Revenge of the Wedding Planner (2 page)

He insisted the house be painted brilliant white, inside and out, however. All clean lines and modern furniture. The man has a wallpaper phobia. Bill says wallpaper reminds him of people dying of tuberculosis in the 1940s. Expiring in the bed with starched handkerchiefs over their mouths, hushed voices on the landing and all that caper. Doesn’t matter if it’s that new shiny ‘statement wall-covering’ that’s featured in fancy magazines nowadays, he can’t stand it. Ditto, knick-knack cabinets and swirly carpets. I agreed with Bill’s decision as long as I could have some colour in the bedrooms. Well, in Alicia-Rose’s. She’s our only daughter. Our three boys haven’t ever been bothered about the decor. So our children grew up in an all-white house except for Alicia-Rose’s room which was pink, pink, pink. Compromise, you see: that’s the secret of a happy marriage. It also helps if your husband has a cute bubble-butt and lovely smooth feet and is very good at giving erotic massages.

I always knew Bill was in bad form when he got a faraway look in his eyes and started wondering aloud why the Blades didn’t make it when the Clash did, and wasn’t it a shame they never got the recognition? And Bill knew I had rampant PMT when I took to the bath with a copy of some interiors magazine and a nice glass of Merlot to cheer myself up. Then he’d check the chart we keep on the inside of the wardrobe door with my PMT days blocked out in blue marker, stay out of my way for a day or two and remember to rinse his cereal bowl and put it in the dishwasher and not leave it to dry up on the arm of the sofa. Otherwise he’d get the ‘I have to do everything in this bloody house’ lecture from me. What I’m trying to say is that we were very much in love. I never thought anything could or would come between us. When you’ve loved someone for over twenty years you know what they’re going to think and say about ten seconds before they do.

It was so romantic, that balmy summer in 1984 when our two worlds first collided. Bill had a short white Mohican and knee-high blue leather boots with steel plates on the shins. And I was going through my ‘Granny dress and plaits’ phase. But everyone said we looked right together and we were so in love we just knew we could make it work. Think Billy Idol as a sensitive young man teamed with Wednesday Addams as a bolshy teenager and you’ll get the general idea. It was all harmless fun, you know, dressing up in the 1980s. There was nothing else to do and no money to do it with. At least we were using our imaginations and not just going slowly mental in front of a computer, like kids nowadays.

The night Bill and I met was simply magical. I was eighteen years old and Bill had just turned twenty. Within five minutes of clocking one another we were oblivious to our surroundings, utterly lost in a passionate kiss. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. But when Bill walked me home from the Limelight Club we were hassled by a gang of drunken thugs. The usual bad language and colourful threats, will they never get bored of it? I was terrified. Mobile phones hadn’t been invented then (or, at least, the ordinary person in the street didn’t have one, only the rich-o yuppies in London) and there wasn’t a policeman in sight. Bill ignored them for a while but they became increasingly aggressive. He whispered to me to project an image of utter calmness and he asked me if I had anything in my handbag he might use as a weapon – I happened to have a steel comb with a sharp end (they were still legal then) as well as a large can of extra-strength hairspray to keep my blunt fringe straight – and between us we managed to frighten them off.

I say that like it was an equal thing but what happened was, Bill suddenly stopped walking, stood in front of me, waved the comb at the thugs and invited them to have a go.

‘You’re a dead man, freak!’ they shouted.

‘Fair enough,’ Bill replied levelly, ‘but one of you losers is going down with me. Now who’s it gonna be?’

Meanwhile, I wielded the hairspray menacingly in the background, hoping I could at least give the rotten creeps some stinging eyes or something. For about two minutes there was an ape-like stand-off with lots of crouching and side-stepping going on. It would have been quite interesting
if it weren’t for the fact we were about to be murdered. Bill didn’t move an inch. I don’t think he even blinked. I thought the big, fat thug in the beer-stained tracksuit would have been the first to launch himself on Bill, but then again the smallest one with the darting eyes did look the maddest of the bunch.

‘I haven’t got all night,’ Bill said at one point.

Amazingly, they backed down and we escaped without broken bones. Bill stood his ground until they were out of sight.

‘Thank God I didn’t have to use this thing,’ Bill said as he handed the comb back to me. ‘Bunch of sad cases, really.’

‘Would you really have stabbed one of them, Bill?’ I said to him quietly as we resumed walking.

‘Don’t know,’ he replied after a short pause. ‘I could have out-run them on my own, no problem. But I forgot to ask if you were a good runner. Are you?’

‘No, sorry. Actually, I’m rubbish.’

‘Well, then. Come on, let’s get you home.’

I was weak-kneed with relief. And lust.

There were five of those hooligans so obviously they’d picked on us because they thought they’d have the advantage, but Bill has a theory that most violent men have personality disorders too. And that’s why they were so angry when they saw us strolling along the moonlit street. Simply because we were happy and they were not. I think Bill had a valid point that night anyway, because when I read this article in a magazine recently I discovered a few interesting facts. Apparently, a rough childhood can lead to the brain being hardwired into negative patterns. So
our thuggy friends probably couldn’t ‘do’ normal life because they didn’t have a normal childhood, and ‘normality’ is a way of life that must be learned
before the age of six
. Imagine that. After the age of six it’s too late to change anyone’s personality in any major way. Even therapy can only make them aware of why they are the way they are. But it’s too late to actually change them.

But anyway, Bill knew how to look after himself on the streets of Belfast after dark and I suppose that’s how we managed to have such a great social life when we first got together. We were married just a year after that eventful night and we’ve been together ever since. We have four children (aged eighteen, nineteen, twenty and twenty-one) and a mortgage nearly cleared. We’re law-abiding taxpayers, never been on the dole. It’s all very suburban.

Bill’s father is English, hence the curious surname. Grimsdale. It’s always reminded me of cobbled streets and clay chimney pots. And Norman Wisdom calling out to Mr Grimsdale in those old black-and-white comedies. Do you remember them? When Norman was a milkman? Sometimes I do that when I’ve spilt a cup of tea over the bed or something. I’ll yell, ‘Mr Grimsdale! Mr Grimsdale!’ in my best Norman Wisdom accent and Bill will come running with a tea towel.

We’ve only ever had one major disagreement and that was over my boss Julie’s recent fling with a barman from County Galway.

Now, Julie Sultana is a terrific girl and for the fourteen years that we’ve worked together in Dream Weddings she has always been the living embodiment of style, poise
and confidence. I’d be tying my long black hair up with a scrunchie and complaining about the summer heat and she’d be spritzing herself with designer water and wearing sunglasses by Chanel. But when she went off the rails last summer, she really pulled out all the stops. I mean, she did some things I would never have thought of in my wildest dreams. And I’ve got quite an imagination if I do say so myself. Yes, Julie opened my eyes on several subjects, I can tell you. And that was all the more surprising because I never had her down as the rebellious type. Who’d have thought the sort of person who drives an immaculate white Mercedes convertible with scented tissues in the glove compartment would ever have got up to the sort of shenanigans that Julie did last summer?

3. The Café Vaudeville

So, I knew Julie had something big to tell me when she suddenly snapped her laptop shut one day last July and said brightly, ‘Mags Grimsdale, put down that tiara and get yourself ready, will you? I’m taking you out for coffee – to the Café Vaudeville, no less.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘Even though we’re snowed under with Janine Smith’s wedding? I mean, these whacking great corsages will take hours to finish.’

‘Yes, yes. I’ll work late to get them made up. Come on.’

I should mention at this point that Julie’s wedding-planner business is run from a decommissioned lighthouse on the outskirts of Belfast. Julie owns the entire building but we’ve decorated only the top three floors and we use them as a storeroom, an office and a kitchenette, respectively. Interesting story, how Julie came to be the owner of such an unusual building – we’ll get to that in good time. You might think it was a bit crazy to run the business from a lighthouse when it had nothing whatsoever to do with the sea but, honestly, the free publicity was tremendous. The novelty value was priceless, it really was. The women of Belfast were queuing up to huff and puff their way round the endless spiral of stone steps before finally collapsing into our tiny, circular office with spectacular sea views. And they were usually so blown away
by the whole experience, they didn’t think to query the bill, which was an added bonus. That’s Julie for you, the consummate businesswoman. And that was before we
really
went meteoric with these fantasy weddings that are suddenly all the rage.

We’re a good team, Julie and me. We’re very good wedding planners (if I do say so myself).

But anyway.

So, yes, I leapt from my seat like a Jack-in-the-box. You see, I just adore the Café Vaudeville. All ruby-red walls stencilled with fanciful gold loops and swirls, Moroccan lampshades in yellow and blue ceramic studded with glittery jewels, massive red-glass chandeliers and all sorts of lovely dark corners and shadowy nooks to sit in. There’s a wicker sofa with curtains draped over it like a little tent. So Bohemian, you simply can’t imagine. Who’d have thought our creaking old city would ever in a million years have something so beautiful just tucked away on Arthur Street like it was nothing special? It’s a bar and restaurant by day and apparently it’s
the
place to be seen posing in after dark. But Bill and I rarely went out at night then, what with the kids needing their supper, and lifts here and there, and various school uniforms and outfits to be pressed and so on. But I always did love going out for coffee and Julie knew I was hopelessly enchanted with the red chandeliers.

So, even though it wasn’t her favourite place to eat (she enjoys the New York modernity of Deane’s Deli with its trendy dark grey walls and giant bowls of fresh olives on the counter) she’d still chosen to take me there and that’s how I knew there was something on her mind.

‘Oh, what a lovely-dovely treat,’ I murmured as I switched on the answerphone and closed the windows in the lighthouse. Obviously, burglars couldn’t have got in at that terrific height but sometimes the seagulls are brazen in their attempts to nick what’s left of our sandwiches. Quite frightening, seagulls are, when they’re standing on your keyboard.

So, as I said, I knew she had some special news to impart to me but you can’t ask with Julie. No, you can’t go jumping the gun and demanding to know what’s going on or trying to guess what it is or making silly jokes or anything. You just have to bite your tongue and wait and Julie will tell you in her own good time. So I fetched my glad rags. A floor-length black wool cardigan with giant jet buttons on it and my old-fashioned black velvet handbag.

I’m an ex-Goth. Did I mention that? Well, I say ex. I’m more of a forty-year-old institutionalized ‘post-Goth’ who’s allergic to anything floral or flouncy, and I don’t know what else to wear now I’ve turned forty. Blimey, it sounds so strange to even
think
. I’m forty years of age. I mean, I’m still eighteen in my mind. I gave up the studded belts and the black nail polish when I had my first child, naturally. I’m not an attention-seeker. But I didn’t go mad and buy myself a billowy pink frock with enormous white collars on it either. Like those dresses Princess Diana wore when she was expecting William and Harry. I mean, you can’t suddenly swap comfortable biker boots for those fiddly little sandals that let in the rain and give you chilblains and bunions. And the fashion scene is so expensive. A completely new wardrobe twice a year? On my budget? Don’t make me laugh!

Yes, so that was the day Julie and I went to the Café Vaudeville together for the last time before it all kicked off. Julie drove us into town in her white convertible, chatting all the way about inconsequential things, giving nothing away about the bombshell she was about to drop on me from a great height. (I’ve never learned to drive, I’m useless with gadgets in general.) In fairness to Julie, she hadn’t a clue that day just how it would all end for her, either. Sometimes it’s the decision you make on the spur of the moment that determines the rest of your life. Oh, well.

We found a parking space near the Art Deco BBC building on Bedford Street, popped some coins in the meter, a short walk and suddenly we were in through the main doors. Bit of a queue at the entrance but Julie knew the head waitress and we got sneakily siphoned off the line and ushered through to a side room, all the while pretending to be there on business. I waved a couple of A4 envelopes in the air as if we were delivering a business quote of some kind. Works every time. Naughty us!

We ended up seated on a low leather banquette in the coffee bar (good) next to a gaggle of chain-smoking women in skin-tight double-denim (not so good). Is there anything worse on the larger figure? And they were smoking like trains, filling the air around Julie and me with a thick blue cloud of acrid smoke. But even that couldn’t take the edge off my buzz. I just love opulent interiors, they make my heart beat faster. In my next life, I swear I’m going to come back as a mirror in the Palace of Versailles.

‘Café mocha and a chocolate square for you, Mags?’ Julie
asked and I nodded happily. Women are supposed to have curves, aren’t they? So why on earth do so many girls like Emma have eating disorders these days? Emma was my eldest son’s girlfriend at the time. What a drama that was!