through with it.
I’m not saying he wasn’t nervous. He clearly was. But aren’t pre-wedding nerves as normal a part of it as ructions over the guest list and the bridesmaids being guaranteed a snog?
Perhaps the fact that he hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe should have told me there was more turmoil in his head than in a Middle Eastern war zone. But it didn’t.
The wedding was booked for two o’clock at St Michael’s, Woolton, the church where, as a child, I’d spent many a Sunday morning, tucked away with the other kids attempting to re-create the nativity scene with bits of newspaper and a Fairy Liquid bottle.
The really strange thing is that the first half of that day was one of the most enjoyable times of my life. If what happened later hadn’t happened, I would still be reminiscing about it.
I woke at four thirty, after a fitful night in my mum’s spare room – so small and stuffy it was like trying to sleep in the airing cupboard. Dropping off again proved impossible so I resorted to skimming through the only book I could see – a dog-eared children’s Bible that had been printed in the early seventies, judging by how strongly Jesus resembled David Cassidy.
Later, my hairdresser told me that all the brides she ‘did’ had a terrible night before their big day, and advised, if I was ever in that situation again, to try a Temazepam (which apparently works a treat, although it can have unwanted side-effects the next day if you go at the champagne too early).
It was at the hairdresser’s that we really got into the swing of things. Jessica, my matron of honour, my bridesmaids, Heather (old friend from school) and Win (my cousin), and I were curled and sprayed so much our hair follicles must have been close to meltdown.
When we got back to Mum’s, we were ushered to the kitchen table and Dad brought out massive plates of breakfast – scrambled eggs piled high with smoked salmon. That moment, when we were sitting around the table, merry with Buck’s fizz and happiness, was one of the most perfect of my life.
Desy had just done my mum’s makeup. After an intensive three-week training programme from his sister Caroline – who works on the Clinique counter at Boots – he was an expert at applying light-reflecting foundation and high-definition mascara. She joined us still wearing her Juicy Couture dressing-gown and a head full of pink Velcro rollers that looked like the insulated pipes in an alien spacecraft. My dad was already in his tails, which he’d put on at about six fifteen that morning.
Then there was me: excited, elated, nervous – and with not a shred of doubt that I was doing the right thing. Jason was the man I loved, with whom I’d effortlessly spent the last seven years and would happily spend ten times that.
That was the thought going through my mind as the car pulled up outside St Michael’s on one of the hottest April days ever recorded. Dad squeezed my hand and tried to hide a tear as I stepped out of the car, careful not to let the hem of my dress touch the dusty ground. The sun warmed my shoulders as I gazed into the cloudless, cornflower-blue sky and smiled.
‘Right, Zoe, let’s have one of you and your dad,’ called the photographer, as he attempted to prop up Dad’s already wilting buttonhole.
But as we laughed and posed, I couldn’t help noticing that something didn’t look right. Andrew, one of Jason’s ushers, was pacing up and down next to the church door, his phone glued to his ear, his face white.
When he turned to us, I frowned.
His eyes widened and he glanced around as if he was searching for somewhere to run.
‘You okay?’ I mouthed.
He hesitated before he headed towards us. ‘Can you . . . just give us a minute?’ he asked the photographer.
The photographer recognized the look in his eyes and backed away.
‘Listen, Zoe,’ Andrew began, his neck red with nerves. ‘There’s been a bit of a – a hiccup.’
‘A hiccup?’ I asked
I’m not saying he wasn’t nervous. He clearly was. But aren’t pre-wedding nerves as normal a part of it as ructions over the guest list and the bridesmaids being guaranteed a snog?
Perhaps the fact that he hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe should have told me there was more turmoil in his head than in a Middle Eastern war zone. But it didn’t.
The wedding was booked for two o’clock at St Michael’s, Woolton, the church where, as a child, I’d spent many a Sunday morning, tucked away with the other kids attempting to re-create the nativity scene with bits of newspaper and a Fairy Liquid bottle.
The really strange thing is that the first half of that day was one of the most enjoyable times of my life. If what happened later hadn’t happened, I would still be reminiscing about it.
I woke at four thirty, after a fitful night in my mum’s spare room – so small and stuffy it was like trying to sleep in the airing cupboard. Dropping off again proved impossible so I resorted to skimming through the only book I could see – a dog-eared children’s Bible that had been printed in the early seventies, judging by how strongly Jesus resembled David Cassidy.
Later, my hairdresser told me that all the brides she ‘did’ had a terrible night before their big day, and advised, if I was ever in that situation again, to try a Temazepam (which apparently works a treat, although it can have unwanted side-effects the next day if you go at the champagne too early).
It was at the hairdresser’s that we really got into the swing of things. Jessica, my matron of honour, my bridesmaids, Heather (old friend from school) and Win (my cousin), and I were curled and sprayed so much our hair follicles must have been close to meltdown.
When we got back to Mum’s, we were ushered to the kitchen table and Dad brought out massive plates of breakfast – scrambled eggs piled high with smoked salmon. That moment, when we were sitting around the table, merry with Buck’s fizz and happiness, was one of the most perfect of my life.
Desy had just done my mum’s makeup. After an intensive three-week training programme from his sister Caroline – who works on the Clinique counter at Boots – he was an expert at applying light-reflecting foundation and high-definition mascara. She joined us still wearing her Juicy Couture dressing-gown and a head full of pink Velcro rollers that looked like the insulated pipes in an alien spacecraft. My dad was already in his tails, which he’d put on at about six fifteen that morning.
Then there was me: excited, elated, nervous – and with not a shred of doubt that I was doing the right thing. Jason was the man I loved, with whom I’d effortlessly spent the last seven years and would happily spend ten times that.
That was the thought going through my mind as the car pulled up outside St Michael’s on one of the hottest April days ever recorded. Dad squeezed my hand and tried to hide a tear as I stepped out of the car, careful not to let the hem of my dress touch the dusty ground. The sun warmed my shoulders as I gazed into the cloudless, cornflower-blue sky and smiled.
‘Right, Zoe, let’s have one of you and your dad,’ called the photographer, as he attempted to prop up Dad’s already wilting buttonhole.
But as we laughed and posed, I couldn’t help noticing that something didn’t look right. Andrew, one of Jason’s ushers, was pacing up and down next to the church door, his phone glued to his ear, his face white.
When he turned to us, I frowned.
His eyes widened and he glanced around as if he was searching for somewhere to run.
‘You okay?’ I mouthed.
He hesitated before he headed towards us. ‘Can you . . . just give us a minute?’ he asked the photographer.
The photographer recognized the look in his eyes and backed away.
‘Listen, Zoe,’ Andrew began, his neck red with nerves. ‘There’s been a bit of a – a hiccup.’
‘A hiccup?’ I asked
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