I barely hold back a laugh. ‘Well, no-one’s ever accused me of being civilized before, doll.’
Doll? God, that’s a stretch. Ragdoll, maybe.
‘Doll? Doll?’ she hisses. She seems almost offended.
‘It was a compliment,’ I point out.
Wow. She really is offended. Who would have thought?
‘Chauvinist pig!’
Not the worst thing I’ve been called. It doesn’t bother me what she thinks anyway.
‘I can live with that,’ I conclude, turning away.
That was all I needed!
I’m celebrating the day my best friend loses his freedom, which is already a contradiction. Not only do I have to pretend to enjoy myself, I must also tolerate the proximity of unlikely specimens of female.
That blonde is really scary. Better put as much distance as possible between me and her. I hope she’s not one of those women who go to weddings to hunt for a husband.
No easy prey here, sweetheart. You’re really not my type.
2
Sara
I hate weddings.
If this one wasn’t my sister’s, I would have pulled a sickie. But instead, here I am, asking myself for the millionth time what on earth could have made her agree to it.
I really don’t understand the point of these ceremonies.
I know, I know, I should be happy for my sister, but let’s be honest – is she really going to live happily ever after with a man who until recently was known to all and sundry as a notorious womanizer? Should we put our faith in fairy tales and hope that the love of a good woman has magically changed him for the better?
I’m sorry but I don’t buy it. As far as I’m concerned this is a terrible day.
I sigh with resignation, during the exchange of the rings, while my mother and various aunts and cousins dissolve into floods of tears. That’s the ridiculous logic of weddings: spend a fortune at the beautician’s and then ruin it all crying.
In Naples, so they say, weddings bring out the best in people. And it’s true, in a way. The whole thing is a competition to see who can be the most original, the most sumptuous… the most… ridiculous.
And that’s it, really. I can’t think of a more suitable word. And I’ve heard more than enough words wasted on this wedding, so I know what I’m talking about. I’ve spent months listening to my sister describing everything in minute detail: the dress, the photographer, the invitations, the floral arrangements, the reception, and on and on. I like to think I’m a pretty tolerant person and, of course, I want to be nice to my sister, but I swear there have been a few moments that have really put my patience to the test.
‘How can you not be moved?’ sighs my cousin Rita, sitting next to me in the church. ‘It’s so romantic!’
‘I can’t see what’s so romantic about a crowd of people crowded together inside one little church, sweating like pigs because it’s the middle of July.’
‘You’re only saying that because you don’t have a boyfriend!’
‘That’s why she’s always so grumpy,’ adds Simona, another of our cousins.
My God, what have I done to deserve this?
‘Quiet! They’re starting!’ snaps my mother, going into full Terminator mode: nothing and no one must be allowed to ruin this day.
I close my mouth, determined to keep my temper. Who knows, perhaps my simmering resentment will help me work up an appetite for the buffet? If I have to sit through this, at least I get to fill my belly with crap afterwards.
But there is one thing that is bothering even me, who would rather be almost anywhere else than here right now: echoing around the elegant vaults of the basilica is a sound that is anything but elegant: it seems that someone has outdone me in the boredom stakes, and has actually fallen asleep.
Is snoring, even.
The rumbling, sucking noise is unmistakable. My mother pretends nothing is happening, but it’s difficult to ignore. More than one person turns round to try and locate the source of the disturbance.
I follow the trajectory of the sound and have to smother a laugh at the sight of guilty party: it is a man, apparently in his thirties or perhaps a little older, with dark hair. He is dressed entirely in black and is wearing sunglasses. In church. Perhaps he was planning to have a snooze all along, and kept them on so no one would see his eyes were closed. What a shame his adenoids gave him away so enthusiastically.
If I had to guess, I’d say it was one of the groom’s drinking buddies.
Some friend! If it were me, I’d be furious, but hey, it’s not my wedding!
I turn away and stop paying attention: he’s just another stupid, immature man. Not my problem.
By divine grace the sermon is finally over, and it’s time to sign the registers. I try to escape into the fresh air, but my mother grips my arm: she is determined that everyone should be fully involved in every second of the proceedings, me included. And I had almost made it outside into the sunshine!
Instead, I find myself wedged inside the bosom of Aunt Filomena, who has decided to vent her happiness by treating me as her own personal teddy bear.
‘My beautiful niece! My beautiful niece is married! I pray every day that this day will come for you too!’ she gushes, totally unembarrassed.
‘Save the prayers for your own daughters, Aunty,’ I mutter, trying to break free.
‘Oh, they don’t need prayers, silly!’ she says, seemingly implying but you, on the other hand…
What can I say? My relatives have the tact of a bull in a china shop.
I know exactly what she is thinking. I’m the unlucky niece. The one who is still not married. The one who is at her younger sister’s wedding without a boyfriend. Everyone in my family considers my condition a real tragedy.
I hate them all feeling sorry for me as if I was some sort of victim. I’ve got everything under control! Well, most of the time, at least.
How much longer do I have to endure their pitying looks? A few more hours, maybe?
‘Grit your teeth, Sara, and think of the buffet.’ I repeat the mantra to myself as I walk over to congratulate my sister.
Sonia is a picture of happiness: every inch the radiant and beautiful bride. She inherited my share of the family’s height, while I ended up with a double portion of curves and hips, but that’s another story.
She hugs me affectionately, but I can tell she only has eyes for her new husband, who for his part seems reluctant to leave her side for long, so I don’t hang around. No-one likes being a third wheel.
We head towards the exit and I position myself behind the bride and groom, but realise almost immediately I’ve made a terrible mistake: the other guests are all lined up like snipers outside, armed with handfuls of rice. If there is one thing I hate more than anything it’s rice. It gets everywhere: in your clothes, in your hair, even in your underwear.
My irritation turns to pure terror a moment later when I realize that in addition to rice, the guests also seem to be throwing sugared almonds!
I know I said people like to compete to see who can have the most original wedding, but killing each other with airborne confectionery seems a bit much.
The thought has scarcely entered my mind when I see a sugary projectile sailing straight towards my face. I put my hands up to protect myself, but too late: the candy hits its mark with a sickening crunch, ending its journey embedded in my glasses. My new glasses, to be precise.