Georgie Carter - The Perfect Christmas

The (pink) salmon has been demolished and the scraping of cutlery against china suggests that every mouthful has been savoured. Patrick is busy entertaining his companions, which means the coast is clear for me to give the caterers the go-ahead to serve the dessert.

I whiz around for a good ten minutes giving instructions to the waitresses. Then I check that the wedding cake is ready to be wheeled out and that the champagne is chilled for the toast. One of the bridesmaids has a headache so I fetch some headache tablets from my emergency wedding kit. (You name it and I bet I have it: from spare tights and safety pins, to spare wedding rings – because, yes, it has been known to happen!) And when the DJ calls in a panic because he’s still lost, I become a human sat nav system and guide him to the reception venue. Once all this is done and everyone’s tucking into their puddings, I treat myself to a glass of Moët and retreat back behind the trusty bay tree for a few minutes.

Deciding to take advantage of the peace, I put down the emergency wedding kit to take out my phone from my smaller clutch bag and call my friend Simon. Si’s been one of my closest friends for so long that dinosaurs were roaming Ladbroke Grove when we first met. OK, that’s a slight exaggeration but you get the gist. We actually met at uni as terrified freshers while we were settling into our rooms in a truly gruesome 1960s tower block.

‘This is shit!’ Si had groaned, as with arms full of the obligatory pot plants, biscuit tins and posters, we squeezed into the creaky lift and pressed the button for floor eleven. ‘Still, at least if the course is dire, suicide will be easy!’ And he’d thrown back his head and laughed. Two packets of biscuits, a bucket of coffee and discussion of our A-Level grades later, and we were well on our way to being firm friends.

West Granite House was indeed shit. Built in the early sixties, it dominated the skyline like the proverbial sore thumb, only this thumb wasn’t so much sore as gangrenous and in desperate need of amputation. The lifts conked out on a regular basis, the rooms were little more than glorified cupboards, and as for the toilets … well, I’d rather forget about those.

Lots of people assumed Si and I were a couple but this couldn’t have been further from the truth. I love Si, but I don’t fancy him. At all. He’s just my big rugby-playing, beer-swilling comfort blanket of a mate. I don’t care about all the When Harry Met Sally hype: men and women can be just friends. When Si met Faye, the stunning blonde he later married, I couldn’t have been happier for him. And although Faye was a little cool at first, it didn’t take long before she realised I really wasn’t a threat.

It’s strange but in many ways I’m probably closer to Faye now than I am to Si. Si has a really high-powered job as a barrister and works all the hours that God sends, plus a few more. Lately he’s more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel which means I’ve seen far more of Faye. But no matter how hard Simon works, it’s tradition that I call him from my weddings with an update. It’s payback for all the rugby matches I’ve had to watch over the years.

‘Robyn!’ Si answers promptly. ‘One minute.’ I hear the hiss of a ring-pull followed by the silencing of the rugby. ‘How’s it going? Did Samantha dye her poor sod of a fiancé pink as well?’

‘Not yet,’ I giggle.

This is my sixth wedding (not bad for someone who’s not yet halfway through her thirties) – and sixth running commentary. In spite of all my father’s misgivings about my starting up a business slap bang in the middle of a recession, last summer was full of weddings and I hardly had a minute to myself. Looking back, this was probably a good thing because not only did it get Perfect Day off to a flying start but it also kept me far too busy to brood about Pat, and therefore rescued my nearest and dearest from months of suicide watch. The winter’s been slower, of course, but I’m on track to have it all sorted by Christmas. Six weddings is a great start and, just like the song says, things can only get better …

OK. So the six weddings aren’t technically mine but when I think back to my own almost wedding, I’m pretty sure that I prefer arranging my clients’ special days. Other people’s weddings are a lot less heartache.

‘Paint me the picture,’ he says.

‘Right,’ I say. By now I’m very familiar with the procedure for this update phone call. ‘Imagine the scene: the top table’s laughter is floating up and popping like the Moët bubbles fizzing in the champagne flutes. The bride and groom are feeding each other great spoonfuls of raspberry crème brûlée.’

Simon sucks in a mock gasp because he knows me so well.

‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I’m holding my breath in case a big splat of garish pink syrup lands on the delicate silk wedding dress.’

I’ll want to strangle myself with the streamers if anything happens to that dress. The bride and I had to trawl practically every wedding emporium and design studio in London for it, howling in desperation when each dress turned out to be just slightly wrong. Some dresses were too white, some were not quite white enough, some were too plain and some were too fussy. It was the wedding dress equivalent of Goldilocks’ porridge-tasting. I’d almost lost the will to live when Samantha finally declared that the final dress was just right.

‘I will not let her wreck that dress before their first dance.’

‘Get on the case, Wedding Planner Woman!’ Simon orders.

I’m just on the brink of snapping shut my mobile and snatching the dangerous dessert away when the groom leans forward and gently wipes a smudge of brûlée from the corner of his new wife’s mouth. The tenderness and pride in his eyes when he smiles at her stop me in my tracks. I feel my eyes begin to moisten.

‘What?’ Si asks when I go quiet.

‘It’s so romantic,’ I gulp. ‘Adam’s spoonfeeding Samantha.’

Simon makes vomiting sounds. ‘Is this the same Samantha you said was so self-absorbed that if she was cut in half the word “me” would run through her like seaside rock?’

Did I say that? It must have been after the marathon wedding dress hunt. Looking at Samantha now, all smiles and Swarovski crystals, I know every stressful minute has been worthwhile.

‘She looks beautiful,’ I whisper, watching the happy couple share a lingering kiss. ‘I love weddings, Si, I really do.’

‘That’s because you’re a hopeless romantic,’ Simon says indulgently. ‘One in three marriages end in divorce, remember?’

‘Says you, the most happily married man I know.’

Now Simon’s end of the line goes quiet. I wonder if he’s got distracted by the rugby in the background, but then he adds soberly, ‘It’s not all moonlight and roses, Robs. Marriage is bloody hard work. It’s about who’s bought the milk and who’s picking up the dirty socks. But, yes, I am lucky.’

‘Faye deserves a medal for picking up your socks.’ I shudder. ‘I still have nightmares about that pair that grew mould.’

‘OK,’ grumbles Si, ‘dig up the past, why don’t you?’

‘I had to dig up your socks from the carpet!’

‘You exaggerate about that,’ Simon laughs. ‘But the point is that marriage is about mundane stuff most of the time.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I agree. ‘I should know how hard marriage really is. My parents have hardly set the best example.’

My parents’ marriage survived for about six years and I can’t remember the last time they had a civil word to say to each other. I try not to focus on this, concentrating instead on creating perfect wedding days for other people. At least I can get that right. The happily-ever-after bit I leave to my clients. I can’t believe that I still well up like this at the idea of true love because I’ve experienced all kinds of emotions since Pat and I split up, seesawing wildly from total disillusionment to a fervent optimism that true love can still overcome all.