‘I think it should be a priority.’
‘Good.’ He slid down one strap of her wedding dress.
And then the shrill siren of the hotel fire alarm sliced through the air.
Chapter 4
Cherry
Squat, green static mobile homes decorated the clifftop caravan park like rows of tightly packed shoeboxes, but the expansive view across the glimmering Firth of Forth gifted the site a luxurious spaciousness.
Pamela Paradise’s home was easy to distinguish from all the others because there were more plants than a garden centre on the porch and a weathered garden gnome sitting sentry at the front door.
‘That’s Lucky Gordon.’ Cherry pointed to the gnome with her toe. ‘He guards the premises, keeps away evil spirits. Forgets to take out the bins.’
‘I see.’ Sean tilted his chin at the gnome. ‘Alright, Gordon?’
‘By the way, you don’t have to pretend he’s real for me,’ Cherry whispered. ‘But my mum will love you for it.’ She rapped on the frosted glass panel of the caravan door, took another glance at the view and a deep breath, before the door swung open and her mother appeared, resplendent in a tapered-leg, turquoise-green jumpsuit. It was more ‘forty-year-old at a fondue party’ than ‘sixty-five-year-old at a caravan park’, but she had been forewarned that her daughter was bringing a special guest. Although Cherry had not mentioned that Sean was her husband.
‘Hey, Mum. You’re looking well. That colour suits you. What is it? Aquamarine?’
‘Aqua Cyan, darling. And thank you. Come on in.’ Pam gave Sean a once-over, as if assessing him for sartorial suitability, before ushering them up the steps and into the lounge. ‘How wonderful.’
Not much inside the caravan had changed since Cherry was last here at Christmas. The same Royal Doulton ornaments festooned the shelves, alongside gilt-framed photos from her childhood –ones of her mother and father, her grandparents. All that was missing were photos of Cherry…successfully adulting.
The sound of Sean clearing his throat interrupted her thoughts. It was time for the introductions she’d been dreading.
‘Sorry. Um… Mum…this is Sean. Sean, this is my mum, Pam.’
Pam dismissed Sean’s outstretched hand, opting instead to embrace him warmly. ‘A solid Irish name that. Are you Irish?’
‘Nope, although Ireland is just across the water from my home in Kintyre.’
‘Ah, Kintyre. Tell me, do you ever see Paul McCartney coming and going?’
Sean chuckled. ‘Never seen him once. He still owns his farm, but I don’t think he’s there much anymore.’
‘Mum…’ As nice as it might be to chat about trivial stuff all day, Cherry knew it was time to pull this Band-Aid off. ‘Sean and I are…’ She floundered andfound the warm reassurance of his hand. ‘We got married...in New York… We’re husband and wife.’
As soon as the words were out, Cherry stood proud. For a moment, the scene dissolved into a past one where she was bouncing up the steps of their Edinburgh colonies house clutching another A-grade. But this beautiful man holding her hand was better than any Advanced Higher Maths buzz. She hoped her mum could still be pleased with her daughter’s achievements.
Thankfully, instead of disapproval at the hastiness of the nuptials, Pam’s overriding sentiment was pique at missing the ceremony.
‘My only daughter, and I don’t get to see her marry. I suppose this is the universe getting its revenge on me for my own wedding.’
‘Mum was a runaway bride,’ Cherry explained, relief carrying her onto this well-trodden path down memory lane. ‘She and my dad eloped to Gretna Green when they were sixteen and got married in the old blacksmith’s shop.’
‘Best thing I ever did, following that intuition,’ said Pam. ‘Speaking of which, I knew there was a reason the High Priestess showed up in your reading yesterday.’ She clung onto a remnant of control by convincing herself that she had known about the marriage.
‘You don’t have to do readings for me, Mum. I’m not here to know about them.’
‘You’re my daughter; I like to know how you’re getting on. Anyway, I haven’t even said congratulations to Mr and Mrs…?’
‘Mr Butler and Ms Paradise,’ said Sean, and Cherry caught her mum’s expression of mild exasperation. Good women took their husband’s name.
‘Listen, we can’t stay long; it’s a long drive to Kinshore…’ Cherry ran her finger along the sideboard as if inspecting for dust, which she knew she wouldn’t find.
‘You could get a B&B nearby or rent a caravan from the site for the night.’ Pam boiled the kettle, lined up three mugs and fussed around, pulling biscuit packets from the cupboard. ‘Stay and keep your old mum company. Show me your wedding snaps.’
