After Cleo by Helen Brown Page A

for their wedding. The big day was just five months away.
    They’d chosen a wonderful venue: an old convent in the country town of Daylesford, an hour and a half’s drive from Melbourne. The tiny chapel oozed a blend of romance and spirituality. A few steps away from the chapel, the reception area opened on to balconies with views of silver-green hills nudging a vast sky. Eucalyptus on the breeze added a touch of air freshener.
    They’d also booked a photographer and band, and a celebrant had been found, though she kept forgetting their names. However, organising these things turned out to be just the first tier of sorting out the Modern Wedding.
    I’d had no idea there was such a thing as wedding cake emporiums until I found myself wandering through a grotto of gateaux with Rob and Chantelle. For those who considered gilded flowers too restrained, there were cakes smothered in ostrich feathers and sequins. Rob announced it wasn’t how a cake looked but how it tasted that mattered. The shop assistant asked if he’d like a tasting and presented him with a plate of what looked like plastic cubes.
    â€˜This isn’t cake!’ he muttered, munching one thoughtfully. ‘It’s not even made with real eggs. Let’s get out of here.’
    I was impressed by Chantelle’s pragmatic approach to weddings. Instead of ordering a multi-thousand dollar gown from a boutique, she’d found a designer who worked from home. She’d then treated her mother and me to glimpses of tasteful fabric samples in subtle pink. Crystals and pearls were on the agenda. She had an aversion to veils. With her dark hair, peachy complexion and vivid blue eyes, she was going to look stunning.
    Like every straight man alive, Rob was proving himself a shopping bore. In every wedding-related shop we’d dragged him into he acted as if we were holding him hostage. But I enjoyed the outings. Every mother wants her son to have a beautiful wedding, and nobody deserved one more than Rob.
    In between times, I was preparing for the surgery physically and emotionally. Finding 100 per cent cotton nighties that didn’t resemble something a granny might expire in proved impossible. I ended up buying three in shades of blue, inappropriately frilly, and a pair of navy slippers decorated with dachshunds. The shop assistant asked if I was going away somewhere. Yes, hospital, I replied, getting evil pleasure out of watching her smile fade.
    Appointments were made to see Jodie the hairdresser, the psychologist (why not?) and David, a friend blessed with exceptional flair in furnishings. Our bedroom was too stark to feel sick in. The bedside tables bore circular scars from thousands of morning cups of tea. If I was going to be incarcerated there for weeks, it might as well be jollied up.
    Not that David was feeling particularly happy, his partner having traded him in for a younger model and run off to Perth.
    â€˜I want to end it all!’ he moaned as he flicked through his curtain samples. ‘I’m going to jump off Westgate Bridge. But only if there’s media to cover it.’
    Fortunately, a shattered heart had no effect on David’s taste – which was impeccable as ever. He found two bedside tables, one tall and pale, the other compact and deliberately distressed by some Asian workhouse slave, no doubt.
    Beautifully mismatched, the tables made a perfect pair – like all the best relationships. With new lamps and semi translucent curtains (off white, fine Italian lawn) I kidded myself the bedroom was going to be stylish and new-smelling enough to make me look forward to the months ahead.
    When David mentioned there was enough curtain fabric left over for the Marquis de Sade room, I said why not ? Maybe off white curtains that only three people on earth would realise were breathtakingly expensive would reduce the gloom factor. I decided to have the stairs re-carpeted while we were at it. Pale, elegant