‘Amanda.’ I get to my feet, my shoes dangling from one hand, phone in the other.
‘Emily. Are you OK?’ Amanda raises an eyebrow. ‘You look a bit… hot?’
‘Sorry, I got freaked out. You didn’t see anyone out there, did you?’
‘No?’ Amanda looks at me questioningly. ‘Em, are you sure you’re OK? You look ever so pale. I didn’t see anyone out there, not even you.’
‘Right. Sorry. I think I must have been imagining things. Too much booze.’ I am unable to raise anything more than a thin smile and I gesture towards the lifts. ‘I’m going to go up, if you don’t mind. I’m exhausted now.’
I walk slowly towards the lifts, feeling like an idiot. There was no one out there, Amanda said so. There was no dark shadow chasing me. I give a little laugh as I get out of the lift and reach my room, sliding my key into the lock as my phone buzzes. It’s probably Rupert, I think, he’d asked me to text when I was back at the hotel to let him know I was all right. But when I look at the screen it’s an unknown number. I swallow, an inexplicable ripple of fear running through me. I haven’t had anything since the letter calling me a bitch, and Amanda said herself there was no one following me just now, so why do I feel so apprehensive about opening the text message? Maybe it’s Sadie, texting from one of the other’s phones – she said she was almost out of battery earlier. I’m being ridiculous, I think, but when I open the text message there is a photo. Me, in the dim light of the streetlamps, looking across the street with fear etched into my features, one hand gripping the ‘bride’ sash that lays across my shoulder. There is one word under the photograph.
BITCH.
I give a cry of horror, my hand flying to my mouth, before I jab a finger at the delete button, erasing my image for good.
Chapter Eleven
It’s the first Saturday in September and I am getting married in approximately three hours. It’s only been nineteen weeks since Rupert proposed in Sadie’s garden – much to Sadie’s horror, she was under the impression that the perfect wedding would take at least a year to organize – but the day has arrived. Originally, I had thought that we wouldn’t tie the knot until the following summer, but Rupert was keen to make things official and once I had come around to the idea of a quick wedding, I had set my heart on September – my favourite month. Other people didn’t seem quite so keen.
‘September? Really?’ Sadie says, as I tell her and Amanda over lunch once Rupert and I have it confirmed. ‘Well… I suppose September is a nice time to do it.’
‘You do know Rupert and Caro got married in September?’ Amanda says, a frown creasing her brow.
‘I… Rupert said they were married at the end of the month. We’ll be getting married on the seventh,’ I say, my heart sinking. Once I had discovered that little fact, I wasn’t at all sure about getting married the same month as Rupert and Caro, but Rupert had told me I was being silly. That it didn’t matter what month we were married in, just that we did it soon, because he doesn’t want anyone else to snap me up. I had laughed, although if I am really, truly, honest with myself, I would have preferred a little more time. Deep down I know I am doing the right thing, but what happened with Harry has left me battle-scarred.
‘I suppose you must do what you feel is right,’ Sadie says, ‘if you think September is OK, then September is OK. Although personally, I always thought April was the perfect month for a wedding.’ I remember feeling relieved, as though she had given Rupert and I her blessing.
Now, I am in a hotel room, mere hours away from saying, ‘I do’.
‘Hold still, let me shove these pins in.’ Sadie stands behind me in the mirror, her mouth full of bobby pins that she pokes relentlessly into the back of my up-do. ‘There. God, Em, you look stunning.’ Sadie holds a small hand mirror up to the back of my head to show me, and I preen this way and that, secretly a little amazed by the transformation I’ve undergone.
Sadie has been a godsend helping with the wedding plans, and while I am so grateful to her for agreeing to be my Matron of Honour, I can’t help but feel a little bit odd that my Matron of Honour is a woman who I’ve only known for six months. As a child, I always thought that my wedding would be made up of family and life-long friends, but that was before my mother moved us from pillar to post, always in search of bigger and better. I think of her last wedding, the photos she had emailed over of herself in yet another ivory gown, a greying, older man at her side. I had offered to fly to Florida, to be there when she said her vows, convinced that she has finally found THE ONE, but she told me not to worry, that it was too expensive. I feel a pang of guilt when I think of Mags, the only proper friend I’ve had in recent years, before I push the thought of her away.
‘Sorry you had to make do with my hairdressing skills.’ Satisfied her job is done, Sadie sits on the edge of the bed and pours us both a glass of champagne. ‘I can’t believe your hairdresser let you down at the last minute. How are you feeling? Nervous?’
I take a cautious sip,
