Dad chuckles. “She’s that bad, eh?”
“Worse. I don’t know how long I can pretend I’m happy to be working for her. Every time she does or says something outrageous, I have to keep smiling. It’s maddening.”
“The important thing to keep in mind is to get the job done to the best of your ability,” Mum says. “If your mask slips a little every now and then, you can’t beat yourself up about it. You just keep doing your thing. You help her create the most magical wedding she can imagine.”
“It’s so tempting to give up and be there for brides whoactually want me. And what if our hatred for each other ruins everything, anyway? What’s the point?”
“If you really felt that way, you’d have backed out already,” Mum says. “You go above and beyond your job outline. Like all your brides, she’s lucky to have you and you know it. That’s why you haven’t given up on her.”
“I agree,” Dad says firmly. “You always were a planner. Do you remember the wonderful Christmas party you organized for us?”
“That was hardly a big event, Dad.” I laugh. “I was eight!”
“The whole thing was your idea. You went round every house on the street and put an invitation through their letter box,” he recalls fondly. “You were so excited, you got up early on Christmas Eve and tried to put the party lights up round the room before I was there to supervise.”
“And remember how she went around with the trays of nibbles?” Mum smiles.
“I remember she went round topping up everyone’s champagne,” he says. “And how cross she was when I didn’t seamlessly change the background music from one Christmas album to another.”
“Oh, yes, she kept saying, ‘It’s theambience,Daddy! The ambience!’” Mum giggles, reaching over and taking his hand, which is resting on the table. “You must have learned that word recently, because you were very proud of yourself for using it.”
“So, if you can handle a big Christmas party packed with our nutty neighbors at the age of eight, trust me, you can handle this bride,” Dad concludes, his eyes bright with amusement.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, appreciative of their confidence and hoping some of it will rub off on me when I face Cordelia this weekend. “I’ll do my best.”
“Then that will be more than enough.” He claps his hands together, grabs his fork, and scans the dishes on the table. “Now, as it’s my birthday, I’m guessing I’m allowed seconds?”
Please leave a voicemail after the tone.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
Hi, Sophie, it’s Candice. Could you give me a call when you get this? I’ve got myself in a bit of an awkward situation. A really awful situation. I’m so embarrassed. My soon-to-be sister-in-law asked if she can play her accordion at the wedding, an instrument she’s only just taken up. She asked if we’d like her to play for the ceremony. She asked this at a family dinner last night, in front of everyone. And guess what I did? I said yes. I SAID YES. They were all looking at me! I couldn’t say no!What am I going to do?How am I going to get out of it? Help me. Help me,please.
Please leave a voicemail after the tone.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
Hi, Sophie, it’s Candice again. I know I just left you a message, but I’ve just remembered something else. She said she could only play one song fully and it’s “My Heart Will Go On” by Céline Dion. TheTitanicsong, Sophie. She wants me to walk down the aisle to the theme tune of a tragic film about a doomed love. Please call me back ASAP. I actually think I just threw up a bit in my mouth.
Please leave a voicemail after the tone.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
Oh, and she’s currently learning how to play “Don’t Cha” by the Pussycat Dolls. She said, if we like, that can be our first dance. Kill me. Kill me now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There’s no taxi waiting for me when I get off the train in Derbyshire.
I sit down on the lone bench and check my phone to see if Cordelia’s messaged to tell me the taxi she ordered is running late. There are no messages and no signal. I can understand why you don’t get a bar of reception out here. It really is the middle of nowhere. The station is tiny, a little bigger than a hut, and there’s a notice up reminding travelers that it’s closed at weekends and to get their tickets from the machine on the platform.
I was the only passenger to get off at this stop and, even though I don’t want to be late turning up at Dashwell Hall, it’s quite nice to feel as though I’m the only person for miles. It’s so peaceful out here. I wrap my coat around me and take in the vast surrounding countryside. In the distance I can see horses grazing and sheep dotted about the fields. It looks like a scene out of a Jane Austen novel. Except for the train tracks and me plonked in the middle in my polka-dot dress, long black coat, and ankle boots.
A few minutes into the wait, I wonder why the taxi is held up—maybe stuck behind some cows trying to cross the road or something equally lovely. I don’t get much time in London to just sit and do nothing, and if I do, I’m usually on my phone, but without any signal there’s not much I can do. I’m forced to sit and appreciate the world around me. The birdsong. The peace. Thefresh air. The gray clouds worry me a tad, considering there’s no shelter with the station closed, but the taxi will no doubt be here any minute.
About fifteen minutes in, I’m a little fidgety. I don’t want to be too late showing up this weekend, not just because of manners but also because there’s a lot to do. I’m desperate to see the house and start working out how we can make Cordelia’s vision come to life. The evening with my parents has given me the boost I needed to feel excited about this wedding again. Yes, it feels like an impossible and daunting task, but ultimately it’s Cordelia’s decision, not mine, and all I can do is be there for her when she needs me.
Half an hour later, I stand up on the bench, holding my phone as high as possible to see if I can get some signal. But there’s nothing.
