I settle myself back on my bed and have another big mouthful of ice cream. After a moment, the creamy treat calms my senses enough to get back to work. I pick up the forms and get started.
Question One: Provide three adjectives that describe your perfect wedding.
Picking up my pen, I write:elegant, simple, unfussy.
Is unfussy a word? Whatever, I'm leaving it.
I shovel a large spoonful into my mouth, daring brain freeze to kick in as the indulgent chocolatey goodness slides over my tongue. Flipping through the pages, I see I have only one answer down and sixty-two more to go. I'm tempted to just write, "Anything's fine because I'm the least-picky bride of all time," but then I think better of it. I mean, after all, what if this Imogen person has terrible taste and I end up with a laughingstock of a wedding? We can't have that now, can we? There's no way Will would like that.
Question Two: Provide examples of weddings you've attended that fit your concept of ideal and what were the exact elements of those weddings that you especially like?
Groaning, I sit back on my pillows and have another bite of ice cream. Well, that’s hardly fair, it’s a two-parter.
Meghan Markle and Prince Harry - Understated elegance.
Arthur and Tessa — Intimate North Country setting, casual feel to it.
An hour later, I'm filled with regret and ice cream and I’m only on question thirty which, as I glance over the next ten questions, I see is the start to a deep dive into what she terms my ‘bridal psyche.’
Question Thirty-Two: Think back to age fourteen. What type of wedding did you imagine at that age?
"How the hell am I expected to remember that? Hire a hypnotist?" I mutter.
Snapping my fingers, I realize Idoin fact have a way to find that out. I get out of bed and hurry down the hall to my den, open the closet, and start searching through the marked boxes of childhood memorabilia. My wedding dream album sits neatly on the top of the box marked ‘Teenage Arabella,’ exactly where I left it after I made the mistake of showing it to Tessa and Nikki. I pluck it out of the box, then hurry out of the room, shutting the light off and making my way back to bed.
Flipping through it, I open the first page and roll my eyes at what I've written. In big loopy letters with all the I’s dotted with hearts, it says:
This book is dedicated to my future husband.
Even though we haven’t met, I already love you.
You are my heart. You are my everything.
Oh brother. Fourteen-year-old me was a sappy moron.
I flip through it as quickly as possible, hoping for some type of answer that won't make me sound like a complete idiot. Pink unicorn—no. Puffy peach bridesmaid dresses—absolutely not. How was that ever a thing? Random picture of Disney's Sleeping Beauty in the blue gown. Still love that damn dress.
Photo of Patrick Dempsey in tuxedo. I flip to the next page, then stop. “Well, actually, that is rather nice."
It's a photograph of an old stone church filled with wisteria vines that drop down from the ceiling. The next several pages are all similar in nature in that they include pictures of various tree- and flower-filled churches, twinkly lights and candles everywhere. There's even an outdoor wedding set in a forest with an enormous wooden arbor covered in vines and a happy couple standing with their hands joined underneath it. I wonder how they’re doing now. I hope they’re still so in love.
I slow my pace and look at each page, carefully eying the pictures and imagining Will and I smiling at each other in each setting. After a few minutes, I hear myself let out a wistful sigh and realize thatthisis what I want—something completely romantic with greenery and warm lights and butterflies flitting about and even a couple of birds sitting atop the rafters singing sweetly. Although, I suppose one of them might let a poo go, which wouldn’t be all that pleasant, especially if it lands on one of the guests.
Okay, so not that, but I do know I don’t want to stand in a stark, stone church with a few tall flowerpots set out here and there. I want the fairy-tale. I want the dream.
Bugger. That’s not convenient at all, really. Not if I’m going to avoid the bridezilla reputation that is already teetering on the edge of becoming public perception. Idowant to give very exact instructions for every last detail of the day. But I can't really do that if I'm pretending — I mean if I’mgoingto be a very Zen bride who has a mature outlook on life and is to be respected wherever she goes. And let’s face it, I had to fight way too hard to get anyone to respect me. I’m not going to lose an inch of ground I’ve gained over a wedding. No way.
Closing the book, I give a firm nod (to whom, I don’t know. Me, maybe?), then I stare at it, my heart aching just the tiniest bit and calling “Have the fairy-tale, Arabella.”
Hmm…I suppose what happens behind the scenes doesn't necessarily have to become public knowledge, does it?
Unless it does.…and italwaysdoes.
Dammit.
On the form, I jot downnatural elements at the wedding and reception, and in brackets, I addto honour Will’s beloved career.
There, that ought to move things in the proper direction without making it seem like I have any needs whatsoever. I flip the page to the wisteria-filled church again and my heart fills with longing. I’m suddenly desperate to have that. Why not, right? Why can’t I care about the worldandmy wedding? The two aren’t mutually exclusive, are they?
