All in the Game - the opening paragraphs

Rachel Katherine Marchant had spent her much of her adolescence yearning to feel that heady emotion that was commonly known as love at first sight. She, like her contemporaries at St Jude’s Secondary, was desperate to know what it was like to go literally weak at the knees at the mere sight of the man of her dreams, to see fireworks exploding and popping in the distance as the sound of a full orchestra swelled up in the background like something out of a fifties film. She wanted to swoon at the feet of a similarly swooning male before he carried her off into the sunset to live a blissful life together. Now, at last, she knew exactly what it was like. The orchestra were reaching a crescendo, the fireworks were blinding and she were swooning so much she had difficulty in standing upright.

Bizarrely enough, this was all happening to her on her wedding day as she stood at the altar, minutes away from becoming Mrs Matthew John Elliott.

It was, however, even more bizarre and more than a little unfortunate that Matt was not the man who had provoked this never-before-experienced emotion. And what was even more disturbing was the fact that Rachel had only glimpsed the vision of male hunkiness for a few seconds as she made her way up the aisle on her father’s arm but it was more than enough to send her reeling and wondering what the hell she were doing here dressed up like a dogs dinner in yards of taffeta and veil. She had stumbled slightly and her father gripped her arm firmly, turning slightly to her and mouthing “Alright?”, no doubt under the impression that she were about to bolt and leave him with a hefty bill for a non-existent wedding and to face the wrath of her mother.

Now she turned her head slightly to the left, hoping to catch a glance of the perfect specimen she had seen earlier but all she got was a face full of her mother and assorted relatives who were all looking at her with encouraging smiles on their faces, most of them looking like race-goers urging on a horse to the finishing line. Her mothers sense of relief was palpable, Rachel’s sister had been married for seven years this September and Eleanor Marchant was slightly concerned that Rachel’s shelf life may be expiring quicker than that of a ready made flan case. “You’re not getting any younger!” was the most used phrase in the Marchant household and had replaced that old favourite “You’re not going out dressed in that!”. Nicola O’Farrell, her Matron of Honour who had to be forced into wearing a deep red satin dress with a sweetheart neckline, gave her a slight grimace in response to Rachel’s own tentative smile.

Sunlight filtered in through the stained glass window in front of them, which looked beautiful and lifted the gloom of the church but Rachel could not determine what the glass was depicting, so frazzled was her brain. She thought back to the wedding rehearsal, just days ago when she and Matt were treated to a guided tour of the church and a ten minute rant on the vicars thoughts of marriage. He had mentioned something about Noah’s Ark but said nothing that she could remember. She was more concerned about where she should be at any given moment and to try to remember to come out of the left door to the vestry and not the right which led to the toilets.

Concentrating extremely hard on her vows (she fluffed them anyway) she listened to Matt’s strong unwavering voice as he promised to “have and to hold from this day forth” and wondered if they should have written their own vows as Nicola had done. It was too late, she thought with a pang, as she watched the gold band slide effortlessly onto the third finger of her left hand which was bare. Her engagement ring had been moved with great ceremony to her right hand after a quick tussle with the Fairy Liquid. Dust motes danced on the air and an overpowering waft of freesias welled up in the sudden breeze from the open door, making her eyes water. The vicar, puffed up with his own importance and with eyebrows that moved independently of each other, held his hands aloft and pronounced in booming tones guaranteed to get the attention of every person present. “I now pronounce you man - and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

A loud sob from Rachel’s mother punctuated the expectant silence as Rachel turned to face Matt properly, watching him through admittedly misty eyes as he smiled at her. This was, after all, her wedding day, she was entitled to a few tears and it couldn’t all be hayfever could it? Not to be outdone, Matt’s mother Alice gave an equally loud sob and a few staged sniffles. Rachel rolled her eyes at Matt as he leant in to kiss her in a somewhat restrained fashion before taking her hand and masterfully leading her into the vestry to sign the register.