Charlotte Butterfield - A Beautiful Day for a Wedding - This year’s Bridget Jones!

‘I want a really low-key thing in my parent’s cow field.’

Eve stopped chewing.

‘Eve? Are you still there?’

‘I’m sorry, for a moment I thought I heard you say that you wanted to get married in a cow field.’

‘Well, not actually married, we’ll do that at the local church, but I want to have the reception in the field behind my folks’ farm.’

‘Won’t the cows mind the intrusion?’

‘We’ll move them silly. But I love the idea of a festival feel, with bunting and barrels and picnic baskets. Do you think we could pull it off?’

‘If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. I’ll start my research tomorrow. This is so exciting, and just the thing I need to take my mind off how shitty my life is.’

‘You don’t have to stay in New York you know, you could just come back,’ Becca had reminded her, not for the first time.

Eve had pretended not to hear her, just like she did every time Becca had said it. Going back to London wasn’t an option. ‘So what time of year are you thinking? If it’s going to be outside, I’m guessing summer?’

‘Yes, not the next one though, that’s too soon. Maybe the one after that. Or the one after that.’ It was typical Becca, laid-back to the point of comatose. The vague date did little to quell Eve’s enthusiasm for planning though, and Becca’s engagement had resulted in a new job for Eve too. The following day she’d quickly realised that there was no better antidote to the gritty seediness she usually spent her day delving into than the swirly pink and turquoise fonts of online wedding magazines that had headlines like Super-pretty princess dresses and Best day ever! Every website Eve looked at had little hearts doodled into their company logos. Each photo of couples staring adoringly at each other had a soft-focus finish that made their love seem even more magical. How could you ever be miserable writing about romance every day?

Scrolling down the page past a link to an article on bouquets called Everything’s rosy and one on honeymoon destinations entitled Paradise found, Eve’s eyes had rested on a little pink box on the right of the page. Above the editor’s email address, were two words that had made Eve’s eyes widen: We’re hiring.

Without giving herself any time to change her mind, Eve had quickly typed out an email, attached her CV and pressed send. And Eve-the-wedding-guru was born.

She’d stayed with the American wedding magazine for a year before reluctantly moving back to London to work for its English edition when her dad had died. It had been as though the universe had aligned everything to slot into place: the job opening in London, Becca’s former flatmate moving out; call it coincidence, fate, luck – whatever it was, it meant Eve’s transition back into London life wasn’t as awful as she had thought it might be. It didn’t stop the ghosts taunting her around every corner though.

A sudden drum solo from the bar below brought Eve back to the present day, and their balcony. ‘So,’ Eve started gently, ‘have you thought about a band for your wedding?’

‘Jack’s friends are going to bring their guitars.’

‘Oh.’ Eve said. This did not sound good. ‘Are they, um, professional musicians?’

‘No, not at all. You know Gavin, Jack’s friend from work? Well, he used to play, and Jack’s brothers, and a couple of other people too – we’re encouraging everyone to bring whatever instruments they have and just have a mash-up.’

‘A mash-up?’ Eve realised that she must sound incredibly middle-aged, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘That might be good for the end of the night, for the people that want to stay and carry on the party, but don’t you want some dancing and music that people know?’

Becca lay her head back on her beanbag. ‘Eve, you’re stressing me out. I’m not like Tanya, who needs everything planned to within an inch of its life. What will be will be, it’s going to be fine. Now be quiet and listen to the lovely music.’

Eve refused to give up. Not when she’d just published an article about how vital good entertainment was to a wedding. ‘See, that’s my point. Music is really important. If you like this band so much, why don’t you pop down in the next break and ask them for their card?’

‘Why don’t you?’

In the end, Eve did a lot better than that and paid them a fifty-pound deposit to put the date of Becca’s wedding in their diaries. She would tackle the issue of what on earth Becca was intending to feed her guests in the cow field another night.

***

‘So I got these.’ Becca dumped two big carrier bags full of clothes and props onto the kitchen counter next to where Eve was chopping up some onions for their sausage and mash dinner.

‘Oh my God Becca, I only wanted a witch’s hat, not a wardrobe for the entire magic circle!’

‘The invitation said to come in your wizardry finery, a witch’s hat wouldn’t cut it. Anyway, I spoke to a few of the other people at work that are going, and everyone is making a massive effort. Rob’s even had a prosthetic nose made like Voldemort’s. Can’t wait to see what his fiancée’s wearing – what’s her name again?’

‘Jackie. You’re going to have to remember that tomorrow, it’s very bad form to forget the bride’s name, even if you do only know the groom.’

‘Jackie. Got it. And do you reckon Jackie is fully on board with marrying the Dark Lord?’

Eve smiled. ‘I can’t say that he would be my immediate choice for a groom, come to think of it. Neither would Rob, but that’s by the by.’

‘They’re both massive Harry Potter fans, they even got engaged at King’s Cross station next to the Platform 9 ¾ sign.’

Eve’s knife kept slicing. ‘That’s lovely. Nothing shouts I love you quite so much as the smell of tramps’ urine and fourteen thousand Japanese school kids on a magic tour.’

‘You are so unromantic Eve. I think it’s really nice that they share a hobby. Now do you want to see what’s in the bags or not?’

‘Absolutely, let’s have dinner first though.’

‘Oh, and don’t forget we need to cook the rice for tomorrow as well.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘There was a note with the invitation to say that we’re not allowed to throw confetti, so we have to throw rose petals or rice.’

‘Oh my God Becca, they don’t want you to cook it first! It’s dry rice, you muppet, did you think that everyone was going to be hurling handfuls of risotto into the bride’s face?’

‘I did think it was a bit odd, if I’m honest.’

‘I love you, I do,’ Eve put her arm around her friend’s shoulders. ‘But I honestly don’t know how you manage to get through each day alive.’

***

The next morning Becca and Eve, wearing matching black graduation gowns, waist-length grey wigs and carrying chopsticks as wands, got off a train somewhere in the middle of Sussex and boarded a waiting bus that said Hogwarts Express on the front. Becca wasn’t wrong; the other guests had taken the dress code very seriously indeed, one man even sported an ankle-length white beard that looked like he’d grown it specially for the occasion. A few women seemed to have mistakenly interpreted ‘wizardry finery’ to mean St Trinian’s tarty schoolgirl. The bus was unbearably hot and Eve’s wig was itchy. She could feel beads of perspiration on the back of her neck but felt immediately better when she spotted a woman who was sweating herself into an early grave in a full-on feathery owl costume.

The vows were taken over a goblet of fire, the bride’s veil was held in place with a golden snitch comb, and when the happy couple knelt down to receive their blessing, written on the sole of the bride’s left shoe were the words, ‘ From Muggle… ’ and on the right in matching writing, ‘ …To Mrs ’. At the point where the vicar asked for the rings the couple turned around and looked up expectantly into the sky. The congregation followed their gaze.