Last-Minute Proposal

one?’

‘Because that’s the correct spelling,’ said Campbell, sure of his ground. ‘I even rang up a mate of mine who’s a lecturer in English and specialises in sixteenth-century drama, and he told me Shakespeare’s Antony definitely doesn’t have an “h”.’

‘Maybe not, but Cleo’s Anthony does,’ said Tilly, exasperated.

Campbell was seriously put out. He had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that everything was right. ‘What was the point of finding out what Cleopatra’s barge might have looked like and exactly what Antony would have been wearing, if you’re not going to get his name right?’ he demanded crossly.

‘Because it’s Tony and Cleo’s wedding cake, not an academic treatise! Why do you have to be such a pedant? I know you like to be precise, but this is ridiculous! The whole point is that it’s their names because it’s their wedding!’ She threw the sketch-book on to the table, furious with him for spoiling things when everything else looked so perfect. ‘We’re going to have to change it.’

Campbell was equally irritable. ‘Who’s going to notice?’

‘Tony will, for a start. And his parents. Cleo says his mother is the queen of nit-pickers and is always moaning about missing apostrophes and the misuse of commas. She’s the kind of person who sends back thank you letters with the spelling mistakes corrected! She’s bound to comment. If there’s one thing you ought to be able to get right at a wedding it’s the groom’s name, after all!’

A muscle was working furiously in Campbell’s cheek. ‘There isn’t time to change it now,’ he pointed out. ‘It’ll mean taking off all that icing.’

‘There is if we do it together.’ Tilly tossed an apron to him and tied on another over her wedding outfit.

The television cameras would be there again tonight. She didn’t want them filming Cleo’s new mother-in-law complaining that Campbell had made a mistake. She might be livid with him herself, but he had worked so hard on the cake and it looked fantastic. Trust him to mess everything up by insisting on being right!

Part of Tilly wanted to pick up the cake and crown him with it, but another part was already working out how to fix things. The cake had to be perfect for Cleo, and there was the competition to think of, too. Campbell might be the biggest nit-picker on the planet, but winning was important to him, and there was no way Tilly was going to let a little icing stand in the way when they were this close to victory.

‘You make up some more yellow icing for the timbers,’ she told him, ‘and I’ll do some white for the lettering. Then we just need to scrape off what’s there, retouch it a bit and pipe on the new names.’

Campbell looked at his watch. ‘We’re supposed to be there in less than half an hour.’

‘It takes ages for a party to get going.’ Tilly was already shaking out icing sugar. ‘Better for us to be a bit late than spend the whole evening being told we’ve spelt Anthony’s name wrong! Come on, let’s get going.’

Of course it took longer than expected, and in the end Tilly piped on the names as they couldn’t afford to make the slightest mistake.

‘We’re cutting it very fine,’ Campbell warned, anxious to make up for his blunder with the name. But how the hell was he supposed to have known that when Tilly had said spell a name correctly she had actually meant spell it wrong?

‘We’ll just have to hope there’s not too much traffic. You drive,’ Tilly said, tossing him the keys. ‘You’ll be faster than me. I’ll hold the cake.’

They were in such a hurry by then that they didn’t even stop to take off their aprons. Campbell took off with a squeal of brakes and drove with a nerveless skill that had Tilly clutching the cake box.

She didn’t tell him to slow down, though. If they didn’t get there before the television crew, she was sure they would lose points for being late, and she was determined now that they should win. It would be good to be able to give the money to the hospice, of course, but more than that she wanted to win because it mattered to Campbell.

The party was being held at a country house hotel some ten miles outside Allerby.

‘We’ll take the dual carriageway,’ said Tilly as they screeched to a halt before yet another red light. ‘We’ll never get there if we have to stop at all these lights and get past all these stupid people dithering around looking for somewhere to park.’

She directed him out to the ring road, where at last Campbell could put his foot down. The pink van wasn’t exactly powerful, but it responded valiantly, shuddering at the unfamiliar speed as they shot down the outside lane.

‘It’s not the next roundabout, but the next one,’ said Tilly. ‘We don’t want to miss the turning. What is it?’ she asked as Campbell glanced in the rear-view mirror and stamped on the brake, swearing under his breath.

‘Police,’ he said curtly.

‘Please tell me you’re joking!’

But Campbell had rarely felt less like joking and the next moment Tilly saw for herself as a policeman on a motorbike came alongside and flagged them, pointing over to the hard shoulder.

Campbell had little choice but to obey. He wound down his window as the officer approached.

‘Would you get out of the car, please, sir?’

Rigid with frustration and temper, Campbell got out, remembering too late that he still had his pink apron on.

The policeman eyed him for a moment, and then read the side of the van. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You’re Mr Sweet, are you, sir? Or would that be Mr Nothing?’

Campbell set his teeth. ‘Neither,’ he said tersely, struggling to get rid of the apron so that he could dig in his back pocket for his wallet and driving licence. He couldn’t have a sensible conversation wearing the stupid thing. This was all Tilly’s fault for insisting that he wear one.

The policeman inspected the driving licence. ‘Were you aware that you were exceeding the speed limit?’

‘I can explain, officer. We’ve got something of an emergency.’

‘This isn’t the way to the hospital.’

‘It’s not that kind of emergency.’ For a wild moment Campbell wondered whether he should pretend that Tilly was about to give birth, but presumably few mothers stopped to put on high heels and make-up when they went into labour. ‘We’ve got this cake,’ he began.

‘Cake?’ the policeman repeated expressionlessly.

‘Yes. It’s for a wedding.’

Campbell trailed off, realising how absurd it must sound but before he could say any more, Tilly had emerged from the van, having set the cake carefully on the seat. She had had the foresight to remove her apron, which gave the policeman a splendid view of her cleavage, Campbell noted.

‘I’m afraid it’s all my fault, officer.’ Her eyes were huge and dark as she gazed limpidly at the policeman, who was clearly finding it difficult not to stare at the plunging neckline with its tantalising glimpse of lace below.

‘It’s my best friend’s wedding,’ she went on in a breathy voice that Campbell had never heard her use before, ‘and I promised faithfully that I would have this cake ready for when she got to the party, but we had all sorts of problems, and now we’re late and Cleo’s going to be so disappointed, and it’s her wedding day and I can’t bear to think of letting her down so I was making Campbell drive fast…’

Campbell watched in reluctant admiration as words tumbled breathlessly from her, befuddling the policeman with their speed and intensity.

‘It’s really not his fault, officer. He wouldn’t normally dream of speeding, and I know you’re just doing your job and of course you must, but could we please, please, just get the cake to the wedding first and then we’ll report to the police station or whatever you want.’

Taking the policeman’s arm, she dragged him over to look through Campbell’s open window. ‘Look, you can see we’re telling the truth. There’s the cake, and it’s so beautiful. Cleo will be devastated if we don’t get it there in time, and we’re already so late! I’ll never forgive-’

Bemused by the flood of words, or possibly by the allure of Tilly’s cleavage, the policeman backed away from the van. He had evidently given up trying to make sense of it all and simply held up a hand to stop Tilly in mid- sentence.

‘Where is this wedding?’ he asked gruffly.

‘At Hammerby Hall. It’s-’

‘I know where it is.’ He waved them back to the van. ‘If I catch you speeding again, I won’t be so lenient,’ he