The Wedding Story

What, no wedding list?

“Good for you for keeping it simple,” our guests said after we’d informed them we didn’t have a wedding list. I explained. “Following the ceremony we’ll offer Champagne and cake but those who’ll join us for dinner later on, will pay their own way.” “Good idea,” a D.J. friend commented. “That way only those who are genuinely interested will come.” My neighbour stuck his fists in his pockets. “I hate wedding lists anyway,” he said. “You feel your friendship is measured by how much money you spend.”

“Oh, but I really, really want to get you guys something special!” My Milanese friend protested. She wasn’t alone. “Some of us want to give you a present, Christine.” I scratched my head. “Well then, just get us a gift voucher.”

The magnificent seven

The buck’s and hen’s night would consist of separate dinners, followed by Disco Inferno. The two parties would merge at midnight in the V.I.P. lounge of Lugano’s leading disco. My friend the film editor, organized the table, the names on the door and a bottle of Vodka at the bar. We were all set to party. I wore sparkles, a low-cut dress and strappy high-heels. At 7:00 p.m., the weekend before the wedding, seven of my girlfriends drove me to dinner in the country. The restaurant was outrageous. Seventies disco blaring through the P.A. system and waiters who sat on your lap while they took the order. The place was filled to the brim. We had to shout at each other across the table, but the food was delicious. We ordered giant skewers of filet steak grilled on the fire. At the table next to ours, a famous heavy-metal group and their entourage, celebrated the release of their latest album.

Between the first and second course, the maid of honour forced me to wear a sign on my back. It read, “This is your last chance to buy me a drink before I get married! “To my friend’s delight the sign was a man-magnet. Immediately, the lead singer of the band and three of his mates rocked over to our table, bringing their chairs with them. The waiter served our dessert, which consisted of a giant strawberry tart in the shape of male genitalia, topped by a mound of whipped cream. My girlfriends screeched and clapped their hands. “So you’re really getting married then?” The singer asked. I nodded. He looked at me compassionately, then put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Let me buy you ladies a round of tequila!”

The rockers stood back and watched, as we slammed the glasses in unison on the table and swallowed the shots in a split-second. More rounds were ordered. We kept up the pace, downing the Tequilas with consistent vigour. Before long, our table the loudest in the room, became the main attraction. We were surrounded by men who’d deserted their dinners to buy us drinks. After the seventh round, the tequila set in. By the ninth we were dancing on the tables. The waiters turned the music up to eleven, jumped up on the tables, and danced with us.

I don’t recall getting to the discotheque. What I can remember is finding my sweetheart on the dance floor, holding a stubby and with a vacuous look in his eye. He wore a sign that looked just like mine, it said: “This is your last chance to give me a kiss before I get married!”

At 3:00 a.m. I stared at my unfinished Vodka and realized it was time to go. We spent Sunday in bed.