Chapter 8 #2
And so what if we rushed into this? So what if I’m a fool?
He makes my heart sing. I feel so much lighter when we’re together.
I went for so long feeling nothing but achingly numb and now I can genuinely feel happiness blooming like spring buds from every molecule in my being.
It sounds pathetic. But I love him! I reluctantly stop doting and resume finishing my meal.
Talk has turned to Big Mand and Big Sue’s arrival tomorrow.
‘That’s another reason to put off all the wedding jobs tonight,’ Cherry is explaining to Tash and Liberty. ‘With all the drama of Dom nearly dying, I think it’s probably best if we reschedule tonight’s committee meeting and do it tomorrow morning when they’ve arrived.’
What? What did I miss?
‘Otherwise, what’s the point of having a free bar? We can get stuck into that instead.’ She swings a pointed finger to Dom, almost knocking him off his seat. ‘And you can babysit tomorrow while I work.’
I have never seen a man look so disappointed.
‘Is it babysitting though? If a man is merely looking after his own children?’ Liberty ponders aloud, her fingers doing air quotes.
‘Who cares? As chair of the committee, I feel the crucial thing is to keep the momentum, keep things moving, get the big jobs out of the way as quickly as we can. So, it’s vital…’
Tash seems quick to get the conversation back on track. Thank God.
My hope is very short-lived. In fact, it evaporates almost as soon as I acknowledge the feeling.
Because Tash picks up her wine glass, swirls it around, inspecting the liquid like a seasoned sommelier.
‘It’s vital that tonight we try all the cocktails ahead of the big day.
Ged, love, which one do you want to serve guests on arrival?
Was it my Wet Pussy?’ Tash begins honking like a drunk goose.
Cherry and Liberty are quick to join in, cackling away.
‘What were the choices, again?’ Ged says, distracted.
Seriously? This is his one and only job on the list!
Last week, we literally spent hours and hours narrowing the field, testing and testing, to draw up a shortlist of suitable welcome cocktails.
At the time it was considered more important than what colour socks they would be wearing on the big day.
This has been typical of all the planning thus far.
Straying from the point. Focusing on the non-essentials.
Fixating on random minute details. Pitting distilled tequilas against flavoured vodkas.
Botanicals against nostalgic neon-coloured alcopops.
Cherry breaks from laughing to count off the contenders on her fingers. ‘We had a Wedded Wanger, mainly vodka-based, a Backdoor Basher with two parts gin to one part vermouth or, my personal favourite, a Canny Cock, which had a shot of everything in.’
I inwardly flinch. For welcome drinks they all sound a bit… What’s the word? Phallic. ‘But do we even have enough capacity? Are there enough cocktail glasses and mixers to make them ourselves?’
There is a collective groan from the Dollz as though I am party pooper central.
‘Well, excuse me for being sensible. I guess we’ll leave it up to the grooms.’
Liam is nodding, his eyes vacant of any caring.
Ged is making the right noises, but he too seems elsewhere.
I wonder if they are on drugs. Is that what is happening?
It’s not veganism they have developed but a drug habit instead?
They’ve barely left their bedroom since we got here. I shake the thought away. Surely not.
‘What do you think, Liam?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘You’re miles away. Everything okay?’ I ask gently. ‘You’re not feeling the strain too much?’
‘No. I’m fine. Absolutely fine.’ He pauses. ‘We’re both fine, aren’t we?’ Liam opens his mouth to let out a ginormous, in my opinion, pantomime yawn. ‘We’re just tired.’
‘Tired from all the wedding planning?’ I ask, knowing it’s been non-existent since we arrived. ‘Maybe it’s the lack of sleep?’ They must be averaging sixteen hours per day. ‘Or simply the excitement of it all?’ The sexual athletics? The class A narcotics?
‘Yes,’ Ged says. ‘We’re exhausted from all the wedding planning. Thank God we’re giving the meeting tonight a miss. We’ll come at it fresh tomorrow morning when the Bigs get here.’ He scrapes back his chair, bends to pick up his manbag. ‘Liam. Early night, hun?’
‘But what about les treize desserts de Provence, the thirteen desserts?’ The Liam I know would never skip dessert.
Liam pats his stomach. ‘Best not, if I want to fit into that wedding suit,’ he jokes as they bid everyone goodnight. We watch them scuttle away.
Tash is gazing adoringly at Sister Kevin, who seems to have made a quick recovery from his choking ordeal and is gently brushing Clementine’s hair.
The little girl’s eyes are drooping while she slumps against him.
Peaches has decamped to his knee and is cradled in his other arm.
He is a veritable man mountain, and Peaches looks the size of a hamster curled up in a ball.
She gives him a doting smile. ‘My bum’s itchy,’ she reveals.
‘Mine too,’ he whispers loudly, causing Tash to giggle affectionately.
Peaches puts a tiny thumb in her mouth and falls fast asleep. Sister Kevin is trying not to laugh for fear of waking her up.
Cherry is mouthing ‘Thank you’ at him across the table.
Silently, Cherry and Dom rise from the table and, rather than disturb the sleeping beauties with any more talk, Cherry nods at Tash.
Tash carefully lifts Clementine from the high chair, her head flopping instantly onto her shoulder, her eyes clamped shut.
Sister Kevin keeps hold of Peaches and the four of them wordlessly wave goodbye as they disappear round the corner.
I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath until Liberty breathes out a sigh of relief.
‘Well, that’s a result. I thought the kids would scream the place down rather than go to bed.
They hate bedtime. They’re usually up later than Cherry and Dom.
’ She yawns. ‘What a busy day. Actually, I think I might have an early night too. We have a big day tomorrow.’ She reaches down to grab her sparkly purse and phone from beside her chair.
‘Good idea,’ agrees Nacho, standing, stretching his arms up and wide, his T-shirt riding up to reveal his taut, tanned stomach.
‘But I thought the whole point of cancelling the meeting tonight was to enjoy the free bar?’ I say, flabbergasted. ‘What was the point otherwise?’
‘You go ahead, hun,’ says Liberty. ‘I need my beauty sleep.’
Matteo talks rapidly to Nacho in Spanish. Nacho shrugs. ‘Lo siento. Hasta manana.’ And as though they’ve choreographed the whole thing, he pulls out Liberty’s chair and they glide smoothly from the room together, his hand at her lower back.
Matteo blinks several times as we survey the messy table littered with half-eaten food, scrunched-up napkins, chocolate smears, greasy Greggs bags, the many half-filled glasses of very, very expensive wine and eight empty chairs. We are barely halfway through the meal.
Just as I’m about to ask Matteo what on earth is going on, the two waiters walk proudly into the room, each bearing a large silver platter on outstretched arms. Each platter is laden with a festive feast of culinary delights.
A staggering mountain of chocolate-covered profiteroles; flaming fresh figs glazed with honey and scattered with cashew nuts; baked exotic fruit tarts shaped like baubles; delicate iced buns made into snowmen; exquisite pastries in the shape of Christmas trees with a rainbow of dainty macaroons made to look like gifts lying underneath…
On and on. It must have taken hours to prepare.
They stop.
They observe the empty seats.
They observe me and Matteo.
They observe the sumptuous platters.
A silence hangs in the air as though each of us is momentarily frozen in time.
One of the waiters takes in a loud nostril of air before plonking his platter down onto the table with an enormous thump. But it is the second platter that rattles the table and knocks two glasses of red wine over. I watch the blood-red liquid seep into the white tablecloth with a wince.
‘Enjoy,’ says the second waiter tightly, his voice cracking as he tips his head towards us.