One fine day, my distant aunt gave me a ring and insisted I attend her daughters wedding my very distant cousin, whom I last saw when she was six. At her age of six, that is.
Im not terribly burdened with family affections, but my attempt to wriggle out of it ended in disaster.
At least once in twenty years you can make the effort. Just try not to turn up! my aunt thundered.
The invitation soon followed, festooned with doves and roses from Sophie and Anthony, and a helpful reminder popped up a couple of days prior so off I had to go.
Well, so much for my Saturday but what could I do?
So, with a bouquet in one hand, a foul mood in the other, and every intention to slip away after an hour of polite suffering, I arrived at the restaurant, headed for the reception room, and was promptly plunked down among the grooms merry band of mates. They’d already downed a few gin and tonics and started gushing over how the brides aunt looked nothing like an aunt should, and why not get to know each other better and have a jolly good knees-up. Which, of course, we did.
I didnt recognise the bride, naturally all those years, and shed morphed from a swarthy little mouse into a lavish blonde with a chest you could use as a drinks tray. Frankly, I preferred her as a mouse.
The mood was, to be honest, a bit grim: a sea of scowling aunts and uncles, a groom with the hunted eyes of a man contemplating escape, and a bride busy admiring her impossible beauty and cleavage. If it werent for our rapidly cheerier table, you couldve mistaken it for a wake. The aunts shot me death glares across the tablecloth.
I missed the first round of toasts, but I was bang on time for the second. My turn, apparently. The MC, after extracting my identity, cheerily announced:
And next, a few words from the young and lovely aunt of the bride!
So I stood and began with feeling:
Dearest Sophie and Anthony!
The room, which hadnt been exactly raucous, lapsed into deathly silence. And just then, it dawned on me where on earth was my aunt? And surely she couldnt have changed so much I wouldnt recognise her.
The brides name is Lucy, hissed the aunt in pink across the table. And the grooms Oliver.
Lucy? Oliver? I spluttered.
Some people show up at any old shindig to eat and drink at someone elses expense, the pink aunt muttered darkly. One of those even turned up at our sons going-away do. Could barely chuck them out. Shameless, honestly.
At this point, the mood in the room shifted from wake to lynch mob. Guests started inching forwards, giving me the sort of look normally reserved for damp foxes at a hunt. Sleeves werent quite rolled up yet, but it was only a matter of time.
But look, I have the invitation! I cried (yes, actually cried), brandishing the offending article. It says right here: Sophie and Anthony, such-and-such restaurant, reception room.
Salvation swooped in, wearing a waiters waistcoat.
Excuse me, miss, he offered, we do have another reception room, upstairs. Might you be looking for that one?
Oh, of course, shes after a free dinner, the pink aunt announced. Pop into one, then back up for seconds. What a nerve! Who raised her?
Sometimes, Irene, its good to be cheeky, chimed in the aunt in lime green, who clearly had made this her lifes motto.
Id like to note I do not look like some shady character or minor con artist. Although, to be fair, its hard to judge from the outside. The grooms mates gallantly took up my case, for which they received a sharp rebuke from the aunt in lilac:
Well, well, shes already turning the mens heads!
The pink aunt sniffed, Thats how our finance directors husband got stolen. Turn your back and shes off with your slippers. Tarts, the lot of them.
Never mind that I never pinched anyones husband I suddenly felt like a villainess in a soap opera. I even found myself eyeing up the men in the room might as well go down in style if Im going to be accused anyway.
Thank heavens, the kind waiter nipped upstairs, fetched my real aunt, who quickly took in the situation and swore up and down that yes, she did in fact know me. As she did so, she winked at everyone in sight, with the sort of confident assurance of someone whos known Im dodgy from childhood.
Long story short, I was shepherded into the other reception room, where the real Sophie just as olive-skinned as ever and some Anthony whose face escapes me, greeted me. I was plied with endless rounds of gin and other reviving drinks for the rest of the night.
Silver lining I hadnt handed over the wedding gift yet.
But it was the grooms mates from the first wedding who saw me out that evening, all the same.
