I pull out my scrapbook, turning to the last page where I smooth over the newspaper cutting I clipped from The Times.
The engagement is announced between Rupert, eldest son of Mr and Mrs Eamonn Milligan, of Norfolk, and Emily, daughter of Mrs Janice Walden, of Boca Grande, Florida.
I smile as I run my fingers over the print, careful not to smudge the wording. Rupert insists on still calling himself ‘Osbourne-Milligan’, the double-barrelled surname that he and Caro agreed on when they were married, but it makes me feel a little odd, the idea of my name becoming entwined with Caro’s. Still, at least they didn’t put it in the engagement notice. I read over the words again, still feeling that fizz of excitement every time I see it. I should try and get another copy, one to send to my mum in Florida, so she knows I’m finally on my way to true happiness.
‘Here—’ Mags appears in the doorway and throws an empty duffel bag towards me. ‘You might as well keep it; I’m not going to be going anywhere.’ Mags perches on the end of the bed as I carefully place the scrapbook into the bag, stuffing the last of my things on top.
‘I haven’t had any more mail, have I?’ I ask, my breath catching in my throat. I’m half expecting Mags to pull out another envelope, but she shakes her head.
‘Only circulars and junk. I threw it out, like you asked.’
‘OK. Good. Well, that’s the last of it.’ Breathing out a sigh of relief, I sling the holdall over one shoulder, careful not to wrinkle my expensive top. ‘I suppose I’ll be off.’
‘Come here.’ Mags gets to her feet, pulling me into a hug. ‘Sorry for being arsey. I will miss you, though, you know that? And you know if it all goes tits up with Rupert, you can just move back in.’
I let Mags hug me, the scent of patchouli oil tickling my nose. ‘It won’t go tits up. I know it won’t. But thank you – for everything.’
I won’t let it, I think as I let myself out of the flat, out into the hot, sticky heat of summer in Swindon. This is the beginning of my new life. In just two short weeks I will be Rupert’s wife, and everything is going to be perfect.
One week later, I am dancing, my hair sweaty and stuck to my forehead, a gaudy sash tied across my body proclaiming me as the ‘bride-to-be’. I am in Bristol with Sadie, Amanda and a few others in their circle on my hen night, and I feel on top of the world. Sadie grabs me by the arm and tugs me towards the bar, intent on getting me another cocktail.
‘No, no,’ I laugh, my head already starting to spin from the alcohol.
‘It’s your hen do, and I’m in charge. I say drink.’ Sadie grins, and shoves a lurid pink drink into my hand. ‘Are you having fun?’
‘Yes, I really am,’ I give a drunken nod, ‘thank you so much for organizing this.’
‘It’s my pleasure – I am your Matron of Honour, after all.’ Sadie raises her glass to mine and we clumsily clink together.
Yes, Sadie is my Matron of Honour. Hence the reason why Mags has somehow ended up not being invited. Some might think it a bit strange, the best friend of my fiancé’s dead wife being so involved, but Sadie has been helpful, despite us getting off to a shaky start. And there wasn’t really anyone else I could ask to do the job. My mind flickers briefly to Mags, and I shake the thought away. Mags wouldn’t fit in with this crowd, the new set of friends that I’ve worked hard over the past couple of months to make my own. Thinking of Mags sobers me up, and I realize that it’s two o’clock in the morning and I really just want to go to bed.
‘I’m going back to the hotel,’ I shout into Sadie’s ear, ‘Amanda already left and I might be able to catch her up.’ I slink away before Sadie can persuade me to change my mind.
Outside, the air is cool and refreshing. We are in the midst of a heatwave, but it feels tonight as if the weather might break. I take in a huge gulp of fresh air, hoping that it might revive me and sober me up a little. I feel weird, a bit spacey and off kilter, and I wish I hadn’t let Sadie and Amanda ply me with so many cocktails. Glancing down the street I get my bearings and start to walk the short distance back to our hotel.
It’s only once I’ve crossed the road and am passing a darkened strip of shops that I first think that perhaps I can hear footsteps. I slow, and glance across the street, too scared to look over my shoulder. I strain to listen, but I can’t hear anything, only the hard, fast thump of my pulse in my ears. Muttering under my breath, I shake my head, feeling like an idiot, but still I start to walk faster, the lights of the sign for our hotel visible in the distance. The clack of my heels rings in my ears as I realize that I can hear something; I can hear a second set of footsteps behind me and I step up the pace, my heart thundering in my chest and my breath coming loud in my ears as my ankle rolls in my stupidly high shoes.
I stop, my mouth dry and my palms sweaty as I hurriedly slide my shoes off and sprint the last couple of hundred metres to the hotel, shoving my key into the outside lock and tumbling through the doors into
