Julia's Big Day

by Mary Swann

My sister Julia married a snowman. Yes, I know what you're thinking. I thought it too. We all did. But the wedding, as Julia saw it, didn't necessarily mean acquiring a husband. She had this high powered job as assistant manager at one of the larger London stores. Her flat in London had been photographed by Hello. She had had no end of boyfriends. It wasn't marriage she wanted. But she'd definitely determined to have her BIG DAY.

She booked St Catherine's Church and you don't get much more picturesque than that. It was twelfth century and sported a ceiling simply heaving with golden angels and extravagant scrollwork. Heaven knows how she squared the vicar but I do know there was a leaky roof in urgent need of attention and after the wedding, the scaffolding was up and crawling with workmen before you could say "restoration fund".

In fact the service was not actually held in the church at all but in the grounds, with the grey stone walls and gothic arches merely providing an atmospheric backdrop for the photos.

Julia had wanted snow and as the ceremony was scheduled for January the tenth she had a fair chance of getting her own way. She usually did.

In fact the service was due to kick off at six pm and the skies, having hurled crusty white blobs earthwards all day, drew breath at five leaving that eerie magical golden light over everything that only comes with thick snow at twilight.

Someone must have decided she needed at least the appearance of a bridegroom. I don't know who built him but by the time the bridal party arrived he was six foot tall and wearing a frockcoat and grey top hat. I felt he could be forgiven for looking a little stiff and formal on his wedding day.

We drove to St Catherine's. Dad, visibly uncomfortable in his hired suit, was nearly seventy-five and inclined to be muddled. I think Julia had convinced him we were taking part in some sort of village winter pageant. Our mother was cruising in the Indian Ocean with her third husband and had sensibly declined the invitation. She'd sent a rather chilly email saying that as she didn't want snowballs for grandchildren and what the hell did Julia think she was playing at?

The hundred odd guests were assembled in neat rows either side of the long pathway and trying not to mind about their best shoes in six inches of snow. Julia had arranged for them each to hold a candle in a crystal jar and I had to admit the effect with all that sparkling snow and the moon sliding out from behind a cloud to touch everything with silver-gilt was the most theatrically romantic sight you can imagine.

The bride advanced slowly on dad's arm. No expense had been spared over the dress. Created by Katie Albright, Julia's favourite designer of the time, the frothy silk skirt slithered and swished around her perfect size ten figure. Carrying a huge bunch of Christmas roses she glided gracefully to centre stage. As sole bridesmaid I tottered along behind clutching some snowdrops. In fact as the photos later showed, Julia was practically invisible, camouflaged in all that whiteness, and her upswept blond hair and milky complexion didn't help.

Enclosed in a tight beige satin dress that pulled a bit under the arms and a white fur wrap that was more necessity than glamour, I reflected sadly that my outfit had been chosen to give minimal detraction from the bride. She needn't have worried. All the good looks in the family got used up when Julia was born and there were only the scrapings left when it came to me.

Edward Kinsella was best man. He had the rough country boy looks of a young Jude Law. I remembered he worked with Julia and I wondered idly what he'd arranged by way of a stag night for the bridegroom; an evening of fun and games at Iceland? Perhaps they'd popped into the morgue for some high jinks in the small hours.

There was an anxious moment when the vows were actually exchanged. Julia had chosen a ring in white gold but had frugally provided what looked like a curtain ring for her stand-in spouse. It dangled on the end of a ribbon as she placed it tenderly around the snowman's slopping shoulders, rather as one awards a gold medal.

Poor Reverend Pike had managed well up until then but with a vocally challenged bridegroom, the promises were all a bit one-sided and he seemed to be looking around for divine inspiration. I noticed Julia glance meaningfully at the church roof and he swept gallantly on, assuring the congregation of the sacred bond that these two had entered into and all that bit about until death do them part. I thought it was more likely to be a rise in the temperature tomorrow that did the trick but then modern marriages do tend to be transitory.

Julia's friends were far too well bred to snigger. In fact Ms Fiona Clarinton-Reith from sales was heard to murmur, "well if she can do it..." I wondered if Julia had started a trend and brides everywhere would breathe a sigh of relief at not necessarily being required to share the limelight.

She'd hired a carriage and six cream ponies. We milled around adjusting silk flounces and trying to remember where we'd left the confetti while the photographers snapped away.

The reception at the Imperial was lavish. The top table had swags of white silk roses and the candles glittered prettily on crystal glasses and white china. Julia was radiant. She reminded me of those opera stars who, taking their third curtain call glow with the adulation and adoration. This was her moment of glory, her dream of being the centre of the universe for a day.

The four tier cake had white roses cascading down the side and a tiny solitary bride on top. Julia twirled around the floor with a succession of past boyfriends. Someone told me Julia had organised a raffle where the winner got to come on the honeymoon. I was watching her floating by with Andrew Grayson whom she'd ditched a couple of years back. They made a handsome couple and I was wondering if he'd be the lucky one. Apparently all eleven exes were hoping for the prize.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and there was Edward Kinsella saying "Shall we?"

He danced well, and my normally awkward feet seemed to be finding a rhythm they'd never known so I was disappointed when the band took a breather and he murmured, "I've got to go."

I must have looked surprised because he leaned very close to my ear and said, "I must rescue that frockcoat from the churchyard before it freezes overnight." Then he suddenly looked different and unsure of himself and added. "You wouldn't give me a hand would you?"

So we slipped out while the band was starting up, "You're My Dream of a Dream" and Julia hesitating about who'd be the lucky guy this time.

We walked. It was only down the block to the church and I was past caring about my shoes. I mean when was I going to wear ivory satin pumps again?

The poor old bridegroom looked forlorn and abandoned as well he might. We unwound the scarf and unbuttoned the smart coat but the top hat seemed to be welded to his head with frost. We chipped it off with a discarded lucky horseshoe.

The clouds had cleared and the moonlight was the brightest I'd ever seen with that unreal silver glow intensified now.

Inside the church we could hear someone practising the organ and the music flowed out dramatically like aural lava over the snow.

Edward put an arm round my waist – we'd both knocked back a few glasses of Moet and we waltzed between the grave stones until I stumbled and we started making snow angels, you know the way you do, waving your arms to make the wings, and we laughed so hard the organist stopped in mid anthem and came out to see what was happening.

So we bundled up the bridegroom's outfit. Edward gave me his coat. It was cold but the snow was so crisp and dry that my dress hardly had a mark.

We made our way back to the reception in time to be told that dad had just made an impromptu talk about pension rights under the Labour goverment. He seemed now to be hugely enjoying his eldest daughter's unorthodox nuptials. I gave him a quick hug, feeling sorry I'd missed his speech.

As I reached my table the band threw out an impressive drum roll and the raffle was announced. There was an expectant hush and with due regard for the drama of the moment, the bride selected a name from the hat.

I could almost hear a mass intake of breath of eleven ex-boyfriends in hopeful anticipation of three weeks on the gorgeous sun-kissed beaches of the Maldives with my super beautiful sister.

And yes, you guessed, out came Edward's name, and I looked away because I didn't want to see the triumph on his face, and silly me, I'd been hoping that perhaps with Julia gone.... well you know, even us plain girls have our dreams.

Well, he walked right up to Julia and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He handed back his ticket saying he didn't deserve her and then he came and put his arm round me and Julia stared with that stunned look you'd get if the sun had decided to rise in the west. But, bless her, she gamely carried on, drew another name and she and Liam Refson, whom she'd dated for a while last year, disappeared to change and catch their flight to paradise.

And Edward and me? Well we got married the following Christmas and we had a honeymoon in Switzerland so we could make snow angels and drink a toast to Julia and her BIG DAY.