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Only my little brother could suggest reading the newspaper on the way to my own
wedding. As if, it’ll be so boring we’d better have some entertainment.
Having said that, I can’t help flicking through the Guardian quickly as Toby goes for a
quick final bathroom break. There’s a picture of Sam on page 5, under the headline SCANDAL
ROCKS BUSINESS WORLD, and as soon as I see it, my stomach clenches tightly.
But less tightly than before. I’m sure of it.
The car is a black Rolls Royce limousine, which looks pretty amazing in my nondescript
Balham street, and a small crowd of neighbors has gathered to watch as I come out. I do a little
twirl and everyone claps as I get into the car. We set off, and I feel like a proper, glowing, radiant
bride.
Except I can’t look that radiant and glowing, because as we’re driving along Buckingham
Palace Road, Tom leans forward and says, “Poppy? Are you carsick or something?”
“What?”
“You look ill.”
“No, I don’t.” I scowl at him.
“You do,” says Toby, peering at me dubiously. “Kind of … green.”
“Yeah, green.” Tom’s face lights up. “That’s what I meant. Like you’re about to hurl. Are
you about to hurl?”
That is so typical of brothers. Why couldn’t I have had sisters, who would tell me I
looked beautiful and lend me their blusher?
“No, I’m not about to hurl! And it doesn’t matter what I look like.” I turn my face away.
“No one will be able to see through my veil.” My iPhone beeps, and I haul it out of my little
bridal bag. It’s a text from A
Don’t go up Park Lane! Accident! We’re stuck!
“Hey.” I lean forward to the driver. “There’s an accident on Park Lane.”
“Right you are.” he nods. “We’ll avoid that route, then.”
As we swing around into a little side road, I’m aware of Tom and Toby exchanging
glances.
“What?” I say at last.
“Nothing,” Toby says soothingly. “Just sit back and relax. Shall I tell you some jokes,
take your mind off it?”
“No. Thanks.”
I stare out the window, watching the streets go by. And suddenly, before I feel quite
ready, we’ve arrived. The church bells are pealing with a single, rhythmic tone as we get out of
the car. A couple of late guests I don’t recognize are ru
her hat. They smile at me, and I give a self-conscious nod.
It’s for real. I’m actually doing this. This is the happiest day of my life. I should
remember every moment. Especially how happy I am.
Tom surveys me and grimaces. “Pops, you look awful. I’ll tell the vicar you’re ill.” He
barges straight past me into the church.
“No, don’t! I’m not ill!” I exclaim furiously, but it’s too late. He’s on a mission. Sure
enough, a few moments later Reverend Fox is hurrying out of the church, an anxious look on his
face.
“Oh my goodness, your brother’s right,” he says as soon as he sees me. “You don’t look
well.”
“I’m fine!”
“Why don’t you take a few minutes to compose yourself alone before we begin the
service?” He’s ushering me into a small side room. “Sit down a moment, have a glass of water,
perhaps eat a biscuit? There are some in the church hall. We need to wait for the bridesmaids
anyway. I gather they’ve been held up in traffic.”
“I’ll look out for them on the street,” says Tom. “They won’t be long.”
“I’ll get the biscuits,” chimes in Toby. “Will you be all right, sis?”
“Fine.”
They all head out and I’m left alone in the silent room. A tiny mirror is perched on a
shelf, and as I look into it I wince. I do look sick. What’s wrong with me?
My iPhone dings and I peer at it in surprise. I’ve got a text from Mrs. Randall.
6–4, 6–2. Thank you, Poppy!
She did it! She got back on the te
all of a sudden I wish I were at work, away from here, absorbed in the process of treating
someone, doing something useful—
No. Stop. Don’t be stupid, Poppy. How can you wish you were at work on your wedding
day? I must be some sort of freak. No other brides wish they were at the office. None of the
bridal magazines carry articles on “How to Look Radiant Rather than Like You Want to Vomit”.
Another text has dinged into my phone, but this one is from A
Finally!!!! We’re on the move! Are you there already?
OK. Let’s focus on the here and now. The simple act of texting a reply makes me feel
more relaxed.
Just arrived.
An instant later she replies:
Argh! Going as quick as we can. Anyway, you’re supposed to be late. It’s good luck.
Have you still got your blue garter on?
A
different choices this morning. I’m sorry, what are garters all about? To be frank, I could really
do without a length of tight elastic cutting off my leg circulation right now—but I promised her
faithfully I’d keep it on.
Of course! Even though my leg will probably fall off. Nice surprise for Magnus on the
wedding night.
I smile as I send the text. It’s cheering me up, having this stupid conversation. I put my
iPhone down, have a drink of water, and take a deep breath. OK. I’m feeling better. The iPhone
dings with a new text, and I pick it up to see what A
But it’s from Sam Mobile.
For a few instants I can’t move. My stomach is moiling around as though I’m a teenager.
Oh God. This is pathetic. It’s mortifying. I see the word Sam and I go to pieces.
Half of me wants to ignore it. What do I care what he’s got to say? Why should I give
one iota of head space or time to him, when it’s my wedding day and I have other things to focus
on?
But I know I’ll never get through the wedding with an unopened text burning a hole in
my iPhone. I open it as calmly as I can, bearing in mind that my fingers can hardly
function—and it’s a one-word Sam special.
Hi.
Hi? What’s that supposed to mean, for God’s sake?
Well, I’m not going to be rude. I’ll text back a similarly effusive response.
Hi.
A moment later there’s another ding:
This a good time?
What?
Is he for real? Or is he being sarcastic? Or—
Then I realize. Of course. He thinks I canceled the wedding. He doesn’t know. He has no
idea.
And suddenly I see his text in a new light. He’s not making a point. He’s just saying hi.
I swallow hard, trying to work out what to put. Somehow I can’t bear to tell him what I’m
doing. Not straight out.
Not really.
I’ll be brief, then. You were right and I was wrong.
I stare at his words, perplexed. Right about what? Slowly, I type:
What do you mean?
Almost immediately, his reply dings into the iPhone.
About Willow. You were right and I was wrong. I’m sorry I reacted badly. I didn’t want
you to be right, but you were. I spoke to her.
What did you say?
Told her it was over, finito. Stop the emails or I’ll take out a stalking injunction.
He didn’t. I can’t believe it.