Three Weddings

A California Wedding

It was the talk of the season. The little chapel in the orange grove was crowded, the fortunate guests agog. Finally, Lulu and Butch were to be married.

Across the valley, through the smog, fragments of the iconic sign swam in and out of view like pale ghosts. H-LLY---D. In a corner, a blonde B-lister pouted as a hundred Canon Sure-Shots snapped her way.

Butch looked just darling in his tux, with the dicky bow snuggled into the dark, curling hairs on his chest. Lulu was frou-frou – all pink and white tulle with diamanté and spangles.

Mother of the groom was fussing and fretting, petting and smoothing. Mother of the bride was all a-flutter, fixing, primping, adjusting a bow here, a jewel there.

Suddenly the bride lost it. She was hot and uncomfortable and Momma had been squawking and pawing at her all day. Enough was enough. Teeth bared, she flew at her groom’s throat, coming away with a mouthful of dicky bow and black curly hair.

She was, after all, only a very young poodle.

A Society Wedding

It was chilly in the Orangery. Close friends of the Earl and Countess had come prepared: floaty pastel chiffon nestled snugly into mink and sable, the fine cashmere morning suits shrugged off the unkindness of an English July.

Un-forewarned, the bride’s party shivered in their finery, bare toes turning blue in strappy sandals, teeth chattering beneath cartwheel hats.

It was the most fashionable wedding of the season.

“What a good wheeze,” gloated the bride’s father to himself, surveying the pasty young man whose chin disappeared apologetically into the frayed collar of his Turnbull and Asser shirt. “All that blue blood dating back to William the Conqueror and not a bean to their name. Marrying into money? That’s what they think! Little do they know the receivers are moving in tomorrow. Won’t they be surprised when they find out!”

“What a good wheeze,” chortled the groom’s father to himself, surveying the lumpen bride and her equally lumpen entourage. “They think they are getting the eldest son – and the title. Won’t they be surprised when they find out!”

A Country Wedding

It was not, let us admit it, the most conventional of weddings. There was more bling and glitter, more tiaras and feather boas than you might have expected. The venue had been chosen with a large amount of tongue in cheek, and the green champagne matched the boutonnières adorning every lapel. Strains of ‘I will Survive’ floated out through the windows of the boutique country pub.

The young couple floated round in a haze of happiness, hands firmly clasped. They greeted their friends with squeaks of excitement and loud air kisses.

The music changed. Judy replaced Gloria as ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ announced the arrival of the Registrar. Her severely cut suit and absence of jewellery contrasted bizarrely with the tulle and diamanté and pastel colours of the guests.

In the pretty walled courtyard of The Queen’s Arms she began to speak the vows the couple had written themselves. “Do you take this man to be your forever partner?” she intoned basso profundo. “Will you share everything with him and hold back nothing? Do you promise to love and cherish him, to support him in sickness and rejoice with him in health? Do you swear to be faithful to him forever, as you hope and expect he will be faithful to you?”

The happy couple gazed at each other with shining eyes. “I do,” they answered as one. 

Patricia Feinberg Stoner

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