50
Harriet felt the muffled squelch of thick carpet under uncomfortable dainty shoes, and eyes upon her as she crossed the lobby.
Lorna had peeled off to loiter in the bar to separate their arrival out by a few minutes, after Harriet gave her directions to the ballroom.
She was outside the door – signposted by a diner-style noticeboard, SCOTT & MARIANNE, with the date – before she knew it. She commanded herself, don’t think: walk through it.
She pulled it open, heart in mouth, to a cathedral of a room. It was filled with neat ranks of white cotton-covered chairs, decorated with yellow satin sashes. The space was flanked by two huge pillars wound with pin-prick fairy lights in a maypole pattern. There were looming white-blossomed artificial trees with twisted trunks in planters, also bedecked with white pen torch-sized lights, running down each side of the seating. The ceiling was almost completely hidden by a canopy of gold helium balloons.
Off to the left, beyond the flower archway under which Scott and Marianne were to be united, was a string quartet. They were giving a dramatic orchestral rendition of Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin”, and Harriet was glad of the background noise.
Somehow, she had expected Marianne’s reluctance to marry Scott to translate into low-key event organisation. When she’d mentioned she had no bridesmaids as the budget wouldn’t stretch, she’d omitted the part where it wasn’t a shoestring. The budget had already stretched to the full Liberace goes to Hollywood. If Harriet had to find one word to describe the glamorously lit scene, it would be cinematic. Its commitment to world-building was akin to walking onto a set.
Not to be selfish or anything, but Harriet would’ve far rather ruined ‘a dozen people in a sterile registry office, with the “emergency exits in event of evacuation” poster prominently displayed’ kind of effort.
Making no eye contact, Harriet slunk into the very back row, on the far left-hand side, as per Marianne’s instructions. As she sat down, she saw each chair came with a folded piece of card, embossed in gold with:
WELCOME TO THE WEDDING OF
SCOTT & MARIANNE
ORDER OF SERVICE
Harriet opened it.
IF YOU’RE READING THIS, IT MEANS YOU’RE HERE BECAUSE WE LOVE YOU!
THANK YOU FOR COMING.
S&M X
Harriet almost snorted and had to stifle the urge, hurriedly. Any mirth was entirely knocked out of her at the sight of the groom in the middle distance. The brown hair was, as always, expensively tousled, his suit was powder blue, with a narrow floral tie.
Danny as best man was in razor-sharp moonstone grey, and they were both laughing and joking.
Oh, lovely Danny and Fergus. In terms of making an absolute scene of herself, somehow, the thought of their bearing witness injured her more than it should.
‘’Scuse me, is this where you sit if you know the bride?’ said a late-middle-aged woman in a very loud, pink ruffled dress and sequinned shawl, drawing unwanted attention to Harriet.
‘Yes, I think so!’ Harriet said, in a frantic half-whisper.
She moved along to the very end of the row to make space for her, trying to stay hunched and low.
‘Gorge, isn’t it,’ the woman said, nodding upwards at the balloons. ‘Must’ve cost a packet. How do you know Scott and Marianne?’
Oh, God. It was one thing to ruin Scott’s day, but Harriet was ruining so many people’s day. She wanted to ditch the whole plan, at that very second, for the sake of the nice lady in the bad dress.
‘Marianne’s my hairdresser,’ she said, in a moment of desperate inspiration, as she’d not anticipated this question.
‘Oh, and you’re friends, that’s sweet!’
‘Yes,’ Harriet said, every fibre of her being willing her to stop talking to her.
Harriet knew she was supposed to ask pink dress lady how she knew Marianne, and instead she impersonated a rude, phone-fixated millennial, sliding it out of her clutch bag and checking the screen. She had a text.
Nina
Looking HOT, Harriet Hateful! Don’t stare but I’m one row to the front of you, to the right. I went for a kind of Jackie O pillbox number in the end. GOOD LUCK OUR QUEEN xxx
Harriet glanced up, clocked an unusually demure Nina from behind, and then glanced away again to check the time. Four minutes to four. Marianne had solemnly sworn her punctuality (I will literally get there early and sit in the car and pay the traffic ticket if I have to). Four minutes to go undetected by the groom. A few more late stragglers joined her row and Harriet thought: I must be safe in a crowd. If Scott was going to do a glad-handing walkabout he’d have done it by now, surely.
Surely makes an ass of you and me: Harriet risked snatching a look in Scott’s direction and quickly dropped her eyes with a sharp silent intake of breath. He was staring, roughly at where she was sitting, and worse, making an approach.
Oh, so this was it. She’d been made. Harriet felt the change in energy forcefield around her, the increase in air pressure. The tap on her shoulder would come any second, and still make her jump out of her skin. When she couldn’t resist checking again, she saw Scott perilously close by, only one row in front. He was leaning down and speaking quietly to someone, beyond Harriet’s view.
Whatever was happening wasn’t completely benign, because Harriet sensed heads turning and necks craning.
Oh, no. It was Nina he was speaking to.
She saw a blur of black pillbox hat and dark hair and Nina standing up and being discreetly propelled from the room, Scott behind her with a grim expression.
Head bowed, Harriet peered intently at her Order of Service without seeing a thing, and waited to be ejected next. If Nina was here, he’d know Harriet must be, right? She was suffering the guilty person’s inability to assess what they’d given away. How many of their plot twists were now guessable?
Mortifying and ludicrous as discovery would be, more than anything, she’d feel she was abandoning Marianne. She’d have let her down.
More seconds passed. People chattered around her. The string band started ‘Chasing Cars’, which seemed to be cue for Bride On Premises.
She finally risked looking up, and Scott was half-jogging down the aisle, back to Danny’s side.
Harriet was sat rigid, poker-faced, and in turmoil. He’d not seen her. He thought Nina was a lone shooter? Did it make sense to do this without Nina? She was going to say something, then what? Silence. Booing?
Breathe. Breathe.
The celebrant gestured for hush.
‘Stand please, for your bride.’