#43 heading for a wedding: part one // heart swells
I had been immune to the fated stress; j’refuse — or so I thought. But the day is finally finally finally here and I’m so full of cold, up to my proverbial eyeballs and A can’t get an Uber. By the time he’s up the garden path with a parting peck, suit bag in hand, E’s cab is sliding into view; my relief at seeing her is physical, a pleasurable collapsing inward. She herself is expanding outward, advancing towards me looking radiant and pregnant, a bulging M&S bag in the crook of her arm. I hold my breath as I hug her and she tells me, with the stern and loving voice I so crave, to get in the damn shower. The steam, of course, eases my sinuses and distracts me from the growing throb of voices downstairs; the long lines the razor makes up my shins connects me to my 13yo self, my 19yo self shaving my legs in a thousand sinks in the early days of meeting A (every night for a while there for fear of revealing myself as a mere mortal, albeit one no hairier than most).
I wrap myself in a paisley robe I rarely wear but have come to learn is essential for this occasion and emerge to find my mum and S already parked up and unpacked; I say hello and try to ignore their visible wince at my nasal twang. J, newly arrived and resplendent in denim, brings me a honey and lemon. I’m already near-tears at everyone’s generosity, their gentleness with me, the bride on her special day. Downstairs, E and J set about unwrapping my dress from its layers of tissue; I am moved by the murmurs of them undertaking this task with what I know is exquisite care. Primped and painted, I join them in the kitchen where they’re duly divvying up the food they’ve brought: pastries from Toad (I blacked out at the counter! They send their congratulations!), an unreal truffle Gouda, three colours of olives, two flavours of crisps. I realise with horror how little appetite I have and instead repeatedly push the plate towards our photographer; my dad arrives not long after that with a full entourage of family members I have to lovingly tell to f*ck off. S helps me into my dress, zip up and lining down; I am laced with light and yelling at E and J to make sure doors and windows are locked. J briefly reappears to check for washing up and gives out a yelp on seeing me in full regalia. We’re both gone.
The route to the venue follows my bike ride to work minutely; the wedding cars (cream, mid-century, seats as comfortable as sofas) have to stay together so, if separated, we slow and pull over so the other can catch up. On all three occasions, I am stricken with panic that we’re breaking down. D is somewhat elsewhere and, briefly, I think he raises his phone to take a selfie of us en route — in reality, he is lifting it to eye level so he might do a retina scan for his online banking. I laugh. Once within sight of the town hall, our driver waves a frantic, gloved hand to indicate that A should hide; I ascend the steps in seeming slow-mo to tap him on the shoulder and feel that same inward collapse as he turns, molten. Oh thank god, there you are. Marylebone Town Hall itself, by way of comparison, is regimented, all walkie talkies and ensuring that people don’t get in each other’s photographs. It’s Senate House Library and the British Museum and every municipal building you’ve ever been in, all glossy marble and dark wood, hallowed. I’ve just seen a face I can’t forget the time or place where we just met bounces off the walls from the room we’d chosen online, months earlier, through the gap between the door and its frame; it seeps into the neighbouring room where we’re being quote unquote interviewed and I’m floating above myself, pleasantly oblivious.
What follows is, as they warned, a blur: everyone there all at once; a great swelling to hear A’s dad read Allen Ginsburg’s Song — the weight of the world is love — and, from my brother, Michael Donaghy’s Present — we have no time /but this device of wantonness and wit. Mostly it’s the feeling of A’s hands palpitating in mine like a moth against a windowpane, my own clammy palms trying to contain them; we laugh briefly at A’s need to say why I // why aye, sign the register framed by our mums and look awkwardly to the registrar for permission to kiss at the ceremony’s conclusion. True love will find you in the end rings out as we leave — mister and missus! — and there’s more hiding downstairs as everyone spills out into the corridor, shaking confetti into cupped hands. There are flurries and cheers and photographs on the steps, the occasional horn from a passing car on Marylebone Road which I unfailingly answer with a shake of my bouquet. Photos and photos and photos; collapsing back into cars to head towards Soho, waving at passersby (I’m queen for the day! I quip giddily, repeatedly) at Piccadilly Circus, the wedding cars great ships parting the waves of people on Dean Street, mooring outside our beloved Ducksoup. A tight, twisting staircase down to the cosy cave of the basement; everyone else already in situ, sipping. I hand off my flowers for the fridge.
Then its pink fizz; great wedges of sourdough swiped through mounds of labneh and puddles of olive oil, frills of salami (for the meat eaters), shatteringly crisp green beans, hunks of carrot with curls of preserved lemon, almond rubble and coriander; chilled red wine; green green green pea, pecorino and mint risotto; creamy tomato-y mascarpone-y fettucine twirled around forks; medallions of riblets eaten exclusively by my dad and A’s best man; the steam of the lemon and bay potatoes rising in the candlelight. We’re stolen only briefly for final portraits during the golden hour; a scrum of lads in the smoking area of a nearby pub giving us a rousing ‘weeeeeyyyyyy’ as A briefly swoops me towards the pavement. The evening bubbles on but arms are soon slung around necks — thank you thank you thank you — and cabs called; A and I wobble back to the hotel ourselves, dodging bin bags and Friday night revellers, wondering which of us is most looking forward to taking off our shoes, flexing toes.
Upstairs, when I drop my dress to the floor, a flurry of confetti follows, falling around my feet.