| |
In the vein of trying not to be too much of a bridezilla, I’m reining in my apparently lofty ambitions. I booked the videographer that I found on page two of Google and, as luck would have it, he’ll do the photography as well. Of course he will. The truth is, I don’t know if he’s qualified for either. Still, his portfolio looked decent.
So, with that sorted, I’m taking my eyes away from my seemingly never ending and frankly rather stress-inducing list, to have a day of fun. Tonight is my hen do and, to make things feel a bit more normal and less chaotic, I’m having a brunch with my sisters beforehand. I’m glad to report that my two older ones, who have been missing in action, have graced me with their presence.
I’ve seen it happen on trashy reality TV shows all too often. Brides-to-be have a lovely family meal in the day, followed by a swanky event later, all of course captured on their expansive social media platforms. I don’t possess much of a social media following, however I am going to post some sweet family photos and some bullshit captions about being best friends with my siblings or something along those lines. You know, just to show that I’m enjoying some of the basic pre-wedding rituals that most girls take for granted.
And then I remember that most families aren’t like mine.
Brunch quickly becomes lunch as both sisters and their respective kids don’t roll out of bed until 11am. This means I’ll have to either have a light meal (not happening, I’ll never do it), or have two proper meals within very close succession (obviously that’s the option I’m going for).
“Hmm... not sure what I should have,” says big sis as she examines the well-handled laminate menu. “Maybe the carrot halwa?”
“I don’t think I can stomach that,” grumbles middle sis, simultaneously wincing and rubbing her now blossoming belly.
“Well, why did you eat so much? You knew we were coming for brunch,” I say.
“I had cereal. What was I supposed to eat? Tea on its own? In my condition?” she continues rubbing her bump like she’s using it as her get out of brunch card.
“You could’ve had a smaller bowl of cereal. Or here’s a thought, maybe you could’ve woken up earlier.”
“We got to mum’s after 11 last night. The kids didn’t settle until midnight. How early did you expect me to wake up? Plus I had to sort the kids out before I left. Or did you want me to lumber mum with feeding and sorting out their wees and poohs?” middle sis asks.
“Yeah lady,” big sis chimes in. “And I spent hours on the train to get here yesterday. In this heat! Only to do it again in a few weeks! Can’t you just be glad we’re here?”
I huff. “Yes, thank you for being here. You know it’s pretty normal for the sisters of the bride to want to do something like this before the wedding. Usually they organise it for them!”
“Gosh, if you’re that bothered, we can split the bill,” says big sis.
“I can’t,” says little sis. “I didn’t bring my bag. I only had enough room for my phone.” She puts her hands in her unusually high cardigan pockets to reinforce her point.
“You never bring your bag!” I say, louder than expected.
“Alright, calm down lady,” says big sis. “Is this because I didn’t call the mehendi venue?”
“That, and not offering to help with any of the planning. Not asking me how I’m doing... If there’s anything you can do to help.”
“What can I do all the way from Bristol?”
“You’ve got a phone! You’ve got internet access! Don’t make out like you’re in the village in Bangladesh.”
“That’s a bit below the belt,” says big sis. “Anyway, we never stay in the village. You know we’re in the town. I need air conditioning.”
“That’s not even the point!” I shriek. “God... I wish I had a brother to help out with all this.”
“We all wish we had a brother!” says middle sis.
“Ladies, sorry to interrupt. Can I take your order,” says the waiter / unwitting referee.
“Could we have a bit more time?” asks middle sis.
How much longer do they need? “Okay, hurry up and decide! I need to go to my actual hen do, organised by someone that isn’t me, in three hours. To think we’d sit and have a nice, leisurely meal and discuss a colour theme for the mehendi. I knew it was too big an ask.”
“We can discuss it now,” says middle sis.
“Oh, what’s the point. I’ve been trying to get you to commit for ages. Every time I call either of you, the answer is ‘oh, but I don’t have that colour’, or, ‘I don’t like that shade’. Or, my personal favourite - ‘oh no, everybody wears that shade’. Well, newsflash, there are only so many bloody colours in the rainbow! We have to just pick one. So forget it! I’m picking. Buttery yellow.”
“Oh, but everybody wears -” big sis stops in her tracks after seeing my angry face.
“Yellow will make me look dark,” says little sis, whose skin is still lighter than mine.
“Well tough shit! It’s my wedding so I’m calling it. You’re all wearing yellow.”
There’s a moment of silence as all four of us look down at our menus.
“This isn’t very fun,” mumbles big sis.
“Don’t worry, we’ll take a fake smiling photo for Instagram. Nobody needs to know,” quips little sis.
***
MESSAGE FROM M: Do you like my new threads?
He sends a picture of himself holding the skirt of my bridal lehenga up against himself, grinning from ear to ear.
Me: Oh! It’s arrived!
M: It has! So I’ll be making a special delivery on my next trip up. By the way, how was your brunch with your sisters?
Me: Really good.
I’m so glad this is in text message form so he can’t see me lying through my teeth.
M: You got your hen do today too, right? Hope you have a good one!
Me: Thanks. What about you? What have your boys got in store for you?
M: Well, there’s talk of us going on a road trip somewhere, but they’re not telling me. The only clue they’ve given is that I’ll need my passport! So I’m guessing a hop on the ferry!
Now that’s a proper do. I’m jealous.
I’m still bloated from the paratha and curried chickpeas I had for the brunch that turned into lunch. I knew I should have opted for something lighter but you can’t go out for an Asian brunch and have tea and toast. It’s just rude.
As I’m changing into a red polka dot dress, my second outfit of the day to emphasis the fact that (lucky me) I’m popular enough to have two very different parties, Kulsum, the makeup artist of my dreams, calls. Will she be a nightmare and cancel on me? This isn’t a day for messing me about.
“Hello dear,” she purrs.
“Oh hi, Kulsum.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yes dear.”
I don’t have time for this. If she’s cancelling, she needs to put me out of my misery now. “Sorry I’m just about to head out, so can’t really talk. Was there a reason you called?” My hands are trembling.
“I just wanted to check in how you are. I know it’s a busy time but just make sure you drink plenty of water and get lots of rest so you look well on the day and don’t stress! This is time for everyone to take care of you.”
“Oh... okay. Well... thank you. I’ll try to relax.”
“No worries. You take care dear and I’ll speak to you soon.”
Weird.
Thankfully my entire clan have decided to take the unprecedented step of going for a walk. No doubt my sisters want to cool off after the tense brunch lunch. I bet they’re bitching about me. I can just picture them. That’s A LOT of brown faces for our street. If there weren’t any racists in our neighbourhood, the sight of three generations of Bengalis in a saree, salwar kameezes and a panjabi might be enough to make them turn.
At least having the house to myself means I can exit without an interrogation from mum. I’m already running late and fielding anxious messages from Julia.
However, I’m set to get later as I get a call from Sophia.
“Hey, are you running late, too?” I ask while wiggling one thick denier tights clad foot into a ballet pump.
“No hon. I’m not,” says Sophia.
Her voice sounds small and weak. Not the usual shrill, confident and rather bossy tone.
“I’m so sorry to do this to you on the day but... I can’t make your hen do.”
I sit back on the stairs and take Sophia off speaker phone. “Why not?”
“I really wanted to come so I didn’t let you down but it’s just too difficult to leave Imran for any longer than about 40 minutes because I’m still breastfeeding. He won’t settle with Adnan. Sorry hon. I would have loved to have been there.”
“Oh no, could you just pop over for half an hour?”
“I can’t, hon. The thing is, by the time I get everything set for Imran, make myself presentable, then head up to see you, it’ll be time to come back and give him his next feed.”
I’m tempted to ask why she doesn’t just express like Amy from work. Looks like a bloody genius idea. However, as I’m without child, I can’t really comment.
“Anyway, you won’t even notice me not being there, you’ll be too busy having fun with your baby-free mates and your sisters.”
She knows my sisters aren’t coming. I’ve told her this before. Wasn’t she paying attention? Or is she just rubbing my small guest list in my face?
Sophia resorts to filling in the silence, which is usually my job. “Anyway, it’s not like the hen do is the place for a nursing mum with raging hormones. I’m hardly gonna be drinking through a plastic penis straw?”
I don’t have the words. I organised the whole bloody thing around her. She knew it was at the buffet where we first met. I figured it would be poignant as well as convenient. What will I tell Julia?
“Hon, please say something,” urges Sophia.
“Well, it’s just... I planned it around you,” I say. This time my voice is small.
“What did you do that for? I didn’t ask you to.” Her shrill tone returns, with a smidgen of aggression.
She’s always had this way of answering back, putting me in my place like she knows better, with her years of life experience and two bites of the marital cherry. Not this time.
“I know you didn’t ask me. Obviously I was telling you all the things that I was planning! Why do you think I booked that buffet?”
“Because you love samosas and seekh kebabs?”
“Yes, well, that too, but the main reason was that it would be easy for you to get to. I planned it to accommodate you! Plus, it’s where we met at that charity event.” I feel pathetic for uttering my last statement. Clearly she doesn’t care.
“It’s just as easy for you to get there as well.”
“No it bloody isn’t!” I almost yell down the phone. “You’ve see me struggle to merge onto the A57. You’ve seen my crappy parallel parking. If it was down to me I would have booked my Italian -”
“Hey hon, don’t put this on me.”
“I’m not... but I just... I wanted you there. You were there when I was single and thinking I’d never get married. You were with me on this whole journey and now I know you’re on your own journey but... anyway... look I’ve gotta go. Chat later.”
That was metaphorical. I don’t plan on calling her again in a hurry.
I’m mentally counting how many people are going to be at what is possibly the crappiest hen do of all time. Julia, Helen, Reena, Bushra, Emma and me. Oh my God, I have to count myself to make it look like there’s more people. This is turning into a joke. It’s not a hen do. It’s just friends going to dinner. I won’t be posting any pictures on social media of this shit show.
***
I’M LATE AS ALWAYS but why change the habit of a lifetime? What’s scary about being one of the last to arrive to this particular gathering is that it’s a meeting of minds that have never previously gathered and it breaks one of my unwritten rules - don’t mix your friends.
As I get to the buffet, which I booked to work around Sophia, I see that everyone - all five of my guests - have already arrived. However my mood is immediately lifted as not only have they waited for me to arrive before plating up (I admire their willpower), they’ve also made the effort of decorating our table. Julia booked what looks like the best spot in the restaurant. A large round table where the centre circle spins so dishes can be passed around. We’re also sectioned off from the rest of the room with Chinese blinds. Admittedly our private dining spot is a little empty, so my gang of girls have ensured that it looks less windy by putting their handbags on the spare chairs and sitting spaced out. There’s sprinkled confetti on the table and a flower arrangement, which I can tell is Julia’s expensive, elegant touch. This is contrasted with some penis shaped balloons and a similarly rude set of straws, which I suspect was a collective effort from Reena, Emma and Bushra. I appreciate the gesture.
Julia greets me with a hug. “Hello you. Fashionably late as always. Your throne awaits.”
She ushers me towards a slightly elevated, regal looking chair. I can’t help but smile. Sophia may have bailed but this might not be so bad after all.
“So what did I miss?” I ask as I get myself comfortable on my throne.
“We’ve been discussing you, mainly,” says Helen, one of the few school friends, along with Julia, that I’ve kept in touch with.
I laugh nervously.
“Don’t embarrass her,” says Julia, sipping through a penis shaped straw, which goes against all of her prim sensibilities. “Though we did agree on one thing. You have to promise not to become one of those girls that puts Misters before sisters, okay?”
“Of course!” I say, taking a sip from my own appendage straw. I’m so glad our section is private, I’d hate for any distant relatives or nosey fake aunties spotting me in such a compromising position.
“Look at you, taking to it like an expert!” laughs Reena. She sounds tipsy even though this place has a dry bar.
Julia looks on nervously, Bushra and Emma look confused and Helen’s already left the table to join the queue at the buffet. Thankfully everyone else decides that she’s got the right idea and follow her lead.
Two plates of food in and with some introductory conversations having taken place, talk turns to how M and I met. I was dreading this bit.
Julia starts: “Now I’m not sure if you all know this...”
Oh crap, what’s she gonna say?
“...but our girl’s biggest concern was about his baldness!”
Phew.
“However,” she continues, “he must be something special as he won her over regardless and I couldn’t be happier for you. It seems like just the other day we were both single and I was worried about you... you know I was.”
I nod in agreement.
“Yet you’ve gone and met the man of your dreams on your terms,” she lifts her glass to cheers.
“Yeah, you beat us all to it!” says Reena. “You were the most Bollywood of us all at uni. Do you remember we said you were like Charlotte from Sex and the City, without the sex?”
Bushra and Emma shoot a look at each other and stifle giggles.
Mortified.
Helen looks suitably unimpressed by Reena’s crassness. “Well, you might be the first to get married but you’re late for everything else!”
Oh, we’re doing stories about me, I take it?
Helen continues: “I remember calling for you in the morning to go to school. Remember, Julia? She’d have us waiting for ten minutes and on the way home we’d always smell your house before we saw it because of the curry -”
Helen stops her slightly racist tribute to me upon realising that there are three offended brownies in her company. There’s a moment of tumbleweed as nobody sees the funny side of her terrible story.
“Oh, I’ve got one!” Bushra puts down her glass and holds up her hand like she’s in school. “This one time, she was buying a watch for M, and -”
“Oh look over there!” I yell. “Is that cake for me?”
Thankfully, the waiter makes his way towards us with a cream cake with a single sparkler on top. I jumped the gun a little, leaving the girls to shout surprise, albeit not in unison, with Emma a full syllable behind everyone else. However, I had to intervene as the less people that know about my cheap and dirty watch secret the better.
As I admire my cake, which has mine and M’s initials in icing, the sound of a bread knife being tapped against a glass echoes across the table.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!” shouts Reena.
I was hoping to avoid this. Despite my work lending itself to public speaking and my natural ability to talk for England, I’m lost for words. However, I feel compelled to say something about the effort they made. The day didn’t start how I would have liked but I appreciated how it’s ending. This group of girls, all from different backgrounds and walks of life, were thrown together by me and it wasn’t altogether a disaster.
“Well I’m not sure what to say,” I begin.
This is followed by jokes such as: “That’s a first!”
“Okay... well, thank you so much for doing all this. Julia, I know it wasn’t easy for you, bringing us all together. Reena, thanks for making the journey from Birmingham and Bushra, Emma and Helen, you only went round the corner so no big thanks to you! Seriously though, thanks all of you. And the penis straws are the best!”
Funny is all I have.
As I cut the cake, I look around at my random gathering of friends. My perfectly imperfect lady gang.