‘Shit.’
I’ve been determined to control every last bit of our wedding, banishing Dan from all preparations apart from the rings and the men’s suits, investing in months of planning for it, hell-bent on organising something traditional, romantic and perfect. But the closer we’ve got to the special day, the more the nerves have played me up, taunting me that I’ve forgotten something important. And it seems I’ve fallen at the first hurdle. An expensive, disastrous joke of a wedding dress. I hear a peel of laughter from outside, sense a prickle of anxiety deep inside. There’s a whole host of people waiting out there for me, including Dan. I check my mobile. Almost time to go. In less than an hour, I’ll no longer be Maya Scotton. Looking like half a tonne of potatoes squeezed into a silk purse, I’ll be Maya Foster. And there’s only one question now.
‘What the fuck else can go wrong?’
The door to the en suite springs open and Lucy flies out, holding the ribbon from the back of her lilac dress.
‘This has just gone down the toilet.’
‘Lucy!’
‘It’s not my bloody fault. Why does it have to have a stupid ribbon at the back? I’ve washed it in the sink. It’s soaking.’
‘Never mind about that. It’ll dry. Come and do me up.’
I watch in the mirror as Lucy sets about lacing the bodice.
‘Oh ...’ she murmurs.
‘What?’
‘It’s going to be a bit tight.’
‘Oooooh, fuck.’
‘If you’d gone to that fitting …’
‘I know,’ I squeak. ‘But I couldn’t face it. Shit, Lucy. It’s awful.’
‘Calm down. I’ll fix it. You’ll just have to have bigger gaps in the lacing. It’ll look like it’s supposed to be that way.’
I stare at the front. Somehow, with the lacing loosened, it doesn’t look like it’s supposed to be that way at all. I turn to inspect the back, and sense a lump in my throat.
‘It’s a mess.’
Suddenly engulfed by wedding madness, I burst into tears.
‘Trust me, it’s the best anyone can do.’
‘I’m a stupid fat pregnant idiot,’ I wail. ‘And I’ve got tits like melons.’
‘You’re not fat, Maya. And you’ve always had tits like melons. You’ve just gone from cantaloupe to full-on watermelon. It’s only temporary. Don’t let the hormones get to you. Put a cardy over the top.’
‘I am not getting married in a cardigan.’
For a split second, I think about stamping my feet and throwing myself onto the bed. But that wouldn’t do. Instead, I carry on weeping, watching helplessly as Lucy rummages through my wardrobe.
‘This,’ she announces, presenting me with something I’ve never seen before: a dainty green cardigan that must have come from Harrods. ‘Put it on. Don’t do it up.’
I follow her instructions.
‘It’s green.’
‘And it’s all you’ve got.’
‘But it doesn’t go …’
While I sob uncontrollably, she squeezes my arms into the cardigan and tugs it up over my shoulders.
‘There. You look fine.’ She pats my stomach, lightly. ‘Trust you to be pregnant on your wedding day. You never do anything by halves. Who am I going to get drunk with?’
And trust Lucy’s brain to fixate on booze.
‘This isn’t an excuse for a piss-up. Even if I wasn’t pregnant, I’d be staying sober.’
With a shrug, she grabs a tissue from the dressing table and offers it to me.
‘Clean up your face and give me a break. I’ve been a virtual saint since I got back with Clive.’
Which is completely true. Now that she’s co-habiting with her pet accountant, she’s happy enough to drink in moderation, apart from on the big occasions. She’s reined it in for months, and I shouldn’t resent her letting loose.
‘Why don’t you get pissed with Clive?’ I suggest, dabbing my eyes and sniffing away the tears.
‘No way. He’s a nightmare when he’s had a few.’
‘Then how about Lily? She needs cheering up.’
It’s not an entirely mad suggestion. For weeks now, we’ve all been trying to jolly her along. And as part of Operation Let’s-Get-Lily-Back-On-Track, Lucy’s met up with her on several occasions.
‘Lily,’ she muses. ‘She can knock it back, you know.’
‘Well then, there’s your mission for the day, and there’s your drinking partner. Make sure she enjoys herself.’
‘Mission accepted.’
While Lucy looks out of the window to check the current situation, I inspect myself one more time. I’m calm again, almost. But that cardigan …
‘How’s Dan’s leg today?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know. It was okay yesterday.’
And in actual fact, it’s been okay for a while. Since the operation in January he’s suffered nothing more than an occasional twinge.
‘He’ll be fine.’
‘And how about you? Are you going to get through this in one piece?’
‘Of course.’ I place a hand on my stomach. ‘Full of energy today.’
Because Mr Foster was banned from our bedroom last night, and although it was torture, I made the most of it with a full night’s sleep.
‘I mean with the weather.’ She turns from the window.
‘What about it?’
‘Didn’t you check the forecast?’
‘Should I?’
‘Storms.’
‘Shit.’ My bottom lip plummets. The second hurdle falls. ‘You’re shitting me.’
‘No, I’m not. Perhaps we should move everything into the marquee.’
‘But the marquee’s set up for the meal.’
‘We’ve got enough hired hands to sort it out.’
I’m sure we have, but seeing as I’m heavily pregnant and dangerously hormonal, and wearing a stupid green cardigan, I’m in no fit state to deal with complications. I took a quick look inside the marquee first thing this morning, and it’s beautiful: each table adorned with a
