And together, the two of them were this flawless, polished picture, the kind that cameras love.
Except in person, up close?
They seemed like two people trying very, very hard not to set off any emotional landmines.
Richard, already on his second glass of wine, had reached the stage of loud approval. “Marvellous evening,” he declared to no one in particular. “The wine’s transcendent. Absolutely transcendent.”
Margaret sat at the centre of the long table like a general disguised as a hostess, posture so straight it could have been structural.
“Everything has gone so smoothly so far,” she said, slicing into her fish like it had personally challenged her authority.
“That’s because you and Grandmother have been so… helpful,” Caroline said, careful to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Of course we have,” Margaret replied briskly. “These things don’t organise themselves. It’s a family affair, not a corporate launch.”
James looked down at his plate, smile tightening. “Everything’s been brilliant, really,” he said. His tone was calm, but with a faint note of surrender that comes from too many thank-you’s and not enough say.
Ethan caught the shift, leaning back in his chair with easy charm. “Well,” he said, “we’ve got good wine, good lighting, and an alarming amount of cutlery. I’d call that a success.”
Caroline’s snort escaped her before she could stop it. James’s eyes flicked her way, then to Ethan, and the moment folded neatly into silence.
“Ethan,” Margaret said, her tone lightening a fraction. “Always so optimistic.”
He smiled. “Survival instinct. Comes in handy for both business meetings and weddings.”
Richard barked a laugh. “Good man!”
Across the table, Lucas was mid-story, gesturing with the dramatic flair of a man who believed his life should probably already have a Netflix adaptation. There had been several stories already that evening: the surf break he absolutely should not have attempted, the racehorse he’d nearly bought despite it apparently having “the temperament of a disgraced rock star,” and a near-fight outside a bar that, according to Lucas, ended with a handshake and mutual respect.
Sophie sat opposite, swirling her wine and pretending not to listen. The candlelight turned her hair to copper, but her usual spark was dimmed.
Every time Lucas spoke, she turned away, fiddling with the beaded bracelet around her wrist as it clicked.
“You look radiant Sophie,” Lucas said suddenly, leaning back like a man born to flirt. “If you were a wine, I’d say… young, complex, slightly unpredictable.”
Sophie didn’t glance up. “And if you were a wine,” she said, a faint blush rising to her cheeks as she took a sip, “I’d say… corked!”
Her blunt response was so unexpected and out of character, I had to turn away to hide my laugh.
But she wasn’t the only one acting out of place. From where I stood, the whole table was a study in subtle performance, everyone playing the version of themselves expected of them.
Emma was on point, in that high-gloss way people in PR seem to master by instinct. If conversation strayed, she nudged it back with an expression so polished it could have been part of the décor.
And then, like a shift in barometric pressure, the conversation dimmed. Lady Beaumont had finally arrived.
She didn’t announce herself; she simplyappeared, a sweep of blue silk and diamonds, posture so regal it could shame a church.
“Mother,” Margaret said, rising instantly, voice as tight as her chignon. “You look wonderful.”
“I should,” Lady Beaumont replied smoothly, eyes gliding over the table. “I brought my own maid.”
Her attention lingered on Caroline. “My dear, radiant as ever, though a touch pale. Nerves?”
Caroline smiled, polite and fixed. “Just the excitement.”
“Good, a bride should always look like she might faint. It’s tradition.”
Ethan materialised beside her with a glass of Chardonnay. “Lady Beaumont,” he said easily. “May I offer you a drink?”
