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Summer’s End Wedding Fayre

H. D. Loughrey

    Thrown by an eager hand, the confetti leaps into the flower-scented air. It dances across to the white walls of the marquee that are billowing in a drizzle-soaked November breeze. A shard lands on the quivering paper lanterns, to gaze down at the crowd below.
    A multitude of figures are milling between mannequins in white and seven, eight, nine-tiered delights of meringue and buttercream. Infrequent punctures of black tie appear amongst the ivory décor. Delicate fingers - some steady, some shaking, but all newly bedecked in diamond – trace the necklines of dresses as they pass each other in groups of two or three.
    The air grows warm with pregnant anticipation; whispers build into dull drones whose notes are pulled high by occasional girlish screams. The sound makes some pale faces wince. Somewhere in the throng, the lingering sugary breath of a contented sigh lifts the confetti from its position and it floats down, landing on the panting shoulders of a girl in red.
    “This is it – this is the pair!”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Damn sure!”
    “But the colour! Do you really want that sticking out from under your dress? It’ll look like your toes are bleeding.”
    “I adore them – they’re different!”
    “They’re hideous. And the heel is much too high. Can’t you just stick to the traditional white, like I did?”
    “Mum –“
    “Not these. Not ever.”
    The girl in red sinks onto an ivory stool, her mother’s fingers clasped around her wrist like talons. In a slow movement, the girl leans down to her ankles, her plaited hair falling over her shoulder.
    The confetti is swept away to curl through the air between exposed ankles before launching towards the lanterns along with a tossed bouquet. It lands like a kiss on a fabric petal and clings as they fall into the clutches of a blond girl with no ring on her left hand.
    “Me next!”
    “It only works if a bride throws it at a wedding, dummy.”
    “I’m only joking, Laura.”
    “Sure. Look, I don’t care which one, why don’t you pick?”
    “This one. The flowers match the dress.”
    “Fine.”
    “It’s your wedding, Laura.”
    “You’re into this stuff, not me.”
    “Are you into him?”
    “Who?”
    “Exactly.”
    Tossed again, the bouquet lands harder on the temporary flooring as the girl in black stomps away, the blond in her wake. Careless feet kick it along the ground until it rolls under a purple, velvet curtain.
    A bride scoops it up and the confetti is cleaved to the sweaty skin of her hand.
    “Just say the word, John, and I’ll call the whole thing off. I know it’s sudden but I’m staring at myself in wedding dress, for Christ’s sake, and I’ve never felt so ... alien. I’d tear it off if I could! I’m telling you, I don’t want this. It’s not too late for us.”
    The confetti shakes beneath the bride’s movements as she holds the phone closer against her ear. For a moment, there is silence.
    “Hello?”
    The confetti grows moist and darkens on the bride’s skin.
    “John? Are you there?”
    There is a rustle, then silk and lace pour down the body of the bride, dragging the torn confetti with it. It sinks onto the laminate floor before it is blinded by a mass of fabric. Only the distant sound of the marquee, quivering in a growing wind, echoes somewhere beyond the walls of the dress.

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