‘It’s too late,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll get through the ceremony before anything happens.’
‘With any luck.’
‘And anyway, Norman’s built that arch …’
‘You and your sodding sweet peas.’
‘It’s romantic.’
‘It’s mad. That’s what it is.’
It may well be mad, but it’s what I want. With more tables and chairs laid out in the orchard for guests to relax with drinks, we’ll be getting married on the lawn at the back of the kitchen garden, in the space reserved for my new studio. Norman’s spent weeks building a wooden arch out there, planting the sweet peas and training them over it. The end result is pretty amazing, and Norman’s rightly proud of his efforts.
‘The sweet peas are important,’ I remind her, as if it’s needed.
‘And you can bloody over-egg the pudding, you know. You could have had other flowers.’
She’s on the verge of saying something else when we’re interrupted by a knock at the door. Without waiting for an invitation to enter, Mum appears, looking decidedly strange in a flouncy, knee-length peach-coloured dress.
‘Maya!’
She rushes at me, like a crazed fan. From the grin on her face I’d say she’s already been helping herself to the champagne. She wraps me in her arms, squeezing the living daylights out of me before she finally remembers she’s creasing the bride, and squashing the baby bump.
‘Mum.’
‘Oh, my girl. My little girl’s getting married,’ she gushes.
‘No shit, Audrey,’ Lucy says. ‘Is that why she’s wearing that big posh dress?’
‘You look beautiful, Maya,’ Mum gasps. ‘But I’m not sure about this.’ She re-arranges the cardigan.
‘Leave it,’ I snarl.
‘He’s a lucky man.’
‘Is he?’
‘And you’re a very lucky woman.’
‘Well, I know that.’
‘Soon to be a very wet woman,’ Lucy grumbles.
‘He’s offered to pay for a conservatory. Did you know that, Lucy?’ Mum asks. ‘An early Christmas present. How lovely is that?’
I tug on the sleeve of the peach-coloured dress and give her a bad-tempered ‘shush.’ On top of the conservatory, Dan’s also made sure his sisters have enough money to buy their own places in Limmingham. And, in spite of the past, he’s done exactly the same for Sara. Our respective families are safe and secure, and that’s all we both want. No gushing thanks. No publicity.
‘Is everyone here?’ I ask, doing my best to deflect the conversation.
Mum gives an exaggerated sort of nod that threatens to dislodge her elaborate bun.
‘Everyone. Oh, Ethan and Damian look so smart in their little suits.’
I bet they do. Like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. But I know my nephews better than that.
‘They’re all taking their seats for the ceremony. And Dan’s ready. Oh, he looks lovely, Maya. He’s so nervous. I don’t know why.’ She stops abruptly and glares at me. ‘You’re not going to run out on him, are you?’
Whoa! Where did that come from?
‘No chance,’ I reassure her. ‘I gave up running away a long time ago.’
‘He’s not worried about that, Audrey,’ Lucy intervenes. ‘He’s nervous because he doesn’t want to cock it up. Clive told me.’
‘What’s he got to cock up?’ I demand, grabbing my flowers from the dressing table. Sweet peas again. More egg in the pudding. ‘If there’s any cocking-up to be done today, then it’s all down to me.’
‘Oh Maya,’ Mum sighs, putting an arm around me. ‘It’ll be lovely, whatever happens. Now … your dad’s waiting for you downstairs and I’d better get seated.’
And with that, she skitters out of the room.
Lucy examines her ribbon.
‘Still wet.’
‘And I’m still wearing a cardigan.’
I push out the mother of all pregnant sighs and gaze at my friend. If I’m not much mistaken, those are tears in her eyes. And now I just want to push all the silly niggles to one side.
‘I don’t care if you don’t,’ I smile.
Letting go of the ribbon, she comes forward, opens her arms and hugs me.
‘It’s the end of an era,’ she moans. ‘It really is.’
I pull back and wipe away the tears, smudging her mascara in the process.
‘It’s not the end of anything, Luce. It’s the start of something new.’
‘A new beginning,’ she agrees. ‘We’re finally growing up.’
‘At last,’ I laugh. ‘And let’s face it, it’s about time.’
As soon as Dad sees me, he smiles proudly, takes my hand in his and kisses me on the cheek.
‘Look at you. My beautiful daughter.’
I’m sorely tempted to tell him the truth. I am, in fact, a beached whale, wrapped in expensive silk and squeezed into unwanted knitwear. But it’s my wedding day, and I’m going to rise above it all.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘You deserve the best, Maya. Love, respect and friendship.’
‘And that’s what I’m getting.’
‘I know.’
With another smile, he leads me out over the lawn, through the orchard and past the gate to the kitchen garden, my first choice of location for the ceremony until I realised the destruction of Norman’s vegetable patch was out of the question. Skirting round the wall, we come to the meadow at the rear. Putting plans for the studio on hold for a few weeks, it seemed a perfect second choice. I’m confronted by two rows of white chairs, the backs of various heads, the arch set up ready on a low platform, and to the left, a string quartet working their way through a medley of our favourite songs.
I pause, taking stock for a few seconds. The first time I ever came out here it was a warm summer’s day but now, almost a year down the line, the sky’s a brooding Prussian blue, the
