‘Cooper and Morton,’ I gasp. ‘We were booked on the 7 a.m. to Glasgow this morning, but our flight from Hong Kong was delayed. I need two seats on the next available flight.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Cooper, but there’s a problem—’
‘I DON’T CARE IF THE FLIGHTS ARE FULL,’ I yell.
Everyone in the lounge stops to stare.
I take a deep breath and try to bring my heart rate down from a level that will induce a coronary. I try again, this time in a semblance of a reasonable voice.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but this really is an emergency. I need to get to Scotland this morning, so I don’t care if I have to pay double, just please get me on the flight.’
‘Miss Cooper, you don’t understand. It’s not that the flights are full. Glasgow Airport is fogbound, so no planes can land. We do anticipate it clearing in the next couple of hours, though, so I can book you on to the first available flight. I just can’t tell you when it will leave.’
A couple of hours? My head bangs down on to the desk. A couple of hours? Callum and Carol will be back from their honeymoon before I get there.
All I can do is pray to the weather gods.
We take our boarding passes and sit under an information screen, willing it to flash that the flight is cleared for departure. I sit. I stand. I pace the floor. I rip up tissues. I pick up a newspaper. Can’t concentrate. I put it back down. I look at the clock – surely it must be wrong; it’s moving far too slowly. I pace again. Hurry up. Hurry up.
At twelve o’clock, I call Kate’s mobile.
‘Kate, I’m stuck in London. Glasgow Airport is fucking fogbound,’ I wail. ‘I don’t know if I’ll make it. Where’s the ceremony?’
‘It’s at the Lomond Manor Hotel. We’re there already – we’re in the hairdressing salon just now. Hold on, Carol wants to speak to you.’
‘Cooper, if you want to stay attached to your limbs, you’d better get here. Callum’s going ballistic and your mother is hyperventilating. I can’t believe I’m joining this family, I must be nuts. Now, get here and make it faster than a speeding bloody arrow.’ It’s on the tip of my tongue to correct her, but I don’t have the heart.
Instead I hang up and slump down the wall, staring into space. This is the worst day of my life.
Twenty minutes later, Sam rushes over and pulls me to my feet, telling me that the flight is taking off. I raise my eyes to heaven in thanks, then run after him.
At 1.40 p.m., we start our descent to Glasgow. I pull out my make-up mirror and check my appearance. Oh, good grief. My hair is standing on end due to four hours of trying to pull it out. I scrape it back, attempting and failing to look like one of the goddesses in Robert Palmer’s ‘Addicted To Love’ video. The face, however, is irreparable. The combination of alcohol, fluid retention and outbursts of sobbing have left my eyes puffed up like marshmallows. There’s only one thing for it. Dark glasses. I slip them on. I’m now like a rock star trying to be inconspicuous and standing out like a sore thumb. There isn’t much call for sunglasses in Glasgow in December.
We gather up our collection of plastic bags, dash through to the reclaim area for our cases, then charge through customs. Don’t even think about stopping us! But there’s nobody there. They’re obviously all away at their Christmas party.
We run to the front of the taxi queue and jump into the first cab, to indignant shouts from those waiting in line. I shrug apologetically, but carry on regardless.
I tell the driver that there’s fifty quid for him if he can get us to Loch Lomond by two-thirty. Twenty-five minutes. It’s been done before, but only by Concorde.
At exactly two thirty five, we race down the driveway of the Lomond Manor Hotel and screech to a halt at the front door. He missed it by five minutes, but I throw fifty quid at the driver for his effort.
I lunge out the door to see Callum pacing up and down. He screams, throws his arms out, and comes rushing towards me, forgetting to apply the brakes as he reaches me. We sprawl across the ground and he lands on top of me – yet another moment of indignity. After hugs, kisses, and vows of ‘I knew you would make it’, I throw him off, spit the gravel out of my mouth and jump up. I ask Callum to take care of Sam.
‘Pleased to meet you, mate,’ says Callum, pumping Sam’s hand. ‘Er, who are you?’
‘Sam Morton. I’m Carly’s, em, well, I’m her boyfriend.’
Callum gives me the girls’ room number and I bound upstairs. When I reach the room, I throw the door open, giving Jess, who was standing behind it, concussion.
‘I believe you’re missing a bridesmaid.’
A collective shriek shakes the foundations of the building as we converge into a team hug.
Eventually, I disentangle myself and take a step back to survey the sight before me. Carol, mascara now smudged, is just the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing an ivory silk sheath that is strapless and fans out into a train at the bottom. The edges are trimmed with pearls, as are her long silk gloves. Her hair is loose, in glossy dark tendrils that cascade down her back. On the top of her head is a magnificent pearl and diamond tiara and she’s holding a massive bouquet of white lilies. She’s breathtaking.
I turn to the girls. Jess and Sarah are wearing deep sapphire blue, sleeveless silk dresses, which fall from a high neckline in a slim-fitting column to their calves. They’re both stunning and all traces of the sad, exhausted Sarah
