everyone?’
‘I certainly haven’t.’
‘That’s because you’ve never been a young bride, Harold,’ said Mrs Bainbridge as she wiped her daughter’s brow.
An hour later, fully recovered and fresh from a shower, Elizabeth sat in the living room while Tanya did her nails. Tanya, the volatile pixie from Hungary who knew women’s bodies better than their maker, was, according to Diana Bainbridge, crucial to the success of the wedding. Tanya, who shared the same opinion, had set aside the entire day so that Elizabeth and her attendants would look their best.
‘Now tell me about your bridesmaids.’ Tanya was rubbing cream into Elizabeth’s cuticles. ‘I know there’s your sister, Rosie.’
‘Yes, and Adrian’s sister Cathy. And my friend Susie Warby.’
Tanya raised her eyebrows. ‘Surely not a sister of that Phillip Warby who’s doing all those disgusting things?’
Elizabeth decided to ignore the question, Tanya the queen of gossip knew exactly who Susie Warby was.
‘And Lydia Branch, my matron of honour.’
‘Now there’s a lovely girl, really knows how to look after herself. Beautiful skin, perfect figure, truly feminine. I only wish we could cure her of her nail-biting.’
Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, nearly half past ten. ‘They’ll be here soon.’
And there they were: fat Cathy, fat but desperately dieting Rosie, beautiful blonde Lydia and tall slim Susie, all chattering excitedly, reassuring Mrs Bainbridge that everything would be perfect, joking with Elizabeth about her imminent loss of freedom, admiring recent photographs of the happy couple, expressing approval of such an amiable husband – particularly Lydia Branch, whose own husband David was as dreary as he was devoted – discussing the groomsmen, and sharing rumours about Adrian’s bucks’ night.
‘Did you know there was a stripper?’ Susie was seated at the manicurist table; she twisted around to see Elizabeth’s reaction.
‘Yes, Adrian told me. I can’t see the attraction myself.’
‘That’s why bucks’ nights are for men only, I suppose.’ Susie stood up. ‘Who’s next for Tanya?’
Steadily, efficiently, expertly, all nails were manicured, and at half past eleven the girls were sitting at the dining-room table with sparkling pink pearl extremities, even Lydia whose customary raw stumps had been extended with the latest in false nails. The table was laden with party food – ribbon sandwiches, egg and bacon slices, canapés filled with salmon, éclairs and vanilla slices, caramels and chocolates. ‘We may as well eat up,’ Rosie said, ‘it’s too late now to lose any more weight.’ And so they did, pink nails flashing, jaws gnashing, cream dripping, and all the while maintaining an incessant banter to soothe poor Elizabeth’s nerves. Talk of friends and clothes and holidays was interspersed with compliments about Adrian, truthful compliments, of that Elizabeth was sure, because everyone now adored him, adored him unequivocally, only Elizabeth had her doubts.
Twenty years later with her eighteen-year-old daughter seated beside her, Elizabeth again recalled the doubts. The problem was that everyone told her the doubts were normal – her mother told her, Lydia Branch told her, anyone who was married told her, and Elizabeth, who in those days was an indiscriminate listener, believed them all. So there she was at lunch on her wedding day, helplessness clutching the pit of her stomach, a throbbing despair in her temples, doing her best to be happy on this the happiest day of her life.
After lunch, Antoine and his assistants arrived with a lorryload of dryers and head rests, shampoos and hairsprays, pins, rollers and hairpieces – not that he approved of the latter, Antoine was quick to explain, being a man of the Sassoon school, but he had noticed at the practice session that one of the young ladies had rather thin hair. He and his people set up their equipment in the main bathroom and adjoining dressing room.
The girls had changed into button-through housecoats and within a short time Rosie was under the dryer, Lydia’s hair was being put into jumbo rollers, Susie was having a special conditioning treatment – hers was the hair that was thin – and Cathy’s hair was being washed. Antoine was telling Elizabeth of his plan to weave strands of hair through the band of miniature orchids which would hold her veil.
‘It will look perfect, trust me.’
‘But Antoine, I like the way you did it at the rehearsal.’
‘Ah yes,’ he smacked his lips, ‘but now I have something better.’
And Elizabeth gave in – Antoine would do as he liked anyway, so she might as well be seen to agree.
After the hair was finished the girls moved on to Tanya for makeup. By twenty past four the attendants were complete. Each wore an identical hairstyle: straight to the shoulders in a loose page-boy cut, a heavy fringe and the rest brushed back with a little height and liberal amounts of hairspray. Each girl wore a crown of miniature orchids with fine curls of pink satin ribbon to match the pink spotted voile dresses. Tanya had worked wonders with the makeup: all eyes had been enlarged and darkened, blemishes had been camouflaged, Rosie and Cathy had acquired cheek bones, and each girl had been given a moist, pearly pink mouth.
At half past four the photographer arrived and set up his cameras in the formal lounge room. At four forty-five Elizabeth descended the staircase, a traditional bride in a gown of exquisite chantilly lace overlaying satin which revealed glimpses of tanned young skin. The lace was repeated on the satin shoes and in a fine border on the tiered veil. Her hair was brushed back from the face and curled up loosely at the shoulders.
The photographer applauded her – how tired he was of Twiggy eyes and gimmicky gowns. ‘Such a beautiful bride,’ he said over and over again as he arranged her for the photographs, ‘beautiful, beautiful.’
In later years Elizabeth would recall the photograph session as a speeded-up old film. She stood first this way and then that, head raised in hopeful expectation, head lowered in the pose of the virgin bride. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, she stood silhouetted by the bay windows, she held her bouquet to her cheek, she held it in outstretched hands, she stood and never sat, stood in a hundred different ways. She stood alone, she stood with her mother, she stood with Rosie, she stood with her mother and Rosie, she stood with her grandmother who sat, she stood with her mother and Rosie and grandmother. She stood with her father, she stood with her father and mother, she stood with all the family. She stood framed by attendants, she stood looking at attendants, she stood facing a line of attendants, she stood laughing with attendants, she stood looking dreamy with attendants, she stood with attendants admiring the emerald-cut diamond engagement ring. Then, with little time to spare, they all dashed outside so she could stand with the pink camellias, and with pink camellias and pink attendants. She stood with Rosie and Cathy whose long strapless brassieres were wrestling with their short buxom figures and with Lydia and Susie who were slender and elegant.
When it was all over Elizabeth went back inside for last-minute touch-ups and descended the stairs again, this time on the arm of her father. There were photographs of her on the stairs with her father, and photographs of him kissing her goodbye, photographs of Elizabeth and her father getting into the vintage Rolls, photographs of Rosie helping the tiered veil into the vintage Rolls, photographs of Rosie, her mother and grandmother in the second vintage Rolls, photographs of Lydia, Susie and Cathy in the third vintage Rolls. And then the photographer packed up all his equipment and with extraordinary speed arrived at the chapel before the wedding party.
