The ballroom went into uproar to welcome the new Mr and Mrs Clarke to their wedding breakfast. Nora was so in love with her bridal gown that she’d refused to contemplate having a smaller “evening” dress, but she had changed to flats and lost the intricate veil for the sit-down meal. The head table was dedicated to immediate family (Nora’s vastly outnumbering that of Harry) whilst the groomsmen and bridesmaids shared a large table nearby. Cleo had to appreciate the careful rejigging that had clearly gone in to the table plan, with Sarah, Cole and Bea unsubtly equidistant from one another, but it might not have been necessary: the atmosphere was relaxed and festive, the wine and jokes flowing free.
Despite knowing there was going to be a four-course meal, Cleo had bolted down probably more than her fair share of the canapes. Eli hadn’t been so prepared.
“I’m absolutely starving,” he complained, having beasted down his starter before the fourth table on the round had even been served theirs. Bea, sat to his left, had approached her parfait and melba toast with a little more decorum.
“Stop complaining. Eat another bread roll,” she nodded her head towards the basket in the centre of the table. Eli reached for one while using his butter knife to pilfer a corner of Bea’s parfait. She stabbed at his knuckles with her fork, only half-kidding.
“Remind me to do some sort of a buffet thing when I get married,” Eli asked Bea as he liberally spread parfait onto the roll. Bea didn’t respond – she just bit off a piece of her melba toast with a snap.
Eventually the dessert plates were cleared away, with another member of staff following behind to dispense new champagne into waiting flutes for the speeches. Eileen was up first, in lieu of the Father of the Bride. Nora hadn’t been sure if it was a good idea, but Eileen had been oddly insistent.
Right on cue, as the last glasses of fizz were being poured, the Master of Ceremonies went to stand behind the head table and called out across the room: “Ladies and gentlemen, please charge your glasses for the Mother of the Bride.”
Eileen got to her feet; she had no notes, and no preamble.
“My wedding to Nora’s father was nothing like this,” she began. Cleo sought Nora’s face; her jaw was slightly tight – she’d confessed her concerns that Eileen would use her speech to start soapboxing on the fact that Nora hadn’t gotten married in a church, and it seemed she may have been right to worry. “We were young,” Eileen continued; Nora’s jaw worked itself a little tighter. “Strangers to each other, really. Strangers to ourselves. But it was exciting. Not to know what life had in store. Would we be staying on in the village, or going over to London, or Liverpool? Would there be babies? I had a lot of younger brothers and sisters, and I fancied myself for a good mother. I could picture them, even picture the grandchildren, and me and Shaun there happy and old.
“We talked about it a lot – Shaun was never too emotional now, of course, not like me. But when I told him we were expecting he couldn’t do enough for me, and when he came to see us in the hospital, I swear the man had tears in his eyes. He picked Nora up and went to hold her by the window, so he could look at her in the light. She was screaming murder, hitting his chest with her little fists – Lord, red as a tomato she was. And he was so proud. My little boxer, he called her. And they were thick as thieves from then on. She was his little shadow.
“So when he died, it was Nora I was worried for, more than the others. She was older – I knew she’d remember him more, and I didn’t know if that was more of a blessing or a curse, if I’m honest.
“And I worried it would change her. That she wouldn’t be that little fighter anymore. But she became even more so. She was so fierce and lovely as she grew, and I knew Shaun would have been even prouder of her than I was.”
Eileen had been speaking slightly fast, as if she was in a rush to get the words out before any unseemly emotion choked her voice. She paused there; the room hung with her. Nora was openly crying, dabbing underneath her lower lashes with her white linen napkin in a brave attempt to save her makeup; Harry had closed his fingers around her fist.
“He liked young Henry,” Eileen continued after a moment, even now sticking firmly with her new son-in-law’s full Christian name. “Thought he had spunk.” Cleo just about managed to swallow her inappropriate giggle re the unfortunate word choice (others around her were not so circumspect). “He would be very happy today. All the other men he probably would have chased off with a brick!” Eileen laughed. “But Henry, now: Shaun would have thrown his arm around his shoulders. He would have said, “here now, son, welcome to the family properly.” He would have known that you’d look after our girl. And that she’d look after you.
“Anyway, now, it’s not me you’re here to listen to, not really.” Bluster back in her voice, Eileen reached down for her glass. “I just wanted to make sure it was like Shaun could be saying a few words. Although, of course, it wouldn’t have been just ‘a few’, not with that man; he’d be gabbing all night!” Laughing along with her audience, Eileen raised her arm straight, her champagne high. “So, Henry, welcome properly to a family that already loves you. And Nora. If your daddy was here, he could talk non-stop for ten years and still not get across how much we love you, how proud we are of the girl you were and the woman you’ve become. And so, for the first toast, please charge your glasses. To family.”
“To family,” the tables echoed, shining flutes of champagne catching the candlelight from the centrepieces.
* * *
After Cole had delivered the final speech as the Best Man, the waiting staff circled around once more, clearing away empty flutes and pouring teas and coffees in their place. Despite the winter outside the ballroom was warm and fuggy with candle-smoke, jackets and wraps thrown over the backs of chairs, ties loosened, seats pushed back, the rigidity of the earlier table plan already forgotten.
“Great speech, mate,” Harry’s best work friend Adam called across to Cole from the next table as he returned to his seat. “Great day,” he continued. “Weddings get me all romantic!” He grinned wickedly at his girlfriend, Harriet.
“Christ, no,” Harriet groaned in response, shifting her alarmingly pregnant frame on the delicate looking dining chair while gestured at her huge bump with the folded seat card she’d been listlessly fanning herself with. “Look at where your last bout of romance got me.”
The speeches had overrun, of course, but only lightly. But still – the DJ was impatiently waiting with his decks and speakers, and the evening guests were massing and corralled in the lobby. The guests were all lethargic and disinclined to move after all the good food and long speeches, no matter how unsubtle the staff were with their hints that they needed to clear and move the tables aside for the dancing. Sarah knew as a bridesmaid she should probably be chivvying people– or at the very least leading by example – but she felt warm and happy and comfortable right where she was. She even smiled at Cole as he approached her, sitting down next to her in the chair that Eli had recently vacated.
“Was that okay?” he asked her as he sat, his face a little over-worried. He’d delivered a pitch-perfect Best Man speech from behind his usual ‘lad’ persona, but Sarah knew her husband, and he was forever worried he hadn’t done enough to meet people’s expectations. It’s what had pushed him to become so successful professionally, but Sarah knew that the thought he could let down Harry and Nora would have been eating him up over the last few days. She reached out and touched the back of his hand.
“It was great,” she assured him.
Cole quickly grabbed up her hand before she could retract it, squeezing it gratefully. Sarah remembered their wedding day again – she guessed it made sense to be haunted by it today, of all days – particularly how she and Cole had retired to their hotel room after the festivities, how Cole had stood behind her, his big hands clumsy against her back as he picked apart the laced-up eyelets of her simple gown, asking her over and over was she okay, was she happy?
“Barlow has offered me a job,” Sarah said, keeping her tone light. Surprise registered only briefly on Cole’s face, although he did send quite a hard look towards the back of his friend’s head; he’d always made comments that were only half-jokes about Barlow being in love with Sarah.
“At the pub?”
“Yes. Manager.”
“Good. You’ll be amazing,” Cole said, with easy confidence. “It’s a no-brainer, really.” His quick mind jumped ahead before she had the chance to continue. “I’ve got a few flats to view next week. Don’t worry, I won’t be in the house. It’s yours.” A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, for all he hadn’t been able to completely mask the sadness in his voice. “You can even get rid of the chair, if you want to.” He had finally let go of her hand; she could feel the reluctance as he did so in every finger.
Sarah groaned. Cole’s grim old recliner had been a constant source of squabbles in their house. He’d insisted on keeping it – for all it was ancient, with cracked, hard leather, and completely clashed with the rest of the interior design she’d slaved over. By rights she should be jumping for joy at the permission to chuck the damn thing, but Sarah realised after a moment that she was thinking of the old thing almost fondly, about how nice it would be to get home to her own space and curl up on it, tucking her feet under her bottom and draping a throw over her knees like she had on countless evenings before. After all, just because something wasn’t perfect, it didn’t mean it needed to be thrown away.
Sarah took up the hand that had just released hers.
“So,” she said, conversationally, calmly. “You said you wanted to take me on a date?”