A curtain suddenly gets pulled back and my brother appears from behind it.
‘I’m not carrying you out of here,’ Sonny says, gesturing to my glass, assuming my broad grin is champers-induced. Speaking of someone who sends me lots of unnecessary memes…
‘I’d like to see you try, though,’ I reply, sitting back to take a serious look at what he’s wearing. ‘Now tell me about this get-up…’
Today, like the helpful sister I am, I’ve accompanied Sonny to the tailor to help him choose his wedding suits. Yes, it’s suits plural, the wedding is going to be a three-act play: one suit for the ceremony, one for the party, one for when they leave. It’s Gucci loafers and personalised cufflinks, overpriced shirts and matching trousers. I have never quite bought into luxury clothing – I am high street through and through, but I make an exception for Mr Li, who makes my dad’s and brother’s suits. He prepares Sonny for red carpets, takes out my dad’s waistbands but also helped me alter my cosplay costumes when I was a misplaced teen trying to fit in.
‘I tell him, it looks a bit shit really,’ Mr Li comments in his hybrid Chinese/London accent.
Mr Li’s an older gentleman, always in a waistcoat with his glasses perched on his forehead, tape measures like accessories around his neck, but always the most impeccable taste in trainers. You go with your New Balance, Mr Li. Comfort and style personified.
‘I’m a good tailor, but even I can’t make this look good,’ he tells us, staring Sonny up and down.
My first instinct is to laugh quite hard, but I’m also quite jealous of my brother’s calves. Before me stands Sonny, in a black leather kilt with knee-high socks, a black jacket and a red bow tie.
‘We’re not even Scottish… is Ruby Scottish?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Sonny replies.
‘Then is that cultural appropriation? I don’t even know. It looks nice if mildly ridiculous? Like you’re going to take on Sparta but also serve them some canapés. Are you going to make Dad wear a kilt?’
‘No. Do I really look like a waiter?’
‘A respectable one. Why the leather?’ I ask.
‘Because it looks edgy and manly?’ he says, striking a pose.
‘It looks like high-end kink.’
‘Is this a theme at weddings these days?’ Mr Li asks.
‘It is. I provided the décor for a wedding like that once.’
Handcuffs. We provided many handcuffs.
I watch as Sonny struts around the room, swishing the skirt like he’s going to partake in a mean paso doble. Mr Li, meanwhile, follows him, trying to take in the jacket.
‘Do you get a say in any of this? It’s also your wedding,’ I remind Sonny.
‘I know, but it’s her vision. If it were me, I’d wear a bog-standard tux, but we’ve got magazine deals and all sorts, so she wants me to look a bit “extra”. I’m wearing boxers, though, thermal ones. In February, I’ll need them.’
‘Are you going to wax your legs?’
‘I have my limits, Josie.’
I laugh as he looks at himself in the mirror, confused.
‘You like the champagne, Josie?’ Mr Li asks, as he comes to sit down next to me and gives me a double air kiss. We’ve been patrons of this shop ever since we were kids and it’s always like coming back to see a kindly uncle. I’m just glad he’s replaced the lollipops he used to give us with alcohol. ‘It’s a big day, our Sonny boy growing up.’
‘It is indeed. Thank you. This is proper luxury, Mr Li.’
‘How many years have I known you? You call me Winston. And I love you guys. Sonny, I just get your next suit ready, sit down and have a drink with your big sister.’
Sonny does what he’s told, grabs a glass and snuggles into me, resting a head to my shoulder. This will always be a familiar stance of ours, living off sofas as teens in the same house, confiding everything in each other. We’ve sat here before watching Dad get kitted out for his renewal of vows to our mother. They’d been together for ten years and they did the deed in the Chiswick registry office they married in. I wore much tulle, we went for pizza after. It was a moment for declarations of love and a brocade suit which made Dad look like wallpaper.
‘Are you really wearing that, Son?’ I ask, as he tries to understand the best way to sit down in a kilt. Yeah, knees together please.
He shrugs. ‘I’ve worn worse. I did the London Marathon dressed as a carrot.’
