The Caterer Evaporated at Noon

The confirmation call at 10 a.m. went to a disconnected number. The backup mobile went to a full voicemail box. By 10:30 the best man and I were standing in front of the caterer's unit on the industrial estate, looking through the window at a bare kitchen with a TO LET sign leaning against the wall. A neighbouring unit's owner strolled over and delivered the eulogy: 'Gone Tuesday. Owed everybody.'

One hundred and fifty guests. Reception at two. Deposit: gone, along with, apparently, the company's directors, to a jurisdiction with agreeable weather.

What happened next is why I tell this as a love story about people in general. The bride's aunt Rosa, informed at 10:45, did not gasp; she rolled up her sleeves in a gesture I will remember on my deathbed and said, 'How many burners does the venue have?' The venue — a community hall, our budget's one stroke of luck — had a full kitchen. Rosa took command like a wartime general. Two more aunties were mobilised. The supermarket manager, upon hearing the situation at the trade counter, personally drove a van of chicken, rice and vegetables to the hall and refused payment beyond cost.