Pulling the Moves by Margaret Clark Page A

grabbed Steve and they’re talking to him. He nods. They leave, probably to copter back to Portland.
    ‘Come on,’ I say, as Mum tucks her arm through Steve’s and they swan up to the front of the room. ‘We’re all at the top table.’
    It’s a good wedding. The scout mums have made pumpkin and minestrone soup, so there’s a choice of the two. Straight after the soup course Mum and Steve do the bridal waltz to a live band in the corner. Sam dances with Cola and I dance with John because Danny says he can’t waltz. Mum’s determined tohave the dancing early because she reckons at most weddings the band doesn’t start up till late and everyone wants to go home. The rest of the guests get up and have a dance. Well, they call it dancing. They just clump together in pairs and shove each other round the floor. I can’t move to this stuff: it’s gross.
    Then the music stops again. We have the main course, a choice of roast beef or chicken with three vegs, and there’s more dancing. Then Steve makes this speech and says that Sam and I look nice, and on behalf of Mum he thanks everyone for coming. We toast the newlyweds with champagne.
    ‘Right,’ says Mum, plonking herself between Sam and Cola. ‘The moment of reckoning has come. What happened?’
    Sam tells this incredible story, with Cola filling in the gaps.
    ‘So Steve’s van’s a write-off?’ says Mum sounding grim.
    ‘Nah, just the side panel’s caved in,’ says Sam.
    ‘So who’s supposed to pay to fix it?’
    ‘Dunno.’
    Sam hangs his head and Cola goes red.
    ‘Don’t stress,’ says Danny. ‘I’ve got mates. We canfix it cheap. The insurance should cover the repairs, anyway.’
    ‘Ermph,’ goes Mum. But she doesn’t look too worried.
    ‘Lax out,’ I go. ‘This is your wedding day, Mum. And it’s nearly time to cut the cake.’
    More photos as Mum and Steve cut the cake. Then we have fruit salad or pav to finish off. The pav’s like a huge lump of frogs’ spawn, all uncooked in the middle. Serious spew food. The fruit salad’s got bruised pears and black bananas all through it. There’s more dancing, then it’s time for the telegrams.
    I’m cool, but they’re really off . Uncle Clive reads them out one by one. He’s got new bonded teeth and he lisps through them, sort of spitting out the words. There’s all these sick jokes about Steve burying his bone: there’ll be more than a fence running round the house soon with the patter of little feet ( yuck ): a joke about sex and Steve’ll come in two secs—everyone over eighteen’s laughing their heads off. Everyone under eighteen is dying of embarrassment!
    Then it’s time for Mum and Steve to go on their one-night honeymoon to a local hotel.
    ‘I don’t know,’ says Mum, regarding Danny and then Cola. ‘I think I’d better forget the honeymoonand stay home.’
    ‘Aw, Mum …’
    ‘I’ll chaperone,’ says John. ‘Cola can sleep in Leanne’s room and Danny can sleep in with Sam. I’ll take the couch.’
    ‘It’s all settled,’ says Steve. ‘Go and get changed, dear.’
    Mum shunts off to a back room and comes back minus the wedding dress, wearing a black outfit that makes her look like she’s going to a funeral rather than a honeymoon. We get in a circle and sing “Old Lang Syne” then more handshaking and hugging before they bail.
    Someone ties a flashing light from a roadworker’s site onto the back bumper as they drive off. It hits a speed hump, sparks and burst into flames! I think Mum and Steve are going to be blown up! Their car disappears round the corner in a cloud of smoke. I’m worrying, but no one else seems to be stressing.
    We all go back inside. I sit down, kick my shoes off under the table and pull my dress off my shoulders as the band finally starts up with some rock. I pull the pins from my hair and it comes tumbling down.
    Cooja’s trying to crack onto Bin. She and Cathy turn their backs on him. Tosca and Brownie ask themto dance. Cooja