In the marquee the celebrations have moved into another gear. The guests have drunk the champagne dry. Now they are moving on to the stronger stuff: cocktails and shots at the temporary bar. They are high on the freedom of the night.
In the toilets in the Folly, refreshing the hand towels, I find tell-tale spills of fine white powder on the floor, scattered across the slate sink surround. I’m not surprised, I’ve seen guests wiping their noses furtively as they return to the marquee. They have behaved themselves for the rest of the day, this lot. They have travelled long distances to be here. They have come bearing gifts. They have dressed themselves appropriately and sat through a ceremony and listened to the speeches and worn the proper expressions and said the right things. But they’re adults who have briefly left their responsibilities behind; they’re like children without their parents present. Now this part of the day is theirs for the taking.
Even as the bride and groom wait to begin their first dance they press forward, ready to make the dance floor their own.
An hour or so earlier, on a trip back to the Folly, I heard a strange noise, upstairs. The rest of the building was barricaded off, of course, but there are only so many measures you can take to stop drunk people going where they want. I went up to inspect, pushed open the door of the bride and groom’s bedroom and found, not the happily married couple, but another man and woman, bent low over the bed. At my intrusion they scrambled to cover themselves, she yanking down her skirts red-faced, he covering his bobbing erection with his own top hat. Only a little while later, I saw them both returning innocently to different corners of the marquee. What particularly interested me about this was that they both appeared to be wearing wedding bands. And yet – and I’ve probably memorised the table plan as well as Julia herself now – I happen to know that all husbands and wives are seated opposite each other.
They weren’t worried about me, though: not really. Their initial panic at my entrance gave way to a kind of giggly relief. They know I won’t expose their secret. Besides, I wasn’t particularly surprised. I’ve seen much of the same before. This extremity of behaviour is very much par for the course. There are always secrets around the fringes of a wedding. I hear the things said in confidence, the bitchy remarks, the gossip. I heard some of the best man’s words in the cave.
This is the thing about organising a wedding. I can put together a perfect day, as long as the guests play along, remember to stay within certain bounds. But if they don’t, the repercussions can last far longer than twenty-four hours. No one is capable of controlling that sort of fallout.
