Crazygirl Falls in Love (24 page)

“Not really, I only help out at
Cat and Canary
when my
brother’s short staffed.”

“Your brother owns that place?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Nice. So I guess you’ve never catered before?”

“Not on your nelly.”

The waiter is beside us and I check out his
offerings.
Oh my god they look
amazing
. I know I’m not supposed to do this
but I balance my glass of wine under my elbow while gathering as
many canapés as I can into my cupped hand. Fuck it, it’s not like I
know anyone here. Besides Blue of course, but he’s already seen me
at my worst. Several times.

Blue laughs at my mountain of treats. He delicately takes one
breaded prawn from the tray and whispers so the waiter doesn’t
overhear,

“Babe, I promise another tray will be around again
soon.”

“What if it’s not?” I on the other hand, am not whispering,
I’m speaking loudly and looking directly at the waiter, “what if
it’s my one and only chance to eat tonight?”

The waiter smiles,

“Ma’am, I promise I’ll be back.”

“And rest assured I’ll be charging across the room to meet you
when that happens.”

Blue shakes his head as the waiter moves on,

“I knew I should’ve fed you at the pub. That’s the last time I
listen to you.”

I don’t answer because I just shoved a
salmon crostini into my salivating mouth. But this was obviously
a
large
salmon
crostini, meant to be eaten in two elegant bites as opposed to an
overambitious one-er. I navigate the food around my mouth, chewing
slowly. I look up and see Blue looking at me in wonder. He takes a
sip of champagne,

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl love food so
much.”

“It’s all the running,” I answer after a big swallow, “I’ve
had the appetite of a lumberjack since I was fifteen.”

We trade more canapé stories while I continue to shove the
tiny delights into my mouth. If there’s anything better in life
than a fried cheese stuffed courgette flower, I want to know what
it is (because then I’ll want to eat it). As a drinks tray passes
us Blue politely takes two glasses. He hands me one as I drain the
last of my wine.

Lo and behold, the first waiter does indeed return with
another round of canapés. I decide not to chase him around like
I’ve never seen food before.

The food hits my tummy a few minutes later
and I start feeling like a whole new person. My head clears, I bury
thoughts of mean bosses and rotten Spanish men and childhood Disney
loves (which include Aladdin and Li Shang from
Mulan
) as the splinter pain of hunger
eases.

The MC announces it’s time to enter the dining hall,
interrupting our chat. We’ve been talking about what we do for a
living. I’ve confessed I’m a lawyer and have asked him to reserve
judgement. We start into the dining hall, following the other
guests.

“So if you only wait tables when your brother is short staffed
does that mean you’re an actual DJ?” I ask.

“You could say that. I opened for Disclosure last
year.”

“What’s Disclosure?”

“Never mind.”

“What kind of DJ are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

I take a sip of champagne before answering,

“Oh you know, there are lots of types. The club resident who
has his regular slot on weekends, the trailer park DJ who belts our
Kenny Rogers all night then gets into a fight for refusing to play
Jay-Z, the wedding DJ, the student party DJ, the old people’s home
DJ...”

He laughs as I trail off,

“Don’t laugh,” I continue, “we’ll all be old someday and
pensioners need entertainment too.”

“I’m a superstar DJ.”

“Yeah, in your dreams.”

We approach our table which Angrypants told me earlier in the
week was “lucky number 13”, quote end quote. Blue pulls out the
seat for me, and although I’m touched by his gentlemanly gesture I
can’t let go of the DJ-thing,

“You can’t be a superstar if you don’t respect the legend of
Annie Lennox.”

“That’s preposterous, why would you think that? I consider the
Eurythmics one of the best singles bands of the 80s.”

“No you don’t, remember last Friday? I requested Eurythmics
and you said Loft was a classy establishment that didn’t play that
kind of music?”

I lift my hands and make bunny ears to put ‘classy
establishment’ in air quotes.

“Did I really say that?”

“You know you did, don’t pretend you don’t
remember.”

I pick up my bread roll and start ripping it up, furiously
spreading butter on the biggest piece. Popping it into my mouth, I
look up at Blue. He’s looking at me sadly.

“No truly it slipped my mind, but you’ve jogged my memory. I’m
terribly sorry, I know it’s no excuse but it really was one of the
worst nights of my life.”

We are shushed by the MC (a short old man in a black velvet
three piece) who opens the night. I look around at the other guests
at our table. There are four girls sitting in a row to my left.
Blue is on my right (I made him sit there because it’s my non-black
eye side, even though I’m still wearing my sunnies). A couple have
just seated themselves beside Blue. It’s the guy who almost smudged
Angrypants’ make up earlier. Nico, was it?

He is a tall broad guy, reminds me of a
bear. His partner is a pretty exotic type with long, curly black
hair, tanned skin and bright green eyes. She shoots me a friendly
smile. I smile back. They seem sociable. This might turn out to be
a good wedding after all. You see, when you don’t know many people
at a wedding the group at your table become the critical path to
Fun Rate Success. There is nothing, I repeat,
nothing
, worse than being stuck at
the ‘boring’ Singles Table (there’s always a fun Singles Tables and
a lame Singles Tables, and you always wanna be on the former). Rest
assured, the Boring Singles Table
will
make you lose the will to live.
You’ll see a hundred happy couples flood the dance floor but you’re
forced to endure awkward small talk with the long-time housekeeper
and family dental hygienist. You start to wonder how life got so
bleak. You swing past the cake stand to drown your sorrows in sugar
(then smuggle three pieces out via your handbag) and go home alone
and in a funk. It’s grim. It’s depressing. It should be avoided at
all costs.

But this group look like a great bunch. Next to Nico and his
girlfriend are two guys pouring themselves beer. The four girls to
my left are eyeing them up. Everyone is young and good looking, and
I don’t know why we weren’t put with the extended family from
Newcastle, but by golly I’m glad.

The MC invites us to rise as the wedding party have arrived.
We start clapping as the names of the bridesmaids and groomsmen are
read out. They enter the hall coupled up, and I decide then and
there that I will never wear any shade of yellow ever again. If the
peanut costume didn’t already put the nail in the coffin the
bridesmaids’ dresses certainly have. They look like out of date
custard puffs.

“And now please put your hands together for the new Mr and Mrs
McPhillips!”

The room explodes in boisterous applause as Angrypants and her
slaveman appear. She leads the way, dragging him behind her. They
approach the wedding table and take their seats in the centre. The
room sits as the MC shushes us. I lean into Blue and say softly so
the others don’t hear,

“I hate to say this, but she looks really
beautiful.”

He puts his arm around the back of my seat and leans into my
ear,

“She’s a very beautiful type,” he whispers back.

“You have types?”

“Only you babe, lanky eggplant heads.”

I ignore the urge to tell him that I’m not
his babe, I’m not lanky (I have curves, it’s just they’re on the
smallish side) and I am most certainly not a vegetable head.
Instead, I eat another piece of buttered bread. The bread rolls are
alternating around the table, multigrain, white, multigrain, white,
multigrain, white. Mine was white, but I’m much more partial to
multigrain.
Hmmm. How to stage a hostile
takeover of Blue’s roll?

Lucky for him I see a couple of wait staff
strutting out of the kitchen carrying plates.
Yes
. Dinner soon, hunger crisis
averted.

Once the MC has finished with the welcome speech and what not,
Blue turns to strike up conversation with Nico while I busy myself
with the wine bottles at the centre of the table.

“Red or white?” I ask, a bottle of each in either
hand.

“White please,” Blue replies.

I begin pouring and look up at Nico and his striking
partner,

“Would you guys like some too?” I offer.

“We are Georgian, of course we want wine!” Nice
booms.

I immediately like Nico, and before long have also warmed to
his girlfriend who introduces herself as Eva. They moved to London
several years ago from Tbilisi. She’s a nurse while he manages his
uncle’s dry wall business. With a job like that you’d think he’d be
the most boring person on the planet, but he’s anything but. He has
a large face with a large smile and a laugh so deep, contagious and
resonant he soon has our entire table laughing along with him. He
is so light hearted and jovial he reminds me of a young, good
looking Santa Claus. Eva is very different, she stays quiet while
Nico tells his stories of misadventure, but I reckon she’d also be
good value on a night out.

The entree plates arrive, are eaten off, then disappear again.
The dinner plates meet a similar fate. Nico doesn’t finish his
meals, he’s too distracted telling Blue about the time his
grandfather almost through him down a well for scaring the family
goat herd. While he talks animatedly I notice Eva stealthily
stealing pieces of Nico’s steak. I knew I’d like this girl. Blue is
being annoying and guarding his steak jealously. He’s learnt
quickly that nothing edible is safe around me. Because I am an
animal.

Before long we’re all feeling very merry. Blue chinks his
glass to get our attention,

“I would like to propose a toast, if I may. Let us eat, drink
and be merry, for tomorrow we die!”

“Such a charming man,” I joke.

The four of us take big sips from our glasses. I notice the
girls on my left are looking a little left out. Nico spots them too
and says,

“My friends, you will toast with us next time. In fact, would
you all like to learn about the famous Georgian toast?”

Eva pushes her chair back ever so slightly and begins shaking
her head, mouthing the word ‘no’ to me. I think if she could she
would be running her hand back and forth across her neck to
indicate how serious the situation has become.

“Of course,” Blue replies.

“Would you like to join us?” Nico looks to the two beer lads
to his right, “but you will have to drink wine, a Georgian toast
must be drunk with wine!”

They nod and Nico, still laughing, begins to explain the
rules. The Georgians take toasting and wine very seriously,
especially during a formal event like weddings. The drinking is led
by a tamada, or toastmaster. Seeing as every Georgian loves his
wine, the tamada might lead many, many, many toasts during the
evening. When he stands the men are expected to follow suit while
the women remain seated. Seeing the defiant eyes of the women at
our table, Nico quickly follows up with,

“But because we are in the United Kingdom we will all toast
together. A woman’s place is wherever she chooses.”

Don’t you just love this guy?
I know I do. But then he says something none of us
(beside Eva) are expecting,

“Once we have finished the toast, everyone must drink the
entire glass. Leaving even a drop is an insult.”

Blue, Beer boys and the four girls are suddenly looking
extremely concerned and I’m certain I’m wearing an identical
expression. Self preservation autolawyer mode kicks in,

“Well Nico,” I begin, “me and the girls wouldn’t want to
insult your tradition. As much as we want a society where the
objectification of women is replaced by gender neutral interaction,
we’ll just join you for the first toast then let you lads take it
from there.”

That’ll teach Blue to call me vegetable
head.
Nico looks overjoyed as he stands,
topping up each of our fishbowl-sized glasses. Blue and Beer Boys
are looking very worried indeed.

“Here we go!” Nico roars, “I would like to propose a toast to
our dear parents, to the happiness and love between Sarah and
Neville which bought us together tonight, to this wonderful table
filled with new friends, to old friends who could not be with us
tonight, to love and to peace, to the motherland, to the beautiful
women in our lives and to a safe journey home.”