I did know. I had no back-up plan. That was the whole point of getting married.
Contract gleefully signed, we met Perry and his parents in a small private dining room. After an hour sampling menus, and pre-dinner, during-dinner and after-dinner drinks, we covered the topics of invitations (design: frumpy; wording: ostentatious; number: verging on panic attack), flowers (bleugh), and entertainment (an opera singer. Not for the service. For the evening reception).
I say discussed. Of course, by ‘discussed’, I mean Larissa read out her plans, accompanied by numbered pictures, Perry agreed they were perfect, and I nodded feebly. My trusty wing-woman Marilyn, on the other hand, grew increasingly red in the face, alternately widening and narrowing her eyes at me and throwing in comments like, ‘But Faith, you hate fruit cake. Didn’t you want chocolate?’
To which Larissa smiled her sharky smile and shot invisible death-rays across the table. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. If we don’t have fruit cake, we can’t save a layer for the baby’s christening.’
Perry turned the colour of a plain sponge. ‘Mother. Faith is not pregnant.’
‘Precisely. You need a fruit cake to last until she is,’ she snapped.
‘How long does fruit cake last?’ Perry asked.
‘Oh, a good eighteen months if it’s done properly.’
‘Mother…’ Perry sounded as though he had some eighteen-month-old fruit cake stuck in his throat.
‘Oh, stop fussing. Wills and Kate did it. As did your father and I. We’re not going to be the first ones to break generations of tradition.’
Item seven on the agenda was bridal party underwear. Yes. Apparently my underwear was up for discussion in front of my future father-in-law as well as the groom.
‘Now, this is going to get tricky.’ Larissa tapped her pen on the table, to make sure she had our attention. ‘We need to create a smooth line for theNottinghamshire Lifeshoot. However, due to the necessary contour adjustment, I think we go with a full body wrap. Not easy to find in the UK, but Milton’s secretary made some calls and we can import one if we act sharpish. The question is how successful Anton is going to be at reducing your size in the next ten weeks. What are your current vitals?’
‘I have no idea,’ I mumbled, avoiding everyone’s eye. Did brides normally have this sort of conversation with their family? If my mum was still alive, would she be asking me these questions? Or would we spend a giggly shopping trip trying on bras and knickers together and making jokes about my wedding night?
‘What did you wear, Larissa?’ Marilyn asked. ‘I didn’t think boob tape existed when you got married.’
‘I graduated from the Lady Rosalind Institute. I didn’t need additional support. I am merely being considerate towards Faith’s different physique.’
‘I think underwear is the least of Faith’s challenges when it comes to this wedding. She’s perfectly capable of choosing her own bra.’
‘Excuse me.’ I pushed back my chair, unable to leave fast enough to avoid hearing Larissa say, ‘I think we can all see that isn’t the case.’
I dove into the ladies’ room, locking myself in a stall for a few moments and leaning my head against the wall, deep breathing, Hester-style.
I squeezed back the ache in my eyeballs, all too aware I had no frame of reference when it came to family, no idea what the boundaries were. I allowed the grief to wash over me. Grief for my mother, and for my absent brother. I felt hopelessly alone.
Someone opened the main door, moving across and tapping on my stall.
‘Are you okay?’ Marilyn, of course.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you leaning on the door and trying not to cry?’
‘Maybe.’ I smiled, despite myself.
‘Would you like to lean on me instead?’ She poked her fingers around the crack at the side of the door.
‘If I do that, I’m definitely going to cry.’
‘Open the door, you muppet. I want to show you my impression of Milton when Larissa started talking about underwear.’
I blew my nose and pressed the palms of my hands into my eye sockets until the pain became bearable, then opened the stall door to find Marilyn, arms twisted together in mock horror, pulling the strangest expression of confusion, glee and disgust as her eyes rolled about in their sockets.
I couldn’t help laughing as she then straightened her features and peered at me down her nose. ‘Agenda item 165. Consummation of the wedding vows. Now, traditionally the Upperton males have used the position demonstrated by Milton’s grandparents in diagram seven.’
‘Stop it!’ I giggled. ‘I’m trying really hard to respect Larissa. She’s put a huge amount of effort into this.’
