Revenge of the Wedding Planner (32 page)

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Authors: Sharon Owens

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When Alexander and Emma were duly declared man and wife, I was first out of my chair, running up the ‘aisle’ to congratulate them and hug them both before they’d even had time to kiss each other!

Mothers!

You can’t take us anywhere.

It was a bit sad that Alicia-Rose couldn’t be there but she was listening in on her mobile phone and heard most of the ceremony, interspersed with me sniffling and Bill telling me not to cry. Then it was everybody back to Alexander and Emma’s place in a convoy of cars and taxis, and we had a fantastic party. All manner of dainty snacks and sauces, decorated and garnished like some cookery show on the television. And some good old Irish stodge for the less adventurous. Big bowls of beef stew and mashed potatoes, mashed carrots and parsnips, caramelized fried onions and neat slices of wheaten bread and rhubarb jam. All laid out on a white cloth and white plates and dishes, strewn here and there with silver glitterballs. They’d kept to their £1,000 budget but it didn’t feel like it, not one bit. Funnily enough, Emma’s side of the family were very taken with the beef stew while our lot devoured the much prettier snacks. I suppose we all wanted to be enthusiastic for the bride and groom, but the food was delicious and the day was certainly a triumph. We sat around and chatted for hours, just listening
to some pop compilation tapes, and then we had wedding cake and tea as Alexander and Emma opened the last of their gifts.

They did get some lovely things, mostly household items, like a silver-coloured microwave, some fancy cast-iron saucepans, trendy wine glasses and wine racks and a bale of big soft fluffy towels. But there was also quite a tidy sum in cash and they said they would put the money in the bank for a rainy day. Some people sang songs and did a bit of dancing and of course we took lots of photographs. Finally we threw boxes and boxes of confetti over them and each other (not a problem to sweep up because they had wooden floors) and said our very emotional goodbyes.

They weren’t going away on honeymoon just yet, Emma said. They wanted to enjoy being in the apartment for a few days and, when she felt up to it, they would go to Cornwall for a weekend break. They still had the price of the trip to Cornwall in the kitty. Yes, even after all that food, and Alexander’s new suit and shoes.

Julie would have been disgusted!

And then, a few weeks later, just after Julie and the Coven came back to Belfast, I read something in a gossip magazine about a mystery prank that had been played on a top model in Paris. Apparently, Sophie’s very pretty townhouse was filled to the rafters with
tonnes
and
tonnes
of neon-pink disco-foam. The kind of thing they have at those wild open-air parties in Ibiza and those ‘happening’ types of places. Some person or persons unknown had slipped a nozzle through the kitchen window at the back of the house and completely flooded the building with
clouds and clouds of fluffy sticky foam. It went all the way up to the top of the house and was even photographed spilling out of the chimney, like a scene from
The Magic Porridge Pot
. No one was at home at the time of the incident, except for Sophie’s cat, which thankfully made its escape through the cat flap.

The commentators said it must have been the work of radical anti-fur protesters: Sophie was known to wear a real fur jacket on her frequent skiing trips. But no one claimed responsibility and the culprit was never discovered. It was all seen as a massive joke in the media (the internet nearly collapsed with people logging on to have a gawk and a giggle), until it was revealed that Sophie’s collection of designer clothes was completely ruined. Four rooms full of coats, hats, shoes, waistcoats, dresses and handbags. Over half a million pounds’ worth of Vivienne Westwood, Prada, Gucci, Chanel and so on – all dyed bright pink and drenched in ugly pink tidemarks. And to top it all, Sophie hadn’t insured her collection. Imagine that. Maybe she’d pinched a fair bit of it when no one was looking backstage or maybe she didn’t want to pay the high insurance premiums, but anyway she was out of pocket by half a million quid, and all her lovely cream and gold vintage decor was ruined too.

I did ask Julie once, and only once, if she’d filled Sophie’s house with ‘doctored’ disco-foam just so that she could have the last laugh in the matter. But she said no, she definitely hadn’t.

‘Honestly, Mags,’ she said laughing her head off, ‘you’re becoming quite the paranoid princess. Do you really think I’d be that immature? Where would I even get one of
those stupid machines? Or a bucket of pink dye? And how would I get them both to Paris without causing a scene at the airport?’

‘Didn’t we have one years ago?’ I said slowly, scanning my memory for a name.

‘No, we didn’t. Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Yes, we did. For that mountain-climber from Ennis-killen who wanted us to recreate the Alps in his back garden? You remember, he had a huge garden?’

‘Oh, that machine?’ Julie said, scratching her head and unwrapping a chicken and stuffing bagel. ‘No, I think I threw that old thing away right after the event. I mean, it got broken, didn’t it? It overheated or something.’

‘I can’t recall,’ I said then, deciding to give Julie the benefit of the doubt. ‘Still, I hope there wasn’t a hidden security camera anywhere on the premises. I’d say whoever did it could get in serious trouble. The French don’t take stalking and sabotage lightly, you know. Especially towards celebrities.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t imagine there’s any evidence kicking about,’ Julie said lightly. ‘I’m sure that whoever delivered the foam knew what they were doing and wore a balaclava and what have you. And checked the scene out prior, for surveillance equipment and all. I mean, if they had the balls to do it in the first place, I’m pretty sure they’d have been well-organized.’

‘Well, yes, that’s true,’ I said.

And I do expect it would have helped enormously if the culprit knew someone sympathetic with enough money to be able to rent private jets…

∗ ∗ ∗

There’s the phone again.

One minute, please…

‘Hello. Dream Weddings, can I help you?’

What else is there?

Jay and Sophie got married yesterday. It was on GMTV. They got married in the Vatican, which I thought was a lovely touch. Yes, I am being bitchy. She was wearing a simple white dress and he was wearing a neat black suit. It was all very traditional. The reporter said that the mysterious young Irishman had been ‘comforting’ the famous supermodel since her romance with the King of Rock ended amicably in May of this year. No mention of the wedding that never was. Well! That’s what I call
spin
! Good for them. I hope they’re very happy together. I doubt it, but I sincerely hope he doesn’t cheat on Sophie the way he did on Julie. Their children will be too good-looking for words, needless to say. I still think Jay planned this whole thing. That he decided to use Julie to meet wealthy celebrities, when he first found out she was a wedding planner. But we’ve got to give him the benefit of the doubt, haven’t we? And I read he had a tattoo removed from his arm just before the wedding so that must have hurt. Maybe he does love her?

The ‘King of Rock’ went on a worldwide, anti-drugs roadshow and kept his mouth firmly shut about Jay O’Hanlon and Dream Weddings. Which impressed my Bill so much he decided to settle out of court after all. The money was very swift in coming, along with a letter for Bill to sign, giving up any future claims to compensation. What the heck, we decided. The poor guy had sworn
he would never drive again or date again and so we thought we’d give him another chance. After a lot of serious deliberation, Bill bought himself a brand-new black Volvo S80 and gave the rest of the money to our children, to help them with their studies. Or, in Alexander’s case, to save up for a time when property prices weren’t quite so ludicrously high.

My father’s grandiose headstone of best Irish granite was smashed to pieces this lunchtime. Didn’t even last a year. I wasn’t surprised but Bill was very upset. Thousands and thousands of pounds it’d cost us in transport costs, engraving fees, special planning permission and so on. But there it was, when we went out to lay some flowers we’d ordered specially. In bits! The cross broken right off the top and the base sprayed with graffiti. Not very neat writing but we think it said:
The only good Catholic is a dead one
.

‘Why?’ said Bill, staring down at the damage. ‘What is
wrong
with them, Mags? What kind of homes were they reared in? Have they really got nothing better to do with their lives?’

‘Oh, Bill,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter. I should have known such a big headstone would attract the wrong sort of attention. I only ordered it to please my sisters.’

‘It’s not your fault, Mags. It’s this stupid country of ours. It’s whoever decided to allow segregated education.’

And so on. He was very annoyed.

But (and I know you’ll think I’m really barmy now), in a strange way I think it would have made my father both
pleased and proud. Yes, I think he would have been rather chuffed that some teenage tearaways had taken a sledgehammer to his beautiful Celtic cross and sprayed the base with abusive sectarian rubbish. It was on the news, you see? What was left of the gravesite made it onto the local news show this lunchtime, the piece introduced by none other than Tina Campbell. Looking very dapper in a houndstooth jacket. She interviewed a leading politician from my father’s side of the fence, beside the vandalized grave. It was the closest my poor deluded father ever came to getting directly involved in The Troubles.

So, anyway, I’ve asked the cemetery bigwigs to leave the damage the way it is for a few months before removing it and preparing the site for a smaller plaque. Just so Dad can see it and have a good laugh or a good rant, whichever he feels is the most appropriate. If he
is
up there somewhere looking down on us, which I sincerely hope he is. Well, my mother did used to say Dad was so completely stupid and gormless, he was bound to get a fool’s pardon on Judgement Day.

That broken cross looked so bleak and forlorn in the pouring rain in a Belfast cemetery on a cloudy day in November. With a flute band practising somewhere in the background. And an army helicopter droning and hovering overhead, ready to film any possible outbreaks of civil disturbance during yet another commemorative rally. As I said to Bill at the time, it’s what my father would have wanted.