You’d think after the German tourists incident, I’d have learned to stop saying yes to things I’m wildly unqualified for. You’d think.
But Spain does this thing to your brain. The sun, the wine, the general absence of consequence — it softens your grip on reality. And so, standing outside a café in Moraira, holding a rather average café con leche, I found myself nodding vigorously as a woman called Carlotta offered me a job as a wedding planner.
Carlotta had teeth like piano keys and sunglasses bigger than her face. She ran some kind of event planning agency — although whether it was fully legal, I’m still not sure — and had mistaken my vague mumbling about “doing events back in England” as professional experience.
By “doing events” I had meant: I once organized my friend Zoe’s hen do. We got drunk on Prosecco in a caravan park near Margate. But Carlotta didn’t ask for details.
“Perfect! You can assist on Saturday, yes?” she said, taking my silence as agreement. “Destination wedding! Big villa! Very exclusive!” She clapped. “The British like you.”
I think it was the “the British like you” that made me say yes. As if being British automatically qualified me to coordinate my own people. Like a sheepdog for expats.
The villa was obscene. One of those whitewashed cliffside monstrosities with too many infinity pools and entirely too few safety railings. The couple getting married were called Olivia and Tristian — of course they were — and they had flown in 100 of their closest friends to drink rosé and pretend they weren’t cheating on each other.
Carlotta had given me three tasks:
- Make sure the florist delivered.
- Keep the father of the bride sober until at least 5pm.
- Don’t let the saxophonist wander off again.
I failed at all three.
The florist, a man called Paco, arrived two hours late and with peonies instead of ranunculus. I googled both words and made up a story about how peonies were more symbolic in Mediterranean cultures. The bride cried anyway.
The father of the bride, an absolute unit named Clive, was already on his fourth gin when I arrived. He offered me one. I said no. He called me a “killjoy” and I somehow ended up holding his hip flask all afternoon, like an idiot custodian of bad decisions.
As for the saxophonist — Rodrigo — he was missing entirely. Someone later found him swimming naked off the rocks with the mother of the groom. Honestly, by Spanish standards, it barely registered.
The ceremony, miraculously, happened. A drone flew overhead, filming the happy couple as they exchanged vows while squinting into the blinding sun. A small child vomited into a planter. The celebrant — a British expat priest who looked like he moonlighted as a magician — forgot half the names.
Everyone said it was “magical.” That’s what rich people say when something nearly catastrophic happens but doesn’t quite ruin the photographs.
At midnight, Carlotta handed me an envelope of cash and kissed both my cheeks.
“You see? You’re natural for this!” she smiled. “Next month, Ibiza?”
I smiled back. “Of course.”
Because apparently I have a problem.
