Lindsey Kelk 5-Book 'I Heart...' Collection (175 page)

‘We were going to give Angela her presents,’ Louisa mumbled under her breath, as though I couldn’t hear her. ‘Something borrowed, something blue, you know?’

‘Oh, I thought you’d seen the nonsense with the lights,’ she said, relieved. ‘I’ll go and get them.’

‘Nonsense with the lights?’ Jenny was up and at the window as fast as fast could be, and that was no mean feat as she was already wearing her Jimmy Choos. ‘Oh Jesus.’ She turned and bolted for the door before I could ask what was wrong.

‘Right.’ I pulled my puke-stained sweatshirt back over my dress and picked up my heels. ‘I’m going to find out what’s going on.’

‘Ange, don’t.’ Louisa tried to stop me, but since her arms were full of baby, she was at a disadvantage and I managed to sweep by.

The garden was in chaos. The florists were running scared and the big burly men were all shouting at each other. Every ten seconds their colourful language was punctuated by an almighty cracking sound, followed by the tinkle of falling glass. It took me a couple of moments to work out what was happening, but eventually I figured out the problem. The lighting man had hooked his lights up to the generator that the sound man was using and blown the circuit. Now the lights were popping one by one and showering the garden in glass.

‘Fuck a duck,’ I breathed. Definitely wouldn’t be going out there barefoot now.

Jenny had lost it. She wasn’t just shouting at the contractors, she was now actively pushing and shoving them. Despite being half their height and a quarter of their size, I still fancied her in a fight. I turned back into the kitchen, only to be blinded by Damien’s flash.

‘Take a shot of this,’ I said, giving him the finger. And he did. And then he laughed.

‘I don’t care!’ Jenny was screaming. ‘No, I don’t know what the EU safety regulation is on this, and no, I don’t care whether or not you’re going to get electrocuted. Just fix my fucking lights!’

And then something scary happened. She started to cry.

‘I can’t do this.’ She covered her face with her hands and made a strange mewling sound. ‘I can’t. I can’t believe it but I can’t do this.’

‘Jenny, don’t.’ I hung out the door and waved for her to come over for a hug. ‘It’ll work out, really.’ I had no idea if it would. Every second we stood there, my heart sank lower and lower. The garden was a disaster zone and the electricians had already perched their barely covered arses on lawn chairs and were opening up some sort of butty. I couldn’t get married in the middle of this unless we were going to pass it off as a theme wedding. And that theme was Paranormal Activity 1, 2 and 3.

‘No, it won’t.’ She looked down at her perfect bridesmaid’s dress and then tilted her head back to prevent her mascara from running. ‘I should never have told you I could do this. No one could do this. I’ve ruined your wedding because I’m an asshole.’

‘Jenny, really, don’t.’ I was this close to losing it completely. If Jenny couldn’t keep it together, what chance did the rest of us have?

‘I’m gonna go see what I can do.’ She looked as devastated as if it were her own wedding day that was hanging in the balance. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

If there was one vital thing I’d learned from Jenny, it was that when things went to shit, we drank. I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of champagne, popping the cork without ceremony and drinking from the bottle. Because that was what I did now.

‘These pictures are going to be amazing,’ Damien said, clicking away. I didn’t care any more. What else could go wrong? We were ten minutes away from having to have my wedding in the front room. I wondered if the caterers could serve fifty people on a three-piece suite. And actually, where were the caterers? Maybe James had been right, this was a terrible idea. But what could I do now? My mum would be heartbroken if we cancelled. The family were all on their way. Sadie had flown in. James was here. Craig, Graham, Delia, Jenny, everyone. And Alex. What would Alex think if I sent him a quick text to say I’d changed my mind? I couldn’t call it off now, even if the voice in my head was whispering louder and louder with every heartbeat ‘This is wrong. This is wrong.’ When things went this badly, it was a sign.

I leaned against the open fridge in my wedding dress, covered by a filthy hoodie with my shoe straps slung over my wrist, and held the bottle up for Damien to get a good shot. Drinking really did help, I didn’t care what anyone said. Sometimes the answers were at the bottom of a bottle.

‘Angela, put that bottle down!’ my mother shouted from across the room. ‘This instant.’

‘No,’ I said defiantly. ‘Shan’t.’

‘I know you’re upset right now, but think about the baby,’ she said, whipping the bottle out of my hands. ‘Honestly, don’t be so selfish.’

‘Why is it selfish of me to drink champagne because of Grace?’ I was totally nonplussed. ‘She’s on a bottle, I know, but not the bottle.’

‘Not Grace.’ She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. ‘I know you don’t want to talk about it − you’ve made that abundantly clear − but your dad and I know. You don’t have to pretend. You can stop lying − it doesn’t suit you.’

‘Pretend? Lying?’

‘We know you’re …’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Pregnant.’

‘Pregnant?’ I screeched. ‘I’m pregnant?’

Click. Flash.

I wanted a copy of that photo.

‘Yes.’ She looked at Damien with a face like thunder. ‘To be honest, you haven’t done a terribly good job of pretending otherwise, no matter what you might have told us.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I demanded. I wanted that bottle of champagne back quite badly.

‘Angela, you’ve had morning sickness every day, you haven’t been drinking − until now – and we both heard you talking to Louisa about having an American baby.’ She had certainly written herself quite the convincing story. ‘Your dad even said he talked to you about it. And, you know, you both agreed to this wedding very quickly.’

‘That’s because we’re stupid, not pregnant!’ I grabbed the bottle back and took a drink. ‘I cannot believe you thought I was pregnant. Is that why you pushed this? Is that why you wanted us to get married this weekend?’

‘I know it’s old-fashioned, but it’s never a good idea to have a baby out of wedlock,’ she said with a familiar self-righteous tone. ‘And you got engaged. You knew that.’

‘But I’m not pregnant,’ I reiterated. ‘Really, honestly, not even a little bit knocked-up. See?’

To prove my point, I gave the bottle a dramatic glug.

‘Absolutely one hundred percent foetus free.’

And then I had to push her out of the way so I could throw up in the sink. Never shotgun a bottle of champagne on an empty stomach.

‘Really?’ She looked half relieved, half heartbroken. ‘You’re really not pregnant at all?’

‘I don’t think you can be a little bit pregnant.’ I ran the tap for a glass of water. Brita filter jug be damned. ‘I’m not pregnant. Thank God.’

‘Oh, Angela.’ Mum settled on relieved for just a moment. And then remembered we were in the middle of the most shambolic wedding set-up known to man and flipped straight into panic mode. ‘Oh, Angela.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, sipping my water. ‘This is happening.’

‘It doesn’t have to,’ she said quietly. ‘If you don’t want to go through with it, you don’t have to.’

‘But it’s your birthday and you’ll be so let down, and we’ve spent so much money and everyone will be let down, and I can’t,’ I rambled. ‘It’s not just the wedding, it’s your birthday party. What about Uncle Kevin?’

‘Angela,’ she smiled. It helped. ‘Your Uncle Kevin will cope. We haven’t spent so much, and I’ve got a feeling Jenny is going to negotiate us out of the lights. And since the caterers haven’t shown up, that shouldn’t be a problem. I will be eating cake for every meal for the next months, but since when was that a bad thing?’

She was right about that, at least.

‘And don’t worry about my birthday. All I wanted was for you to come home. I wasn’t even going to have a party if you weren’t coming. I bloody hate half the family. More than half the family. It’s only six months since Christmas. Why would I want to see them again so soon?’

I sipped water again and looked around. The war zone of a garden. The car crash of a cake. The shit-show of a dress.

‘Say the word and I’ll take care of all of it.’

I held the glass tightly, cool condensation running over my fingers. ‘I just need a minute.’

She walked over to me and rested her hand on my shoulder. I held my breath, waiting for the slap. This was altogether too grown-up and considerate a conversation for us.

‘Whatever you want to do, we’ll do.’ She squeezed her fingers together very slightly and gave a curt nod. ‘I love you.’

If I hadn’t been completely and utterly overwhelmed before, I certainly was now.

‘I love you too,’ I said, having a little cry. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been a shit daughter.’

‘Oh, hush.’ Mum was dangerously close to getting emotional − I could see it in her face. ‘We’re ridiculously proud of you. How many of your cousins have gone off to America and started their own magazine and found a husband?’

‘Three?’ I wasn’t entirely sure but it seemed unlikely.

‘Very funny.’ She gave me a serious look. ‘We’re so proud of you. Me and your dad.’

All I wanted to do was give her a hug and go back to bed, possibly with some crisps. Definitely with a cup of tea. But that wasn’t on the cards.

‘Angela?’ Without even knocking at the front door, my next nightmare barged right into the kitchen. ‘Angela? I need to talk to you.’

‘Mark?’ My mum sounded considerably more surprised than I was. I was just waiting for my Year Nine maths teacher and our postman to show up. Neither of them liked me much either. ‘You’re either half an hour early or about two years too late.’

Ha. My mum was funny.

‘Mrs Clark,’ he said, nodding at her awkwardly. ‘I need to have a quick word with Ange, if that’s OK.’

‘She’ll do what she wants,’ my mum said, giving me a cautious look. ‘Whatever she wants.’ And with that she excused herself politely and went to sit in the conservatory, watching us like a well-dressed hawk.

‘What do you want, Mark?’ I asked, running another glass of water and wondering what my make-up looked like by now. I didn’t feel so much like I’d been for a light jog as a sweaty marathon, and I could only imagine my make-up said the same. ‘I haven’t got a lot of time.’ I gestured down at my frock. ‘Getting married and stuff.’

‘That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.’ He took a deep breath and straightened his tie. I looked at my hoodie and bare feet. At least one of us was properly attired for a wedding. ‘You can’t get married.’

‘Is that right?’ I asked. I was tired. Was it too late for a nap? ‘Well, thank goodness someone let me know before I made a right cock of myself.’

Mark grabbed my wrist. The fact that I had a glass of water in the other hand was the only thing that stopped me swinging for him. ‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since I saw you the other day, and you can’t do it − you can’t marry this bloke.’ He looked so sincere I almost laughed.

‘Any particular reason why?’ I asked through gritted teeth.

‘I just can’t stand by and watch you make a mistake,’ he said, stepping towards me and putting both of his hands on my shoulders. He got a palm full of baby sick for his trouble.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not mine,’ I said as he held his hand up and pulled a face. I tore off some kitchen towel and wiped it off for him. Maybe I would make a good mum after all. ‘Do carry on.’

‘I’ve known you a long time, Angela,’ he carried on, starting what sounded very much like a prepared speech. ‘And I know I made a mistake and that cost me my future with you, but I can’t sit here and watch you do this. Watch you throw your life away over some silly rebound crush.’

And now I was mad.

‘Silly rebound crush?’ I repeated quietly. ‘Can you hear yourself? You can’t mean it, surely.’

‘We were together for ten years,’ Mark replied. ‘And yes, I know I cocked up, but just because I broke your heart doesn’t mean you should mess up your life.’

Just because he broke my heart? Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear indeed.

‘Right. I haven’t gone mad or fallen into a coma or woken up to find out the last two years have been a dream, so I’ll assume this is actually happening,’ I said, taking his hands off my shoulders and dropping them right back by his sides. ‘So I’ll be brief and, if I may, blunt. Mark, are you here to declare your undying love for me?’

‘Not exactly,’ he stuttered. ‘But I, um, there are still some feelings there, aren’t there?’

‘And so you think, what − I should call off my wedding to the American loser and move back to England for you?’ I asked, using every ounce of self-control I had to manage my rage.

‘You’re going to come back eventually,’ he said, starting to look a bit less sure of himself. Which was a first. ‘And I’m not saying we should get back together, but maybe we should, you know, see what happens?’

‘You want me to come home and be your bit on the side while you decide whether you want to drop your other bit on the side and get back together with me?’ Anger rising, control slipping. ‘Jesus, Mark − you were so much better at cheating on me than you are at the grand romantic gesture. In case you were wondering, this is neither grand, nor romantic.’

That was the push he did not need. For the second time that week, Mark lunged at me with an ill-advised kiss, catching me off guard. But this time I didn’t have a bag in my hand. I had a shoe. And I was lethal with a shoe.

‘Fucking hell!’ he shouted as I grabbed my Louboutin heel and flattened his knuckles with the heel. ‘You’ve broken my fucking hand!’

‘And I should have done it two years ago,’ I shouted back. ‘You owe Tim an apology. Now fuck off home.’

‘Angela, Alex is here! He cannot see you in your dress! Get out of the kitchen,’ Jenny yelled down the stairs. ‘Now!’

My choices were behind the settee or into the garden. Lady that I was, I chose the garden. With one last seething glance at Mark, I took off. Running across the only glass-free part of the lawn, I headed straight for Dad’s shed, snatched open the door and slammed it shut behind me. I was breathing hard and heavy, my hair was now coming loose, and I still had my shoe in my hand. People could say whatever they wanted about the price of Louboutins, but you could not argue against the fact that they made a fabulous weapon.