The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit)
Read The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) Online
Authors: Margaret James
Tags: #contemporary romance, #Fiction
Copyright © 2013 Margaret James
Published 2013 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
The right of Margaret James to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE
A CIP catalogue record for this book is availablefrom the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78189-019-6
How do you mend a broken heart?
Let me guess, your real name’s Prince Charming?
This can’t be right, what’s going on?
Is this getting seriously weird?
How much longer is she going to keep me in suspense?
Why does Adam Lawley have this effect on me?
Why did I do that stupid, stupid thing?
At last, the prospect of some decent sunshine?
Why do I feel so pleased with life?
Surely this must be a lovely dream?
How did this weekend go by so fast?
What could be nicer than a weekend in the country?
Doesn’t this woman ever take time out?
Thank you to everyone at Choc Lit for your hard work on this novel.
Thank you also to Exeter Writers for coming up with the workshop which inspired this story, to all the people in my family who have – as always – been totally supportive and encouraging, to Trisha Ashley for suggesting I should try something new, to Lulu Di Minto for allowing me to use her name, and to First Great Western, Arriva and Virgin, on whose trains I wrote a great deal of this novel and still spend so much of my life.
All chocolate is medicinal. It’s a well known fact. When taken in sufficient quantities, it mends a broken heart.
As Cat lay on the sofa she and Jack had bought together – she’d chosen it, of course, while he had stood there looking bored and saying yeah, whatever – eating her way through a big block of highest-possible cocoa content, premium-grade dark chocolate, she thought, whatever happened? How did I end up like this, alone on Easter Saturday and wondering if I should get a dog?
Why does the man I love behave so badly? Or do I have something wrong with me and could I get it fixed? Do I need some therapy? Do I need to get my aura sorted?
Then the landline rang.
Maybe it was Tess? Perhaps she didn’t have a date tonight and maybe she and Bex were coming round with bottles of something alcoholic and a giant pizza?
Or had Tess mentioned going to a gig?
She could have changed her mind.
Or maybe, maybe Jack—
‘Hello?’ she said and crossed her fingers.
‘Good evening!’ chirped a woman. ‘May I speak to Catherine Aston, please?’
‘You’re speaking to her now,’ said Cat. But then of course she wished she hadn’t, and braced herself for the inevitable. Did she want home/contents/motor/travel/pet insurance, faster broadband, double glazing, a timeshare in Barbados, a new conservatory?
‘Your mobile isn’t on,’ said Chirpy Woman.
‘Oh, isn’t it?’ Cat rummaged through the rubbish at the bottom of her bag, found her BlackBerry and saw that it was dead. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’
‘We haven’t met, Miss Aston,’ admitted Chirpy Woman. ‘But I hope we will, and very soon!’
Then Chirpy Woman switched to alien-life-form-trapped-inside-a-GPS-receiver mode. ‘I am delighted to announce that you, Miss Catherine Aston, are the lucky winner of the glittering first prize in our exciting national competition. You have won a luxury wedding package for up to fifty guests at the prestigious Melbury Court Hotel. You and your fiancé have been chosen from among six thousand other couples to receive—’
This is surreal, thought Cat, as Chirpy Woman burbled on. This is like the opening of a movie starring Jennifer Aniston or Sarah Whatsit Parker. This isn’t like my life.
‘So,’ continued Chirpy Woman, segueing into human mode again, ‘you have a choice of almost any date between October and next March, except for Christmas Day and Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve. Well, Catherine – may I call you Catherine? – what do you think of that?’
‘No one calls me Catherine. I’m always known as Cat. I don’t know what I think.’
‘You’re probably in shock. So why don’t you and Jack – it is Jack, isn’t it? I don’t have your entry form in front of me right now – snuggle up together and have a little private celebration. Next week, you’ll be getting the official confirmation in the post. We’ll send you all the brochures, menus, DVDs of wedding packages and of actual weddings at the gorgeous Melbury Court Hotel – everything you’ll need to know, in fact.’
‘I see.’
Although Cat could just about remember filling in the entry form in
Bridal
magazine, bought so she and Tess and Bex could have a lunchtime drool over wedding gowns and wedding favours, over wedding flowers and wedding venues, and although she vaguely recollected writing fifty words about what made a perfect wedding and sending off some photographs of herself and Jack, she was certain this must be a wind-up.
Someone must have got her details from her Facebook page, found her landline number and be having a laugh at her expense. It was – what – half past eight on Saturday night? Only mates and mothers rang up on Saturday night.
‘You do wish to accept the prize?’ demanded Chirpy Woman just a little bit impatiently.
‘I—’
‘Well, of course you do, my sweet, provided nothing’s changed? Oh, don’t worry, angel, that was just my little joke. Later on this month, or maybe next, when you and Jack have read the brochures and had a little think, we’ll be setting up a formal meeting and a photo opportunity.’
‘A photo opportunity?’ repeated Cat. This is all ridiculous, she thought. Why don’t I hang up now?
‘Yes, we’ll want lots of pix of you and Jack,’ said Chirpy Woman. ‘Larking around and having fun, but also being serious and soulful. Gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes and looking like you’re blissfully in love. We’ll need a lot of that.’
‘Oh – right.’
‘We’ll have you indoors, outdoors, formal poses, casual stuff, him kissing you, perhaps you tickling him. You know the sort of thing? We’re hoping we can get you in
Hello
. We loved the shots you sent us. They were fabulous. Everyone at Supadoop Promotions is really looking forward to meeting you and your delicious Jack.’
Jack, reflected Cat.
As Chirpy Woman talked about receptions, bridesmaids, flowers and wedding gowns, she thought – meeting Jack is going to be a problem.
Last month, Jack had gone to find himself. Since then, she hadn’t heard from him, his phone was never on, and there’d been no activity on Facebook or on Twitter.
He had disappeared, disapparated like flipping Harry Potter, he’d dematerialised. He’d also stabbed and slashed and shredded the canvas of her life so it was all in tatters and could never be repaired.
She was assuming he’d be doing stuff in various pubs and clubs. Open mic and stand-up, he’d be hoping for a break, that he’d be talent-scouted and on his way to stardom at long last.
Or perhaps he’d joined the Foreign Legion or the SAS?
She couldn’t ask his family. Jack didn’t have a family – not a single brother, sister, maiden aunt in Macclesfield or cousin in Australia. There was nobody at all. Or that was what he’d said.
As for his friends, Jack’s friends were all like him.
They came, they borrowed tenners, ate the contents of your fridge, left empty beer cans in your kitchen and curry cartons underneath your sofa, then they went. No one ever heard of them again, and—
‘Cat, are you still there?’ demanded Chirpy Woman. She sounded somewhat irritable now. ‘I said we’re looking forward to meeting you and Jack. I’ll be in touch. So don’t forget to charge your phone.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Cat. She was about to add
but there’s a little problem and who are you, anyway, you didn’t give your name
when she realised she was listening to the dialling tone.
Adam Lawley took one long step back and then threw overarm with all his might.
There was too much background noise of traffic, not to mention the ceaseless hum of London, for him to hear the splash, although he knew it must have hit the water. So now it was at the bottom of the Thames. This wasn’t entirely good because it wasn’t paid for yet.
But he still felt better – just a bit.
He sat down in the middle of a bench, loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He stared across the river, wondering how long it took to drown. People said that drowning in cold water was a peaceful death. But how did they know?
They hadn’t tried it, had they?
If he did decide to drown himself, maybe he should find a more salubrious place to do it than the Thames at Millbank? It wouldn’t be poetic or romantic, would it, being fished from the water with a condom in his mouth?
‘You can’t sit there,’ said someone in a smoker’s rasping growl.
‘Why not?’ demanded Adam, still staring straight ahead.
‘S’my bench, that’s why not.’
Adam glanced round and saw a stooped old man, laden down with splitting carrier bags and grubby holdalls. The brindled dog that stood beside him was looking very narked to find a stranger on his patch.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Adam, standing up.
‘S’all right, no harm done. You can sit at the end there, if you like.’ The man sat down himself and started sorting through a very tattered plastic bag, pulling out old newspapers and bits of grubby blanket. ‘You got the money for a cup of something?’ he enquired. ‘Some change to buy some biscuits for the dog?’
Adam shoved one hand into a trouser pocket, pulled out everything he found there. ‘Here,’ he said and pushed a crumpled mess of screwed-up paper at the man.
‘You sure, mate?’ said the tramp. He stared down at the money in astonishment. ‘I mean, there must be fifty quid ’ere. No, I tell a lie, there’s more’n fifty, there’s seventy, eighty, ninety—’
‘You’re welcome to it. Go and have lunch at Claridge’s, why don’t you? Get some Harrods biscuits for your dog?’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘Aha, I know what’s goin’ on.’ The man eyed Adam shrewdly. ‘You’ve just ’ad a bust-up with some lady.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’d stake my life on it. Listen to me, son – you’re not yourself tonight. But you’ll be better in the morning. So I’ll take twenty, get meself and Taser here some grub, an’ thank you, you’re a gentleman.’
‘I told you, keep it,’ Adam said.
‘All right, but let me give you some advice.’
‘What’s that?’
‘When you’re dealin’ with the ladies, don’t make no assumptions, an’ don’t think you understand ’em. If you’re a normal, ordinary bloke, you don’t – you never will, an’ that’s a fact. You ’ave a bust-up with a lady, you need to give her time, and she’ll come round. That’s all they need, a bit of time.’
‘Oh,’ said Adam.
Thanks for nothing, he thought bitterly as he walked off down Millbank.
It must have been an hour, two hours – he wasn’t counting – since the killer punch had landed. But he still had the feeling he’d just done ten rounds with … he didn’t follow boxing, but with some big geezer who had really hammered him.
He’d planned the evening with such care, right down to the last detail, starting with the play.
Maddy had wanted to see the play for ages, so she’d said, because it was significant and important. So he had got them tickets in the stalls, and booked the biodynamic fusion vegetarian restaurant for after they came out.
She’d been looking ravishing tonight, in a pale green skirt he didn’t think he’d seen before, golden high-heeled sandals and a flowery top with pretty ruffles round the neck.
He could have sat and gazed at her all night. He didn’t need a play.
But he’d got a play, and very tedious it had been, full of earnest stuff about the need to save the rainforests, the tigers and the pandas, and to recycle all the earth’s resources.
Adam understood that this was vital in itself. But it was not exactly gripping when two actors dressed in black were standing on a stage accusing him of crimes and misdemeanours.
Or so it had seemed.
He’d never shot a tiger or moved on any pandas to make way for a factory or motorway and knew he never would. He recycled everything – he sorted paper, cardboard, bottles, plastic, cans and put them in the big green boxes in the local Tesco car park – bought most of his Christmas presents from fund-raising catalogues supporting various charities, wasn’t into gadgets made in China, and his mobile phone was coming up to four years old. A mugger with any self-respect would throw it back at him.
In the interval, they’d had a drink. Then, when the bell had rung to warn the audience to go back to their seats, Maddy had walked the fingers of one hand along his arm, her perfume had caressed him and her lips had brushed his face.
‘I tell you what,’ she’d whispered, ‘why don’t we give the rest of this a miss and get a taxi back to yours? Then we can go to bed.’
‘Give me a moment, sweetheart.’
He’d taken out the little purple velvet box which contained the gorgeous antique ring and put it on the table in the now-empty bar.
‘Maddy,’ he had said, ‘my dearest, darling Maddy, will you marry me?’
‘You what?’ She’d stared for ten, for twenty seconds and then she’d burst out laughing. ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m serious, Mads!’ he’d cried.
‘You can’t be.’ She had grimaced then. ‘What is this, some stupid joke?’
‘No, it’s absolutely not a joke! I—’
‘Omigod, don’t tell me! There’s a single perfect rose stuffed up your trouser leg and that’s why you’ve been fidgeting all evening? You’re going to pull it out when I say yes?’
‘So is it yes?’ Adam was painfully aware the barman had stopped polishing a glass. In fact, it seemed the whole world held its breath.
‘Of course it isn’t yes,’ Maddy had snapped. ‘You know I’ll soon be going to Uruguay.’
‘But you’ll be coming back.’
‘No, Adam, I might not. I might find I like it there, that I can do some good and I can help with some campaigns. The indigenous people there, you know, they need support from activists in the developed world.’
She had fiddled with her empty glass. She wouldn’t look at him. ‘Anyway,’ she’d added, ‘we hardly know each other.’
‘We’ve been going out for months! We’ve been on holiday together. Maddy, we’ve had sex—’
‘Adam, this is not the Middle Ages. It’s what normal people do.’
‘But I thought you liked me?’
‘Yes, of course I like you! I think you’re very sweet and I don’t deny you’re great in bed. But that doesn’t mean I want to marry you, do all that boring, cosy couples stuff. You’ll be saying you want to look at horrid little starter homes and put down a deposit on one next.’