She sucks her straw for an alarmingly long time and drains half her cocktail.
‘Slow down,’ I warn her. ‘A fuzzy head tomorrow isn’t going to help.’ She pushes her glass across the table, out of reach. ‘Why don’t you tell us the top three things that need doing,’ I ask.
She thinks for a moment. ‘Chair skirts.’
‘What the hell’s a chair skirt?’ I ask.
‘Oh, you know,’ says Pen. ‘It’s the fabric they put over the chair, so it looks nicer.’
‘And people do that at weddings?’
‘Of course,’ says Tig like I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself for not knowing. ‘Every wedding you’ve been to. It’s the reason you can’t slide your handbag under your chair.’
Now she’s said it, I realise I’ve come across dozens of chair skirts without noticing.
‘Can’t the venue supply them?’ I ask.
‘Normally, yes, but that’s the downside of the hotel we booked. The reason they had availability at short notice is because they’ve just refurbed after a fire and they’re not fully up and running yet. They’re throwing in freebies to make up for it – they’re comping us rooms, for example, so if you guys want to stay over you can. The problem is, they haven’t got a full kitchen staff.’ She suddenly stops. ‘Shit. That should be the priority. We can’t just feed everyone M&S sandwiches, and if Theo suggests it one more time, I’ll knock his block off.’
‘I agree food should be the priority,’ I say. ‘Way more than chair coverings. I’ve been to some lovely rustic weddings where they’ve served finger food, so maybe Theo’s on to …’
The look on her face stops me. I know Tig better than this. Rustic finger food would never feature in her dream wedding.
‘They’ve got a proper working kitchen, you said?’ She nods. ‘If only we knew someone who’s spent the last fifteen years in catering, was about to open his own restaurant,andwho happens to be a brilliant chef.’
‘I can’t ask Yan to cook at my wedding.’
‘I don’t mean Yan. We ask him to find us an outside caterer. He’s bound to know someone who’d do him a favour at short notice.’
‘I didn’t think of that.’ A smile spreads across her face. ‘Oh God, Nelly, you’re a flipping genius.’ She lands a sloppy kiss on my cheek.
I smile. ‘What are the other priorities? Invitations?’
‘That’s all being done by email or phone. Mum suggests we print off a few simple cards to give addresses and maps, but we can do that ourselves.’
‘I can design something for you on Canva if you like,’ says Pen. ‘I love playing around with it.’
‘Only if you can spare the time,’ says Tig. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate.’
‘It will be fun.’
‘Flowers?’ I ask.
‘Got the florist already.’
‘Church all sorted? You’ve done the banns?’
‘Yes and yes. I need to drop off copies of our birth certificates and a declaration that we’re not already married, but I’m on top of that.’
‘You said your dress is sorted – I’m assuming Theo is renting – and you’re okay with me and Pen wearing smart cocktail dresses. Non-identical?’
‘Oh God, yes. I’ve never understood the idea of grown women wearing matching bridesmaids’ outfits. Matching outfits are for toddlers.’
‘Hen and stag parties?’ asks Pen.
‘Theo and I were thinking a few of us could go to Cyprus so the relatives over there feel included. His gran’s in a wheelchair, and he feels terrible that she’s never met me. Would you guys be up for coming?’
‘When are you thinking of going? There’s not much time.’
