Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson
shuffles her chair closer. ‘Ooh! I’m all ears, darling.’
So I tell her about my close and rather bruising encounter with Runner Man. She listens with avid interest. Any mention of a man – even those who are ancient or infirm or living several continents away – and Mallory is alert to the cheering possibility that I might start having sex soon. (She has a very practical, down-to-earth view of sex, believing that for a balanced mind, it’s almost a medical necessity. I don’t think she quite understands that I don’t even think about stuff like that unless there’s someone fanciable right there in front of me.)
‘And I’ve just remembered,’ I say forlornly, as my humiliating tale draws to an end. ‘I made him limp. I actually made him limp.’
I’ve been trying hard not to think about my encounter with Runner Man – without much success, it has to be said. It was all so embarrassing. Clambering over the fence, getting my private parts wedged, talking a load of drivel then heading off to post a pile of shite. I mean, it doesn’t get any worse in the humiliation stakes.
I failed to make the post office before it closed. Obviously. And in order not to disappoint my bride, I had to shell out a small fortune – and go even deeper in debt – to have the album couriered all the way to Essex.
My stupidity is gnawing away at me.
‘Oh, never mind, darling. It could have been worse,’ muses Mallory.
I stare at her questioningly and she gives a light shrug. ‘You might have damaged a lot more than his foot, if you know what I mean. I’d be thankful for small mercies if I were you.’
I bark out a laugh. ‘Well, that might possibly be relevant if I actually had designs on the man. But obviously, I don’t.’ My cheeks catch fire as I’m saying this. Probably because of Mallory’s piercing look.
‘Really? Why on earth not?’ she asks. ‘He sounds simply scrummy to me. And it’s been an awfully long time since you – ahem – hoisted the flagpole, darling, correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘Well, that’s as may be, but I’m not like you, remember? I can’t just shag a man for practical purposes then forget all about him.’
‘I resent that,’ says Mallory indignantly. But the laughter in her pale grey eyes tells a different story.
A voice calls from upstairs. ‘Where’s my darling birthday girl?’
‘In the kitchen, Rupie.’
A minute later, the door bursts open and ‘Rupie’ makes his entrance.
It’s a fairly impressive sight.
Rupert has the look of an Italian stallion – all sleek black hair, Greek-god body and permatan – although he hails from a small village in Sussex.
He stops in the doorway, smiling broadly and holding out his arms. ‘Katy! Baby! Great to see you.’
I get up for a hug. He smells of ozone, like a day at the seaside.
Rupert’s always like this – rather theatrical, fond of extravagant gestures, right at home as the life and soul of every party. But none of it is forced, for effect. It’s just the way he is, and everyone warms to him. His pleasure at seeing me is, I know, absolutely genuine.
‘The shirt looks good,’ says Mallory, giving him a thumbs up.
I nod, enthusiastically, and he looks pleased. The shirt’s pretty colourful, patterned all over with exotic birds. It suits him perfectly.
He comes into the room and spins round so we can admire the full effect. Then he gyrates his way over to the coffee pot, singing, ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts.’ His tight butt in the pale, paint-spattered jeans moves perfectly in sync.
Rupert is an artist. He paints watercolours of hills that all look the same to me, although I’m probably doing him a grave injustice. My art appreciation skills are dubious, to say the least. For instance, I’ve always thought the Mona Lisa was a little bit boring. She’s famous for looking mysterious and ‘enigmatic’. But frankly, the only mystery to me is why on earth she didn’t get some body into that lank hair before she sat for the great Leonardo. (I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?)
Anyway, enough said. I wouldn’t know a masterpiece if it fell from outer space and landed on my head. For all I know, Rupert’s paintings could be truly magnificent.
His artistic nature has certainly come to the fore with the wedding plans. He’s created this beautiful ‘mood board’ of colours and fabrics. I’ve never known a groom be so interested in the finer details and Mallory couldn’t be happier – practically all that’s left for her to do is choose the dress.
I can’t believe I’ll be photographing their wedding in December. It’s all happened so fast.
It was his mum, Serafina, who first introduced Mallory to Rupert.
Mallory and Serafina met several years ago, just after Mallory had set up Vintage Va-Va-Voom. There had been a mix-up with an order and as the customer lived locally, Mallory had offered to jump in her car and deliver the dress in person. Apart from anything else, she was curious to meet the person who’d fallen in love with the lilac jacquard silk fitted evening gown, elegant enough to grace the red carpet at an Oscars ceremony.
It turned out to be Serafina Lorenzo, whose striking dark looks and willowy frame complemented the dress perfectly. By the time she’d offered Mallory a martini and tried on the gown – declaring it perfect for her charity midsummer ball – the two had bonded over the wonders of Chanel and YSL, and were on their way to being firm friends. Their families moved in the same circles, so they even had acquaintances in common. (Although while the Lorenzos holidayed on their private island in the Caribbean, the financially stretched Swanns could barely afford a week in Bournemouth.)
It was almost a year later – last summer, in fact – that Mallory finally met Rupert. She’d known of Rupert, of course, through Serafina. His mother always spoke so proudly of her artist son, who she’d given birth to at the relatively young age of nineteen, after conceiving on honeymoon. She and Rupert’s father enjoyed a strong marriage and always planned to have a large family. But after their daughter, Arabella, was born, there were no more children. So Rupert was their only son. (And spoilt rotten, according to Mallory.)
Rupert, who’s seven years younger than Mallory, was entranced by her style and her laid-back attitude to life, and they quickly became a couple, much to the delighted approval of his mum and sister.
In a relatively short space of time, Mallory has almost become one of the family. She meets Serafina and Arabella for coffee, and they’ve treated her to a few totally indulgent spa weekends, from which Mallory always returns happy and glowing. I’m really pleased for her. I can’t help thinking the lustre to her complexion is less to do with creams and potions, and far more a result of feeling she belongs.
After a lifetime of playing second fiddle to her own parents’ wanderlust, I can totally understand this. I just sometimes wonder if maybe the lure of being part of a ‘proper family’ isn’t colouring her judgement slightly. But she’s clearly very happy with her new fiancé, so I should probably stop worrying …
Rupert gives Mallory a lingering kiss, while I try not to look, and he teasingly refuses to tell her where he’s taking her for her birthday dinner.
They’re so sweet together, I’d probably throw up if she wasn’t my best friend.
‘Right. Toodle-oo, ladies!’ Rupert blows kisses at both of us and disappears off to check out some art studio in a local crafts complex he’s thinking of renting. And Mallory and I kick off our shoes and settle in for a gossip.
It’s getting dark by the time I leave.
On the drive home, I reflect on how amazing it is that Mallory and I met only a little over eighteen months ago. I honestly feel like I’ve known her for years.