We have the family tiara to consider.”
Why? Will its feelings be hurt?
“And I told you I didn’t want the tiara, Mummy,” Erica says.
“Nonsense,” Frances snaps.
I clear my throat. “The hairdresser has another appointment, so Erica’s hair will have to stay looking beautiful, as it is.”
“Yes, sorry,” the hairdresser says, her hands very busy. “I have another wedding to go to.” She smiles at me and hustles out of the room like her arse is on fire.
I wink at Erica, but Frances glares at me. “I am very disappointed, Joe, that we didn’t have the hairdresser for longer.”
How long does she fucking want her? Maybe I should have pencilled her in for a few years trapped in this hotel suite with Frances? I bet she’d rather take her chances in the American Horror Story house.
“Well, she does have other commitments, Frances. And she has done a wonderful job with all of you. You all look beautiful.”
Cousin Mary gives me a cool glance and glides away like the undead that she undoubtedly is. I repress a shiver and ignore the need to cross myself.
Frances huffs. “This is my day,” she says in a menacing way. “I hope things go better from now on.”
Paula, the other bridesmaid, makes a choked sound. “Anyone would think you were getting married yourself, Frances,” she says, standing up in all her scarlet-underweared glory. “But I’m sure things have changed since your happy day. When was that? The Victorian times? People were a lot more uptight then but that was probably because of the corsets. I know I get really crotchety during the weekly Tarts and Vicars night at the Golden Fleece if I’m laced too tightly.”
“I beg your pardon,” Frances says, her tone glacial.
“Well, everything is looking good,” I say quickly.
Erica turns gratefully to me. “Really?”
I nod, smiling at her. She’s the sweetest person. “Yes, the chapel is perfect. It looks gorgeous.” I pace to the window. The loch is a sheet of opaque grey, and the sky is yellow. Even as I watch, a few snowflakes drift past. “Looks like you’re going to have the snow you wanted.”
She squeals and races to the window. “Oh my god,” she says, clapping her hands. “That’s amazing.”
Her excitement is contagious. She’s wanted a Scottish wedding since she watched Four Weddings and a Funeral. The fact that one of the guests died at that wedding hadn’t dented her enthusiasm in the slightest.
“Well, I’ll let you get ready,” I say. “I just wanted to let you know everything looks great. The guests will be escorted to the chapel in a bit. The reception room looks stunning and everything’s going smoothly in the kitchens. We’re ready, lovely.”
She squeezes my hand. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“That’s debatable,” Frances mutters, but we tactfully ignore her comment.
“Is Ryan okay?” Erica asks.
“He’s fine. He was having a coffee in the bar with his brother when I went past. I’ll pop in to see him next and check if he needs anything.” I smile at her. “So now you can relax and enjoy this wedding. Everyone is where they should be.” Unlike my ex-husband.
I look at the women. “Well, I’ll leave you to get ready, ladies. I’ll be back in a bit to escort you to the chapel.”
“Wait,” Erica says, grabbing my hand. “Will you stay while I get ready, Joe?”
“Of course, I will if you want me to.”
She nods. “You keep me sane.”
“Oh, okay.” It won’t be the first time or even the hundredth that I’ve done this.
“He’s a man,” Frances says, scandalised. “He can’t see you in your underwear.”
“He’s gay, Mummy. He wouldn’t be interested if I stripped naked and skipped to the chapel.”
“Only if you had nice shoes,” I say, and she chuckles.
I step back. “Okay let’s get this show on the road.”
Paula removes the dress from its padded hanger and brings it across as if offering it for sacrifice while Frances nods her approval. The two of them, with Cousin Mary watching like a depressed wraith, prepare the dress, holding it low so Erica can step into it. After she does so, they pull up the garment carefully. Once she’s threaded her arms through the sleeves, Paula steps around and starts to zip her up. She stops halfway up and then tries again.
“Fucking hell,” she mutters, her tongue between her teeth and her face going red with exertion.