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I must say, this second wedding is much more laid back than the last. Not least because we’ve had a year of getting to know each other, so it doesn’t feel like I’m stepping into the unknown. With this registry being a much smaller event, I’m not going batshit bridezilla crazy, having to juggle multiple logistics and manage meddling family members.
I get my makeup done in the spare bedroom of my in-laws’ house (which has become our room when we’re in town). I say it’s a spare bedroom but it used to be M’s little brother’s room, until he got sick of being carted out whenever his big brother and family, or M and I, stayed over. He recently insisted on a loft conversion.
It’s a funny thing. Despite the rather considerable inconvenience caused by us staying over (M’s poor little brother would have to bed down on the front room sofa downstairs pre-conversion, while M’s sister camps with her niece and nephew when it’s a full house) my mother-in-law wouldn’t have it any other way. She wouldn’t dream of us staying anywhere else when up north, and brushed off M’s suggestion of booking a hotel during our last visit, which coincided with not only M’s older brother and family, but a distant auntie, too. Just like my mum, she’d rather we played human Tetris and all stay under one roof. It must be a Bengali matriarch thing.
Another Bengali commonality seems to be the sense of displacement. Despite this being M’s little brother’s old room, it is devoid of much personalisation. The only hint is the computer games boxset on top of the brown cupboard. Even the bedding, white cotton with large pink roses, is no doubt a loan from my mother-in-law in honour of our visit. Come to think of it, even when it was his room, the only reminder of him was the pile of washing that hadn’t fully dried in the corner of the bed, which had that unfortunate yet inevitable damp smell.
I’m gladly minus the torrent of emotions I felt the last time I had a makeup artist paint my face. Aleena, a local artist who I found on Instagram that is more modestly priced than most of the influencer-wannabes on there, pats at my face with a concealer brush.
“I’m thinking, as your outfit has silver and stonework on it, shall we go for silver eyes?”
“Sure,” I say.
My dress, which was purchased for the princely sum of £60 from a shop in Whitechapel, is perfect for the occasion. It’s the crisp white I wanted but with enough sparkle on the bodice to save it from being boring. It is floor length, with a wire hem creating delicate ruffles along the bottom. Aleena keeps stepping on my hem while moving around to access all the contours of my face. On my actual wedding day, this would make my blood boil but, by taking deep meditative breaths, I’m letting go. My out breaths might be a bit too strong as Aleena takes an obvious step back at the same time. Is my breath that bad? I only had beans on toast for breakfast.
There’s a knock on the door, then my mother-in-law pops in before I have a chance to respond. It’s a good thing I’m dressed.
“What you doing?” she asks in a delicate tone. In any other language it could sound combative, but I know enough Bengali to understand it to mean: “How’s it going?”
My mother-in-law is the first to see my painted face. “Do I look okay?” I ask.
“Eh... it’s okay.” She rocks her head from side-to-side.
“Are you sure? Last time I wore lots of makeup he didn’t like it.”
We all, including the makeup artist who’s never met my husband, know who ‘he’ is. It’s a universal thing.
“Why not?” M’s mum almost shouts, though I’ve come to learn this is more in dramatic jest. “A new bride needs to look extra especial. You no listen to him.”
She’s so right. And M was so wrong.
When I get downstairs, I offer my father-in-law a cup of tea. My empty gesture is accepted.
I wait for the kettle to boil then pour the boiling water into his favourite grey-blue mug at the precise level he likes it, four-fifths full. M’s little sister comes in.
“Can you fix my eyelash?” She hands me a small tube of glue.
She’s asking the wrong girl as I am so cack-handed when it comes to makeup. However, with M’s sister-in-law and family meeting us at the registry office, and my mother-in-law having never applied false eyelashes in her life, I guess beggars can’t be choosers.
I dab some white glue onto the errant eyelash corner, careful not to get any in her eye. Now I get to see her face close up, it looks like she’s had her makeup professionally done and it’s a better job than the girl I paid £70 for.
“I’m doing a brew. Do you want one?” goes my empty gesture word vomit.
“Aww, if you don’t mind, I didn’t have one this morning,” says M’s little sis. “I’ll come back down and have it in a minute.”
As I stir a teaspoon of sugar into the second cup I’ve made, having refilled and reheated the kettle, I find myself boiling. The heat rises from the cup, into my neck, up my jaw and through my skull. My head pounds.
Why am I making tea for anyone on the day of my registry? Why am I tripping over my floor length bridal gown while I resume domestic duties in the kitchen? It’s my second wedding day. I shouldn’t be doing anything beyond beautifying. While my father-in-law is unassuming and perhaps doesn’t understand a girl’s need to be pampered on her special day, my sister-in-law should know better. She’s the princess Naila bitched about. The stereotype exists, I’m sad and disappointed to say.
My mother-in-law did all of today’s cooking while I was getting my makeup done. Now she’s upstairs getting ready and with M’s sister gone again to do whatever she does, I’m the default woman of the house. Even M, who is usually my protector, is out shopping. I can’t complain about that, as he’s probably finally getting my anniversary present - silly boy.
Anyway, I better get out of the kitchen before another domestic chore befalls me.
I head back upstairs to check my phone. Maybe M will message me to say he’s on his way back, hopefully with a surprise parcel. Maybe a small box to signify perfume, or something along those lines. I’m not fussy.
Sadly, there is nothing from missing in action M but there is a message from his big sister-in-law:
We’re nearly on our way to the registry office. Looking forward to seeing you. Now you’ve been married a year, I hope you have some good news ;)
That’s not the first time she’s sent a winky face. What is it with her and the pregnancy probing? Clearly we both have very different interpretations of what constitutes good news.
***
“Ya Allah! Who did your makeup?”
Why does my mum insist on giving me a complex moments before a special occasion. We are stood in the back room of the registry office. I don’t have a single wet wipe on my person so can do nothing about whatever it is she’s about to moan about with regards to my face.
M and both our families are waiting patiently for my entrance. Now is not the time for any objections to anything, not least my makeup. Honestly, I wish I hadn’t invited mum backstage at all.
“I’ve got tissues in bag. Or let’s go bathroom, wipe those eyes!”
“Mum, you did this on my engagement, you’re not doing it now. My makeup is fine.”
“Silver eye never be fine! Look through there.” She points towards the half open door to the room where the registry will take place. I can see big sis has just arrived and is shuffling along the seats with her hubby and brood. She’s overdressed again, with a gold Banarasi print saree and loose head covering she reserves for formal occasions which involve mixing with other families. Of course, she is dripping in gold wedding jewellery. “See! This be small party. This isn’t your wedding day!”
“Someone should’ve told big sis that,” I say.
“Acha! You know she always dress fancy because she no have anywhere else to go! This be her big outing. But she silly. You should be sensible. This is not fancy place. English people like simple makeup.”
The registry office is certainly just that - a simple office. The gold pillars, table decor and fake archway of my real wedding day are a million miles from the current aesthetic of black foldable chairs creating a fake aisle, making way for a well worn green runner rug leading up to a brown wooden rectory stand with a small, sad bouquet of plastic flowers that have probably been there since 1984.
Mum can’t help herself. She pulls a well used, frayed tissue from her bag, licks it and reaches for my face.
“Don’t you dare, mum. Don’t piss me off. I haven’t got time for this!” I’m dead serious, she better not mess with me.
“But it look terrible.”
“No it doesn’t,” I say, though I’m now wondering if the shimmery eye makeup is a little over the top. Maybe I shouldn’t have given Aleena so much artistic licence.
“I’m ever so sorry to interrupt,” a very polite voice comes from behind me. “I’m Jenny and I’ll be marrying you today.”
Lucky me, I joke to myself to pacify the situation. Yes, it’s super childish, but I always thought it was hilarious... obviously Jenny and I aren’t getting married.
“I just wanted to check that everything is okay as we should be starting in about ten minutes.”
“Do you have baby wipe?” Mum is determined to clean up my face.
I shush mum but have a question of my own: “As I walk down the aisle, could you play a song?”
“Of course. Have you brought a CD?” Jenny asks.
Who has CDs these days? “Erm no, sorry, I’m not very organised, but the song I had in mind is a really common wedding song, so you might have it?”
“I can certainly look. What song would you like?”
“Well, it’s... the name’s on the tip of my tongue...” Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, I’m going to have to do it. “It goes something like this... duh duh duh duh, duh duh duh, dee duh duh duh duh.”
Yep, I just upped the twatish stakes.
This is probably the first time poor Jenny has had someone play guess the tune at their own wedding registry. She looks at me blankly.
“It’s a really popular tune. They use it in movies, too.” I’m getting desperate. “It’s a classic.”
“Okay, could you do that again?” She leans her ear towards me like I’m a speakerphone.
“Duh duh duh duh, duh duh duh duh...”
I can’t believe this is my life.
“Ah!” Jenny’s face lights up. “Is it Canon D?”
“Oh yeah, that’s it.” I have no bloody idea.
“That’s a classic wedding song, isn’t it? Yes, we have that. Would you like your father to walk you down the aisle?” helpful Jenny asks.
It’s something I thought of but had dismissed out of hand. But if it’s her suggestion...
“That’s a great idea,” I say.
“Lovely.” Jenny rubs her hands against her dusky pink skirt. “I’ll go and get him. Um... is he the man in the peach, uh... dress?” She puts her hand to her mouth like she’s just swore. “Sorry. I don’t know what you call it.”
God, mum’s dressed dad again. He hates that outfit. He still describes peach as a ‘lady colour’.
“It’s a kurta,” I say.
Jenny returns with a confused-looking dad. I think mum’s better to explain this one.
No English is dropped into mum’s careful instruction. “When she walks out, you go with her.”
I think she might need to elaborate further.
“Okay. Where will you be?” asks dad.
“I be sitting down like everyone else,” says mum.
“You no walk with us?” Dad looks even more confused, though I didn’t know it was possible.
“Why I walk with you? This father job. That’s what all dad’s do in wedding.”
Dad thinks. “Eh... I never seen father do this at any wedding.”
“Dooro!” Mum’s patience is wearing thinner than mine. “Not our weddings. English wedding. It be very simple, just walk with her and hold her arm. And walk slow!”
Dad’s eyes widen at the thought of having to link arms with his daughter. The only display of affection he has exhibited during my adult life has been accidental, when he patted my head on my wedding day. He was trying to gesture towards my niece.
“Is everything sorted?” Jenny butts in. “I’ll get the music on, and once it starts playing, come to the doorway, wait 10 seconds and then, dad, you escort your daughter down the aisle.”
Dad looks down at his waistcoat, shrinking under the pressure. He then rolls his shoulders back and says: “Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes. I do that.”
Mum joins the small gathering, divided by gender. There’s less than a metre between the sets of chairs. It’s hardly necessary to segregate.
The music plays. It’s beautiful, not to mention the exact tune played at the pretentious Hampshire wedding we attended over the summer.
“What we wait for?” asks dad.
“I just have to count down, then we go,” I whisper.
“Heh?” dad shouts, as the music gets louder.
“We have to wait a few seconds,” I shout back, making everyone turn around and somewhat ruining the magic.
M is standing tall (well, he’s 5ft 8in, so figuratively speaking) and handsome in a grey suit to coordinate with my eyes, and some very expensive silver cufflinks, which also unintentionally match my eyes. He looks at me and smirks. At least he’s finding the funny in all of this.
I try to loop my hand through dad’s arm but he’s clamped it straight against his body, like a soldier standing to attention. I won’t even attempt to lace my fingers in, it’s just too much.
“Why so long?” Dad is getting impatient, like we’re at a Bengali wedding, ironically.
“Three more seconds,” I whisper.
And two... and one... this is my moment.
“Let’s walk,” I say to dad in as soft and delicate a tone as possible.
“Heh? Now? I walk now?”
I stay serene and don’t break character, despite dad unintentionally doing everything to kill the mood.
I nod my head. Just like that, dad bolts ahead from his starting position like a sprinter.
“No, dad! Slow down!” I plead but it’s futile.
Dad, taking his job as escort so seriously, is charging through the aisle, while I trail behind him, trying to touch his arm, or do something at least to make it look like a proper job of a wedding.
This is greeted by stifled giggles from both sides of the family.
Dad stops for a second, steps on the hem of my delicate tulle dress, before marching to the front, like it’s a race to the altar. I have no choice but to hotfoot after him.
M is stood at the front, grinning so hard as he’s stood next to his new bride - my dad. Neither of the men in my life know what to say.
“Dad, you can sit down now,” I whisper.
“Okay, okay. Where shall I sit?”
“On the men’s side, next to dad,” I say.
“Heh?” I could have predicted dad’s confusion.
“My father-in-law.”
Dad dutifully takes his seat at the front next to M’s dad. As I look down, I see he’s left a dirty brown footprint on my hem.
Jenny’s speech is rambling. I’m waiting for the bit where I say ‘I do’ so we can get this over with and go home and I can open my anniversary present.
Suddenly, everything is quiet. Jenny looks up to me, nodding and smiling in anticipation. M looks at me, too.
“You’re supposed to say ‘I do’,” he whispers.
In the throes of my internal monologue, I missed my cue.
“Oh yes, I do!” I say, a little too enthusiastically.
This is met with laughs from our audience who have witnessed such comic gold so far we should really be charging them for the entertainment.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may...”
Oh my life! Is she going to ask us to kiss? Should I have briefed them to say we don’t do that? Brown people do not kiss in public.
Luckily, Jenny looks at our nervous faces and concludes: “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
By default we look out onto our audience. They look back. Then M’s sister-in-law does a half-arsed clap. Her hubby joins in with two solitary offerings. This is followed by an uneven, inconsistent round of applause. It was less rapturous and more stilted.
M and I look back at each other and laugh, causing everyone else to follow suit. Okay, it wasn’t quite the fairytale of the pretentious wedding we witnessed over the summer, but it was our day, celebrated in our own odd, socially awkward way.
***
M is playing a serious blinder with this surprise present business.
On the long drive back to London, I’m in charge of the music as usual. I opt for Bollywood.
“Do you mind getting something out of my glovebox?” he asks.
No, I don’t mind at all.
I reach open the box, then M says: “Could you pass me my sunglasses. The sun’s a bit low.”
Well played, my friend. Well played. You almost had me there. “Can we stop off at a service station? The one with the halal Mexican? I’m getting a bit hungry.”
In my defence, we ate at 2.30pm and it’s gone six.
M replies: “I was thinking the exact same thing.”
I chow down on a chicken, bean and rice filled burrito, while M, who doesn’t share my deep love of tortilla wraps, bites into a tuna crunch baguette. We share a side of fries because it’s rude not to.
“Did you have a good day?” asks M, squeezing the life out of a sachet of sauce until it has nothing left to give.
“Yeah. It was really nice. Do you feel any more married?”
“No. To be honest with ya, I feel the same as always.”
Well, if you want to be really honest, you could bust out my anniversary present (I think it goes without saying that wasn’t shouted out loud).
“By the way...” M leans in. This may be the moment. He reaches into his pocket. Oh my God, has he bought me a ring? That’ll put my cufflinks to shame. “I’ve been a bit tricky,” he says.
“Ooh, what did you do?” I peer over the table to see what magic lies in his trousers. I love playing this game.
He pulls out a red sachet. “I took some extra packets of hot sauce from the Mexican counter when I was paying for your meal. I’m not fussed for their fajitas but they do make a mean chilli relish.”
I settle back into my seat. He’s really milking this surprise now.
***
We get home late. Bloody traffic meant a journey that’s three-and-a-half hours on a good run, was over five tonight.
I’m tired and still full of burrito and nachos from our service station stop but I decide to have a second dinner of avocado on toast, just in case I get hungry in the night.
M still hasn’t given me his present. All this suspense is getting annoying.
“Do you fancy a cup of tea,” M asks.
“Nah, it’s too late.”
“Decaf?” he offers.
“Oh, go on then.” I guess this is all part of the build up.
M disappears into our tiny galley kitchen that’s visible from the lounge as it’s really one big room which they’ve tricked us into thinking is part open plan city living. Bloody pretentious London.
He reaches for a couple of mugs in the cupboard.
“Are you okay?” he asks as the kettle boils.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Well, since it’s our anniversary and all...” He opens the smallest cupboard, smiling at me. Of course! Why didn’t I think to look in there? He went to put something in earlier.
“Shall we have a biscuit? I know it’s late but it’s a special day.”
I give the saddest nod ever from a girl who’s been offered a double chocolate-chip cookie.
M rests a plate of four cookies on the creaky coffee table.
“Back in a minute.” He disappears into the hallway.
About bloody time. I sit up from my slouchy position on the sofa. I want to perfect the look of someone who is surprised but also beautiful and somewhat alluring. It is our anniversary, after all.
I wonder what he’s bought me. I’m not sure if I’m starting to get old but I really would go for something practical right now. Maybe a new Filofax to keep track of my hectic social calendar (yeah, I know that sounds twat-ish). I won’t be getting a handbag as he’s promised to get me one from Marrakesh. On that note, I hope they sell the genuine articles over there. I’d be gutted if I returned with a fake. Whatever I get, he knows it’s got to be good. After all, he wore the very expensive cufflinks today. He knows how much I spent. He knows how good they look. He knows how damn thoughtful I am. I’m an amazing wife.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the toilet flushing. M returns to the room in his boxer shorts. I don’t think there’s a package in those pockets.
“Where did you go?” I ask.
If his answer isn’t: I was just getting your present from the bedroom, we’re going to have a problem.
“I just went to the poop station. I think I’ll go to bed in about 10 minutes,” he declares.
M sinks into the well-worn seat next to me, along with my hopes of being surprised with a romantic gift. If he did buy me anything, the last chance for him to present it was flushed away with his faeces. I feel my face heat up for the second time today. How could he not realise that it was important to get me a gift? How does he be super romantic on Valentine’s Day, yet completely forget our anniversary? Does he not know it’s rude to not reciprocate when it comes to gift giving? Whoever said you don’t give to receive is a bloody liar. However, M clearly thinks this to be true.
He’s a good guy. The best guy. A great husband. I echo these positive thoughts to myself like a mantra to keep me calm. He is great, but boy did he drop the ball on this one. Do I say anything? Or should I leave it? I mentally weigh out all his good points against this one very significant shortcoming.
He attempts to put his arm around me but I recoil.
“You okay?” he asks.
My mouth is dry. Speaking is hard but I persevere. “Did you really not get me anything?”
M tries to stifle a laugh as he sees my face. He finds my anguish funny.
“Awww babe, what do you mean? I told you, I’ll be getting your present in Marrakesh.”
“Yeah, but you said you’d get me something on the day.”
“Did I?”
“You said I will get something.” I recall those words vividly. He’s not getting out of this one.
“When I said that, I meant you’ll get something when we’re on holiday.”
“I know you’re going to get my proper present but surely you’d get me a card to open today at least. Did you even get a card?”
“No.” M’s voice is meek as the penny finally drops and he realises he royally screwed up.
“I’ve got nothing to mark the occasion.”
“You do. We got married again!” says M, as if that makes up for it. “Sorry, babe. Next time I’ll do better.”
***
As we lie in bed, having exchanged minimal pleasantries, I rest assured that another important lesson has been learned on both sides.
M now knows he needs to get me something to open on our anniversary, every single year. Even if it’s a card from a pound shop. Though something more pricey would be optimal.
I now know that next year I must be more forthcoming in my demand, or let’s call it expectation, to receive a present on our anniversary. Oh, and I might just stick to the theme of each year, rather than getting expensive cufflinks in lieu of a notepad.
Happy bloody anniversary to me.