Читать книгу The Wedding Date: The laugh out loud romantic comedy of the year! - Zara Stoneley, Zara Stoneley - Страница 9

I don’t really believe in all that fate and bad luck stuff. Well, I do think the number seven is quite lucky, and I don’t walk under ladders, and thirteen is a bit of a weird thing, and I don’t step on cracks. Oh, and I do pick a penny up if I see it. And I have been known to follow the odd black cat, and trample over my friends in a bid to catch a bridal bouquet. But in general it’s all a load of guff isn’t it? I wouldn’t say I believe, or let it rule my life in any way whatsoever.

But now I do believe bad luck comes in threes.

I have just got out of bed and picked number three up off my doormat. A thick, cream, embossed, exceedingly posh envelope. I reluctantly slide the thick, cream, equally posh card out of the envelope. I read the words on the front.

Wedding Invitation.

I open the card.

Number one was that save-the-date message, and number two was finding out that not only was Liam seeing the girl he’d ‘met’ while he was still supposed to be seeing me, he would also be taking her to the wedding. And she is huge. As in hugely pregnant. (Number two is a biggie in all senses of the word).

It’s not the fact it’s the actual wedding invite that qualifies it as number three (because I was expecting that) – it’s what I read when I open it.

Jess and Dan aren’t getting married in the local church, with some posh nosh up the road. Oh no. My imaginary partner and I are cordially invited to join the happy couple at Loch Lagwhinnie Country Estate.

I don’t like the look of the word ‘loch’, it sounds ominously Scottish.

I am still clutching the invite as I Google the estate’s name. It is Scottish, as in Scotland Scottish.

It is a remote estate in the wilds of Scotland, miles from civilisation. Well, the website I found doesn’t exactly say ‘wilds’, but that is how I tend to think of Scottish estates. It’s all Queen Victoria and her ghillie Brown, and shaggy ponies. And Braveheart. Hairy men in kilts. Oh my God, kilts.

I turn the invite over and it gets worse. Far worse. The celebrations are to last a week so that we can partake in the many activities on offer. There will be opportunities to shoot, fish, gallop across the estate, walk beside the loch, and sample the local whisky.

A WEEK!

Bloody hell, a whole week. I will need whisky. Not just a sample, gallons of the stuff.

I slide down the wall until I’m sat on the floor, because my wobbly legs don’t give me much choice. Invite of doom in one hand, mobile phone in the other.

An actual week. How can Jess do this to me? My ordeal as a singleton is to last days.

My face will crack if I have to pretend-smile for seven days. My new jeans will split with the amount of alcohol and food I will be forced to consume as a coping mechanism. I will run out of supposedly waterproof mascara and eyeliner, and make-up remover.

She might give birth dramatically.

I’m slightly distracted by the thought of a mini Liam, already in tartan, entering the world whilst a bearded, kilted bagpipe player plays some mournful kind of music, when I realise my phone is vibrating in my hand. Still staring at the invitation, I answer it on auto-pilot without even looking at who’s calling.

‘Darling, it’s me, Mum.’

Bugger. ‘Oh, hi.’ I can’t go. Not for a whole week.

‘Are you okay, Samantha? You sound distracted.’

Distracted is too small a word. ‘Fine, just tired.’ Tired always works well where my mother is concerned.

‘Oh dear, you do work too hard. You need a break. That’s why I’m ringing actually.’ I can hear the excitement start to leak into her voice. ‘Are you still there, Samantha?’

‘Yes, I’m here. Sorry.’ What do you do on a Scottish estate? Falling off horses (not that I’d get on one, given a choice) and marching through the heather in green wellies with a shotgun over my shoulder isn’t exactly going to show Liam what he threw away, is it? I’ve got the type of calves that never look good in wellingtons, even when I’m at my thinnest and fittest. And I wouldn’t know where to start when it comes to shooting, apart from that bit when they yell pull. It will probably be the nearest I get to pulling the whole week.

‘Samantha! Did you hear what I just said?’

Unless I turned it into an Agatha Christie murder mystery type of week and shoot him. Although there might be a bit lacking in the mystery department.

‘Samantha!’

‘Sorry, what Mum?’ It probably wouldn’t be very fair on Jess though; births and deaths tend to be pretty messy affairs from what I’ve seen and could completely spoil the joyous occasion. And it is supposed to be her week, her big day. I sigh, I can’t be that selfish. Even if she is practically shoving the means to destroy him into my hands.

‘Did you hear what I said? Honestly darling, sometimes I think you’re turning into your father.’

What did she say? My mind is blank. Oh yes. ‘You’re ringing cos I need a break?’

‘I’m ringing because you are going to get a break.’ She pauses melodramatically. Mother always fancied her chances on the stage. She’s a member of the local theatre group, but has never yet got her big break. I think it might be too late, but nobody is going to dare tell her. Dad just throws me a wink behind her back, pours her a sherry and says they don’t know what they’re missing when she’s cast as ‘third woman in the corner shop’ again. ‘Oh I’m so excited, have you had your invite? Isn’t it perfect?’ The pitch gets higher, she’d be clutching me if she was here. ‘A week in Scotland, how extravagant is that? I always did say Juliet and John knew how to do things in style, it’s so nice they’ve stayed in touch over the years as you and little Jess have grown up. Aren’t they beautiful? You can get a week off work, can’t you?’

What? Scotland? Invite? A week off?

Oh. My. God. I stare at the cream card in my hand. If she knows all this, then it means my parents have been invited as well. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.

When I’d told Sarah everybody would be there I’d meant Jess’s parents, Dan’s parents, our friends. Liam. Her hugeness. Not my mother.

I definitely can’t go now. Even if Magic Mike and his gang and all the Chippendales agree to back me up.

My little bit of mojo that has been creeping back has been bludgeoned to death.

This will be total humiliation. ‘Well it might be a bit tric—’

‘Oh of course you can, what am I saying? She’s your best friend! And that Dan is such a lovely chap, such a shame you and Liam…’ The words trail off, but then after an intake of breath she picks up again. ‘Well never mind, some things aren’t meant to be. But isn’t it lovely?’

Lovely. Super.

‘Is it cold in Scotland in June?’

I’m going to need a whole new wardrobe for a week. ‘Er, I don’t—’

‘I can get your father to do that googly thing on his laptop can’t I?’

‘You can.’ I need help from that googly thing myself.

‘It looks incredibly posh, like a castle. Do people still wear Harris Tweed? I can’t have your father looking out of place now, can I?’

Too many questions. My father is the least of my worries. A castle, how can Jess do this to me?

‘Samantha? Samantha are you listening?’

‘Oh no, yes, I mean no you can’t, and I don’t know about tweed, can’t you buy Country Life, or Horse and Hound or something and check?’

‘I’ll ask Juliet. Oh this is exciting.’ She’s practically clapping her hands, I can tell. ‘You’ll look lovely on a horse darling, you can get some of those breeches, you might find a nice lord or something.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Oh don’t be so negative, Samantha. You have lovely hair, and teeth.’ She’s struggling, I can tell. Whoever had to stoop to listing her daughter’s teeth as a selling point? ‘And you’re so clever.’ Definitely struggling, she’ll be bringing up my GCSE B grade in maths any second. ‘And you do need a date, or you’ll mess up the table plans.’ And we couldn’t have that could we? It would be my fault the whole wedding was ruined, the bride in tears … because I, the friend, the maid of honour no less, had a spare seat next to me, or, worse, we’d gone woman-woman because of the odd number. Maybe I should suggest a lesbian table? A woman only table? A sad singletons table? Then it wouldn’t matter. Maybe not. Maybe it would be a table for one.

‘I’ve got the answer! You can take Desmond.’

Desmond, who the F is Desmond? And who calls their child that in this day and age? Now all I can think about is Desmond Tutu. I can’t date a man who reminds me of a bishop.

‘If you’ll let me get a word in, Mum, I can’t because—’

‘He’s very nice. Got lovely manners, and I’m sure it’s not his fault that silly dating site can’t find—’

‘Mum!’

She stops. A miracle.

‘I can’t go with Desmond because I already have a date.’

There is silence. Total silence. I am just beginning to think we must have been cut off, because my mum is never stuck for words, when…

‘Oh.’

Shit, what have I done? Why did I say that?

‘You never told me.’ There is a slight hint of hurt in her tone. ‘How lovely. Although you might find a Scottish lord or laird or whatever they call them as well. No need to rush into things with this new one, it would be so nice to live in a castle, that would put Mrs Bracken next door in her place. If she’s told me once, she’s told me a million times about her new son-in-law going to Oxford. And you could have some of those Scottish wolfhound dogs.’

‘I think they’re Irish, Mum.’ See, one invite and this is where it’s taken her, into a complete fantasy land.

‘Don’t be silly dear, I’m sure some of them are born in Scotland. I’ve seen pictures of them in the Sunday supplements, outside castles. With kilts and … David … David, what are those purple prickly things? Oh don’t be ridiculous, pansies aren’t prickly! Prickly I said, not pretty. See, what did I say? He never listens properly. Thistles, that’s what they are, thistles. So it has to be Scotland, not Ireland.’

‘It doesn’t matter, I’m not meeting some castle-owning laird, and I don’t want a big dog. I’ve already got a boyfriend.’ Why have I repeated the lie? Once could be a mistake, twice means it is a truth.

‘Well, if you say so Samantha. That’s wonderful, well done.’ She’s obviously hankering over a highland estate to boast about to the neighbours and I’ve thrown a spanner in the works. ‘What’s his name? Do I know his mother?’

Bugger. I should have thought this through. Brad, George? ‘No, you don’t know his mother. Hang on a sec, there’s somebody at the door, might be him!’ I might have shouted that a bit too enthusiastically. I do some door opening and shutting, and mutter a bit.

I need to make a name up and write it down, what kind of girlfriend doesn’t know her boyfriend’s name?

There’s silence when I finish my door banging. I know she’s waiting for a name, probably a surname as well. She wants to Google him. Or get Dad to check if he’s on Tinder. She is the Hercule Poirot of her neighbourhood.

‘Oh no, not him! Just a lost cat. Well it wasn’t a cat, somebody has lost a cat, all go here!’

‘You’ll have to bring him round for supper.’ She’s brightened up. I don’t know where ‘supper’ has come from though. When I was growing up we had breakfast, dinner and tea. At some point dinner became lunch, and tea became dinner. Now we have supper. ‘Then we can meet him before the wedding.’ Interrogate him more like.

‘Yes, er, I’ll ask him.’ After I’ve managed to meet him. ‘I’ll have to call you back, Mum. Got to dash, I’ve er—’ in for a penny, in for a pound ‘—I’ve got to get changed before I meet him.’ I will have to get changed, I’ll probably have to get changed several times before I meet my mystery man. See, I’m not exactly lying, just slightly misleading which is perfectly acceptable, and natural, in a mother-daughter relationship.

So what do I do?

I book an emergency appointment at the hairdresser’s. The cheapest form of therapy known to man (and, of course, woman).

I am on the way for a cut and blow, hoping a pamper session will leave me feeling less like devouring the contents of the fridge and more like joining in the celebrations. It will also give me time to decide whether Sarah has a valid point, and I am now actually desperate enough to put an advert on Gumtree: ‘Desperately Seeking Stud’.