Chapter 7
The bridal expo is unmissable as wave after wave of women make a beeline for the giant doors of the Convention Centre. Most are brides attending with a good friend (probably the maid of honour) or a mother, though some are surrounded by their entourage of bridesmaids. Keats balks when we come within sight of the front doors and the swarm of women beyond.
I grab his arm and pull him along.
“Come on, best man.”
He groans. It wasn’t his idea to tag along. I had to get Isabella and Byron to pull the Best Man’s Duties card on Keats to pressure him to attend this event with me. “What exactly are we supposed to do here?”
“Get an idea of prices for photographers, videographers,” I say, checking my list, “wedding cakes, bridesmaids’ dresses, groomsmen’s outfits, bridal cars, string quartets, harpists, DJs and florists.”
“No shit? And why do you need me?”
“Because of that.” I point to the groups of women with plastic forks in hand at a stall for wedding cakes visible from the entrance. The loud chatter reminds me of seagulls at the beach when someone is silly enough to offer them hot chips. “I’m not going in there alone.”
“And the other bridesmaids?”
“Too busy.” I don’t bother telling him that I hadn’t exactly pressured the others to come with me because he’s my preferred companion.
There’s a table covered in white cloth and sprinkled with wedding themed scatter at the entrance. A couple of middle-aged women in staff T-shirts are sitting there with big smiles as they greet the flow of customers, and take their entry fee.
“When’s your big day?” the permed, ginger-haired of the two asks us when it’s our turn to pay to get in.
“Sixteenth of November,” I say at the same time Keats scoffs, “We’re not together.”
The expo staffer looks at me, waiting for clarification. I lean in and explain in a stage whisper, “I meant, the wedding we’re here for is on the sixteenth of November. I’m maid of honour and his brother’s marrying his ex-girlfriend, so he’s a bit touchy.”
The staffer puts a consoling hand on Keats’ forearm. He regards her appendage like he’s got a whole Brussels sprout in his mouth, then frowns at me.
“That’ll be thirty dollars for two tickets, dear.”
“You’re kidding?” Keats takes his wallet out and extends to her a platinum credit card. She looks at it like he’s a clueless, hot guy.
I take out a ten and a twenty and give them to the woman, pushing Keats along as we’ve already held the line long enough.
“They charge you to get in here? It’s a big promo for all these companies.” He sounds disgruntled but takes a twenty out of his wallet and gives it to me.
I reach for change in my purse but he shakes his head. I don’t argue. Fine by me.
We stop just beyond the wide entrance of the exhibition hall. There’s practically a football field of stalls and displays, with a stage and catwalk at one end of the cavernous hall. I’d never been involved in a wedding before, so I never realised it was such a big industry. Have these weekend expos always been around?
“So, what now?” Keats stands at my side, stance wide, eyes taking in the enormity of our task ahead.
“Now we stroll.” I must’ve sounded like an expert because he falls into step with me and lets me take the lead.
The big group of giggling, raucous women have thankfully moved away from the first cake stall. The vendor is busily restocking her cupcake stand and cutting up a wedding cake into bite-size squares.
She smiles at us as we near. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I see her give me the once over, like she’s worried I’d eat everything she’s just laid out.
Keats heads straight for the free cakes while I resist the urge, instead going for the display folder on the table. He inspects each one closely before picking up a cube and tentatively nibbling a corner. Once it passes the taste test, he puts the whole thing in his mouth and chews with a slightly bored expression. He doesn’t look like he’s ever worried about his weight all his life—that’s great genes. I’m so jealous.
“The cupcakes are really popular these days,” the stall owner tells me, offering a white frosted one with a silver heart outline on it to Keats. “Do you have an idea what kind of cake you want?”
Keats shakes his head, chewing on the heart that he demolished in one bite.
“Probably something more traditional,” I answer. “Do you have a price list?”
“I could give you an estimate on how much it will cost but it really depends on how many tiers you want and what each tier is made of. If you could find a design you like, that would give us a better idea of price. If you wait here, I’ll just get the other folder of cakes.”
“Any good?” I ask Keats.
“The mud cake was a little dry. But this cupcake’s all right. Here.” He extends the untouched half of it to me.
I look at it so close to my mouth. The gesture seems to mean nothing to him, but my heart jumps at the intimacy of shared food, and being fed.
“I don’t have boy germs,” he says when I don’t try the cake immediately.
I take a small bite, the fresh butter icing sticking to my upper lip. I quickly lick it off, not wanting to look like a slob.
“Aw, practising for the big day?” the vendor says, returning with the cake folder. Keats and I exchange a smile, sharing the private joke that we’re not really together. He doesn’t bother correcting her this time, instead nodding while he continues to demolish the remainder of the cupcake. “You two make a lovely couple. You’ve probably noticed, we don’t often see such hands-on grooms. There are hardly any men here.”
I love this woman. I want to recommend her to Isabella because surely a person this nice deserves our business.
“You two
