Tales From a Hen Weekend

‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe you’re finally getting married,’ says Mum through a mouthful of pins.

‘Watch you don’t swallow one of those. And anyway – thanks a bundle! What do you mean – finally? Anyone would think I was a seventy-year-old confirmed spinster!’

I’m only thirty-one, for God’s sake. Katie’s my name – Katie Halliday – and I’m getting married in a couple of months to Matt Davenport. My mum, Margie, is in a terrible state already, fussing about dresses and flowers and menus. I’m beginning to think I’ll be glad when it’s all over.

‘We didn’t want all this fuss,’ I say, wearily, for the thousandth time; not that anyone’s listening. ‘We wanted a quiet wedding. Simple. Just close family and friends.’

‘I know, I know, but you’ve got to have a
wedding dress
, dear, whatever you say.’

I’m wearing the wedding dress right now. I’m standing on a stool in the middle of my sister’s living room, with the unfinished hem trailing over the carpet and the three of them, my mum, my sister Lisa and my auntie Joyce, walking around me as if I was an exhibit in a museum, shaking their heads, tugging at seams here and darts there, sticking pins in random places and sighing about my waistline.

‘If you could
just
lose a couple more pounds before the day,’ says Lisa with a sigh, ‘it would hang so much better over your hips.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but this is me. What you see is what you get. If you can’t make a dress that fits me as I am, Lise, then don’t bother about it – I’ll get married in my jeans and…’

‘Hey, hey, come on, calm down! No need for that,’ Mum reprimands me. Honestly, standing here on this stool with my arms up, being prodded and poked and measured, I feel like I’m about six years old again, being kitted out for the new school year. ‘Lisa’s being very good to you, making you this lovely dress – you’re lucky you’ve got such a clever sister!’

Tell me about it. Lisa’s only two years older than me but there’s such a huge gulf between her life and mine, she might as well be from a different generation and a different family. She’s been married to Richard for six years, they have a perfect marriage and two perfect children, Molly and Charlie; she cooks like Jamie Oliver
every day
, works out at the gym twice a week while the kids are at their Yoga for Tots class, and is a professional wedding dress designer. Hence the dress. I suppose it was a bit unrealistic of me to expect to be allowed to get married in my jeans.

‘I know. I’m sorry. But I can’t think about dieting right now. I’ve got enough to worry about. Just make it hang however it wants – OK, Lise?’

Lisa sighs again and shakes her head as if she’s a doctor with an unco-operative patient.

‘I won’t sue you if I look rough in the wedding photos,’ I say, in an attempt at a joke.

She looks aghast.

‘You’re
not
going to look rough! You’re going to look
beautiful
!’

Blimey. Didn’t think we could stretch to plastic surgery.

‘At least you haven’t got to fork out for a proper wedding dress,’ says Matt at home later.

OK, I might have joked about wearing my jeans, but I’m not thrilled by his choice of words.
Proper
?!

‘Lisa designs wedding dresses for a
living
! I couldn’t get much more
proper
…’

‘You know what I mean. Steve at work – his girlfriend wouldn’t settle for anything less than this bloody great frothy meringue thing from some posh shop in the West End, cost a fortune.’

‘
Most
girls spend a fortune on their wedding dress – or hire one. I’m just lucky that Lisa’s my sister,’ I point out, realising I’m sounding exactly like my mum.

‘Yeah, well: we haven’t
got
a fortune to spend, have we, babe. So I guess I’m lucky I’m marrying someone who doesn’t care about all that stuff!’

‘Just don’t you forget it,’ I tell him lightly, trying to sound like someone who
doesn’t care about
all that stuff
. To be honest – and I know I’m being contrary here – it rankles slightly to be cast in the role of some kind of latter-day Cinderella who’s happy to go to the ball in her rags.

‘No! Matt, give me that… I can’t
believe
you’ve eaten the whole packet! You pig!’

Look at him. The bastard, he’s holding the packet above his head, laughing at me jumping up and down trying to reach it.

‘Go, girl! That’s it! Work up a sweat! Work off those pounds!’

‘
Not
funny. So
you
think I need to lose weight too?’

He sighs and drops the biscuit packet into my hand. It’s not the last one – there are three left.

‘It was a joke, Kate.’

But I don’t want the frigging biscuits any more. I put them down on the worktop, crossly, and start rummaging in the fridge for something to cook for dinner.

‘A
joke
, Kate, for fuck’s sake!’

‘All right, all right! Enough! Chicken or fish?’

‘Whatever. Pasta or rice?’ He gets a saucepan out of the cupboard and fills it with water.

‘Whatever.’

And we’re preparing the dinner in silence. Very mature! Does planning a wedding do this to everybody?

‘I’m sure it’s normal,’ says Emily in the pub later. ‘I’m sure Sean and I would be the same. It’s just the tension, with all the preparations and everyone getting on your case, telling you what you should be doing, what you should wear, who you should invite…’

She’s right, of course. Everyone says how stressful it is, don’t they. You only have to read the problem pages of
Wedding
magazine to see how true that is. Brides have nervous breakdowns. Mums and daughters fall out over the guest list. Whole families split up and never speak to each other again. Marriages break up before they’ve even happened. Why do we bother?

‘Why are we bothering, Em? We’ve been perfectly happy living together.’

‘Don’t be silly. You
are
perfectly happy. You and Matt are fantastic together. You can laugh off a bit of stressy bickering. It’s going to be a lovely wedding. You’ll both have a great day.’

‘So why aren’t
you
bothering? Eh? If it’s such a great idea what’s stopping you and Sean doing it?’

They’ve been together nearly as long as Matt and me. Emily and I were at university together so we’ve known each other nearly half our lives, and we see each other at least once a week. If I didn’t have Em to talk to, I’d explode – all the worries and mess inside my head wouldn’t have anywhere to go. You can’t talk to men about half the stuff that goes on in your head, can you – it would scare the shit out of them.

‘Maybe we will, one day,’ she says casually. ‘Maybe. We’ll see how you two get on, first!’

‘You can have my dress when I’ve finished with it. It’ll hang better on you,’ I say, gloomily.

‘I bet it looks gorgeous. Come on, finish your drink. The boys are getting another round in.’

The boys are laughing together at the bar, punching each other the way men do when they’re being friendly. It’s hard to imagine what they laugh about together when we’re not listening. Em thinks it’s something sexual and disgusting, but my money’s on football. Some obscure joke about a rubbish goal, or a bit of teasing about the rubbish team one or the other of them supports. Matt’s an Arsenal supporter and Sean’s West Ham. To hear them insulting each other at times, it’s hard to believe they’re actually good mates.

‘Yeah, right – and what about that goal kick in the second half?’ Sean plonks my glass down on the table in front of me without noticing it slopping over the side. ‘The referee was a
total
fucking idiot. That decision was fucking criminal!’

‘Bollocks!’ says Matt. See? I was right. Bloody football. Anyone would think it was important. ‘Face it, we were the better team. We played a fantastic game.’
We
? Since when did Matt play for the Arsenal?

‘I didn’t realise you were playing,’ I say without looking up.

‘What?’

They’re both staring at me as if I’ve spoken in tongues. Emily giggles.

‘Lighten up, you two,’ she says. ‘Can’t you talk about anything other than football?’

Look at their faces! They’re completely stumped now. They blink at each other over the tops of their beer glasses.
Other than football
? Jesus! What else is there?

‘Um… so how’s work then, Matt?’ says Sean.

Em raises her eyebrows at me.

‘Let them get on with it. Bless them, they’ve got simple needs. Work, sport, beer, sex.’

‘And who cares about work, sport or beer?’ I laugh.

Emily’s right. I know that really. Matt and I are great together. We like the same things (apart from football): Italian food, forests, mountains, rock music, cheese and pickle sandwiches, cats, autumn, hot chocolate. We like the same sexual positions. Well, sorry, I know that’s too much information, but it’s important in a relationship. I’ve heard of couples breaking up because one loves doing it standing up and the other one would rather never have sex at all if it means getting out of bed for it. We’re compatible. We pass all those psychological tests with flying colours – you know, the ones in women’s magazines that give you situations and ask you to tick
Sometimes, Never, Always
or
Don’t know,
and then you add up your scores and they tell you whether you should stay together forever or call it a day immediately. We always do brilliantly on those, and I try not to cheat. We know each other really well. We share everything; we’re not like those couples that have separate bank accounts and charge each other interest if they borrow money from each other. We’ve been together for nearly four years, lived together for three and a half, and we do everything together. Tell me one good reason why we shouldn’t get married?

Exactly. There isn’t one, is there?

So just remind me, if I keep panicking about these little bickering sessions we’ve started having: it’s just the stress of all this build-up to the wedding, that’s all.

I did try to keep it simple. I was only having two bridesmaids. Well – one bridesmaid, and one matron-of-honour, if you want to use the proper old-fashioned correct terms – Emily, and my sister. It was stressful enough getting my own dress made, without all that old malarkey about bridesmaids, until I remembered The Pledge.

The Pledge took place in the summer of 1989, on the back seat of the bus home from St Peter’s Comprehensive School in Romford. Jude and I were fifteen at the time, and we’d been best friends since we started infants’ school ten years earlier. We went everywhere together; people called us the Terrible Twins, but actually we were like negative images of each other. She was blonde, I was dark; she was tiny, I was big; she was quiet, I was noisy; she was sweet natured, I was your typical stroppy teenager. I should perhaps warn you at this point that neither of us has changed one bit since we’ve grown up.

Jude’s family were about to move to Ireland, and we were considering a suicide pact. We’d been considering it ever since Jude broke the news about her dad’s new job in Cork, but we couldn’t agree on the means to our ends. Jude wanted to get the train to Southend, go to the end of the pier and jump off, holding hands – but I was terrified of water so I didn’t fancy it. I was all for putting our heads in the oven, but Jude’s house was all-electric and I wasn’t sure my mum’s oven was big enough for both our heads at the same time. We spent so much time debating the methods, we never actually got around to it, and here we were on our last day together. Jude was off to Ireland the next morning, and we were both still alive. Tragic!