Masters & Lovers Box Set One

Hurrying ahead to ensure that I arrive before the guests, in the dining room I help Ben guide old aunties, uncles, grannies, young couples and youngsters to their seats. It's supposed to be just Ben's task, but as I make to leave, to congratulate Michael and Charlotte, he throws me an imploring glance.

As I see the old lady he's trying to seat, I understand why. A menu clutched in her talons, "I don't like chicken. It gives me wind."

"James here put the menu together, Nan. He knows some other things you could choose."

"Like what?" She aims a basilisk glare in my direction.

"Hello, Mrs....?"

".... Brent...." mutters Ben.

"Hello, Mrs Brent. I'm James, Michael's Best Man. If you don't like chicken, you could have the vegetarian meal if you prefer?" The glare morphs to deep suspicion. "What's that then?"

"It's a bean and mushroom casserole."

"Beans give me wind too."

"Or we have quiche Lorraine?"

"I don't like all that foreign stuff...."

"How about some nice egg and bacon pie?"

She plumps up of a sudden, beaming at me. "Oh, yes! Lovely. I like egg and bacon pie."

"Perfect. I'll arrange that for you, then."

Shoulder to shoulder, in a brief explosion of camaraderie, Ben and I leave the old biddy clucking to the rest of the hens. "Egg and bacon pie?" he mutters from the side of his mouth.

"Do you think she knows what quiche Lorraine is?"

*****

The rest of the guests make their way into the dining room and, despite my unexpected emotional tumult, I have to admit that Michael and Charlotte make a handsome couple. I routinely wear a suit but getting Michael into any kind of formal wear is a challenge. Jeans and a good white shirt are about the end of his comfort zone.

But as he stands there, beside her, his blond hair bright in the sunshine streaming through the panes, I try to see him through her eyes; tall, well-built and with a crinkle-eyed smile that has felled many a woman over the years. Charlotte is radiant...

And who can blame her?

As I watch them, her gaze sweeps the room to settle on me. Brow furrowing, she tilts her head.

Painting on my best face, I stride across the room, offering my hand. As Michael takes it, "Congratulations, both of you." And I kiss her, chastely, on the cheek.

Her voice is a breathy whisper. "Thank you, Mas... James."

James....

My Jade-Eyes...

I want to hold her, to take her in my arms, to open my mouth over hers and show her how I feel....

And I can't....

But her eyes lift to mine; wide, depthless, and as green as the young hawthorn leaves which tremble in the hedgerows.

She knows....

A rumpus rattles from beyond the dining room, out in the entrance hall somewhere. My brittle mood snaps and I'm grateful for something to do, something solid I can deal with, to drown out the turmoil in my head. Beth's here. "What's all the racket?"

Richard eyeballs a porter hovering by the door. "Oh, some fuss over one of the guests. Something about the wheelchair access."

Michael's smile fades. "Damn! I didn't manage to get all the ramps in. Here, I'll go...."

I slap my palm on his chest. "The hell you will. That's my job today." And I point him, with Charlotte, to their place at the head of the table. "Go sit down with your wife."

Startled, he retreats, and I march out to follow the porter. He's a mouse of a man who appears to have shrunk out of his own uniform. "Now, which door is it?"

It transpires that another of Michael's aunties....

... How many does he have?

... Bertie Wooster didn't have this many aunts...

... is insisting on trying to come in, on her wheelchair, through a door too narrow to take it.

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It's a perfectly sensible door, of perfectly sensible proportions, but she's not a sensible woman, perfect or otherwise. The contraption she rides appears to be the bastard lovechild of a combine harvester and an armoured car. I've no clue what the variety of menacing devices strapped to it do. Levers, bars and handles project in all directions, threatening the ankles of women passing by, the reproductive prospects of men. The dashboard to the fore seems better suited to NASA than disability assistance.

The antique virago sits in the thing, face truculent, arms folded. She wears a hand-knitted mauve hat which doesn't match her lilac outfit....

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple, with a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me....

Oh, God...

Please don't let me age like that....

.... and in one yellow-stained hand, she cups a roll-up.

"I'm sorry, Madam. It just won't go through..." begins the porter. "If you will follow me to the main entrance..."

"Shan't," she snaps. "It's nippy out there."

It's a perfect May day....

Give me strength....

The porter, face crumpling, turns to me. "I'm sorry, Mr Alexanders. I just don't know...."

And I've had enough. "I don't care," I bellow. "Carry the bloody woman in if you have to." He flinches.

The old crone turns rheumy eyes on me. "Well, there's no need to get nasty." And with that, she stands from the wheelchair, pottering across to the dining room, roll-up in hand. "I shall make my own way in, if you don't mind," she says, with exaggerated dignity.

As she is about to enter, she turns back to the porter, pointing at the wheelchair. "And you can park that at the front with the other vehicles."

To think I volunteered for this job....

*****

The meal is magnificent.

Despite the earlier 'sauce debacle', the chef has conjured up an excellent replacement which complements the chicken very well indeed. I run the flavour over my tongue, swishing it around, trying to identify all the ingredients... Garlic... Tarragon... Black pepper...

But there's something...

Wonder if she'd share the recipe?

Probably not....

But I'm trying to distract myself. When I wrote my speech, I knew what I wanted to say, and I meant it with all my heart....

You chose to do this....

Every part of it....

How can I let my friend down now? The friend who has stood side by side with me for years. The friend who has never let me down. Or, when we let each other down, we helped each other stand again, together.

The meal is done. Waiters pass between the guests, filling flutes. I glance sidelong at the pair. They are indeed the very image of the 'Happy Couple'. Laughing and joking, he handsome, she so beautiful.... Together....

And abruptly, I feel old....

Too late for that.

Ignoring the griping in my gut, pushing my spectacles up my nose, I gather my sheaf of papers, make sure I have them in order, then stand, tapping my flute with a spoon. Raising my voice, "If I could have your attention, please." The general chatter subsides. All eyes turn towards me.

"Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen. Charlotte. Michael. Thank you all for being here today. For those of you who haven't bought me a drink yet, my name is James..."

Smiles and quiet laughter ripple over the tables. Guests nibble at cheese, sip at glasses.

"... Today, I have the honour and the privilege to be Best Man to Michael....

I turn to my friend who smiles brightly. But his smile has a nervous edge.

Wondering what I'm going to say....

"... When his marriage to Charlotte here was being discussed, Michael accepted my heavily dropped hints that I would like to be his Best Man. But only after I pointed out that, since, as I am often reminded, I am fond of the sound of my own voice, who better to give this speech?

"And so, it fell to me to ensure that this day turns out well and that everyone has a good time. I did my best, but I'm afraid Michael showed up anyway..."

Chuckles and titters mark a joke successfully delivered. My stomach settles.

"Before I move to the customary character assassination of the groom, I would just like to say, many thanks to our Bridesmaid. Beth, you look stunning, and you did a great job with all the help you gave.

"And thank you to all of you, the guests. I know that many of you have travelled a long way to be able to attend today..."