I was not laughing. Neither was the vicar, nor Emery, nor, indeed, my mother.
As we trailed out of the church, I hung back to speak to Daddy, who was making a furtive call on his mobile. As soon as he saw me, he hung up.
‘I’ve got that cheque for you,’ I said bravely. ‘I can give it to you now, on the condition that there is no mention whatsoever of this again. Especially not tomorrow.’
Daddy stopped by a large gravestone. ‘Cheque? I thought we said cash.’
I stared at him. ‘You think I carry five grand in used tenners around with me?’
‘I need that money now, Melissa,’ he said, and checked his watch. ‘Plenty of time to pop into town. You bank with the same people as me, don’t you?’
I nodded disbelievingly. As if I didn’t have enough to do! There were still two hundred unwritten place cards sitting on the dining room table.
‘Just mention my name, and they’ll give you the cash,’ he said breezily. ‘Chop, chop!’
And he strode off, leaving me open-mouthed with frustration.
The wedding magazines, on which I could now have written a PhD, recommended that the bride spend the night before having calming baths, pedicures and heart-warming conversations with her nearest and dearest.
We didn’t, of course. We had a row instead, just to get Emery revved up for married life.
Mummy and Daddy celebrated Emery’s final hours as Miss Romney-Jones by having a spectacularly pointless argument about what had happened to the family tiara, last seen on Allegra’s head at her wedding. By the time Em and I slunk away upstairs to watch television, it had degenerated into a pointed row about the guest list and why there were so many of Daddy’s work-experience girls on it. We could still hear the ebbs and troughs of their yelling when we turned in for bed.
My room had been commandeered by Granny, and all the guest rooms were full of aunts and second cousins. I was bunking up with Emery, sleeping on a Z-bed last used in about 1987. It wasn’t ideal, but I tried to concentrate on the fun ‘midnight feast’ aspect of it, instead of the less fun osteopathy aspect. I painted my own toenails Fireball Red, and let Emery witter on about how ruthless William had been on the paintballing stag weekend. We were so relaxed for once that I couldn’t bring myself to ruin everything by asking about Chicago.
At about midnight, Mummy popped her head round the door before she went to bed. She looked distinctly flushed and her hair was dishevelled. ‘Who wants a Mogadon?’ she cooed, as if dispensing cocoa. ‘Help you get a lovely night’s sleep before the big day!’
It wasn’t as if I needed sleeping pills, being on my last legs with total exhaustion, but knowing what I now knew about the contents of her lingerie drawer, I was more than happy to be rendered insensible until the morning.
‘Night then,’ I said to Emery, as we knocked back our pills. ‘See you in the morning. You want me to wake you up?’
‘Um, yeah.’ Emery inspected her alarm clock as if unfamiliar with its mode of operation. ‘Does this thing work?’
‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘I need to be up early to make sure the marquee’s still OK.’
She peered down at me from the heights of her four-poster bed. ‘Are you comfy on that thing?’
‘Not really.’
‘Do you want to bunk up with me?’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not really,’ she said, then spoiled it by adding, ‘I don’t want the wedding pictures ruined by you cricking your neck and looking like Quasimodo.’
Gratefully, I climbed off the Z-bed, trying not to trigger its temperamental spring reaction, and slipped under the duvet. Emery had very cold feet. Literally, I mean, not metaphorically.
We lay there, staring at the tapestry and waiting for Mummy’s Mogadons to kick in.
‘Is it normal for mothers to drug their daughters before a wedding?’ asked Emery.
‘Only in Victorian melodramas.’
My mind wandered to Jonathan, and how it would feel to see him in the church. I’d hidden my bag of Honey clothes in our old toy cupboard in the music room: to be honest, I was sort of looking forward to being Honey. She’d at least have more fun than Mel would at this wedding, even if it was just for half an hour or so.
I was going to miss my Honey dates with Jonathan. I really was.
‘You will talk to Jonathan, won’t you?’ said Emery sleepily. ‘I don’t think he knows anyone except you, and William and Darrell.’
‘Darrell the best man?’
‘Mmm. Awfully sweet but quite hard work. Not all that good socially. Bit like Jonathan.’ She yawned.
‘Really?’
‘Oh God, yes. He’s OK when he’s showing me round houses – he’s got all the chat for that – but outside work . . . God almighty. He’s either desperately shy or just socially maladjusted. You have to drag conversation out of him sometimes. Poor Jonathan,’ sighed Emery. ‘Some men need a woman there, just to remind them they’re in company. Still, his divorce has come through now, so maybe he’ll cheer up a bit. Cindy’s got most of it. But I think he’s over all that.’
‘Really.’
Emery rolled over onto her elbow. ‘I’ve put him on the same table as Bobsy. Do you think they’d get on?’
I sat bolt upright and turned on the bedside light. ‘Bobsy? Bobsy Parkin?’
‘Yes.’ Emery blinked hard. ‘Can you turn that off? What’s the matter?’
‘Why have you invited Bobsy Parkin to your wedding?’ I demanded. This was all I needed! ‘I didn’t know you even knew her!’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Emery. ‘Practically everyone we’ve ever met is coming to this wedding. My estate agent’s coming. Your flatmate’s coming. Anyway, she’s a friend of mine from school.’
If anything she was a friend of mine, surely? ‘I didn’t know you were still in touch with her,’ I said, trying not to sound hurt. ‘When did you invite her? I don’t remember sending her an invitation.’
Emery wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, you know . . . I saw her for lunch the other day – I bumped into Daddy in town, then we sort of bumped into her too, and we got talking about the wedding and . . .’ She trailed off. ‘Come to think of it, I think it was Daddy who invited her.’ Emery squinted at me. ‘They did seem awfully familiar. Do you think that’s what Mummy and Daddy were arguing about at dinner? You don’t think he’s knocking off Bobsy on the side? Oh my goodness! And he’s invited her to my wedding?’
I turned off the light and rolled onto my back. If I mentioned my suspicions it would ruin Emery’s day. Besides, they were only suspicions. ‘I don’t think even Daddy would do that,’ I said, without much conviction. ‘It would be an appallingly selfish, arrogant thing to do.’
The Chanel hairclip floated into my mind. I pushed it away.
Emery, naturally, didn’t notice the fact that my face was telling a different story. ‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you think that. I was a teeny bit worried. Still . . .’
Another nasty thought crowded in while I was contemplating Bobsy and my father. She wouldn’t say anything about Mrs McKinnon at the wedding . . . would she?
Would she?
‘Can you hear that?’ murmured Emery.
‘Hear what?’
‘That . . . banging noise.’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I can’t hear anything.’
What if Daddy . . . and Bobsy . . . and Mrs McKinnon . . . and . . .
The sleeping pill began to soften the corners of my brain as I fought to stay awake long enough to organise my defences.
‘Gosh, these pills are good,’ murmured Emery. ‘Must ask Mummy where she gets them from . . .’
Within minutes she was snoring while I struggled with jumbled images of Jonathan dancing with Bobsy Parkin, and Daddy demanding his money, and stacks and stacks of gold chairs all marching themselves into the marquee while I backed helplessly into a corner, flinging wads of cash around.
Then I fell into a deep, immobile sleep.
The a
larm went off at seven thirty. Emery, naturally, didn’t stir. I lurched to consciousness with a very thick head, and an already simmering feeling of panic. Nevertheless, I hauled myself out of bed, into the shower, then got dressed to bring Emery breakfast in bed, as per the bridal magazine guidelines.
‘Wake up, Emery,’ I said, dumping the tray on the bedside table and shaking her. I helped myself to a croissant and bit into it, trying not to get crumbs over the file with the wedding timetables in.
Emery rolled back over. She was always a bit of a slug in the mornings.
‘Come on,’ I shouted, ‘you’ve only got an hour before the photographer arrives to do the breakfast photographs.’
Emery groaned. ‘The what?’
‘Don’t blame me,’ I said, counting out five timetables. ‘I gave you and Mummy that checklist and you definitely ticked breakfast photographs.’ I poured the coffee. ‘So you’ve got an hour to get your face on.’
‘Thought you booked a make-up artist?’
‘I did. But she doesn’t come till eleven.’ I swigged some coffee and felt better. ‘But you don’t want to look like a hound in your pre-make-up wedding shots, do you?’
Emery didn’t move, so I whipped off the duvet and dropped it on the floor so she’d have to get up to retrieve it.
The marquee was standing in the paddock and, although I say it myself, it was pretty splendid. We’d left it too late to get a white frilly one, so in the end I found a gorgeous red and gold Indian wedding tent, with jewel-coloured flags outside, sumptuous embroidery on the inside and gold poles to hold the whole shebang up.
Everything else was themed around it: I knew it would be cold, so we picked spicy Indian food to warm everyone through – kedgeree, and delicate curries, and Indian sweets, and fresh mangos. Daddy was delirious with joy when he found out Emery was having a Last Days of the Raj wedding. Well, as near as he could be, given how much it was costing.
I took my files with me and sat on one of the gold chairs, making last-minute phone calls to the photographer, to the caterers, to the band who’d be playing at the evening reception, ticking and double-ticking against my timetable.
When I was happy that everything was in order, I put my phone down and looked around me.
If I ever get married, I thought, I want one of these.
If.
‘This way for the hotplates, love?’ yelled a man in a white coat.
I nodded and showed them where to set up.
Back in the house, Mummy, Granny and Emery were sitting around the kitchen table, pretending to have a girlie chat over tea and croissants while the photographer – the lady I’d booked, I was pleased to see – shot them from flattering angles. Mummy was in full make-up, Granny was wearing a scarlet silk turban that gave her a discreet face-lift and Emery was wearing a pair of dark glasses.
‘Love the shades!’ gushed the photographer. ‘Very cute!’
‘Didn’t rinse her contact lenses,’ Granny informed me. ‘Looks like she’s got myxomatosis. Silly girl.’
‘Where’s Daddy?’ I poured a cup of tea and attempted to stay out of shot.
‘Nowhere. To. Be. Seen,’ said Mummy through her mother-of-the-bride smile.
‘Can you move out of the way, please?’ asked the photographer.
The doorbell rang and I went through to get it.
‘Hello! Congratulations! Are you all ready for your big day?’ cooed another woman with large hair.
‘Not exactly.’ I opened the door for her to wheel her beauty trolley in. It was so substantial it nearly took out a mahogany Victorian umbrella stand. ‘Through here.’
I led her into the kitchen where Mummy was now pretending to be overwhelmed by a large bunch of flowers from Emery. They were, in fact, the flowers I’d arranged for William to present Mummy with later at the reception.
‘Right,’ I said, handing out timetables. ‘Can I give you each one of these? It’s a timetable of events so you know where we are.’
‘Gracious. Will there be a test later, darling?’ asked Granny.
‘Look, I don’t mean to be bossy, but it’s the only way of organising all this,’ I explained, feeling self-conscious in front of the photographer.
‘Melissa!’ roared my father from somewhere upstairs. ‘Melissa?’
‘Humour me,’ I said, pleadingly, and went up to see what he wanted.
Daddy was in his study, in his brocade dressing gown, eating a plate of croissants and slugging back coffee. He looked grim. Any thoughts that he might have wanted to offer a few quiet words of grateful thanks for my hard work evaporated.
‘Melissa,’ he said and rubbed his thumb and fingers together. ‘I believe you have something for me.’
I gave him a wedding timetable.
‘Very amusing,’ he said, looking distinctly unamused. ‘I was thinking of something more . . . cash-like.’
‘It’s in my room,’ I said dully. Even now I was clinging to the vain hope that it might all have been an elaborate test: get me the money and I will rip off this mask of villainy and reveal I’ve invested the cash for you. But no. Apparently not.
‘You do realise the marquee people don’t need paying in cash?’ I tried. ‘I spoke to them on the phone yesterday, when they were setting up. The remainder of the invoice can be settled within three weeks. They were awfully sweet about it, actually.’
Daddy looked blank for a moment, then went back to looking grim. ‘It’s not for the marquee.’
‘I thought you said it was.’
‘Melissa, hospitality is an expensive business,’ he said evasively. ‘The father of the bride needs a certain amount of largesse at his disposal.’
I stared at him. What did he need cash for? The reception was in our paddock. Visions of Daddy peeling off twenties and tucking them in the vicar’s surplice floated into my mind.
‘Be a good girl and pop off and get it for me . . .’ he said, absent-mindedly running his gaze over the front page of the Telegraph.
I trudged along to my room, got the envelope out of my bag, reminded myself that this freed me from my debt (nearly) and that it was a liberating achievement.
I thought hard about these things as I handed it over.
‘Good girl,’ said Daddy, scarcely bothering to look up as he tucked the envelope into his desk drawer and locked it.
‘Is that it?’ I demanded.
He raised his gaze from the paper. ‘I think so.’
I locked eyes with him, willing him to thank me.
‘Run along, poppet.’ He flapped his hands dismissively. ‘You don’t want to miss your Polyfilla.’
Hating myself for being such a pushover, I stormed back to the kitchen.
Emery was sitting at the table being worked on by the make-up artist. She looked like a Botticelli vision of serenity and for a terrible moment, I felt rather jealous of her. How come everyone else got help except me?
Then the phone rang and I had to deal with the nice WI ladies who were finishing off the church flowers in return for a sizeable donation to the roof fund. Daddy didn’t know yet just how generous he’d been.
Up to twelve thirty, everything was going exactly according to my timetable: the caterers were in, the band had set up and were having a spot of lunch and Nelson had called to say he and Gabi had set off. I had wedged myself into my severest Honey underwear in order to squeeze my curves into my bridesmaid’s dress, and Mummy and Granny were even exchanging happy memories of their own wedding days while the make-up artist and hairdresser worked soothingly around their heads in the sitting room.
Then Daddy stormed in with a face like thunder.
‘He’s not going to get here in time!’ he roared. ‘Bloody, bloody hell! It’s a total cock-up! Where’s Melissa?’
I sprang off the window seat in panic. ‘William? What’s the problem? Oh God, don’t tell Emery.’ I’d already told her the wedding would start a whole hour before it actually did in an effort to get her there on time.
‘No
t William,’ snapped my father. ‘The solicitor! He’s meant to have got those pre-nups here to me by courier last night!’
‘For God’s sake, Martin,’ breathed my grandmother.
‘Emery’s not marrying him without signatures on the dotted line!’ insisted Daddy. ‘Melissa, you’ll have to go and pick them up.’
‘What?’
‘It’ll take you ten minutes. Nip into town, pick them up, fetch them back here.’
I stared at him in sheer disbelief.
‘Well, come on,’ he urged. ‘There’s ages yet. It doesn’t start for another two hours. Chop, chop. The longer you stay here arguing, the more you’re holding us all up.’
To my own astonishment, I found myself getting into Granny’s car, driving into town in my bridesmaid’s dress, collecting an envelope from an openly sniggering receptionist and haring back against the flow of Saturday traffic. As I turned off the main road into our drive, I nearly crashed into a Renault Scenic on its way out.
‘There,’ I gasped, slamming the envelope down on the kitchen table. I had thirty minutes before the electric cars arrived. Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths. I looked around and realised I was on my own.
‘Emery?’ I yelled. ‘Granny?’
The sight of Emery in her wedding dress at the top of the stairs brought me to an abrupt halt. She looked beautiful: the long lines of the satin dress and the embroidered girdle around her slim hips gave her the air of an Arthurian queen. Sleek curtains of nutmeg hair fell around her serene face and as she raised her hand to touch the crown of flowers on her head, the trumpet sleeves of her dress fell back, revealing her soft white arms and diamond bracelet.
‘Emery,’ I whispered, forgetting all my bubbling annoyance, ‘you look wonderful.’
She smiled and even her habitual vagueness now looked quite regal.
‘Where’s the make-up woman?’ I asked. ‘I need to get a move on.’
Mummy clapped a hand to her perfectly lip-lined mouth. ‘Oh bugger. Sorry, darling.’
‘She’s gone, hasn’t she?’ I said flatly.
‘She was in a rush,’ Mummy explained. ‘She had another wedding to go to.’
I put my palms over my eyes. Making a scene now would ruin everything. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. I’ll do it myself.’