The Country House Wedding of The Season: Call Me Blair

I don't know who this DJ is but I can assure you that whatever they're paying him they're getting their money's worth.

My inner thighs killed with A Taste of Honey's' Boogie Oogie Oogie. Literally and musically he put us through our paces. Not helped by James and his dad, who've roped me into their sideways shuffle. I've done this dance with them before. Then, I'd willingly joined in as if I was the Lauryn Hill of their Fugees. Except that time, it was a pair of winter socks comfortably separating the soles of my feet from the floor.

Today, heels have me four inches off the ground. Somehow we'd turned into a full-on dance crew, with Baby Boomers through to Gen Z, synchronised in. When Mr C shuffled right, we all shuffled right. When he shuffled left, clapped and leaned back, we all followed suit and 'boogie oogied' the same way. He made light work of it. I on the other hand clamped down on an inner thigh pain because far too much boogieing was happening on this dance floor to stop. If only the DJ would tone it down a bit. Let me catch some air.

But me catching my breath did not appear anywhere on the DJ's play list. He had a job to do, a reputation to uphold. One I'm told he'd built up in the Pachas, Omnias and Amnesias of this world. So what does he do, he breaks the organised dancing. Doubles down on some party popping with The Brothers Johnson's Stomp. Jack is in on the action helping his bride hold up her new dress she's changed into just so she can stomp properly. Charlotte goes for James again and Fredric, sheer joy about his face, comes for me. Its beginning to look as if, between the two of them, they'd drawn up some sort of contract. Still the dancefloor was electric, not at all what I'd anticipated. I'd anticipated an evening of fine wine, genteel conversation. You know, the soft strains of a Harpist playing. And, the wedding indeed delivered on that.

What was unexpected, what I was unprepared for was the rat-a-tat-tat of a riot of this dancefloor. If you'd said to me I was down some street in Buenos Aires, I'd not have known the difference. (I've never been to Buenos Aires either so may want to take that into consideration.) Still, everyone from the bride, the groom, father of the groom, bridesmaids, rest of the wedding party, hands in the air, jumped in time to the beat.

At the edge of the dancefloor, one not so sober wedding guest broke into an Irish jig, locks arms with an unsuspecting waitress and spins her into a whirling Riverdance. I can see she's caught between staying professional and surrendering to the madness. Another wedding guest swoops in. I think he's coming to her rescue but only takes the tray. When he takes it, lifts it like a championship belt and parades it around the ring of the dancefloor. He is doing his thing when yet another waiter, graciously reclaims it.

Fredric follows my gaze tracking this laughable chain of events. And guess what? Now, he's hauling me off. Clearly this was some sort of rich-people's game. I'd certainly never been to a wedding or party where the entertainment involved a dancing tray. But here I am, lifting one above my head like it’s the World Cup trophy, shimmying around, until of course someone else swoops in. Nabs it.

Wedding Guest. Tray. Staff.

Wedding Guest. Tray. Staff.

As if this wasn’t a no-expense-spared wedding where everything from Caroline's dress arriving in its own limo to the champagne chilled at the exact altitude of the Matterhorn to the deer loitering photogenically at key sightlines had been considered. I can’t help but wonder: if I tried this at some other party, if it'd carry the same cachet… or just make me look completely insane.

When the song said everybody take it to the top, we took it to the top. Belted from the top of our lungs. And when the DJ dropped the sound, all anyone heard was a chorused 'Stomp.' Everyone joining in on the belting, 'stomp all night' Then he queued the tune again and both song and wedding goers are in sync. Just as well the Fevershams hired all of Chewton Glen for this wedding because now we all sang, 'party till the morning light.' Infectious, we sang it and meant it.

I'm willing to bet, these high end tuxes, couture gowns, footwear fancies and that waiting tray have never ever seen such high jinks.

That these walls of Chewton Glen will remember this romp tonight for as long as these walls stand. But I leave the betting to the betters. I too excuse myself for the ladies and from Fredric, even with him being as much fun as he is. At least here he can't follow.

Out of the ladies, lipstick redone; I find James waiting for me. I'd gotten one sentence in when Charlotte appeared. James gotta see something she said. He declines. I'd given up at this point and insisted it was ok. Left no room for him to argue with me because Ms Charlotte was intent on holding on to James for the night. I wasn't concerned, later we go back to the same room. I clear my throat on the thought.

Right now, it is my four inch heels that are giving my feet and thighs the work out they've not had in any recent bedtime. To my surprise, Fredric, is cutting a rug like he's some Tom Hiddleston. That man can move. An elate circle forms nicely around him and he becomes the epicentre of attention. I admit to being impressed, fascinated even. The wedding party cheers him on which only serves to fuel his ego. I leave him in his revellery and take a seat back at our dinner table to give my stomped out feet a rest. Two women remain seated on an opposite table since dinner, hours ago, in forever gossip. Their husbands however have since got up. One is on the dance floor (his dad dance palatable), the other I cannot see. I sit down, hop my right foot across my knee and massage it.

'We've not made love in months. Don't even sleep in the same bed.' One of the women says. The woman whose husband I cannot see. My ears prick.

'Whaat?' The other woman shrieks. Her volume challenging those out of the speakers. 'Oh my gawd, Sara, I'm so sorry.'

'No its fine.' Sara responds.

'What's fine? How is that fine? Is he seeing someone else?' The other woman shoots back.

I too want to know how that's fine. If he is seeing someone else and sneak a glance their way.

'Jessica, my dear?'

I turn back, find Charlotte's dad, his arm outstretched to me.

'Since my daughter is dancing with your date, how about I dance with you?' I looked up from my under massaged leg to Charlotte's dad who's just robbed me of some very good gossip.

'Sure'. My face registered all the excitement my ears were now deprived of. I'd looked down at my heels to make sure they were fixed.

Mr Feversham's arm still at the ready, I plop my right foot back to the floor and it pinches just a bit. He being so chummy, there's no way Charlotte got any of his genes.

Back on my feet, I strutted on to the dance floor next to Mr and Mrs C doing their thing. So too are the bride and groom. Its a live band now gifting the dancefloor of all the funk from KC and The Sunshine's Band Boogie Shoes and we ease into it. Off in a corner, a bridesmaid is under the giggles of one of the grooms men kissing off her neck.

While this dance with Mr Feversham had cost me a little gossip, I now had a meeting to discuss one of the most valuable projects I'll ever discuss. The type of project Architectural Digest would call about, once finished and my bank balance glitter in once paid.

The DJ is back on his set with Boogie 2Nite by Booty Luv. The air is thick with body heat and the scent of six hour old fragrances but this crowd has a new lease of energy. I wouldn't lie, I'm regretting every inch of the heels I'm wearing but I refuse to take them off. Another brides maid is braver than I am, she's taken hers off. Braver still, I suspect was the wine and dimmed lights telling her, she's a bigger dancer than she really is.

Now if my Beverly Hills Iced Tea starts whispering that to me, everyone's in trouble.