Page 8 of Something Borrowed

“Tell him to come to the wedding. He can witness my downfall at close quarters. Bugger.” I tug at the shirt. It moves a bit, and I manage to get the buttons done up to my mid-chest level and then give up, unzipping my trousers and forcing the shirt tails in. “Hand me my jacket,” I instruct.

He obeys, and I slide into it. I grab my top hat from the hatbox and cram it on my head. “How do I look?” I ask.

His lip twitches. “Honesty, or complete flannel and nonsense?”

“I’d like more flannel than the towel department of John Lewis, please.”

“You look a picture of elegance and poise.”

“Ta.”

The car shudders to a stop, and I look ahead and groan in terror. We’re in a traffic jam that seems to go on for miles. “Oh shit. Can’t we go round it?”

“No,” Nigel says with a conspicuous lack of sympathy.

I look frantically at Joe. “What time is it now?”

“Ten to eleven.”

“How far are we from St James church?” I ask Nigel.

“About five minutes.”

“I’ll make a run for it.”

“You’re going torunfor the church?” Joe asks.

“It wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve had to do.”

“True.”

I clap him on the back and then open the door. “Thanks for everything, Nigel,” I shout. “Joe will pay you.”

“Of course he will,” Joe says sourly.

“I may be gone for some time,” I tell him in a solemn voice.

“I’d rather be Ernest Shackleton than you at the moment, mate. At least he had a head start on that mountain. And he might have escaped Jed, who doesn’t like heights.”

I wave and edge around the cars in the queue. When I reach the pavement, I start to run.

A five-foot-eleven man running along London streets in a full morning suit, a top hat, and half a shirt doesn’t attract as much attention as you’d think, but my five minutes of strenuous activity are still full of ribald remarks and jeering. At last, I arrive at the bulk of the old church and lean against the wall for a second, panting, holding my side, and vowing to do more on the treadmill in the future. That’s if I don’t die from having a stitch this morning.

People edge past me in their wedding finery, walking up the path where the ushers greet them. One of them waves happily at me, and I offer him a limp salute while trying to suck air in.

“Church looks great, Rafferty,” he calls.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful that I was organised and came to the church last night to finalise the arrangements. I’m less fond of the fact that upon hearing that Stan was staying the night at Bennett’s house, I immediately went to the club to drink my weight in tequila shots and pick up an alarmingly serious man.

“Fuck,” I breathe. As if recognising the end of my great trek, the bells begin to ring the hour, and a grey Bentley pulls up.

I straighten and then groan silently as my boss appears at my side like a villain in a pantomime. The only thing he’s missing is the cloud of purple smoke.

“Good morning,” he purrs.

“Hello,” I say in my most cheery voice. “What abeautifulmorning for the bride and groom.”

We watch the bridesmaids jump out of the car, shining in their grey chiffon. They stand around laughing and giggling, their voices high in the air.

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