‘You only dropped him off a couple of hours ago! I’m sure she would text you if he wasn’t. Besides, the signal is non-existent down here. You’d have more luck just yelling.’
She makes a face and puts her phone back in her bag, before clutching it anxiously.
‘He’ll be fine,’ I say supportively. ‘He’s done sleepovers before.’
This is the one part of parenting that makes me nervous about having kids. Worrying about someone else twenty-four seven must be exhausting.
We arrive at Bond Street and make the short walk to Claridge’s, where Sarah finally caves and sends a short message to Brandon’s mum before we go inside. Thankfully she responds almost immediately, reassuring Sarah that Alfie’s playing in the garden with Brandon and can be heard giggling as she types. Sarah returns her phone to her bag looking marginally less worried.
‘Sorry, I just—’
‘No need,’ I interject. ‘You ready?’
With one final dress adjustment, the doorman ushers us in and Sarah follows behind.
Knowing Greta’s intolerance for organised religion, I wasn’t in the least bit surprised that she chose not to have a church ceremony – however, this was far grander than the basic, yet tastefully unfussy, civil ceremony I had pictured in my mind. Maybe because the last wedding I had attended was Harriet and Noel’s registry-office and pub-crawl extravaganza, where everyone put in a kitty and we all ended up eating fish and chips in the middle of Camden at three in the morning. I’m grateful it isn’t a church, however. I haven’t stepped in one since Mum’s funeral and I have no great longing to do so anytime soon.
Sarah and I are led into a pink and white, champagne-filled reception area, complete with dignified pianist and at least one hundred close friends and family. White roses seem to be the flower du jour, arranged in glass vases all over the room, and I’m handed one for my lapel, as I appear to be the only boutonnière-lacking male at the party.
‘Christ, this is like another world,’ Sarah says quietly as she straightens my flower. ‘That woman’s shoes cost twice my monthly salary.’
I follow her eyes towards the feet of a woman wearing blingy-looking sandals with a white feather hanging off the front. Sarah is wearing red shoes with a thin purple heel.
‘Yours are nicer,’ I reply. ‘I mean. . . what’s with the feather? It looks like she kicked a bird on her way in.’
Sarah laughs and looks away.
‘Anyway, her toes look weird,’ I continue. ‘Are they meant to cross over like that?’
‘The price women pay for fashion,’ she says, sipping her champagne. ‘I have hobbit feet hidden inside these bad boys; I can’t judge anyone.’
A server in a crisp white shirt offers us smoked salmon canapés which I gratefully devour, having missed breakfast in favour of getting an extra hour in bed. With Matt in Washington, I’ve enjoyed having the flat to myself, but I usually rely on him to feed me. Remembering that dinner isn’t until five, I chase the server down and grab some more.
‘You scrub up very well,’ Sarah informs me. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you in evening wear before.’
I smile. ‘Ah yes, you’ve only seen me in casual attire. This must be quite the treat for you. Like hanging out with a real-life Littlewoods catalogue.’
She laughs heartily. ‘You forgot the festive, jolly-old-man-wear, but I can’t really talk. I feel like I’ve come in fancy dress.’
The more I look around the room, the more I’m certain that Sarah choseexactlythe right dress to wear today. As gorgeous as the women here are, they all look the same – like they’re all painted by the same numbers in marginally different shades. Sarah looks exactly like she is – beautiful, colourful and completely original.
‘Shall we take a selfie for Matt?’ she suggests. ‘I feel bad that he’s missing this!’
‘Sure,’ I reply. I feel bad that he’s barely crossed my mind at all – but of course, he’s still clearly on Sarah’s. I take out my phone and wecheese, before WhatsApping the photo to his phone, which is currently somewhere over the Atlantic.
‘So, if this is the preshow party, where are they having the main event?’ Sarah asks. We don’t have to wait long to find out. The doors on the left-hand side swing open to reveal another larger room and we’re cordially invited to take our seats for the ceremony. It’s so bloody classy, I can’t help but be impressed.
‘Wow,’ Sarah exclaims, admiring the pristine white and gold décor. ‘This is beautiful.’
God, she’s adorable. She’s literally enchanted by everything she sees here and it’s completely genuine.
We’re directed towards the bride’s side of the room, where I spot Greta’s mum and older sister Imogen, sporting giant hats, along with the groom who’s looking surprisingly relaxed for a man about to marry Greta. She’s at least worth a light sweat. I wave politely at them all as Sarah and I take our seats.
I recognise a few faces from their engagement party, but it seems to be mainly family and friends from outside our little uni circle. Harriet must be so pissed off she’s missing this. She lives for a good knees-up. I surreptitiously send her a copy of our photo and send my love before turning off my phone.
Before long, a hush comes over the room and two violinists, along with the pianist, begin to play the wedding march. As the doors open, I see two little dark-haired flower girls, dressed in yellow, commence the procession, followed by Greta with her dad. I instantly get goosebumps all over. She looks exactly like I thought she would: tight-fitting white lace gown, her hair delicately curled, and a glow that radiates beyond the walls of this magnificent function room. I beam with pride as she walks slowly past, smiling unabashedly, until a hand clasping mine grabs my attention.
A single tear rolls down Sarah’s cheek as she squeezes my hand and then lets it go. My momentary confusion soon subsides when it dawns on me that she’s thinking of her wedding, and her late husband. Shit. I never even considered this might be tough for her.
