taken my pick of plants and avoided Patrick all evening. I could even stroll out onto the terrace and blend into the shrubbery if I really had the urge.
Looking around, the answer is obvious. As wedding planner, I’m officially responsible for the pinkest wedding reception in the history of the colour pink. From the balloons to the flowers to the bridesmaids’ dresses, everything is pink. I’ve even included myself in the colour scheme, great for matching the table decorations but not quite so great for going unnoticed.
I will talk to Patrick later, I tell myself, ducking my head when he turns around. I’ll paste on a smile and talk about trivia. But it won’t be easy: he’s seen my wobbly bits for heaven’s sake! Not to mention that he’s the man I nearly took to be my lawful wedded husband – until he decided to play away, that is. I’m not sure if I’m up to discussing the weather with him just yet.
Not that Pat will want to discuss the weather. He probably can’t wait to gloat about – I mean, introduce me to – the slim redhead who is the ‘plus one’ on his invitation.
Getting over Pat by Christmas is going to be hard. Maybe I should push it back to the next millennium.
I’m really not in the mood for his games. Not when I’ve got a missing DJ and a confetti-eating flower girl to contend with. Besides, I don’t know if I’m ready to meet the latest member of the Patrick McNicolas fan club. I cancelled my subscription long ago.
Pat’s a stand-up comedian, which I used to find romantic, especially when he proposed to me on stage. His combination of intelligence verging on geekiness, and lilting Irish accent was seriously appealing, and I found myself accepting, much to the delight of the audience. I suspect Patrick was thrilled as much by the laughter and applause as he was by my saying yes.
Here we are, one cancelled wedding and one broken heart later, and I’m doing better. Yes, I’m hiding behind a tree, but I’m not ripping off his gonads and stuffing them down his throat.
This is progress.
It’s a constant relief to me that I still adore weddings, despite having my own special day wrecked in spectacular fashion. Becoming a cynic would have been career suicide. But right now I’m not here to discuss my personal life. I’m here to work and I want everything kept on a professional footing.
I peek through the foliage and feel a glow of pride at the perfect scene. I’ve pulled it off. Even if I do say so myself, this wedding reception is looking pretty damn professional. Well done me.
The elegant drawing room of Taply Manor is festooned with pink and white fairy lights. The tables are draped with crisp white cloths, freckled with pink confetti and set off with deep pink damask napkins. The centrepiece of each table is a vase crammed with waxy white lilies, fat pink roses and bright pink teddy bears with ‘Adam and Samantha’ embroidered across their tummies. The bride insisted upon this particular detail even though I wasn’t convinced. But, as my best friend Faye pointed out, it is their wedding. And Sam was right, the bears actually suit the whole fluffy pink theme. Phew!
The (pink) salmon has been demolished and the scraping of cutlery against china suggests that every mouthful has been savoured. Patrick is busy entertaining his companions, which means the coast is clear for me to give the caterers the go-ahead to serve the dessert.
I whiz around for a good ten minutes giving instructions to the waitresses. Then I check that the wedding cake is ready to be wheeled out and that the champagne is chilled for the toast. One of the bridesmaids has a headache so I fetch some headache tablets from my emergency wedding kit. (You name it and I bet I have it: from spare tights and safety pins, to spare wedding rings – because, yes, it has been known to happen!) And when the DJ calls in a panic because he’s still lost, I become a human sat nav system and guide him to the reception venue. Once all this is done and everyone’s tucking into their puddings, I treat myself to a glass of Moët and retreat back behind the trusty bay tree for a few minutes.
Deciding to take advantage of the peace, I put down the emergency wedding kit to take out my phone from my smaller clutch bag and call my friend Simon. Si’s been one of my closest friends for so long that dinosaurs were roaming Ladbroke Grove when we first met. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration but you get the gist. We actually met at uni as terrified freshers while we were settling into our rooms in a truly gruesome 1960s tower block.
‘This is shit!’ Si had groaned, as with arms full of the obligatory pot plants, biscuit tins and posters, we squeezed into the creaky lift and pressed the button for floor eleven. ‘Still, at least if the course is dire, suicide will be easy!’ And he’d thrown back his head and laughed. Two packets of biscuits, a bucket of coffee and discussion of our A-Level grades later, and we were well on our way to being firm friends.
West Granite House was indeed shit. Built in the early sixties, it dominated the skyline like the proverbial sore thumb, only this thumb wasn’t so much sore as gangrenous and in desperate need of amputation. The lifts conked out on a regular basis, the rooms were little more than glorified cupboards, and as for the toilets … well, I’d rather forget about those.
Lots of people assumed Si and I were a couple but this couldn’t have been further from the truth. I love Si, but I don’t fancy him. At all. He’s just my big rugby-playing, beer-swilling comfort blanket of a mate. I don’t care about all the When Harry Met Sally hype: men and women can be just friends. When Si met Faye, the stunning blonde he later married, I couldn’t have been happier for him. And although Faye was a little cool at first, it didn’t take long before she realised I really wasn’t a threat.
It’s strange but in many ways I’m probably closer to Faye now than I am to Si. Si has a really high-powered job as a barrister and works all the hours that God sends, plus a few more. Lately he’s more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel which means I’ve seen far more of Faye. But no matter how hard Simon works, it’s tradition that I call him from my weddings with an update. It’s payback for all the rugby matches I’ve had to watch over the years.
‘Robyn!’ Si answers promptly. ‘One minute.’ I hear the hiss of a ring-pull followed by the silencing of the rugby. ‘How’s it going? Did Samantha dye her poor sod of a fiancé pink as well?’
‘Not yet,’ I giggle.
This is my sixth wedding (not bad for someone who’s not yet halfway through her thirties) – and sixth running commentary. In spite of all my father’s misgivings about my starting up a business slap bang in the middle of a recession, last summer was full of weddings and I hardly had a minute to myself. Looking back, this was probably a good thing because not only did it get Perfect Day off to a flying start but it also kept me far too busy to brood about Pat, and therefore rescued my nearest and dearest from months of suicide watch. The winter’s been slower, of course, but I’m on track to have it all sorted by Christmas. Six weddings is a great start and, just like the song says, things can only get better …
OK. So the six weddings aren’t technically mine but when I think back to my own almost wedding, I’m pretty sure that I prefer arranging my clients’ special days. Other people’s weddings are a lot less heartache.
‘Paint me the picture,’ he says.
‘Right,’ I say. By now I’m very familiar with the procedure for this update phone call. ‘Imagine the scene: the top table’s laughter is floating up and popping like the Moët bubbles fizzing in the champagne flutes. The bride and groom are feeding each other great spoonfuls of raspberry crème brûlée.’
Simon sucks in a mock gasp because he knows me so well.
‘I
