On Saturday I was at the completely fabulous wedding of KM, one of the greatest friendship finds I’ve made while living in London, and the author and rulesetter of the six in six with six challenge.
Everyone arrived for afternoon tea in their finest, we sang The Beatles during the ceremony, drank copious amounts of champagne, were treated to exceptional speeches, ate lots, drank more and then danced and danced and danced.
There’d been months of wed-min but it all paid off to make the most wonderful day.
I spent most of my day, as you often seem to at weddings, meeting new people and having pleasant chat about what they do and where and how they know the bride or groom, and doesn’t she look lovely, and wasn’t the wine over dinner glorious, and so on.
About 11pm, after dancing so energetically I’d given myself a stitch, I went to find the lovely girl I’d been sitting with at dinner to dance some more.
She was dancing with a couple of others so I joined them.
Somehow I ended up dancing with just one person, a dark-haired guy with pale eyes and the most amazing full beard.
We danced and danced. He, it turned out, was the wedding pianist. He’d played earlier in the day, run off to another event, and then come back for the last of the festivities. Which is when I found him.
We kept dancing. ‘You have lovely eyes,’ he said and I laughed at the cliche. ‘I’m being serious!’
‘I don’t really know what to say to that,’ I replied.
‘Well normally people tell me I have lovely eyes too.’
Which he did.
‘You do have lovely eyes,’ I said.
We danced a bit more and tried to shout conversation over the music. Then they played New York, New York, the dancefloor cleared and I turned to him and said ‘You need to take my phone number and then we can see each other again.’
‘My phone has died,’ he said.
So I took his number and then told him I’d give him a missed call so he would have my number. ‘Can you not write your number down somewhere? My phone has died.’
So I explained again that I’d text or call him so that when his battery was charged he could retrieve my number.
This all took some time while we tried to find phones and remember numbers and type them in.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Now I’ve got your number and you’ll get mine.’ I was feeling very satisfied at how proactive and organised I was being.
‘But what good is that to me right now?’ he asked, then looked me right in my eye, and kissed me. Very chastely, very sweetly, and I might add, very beardily.
At this point CC arrived. ‘O for goodness sake just swap numbers, we need to go!’
‘Write your number down,’ he said. ‘My phone has died.’
I only had lipstick and tissues in my bag and was about to attempt to write it, when I was called again – ‘the taxi’s outside waiting!’
So I said goodbye, told him to call me and ran out like Cinderella to get my lift home.
‘Well done,’ said CC. ‘There was only one single man at this wedding and you found him!’
The next morning it occurred to me that I had misunderstood what he’d been trying to tell me. That it wasn’t his phone battery that had died, as I had thought, so that when he charged his phone he’d have my number, but his actual phone, meaning anything I send him is entirely useless and inaccessible. I didn’t even leave a shoe for him to trace me with as I left the building.
So now the question is, will the handsome piano player want to track me down, and will he try?