“Suze has just been showing me your family heirloom wedding dress, Mrs. B.,” says Danny, raising his eyebrows at me. “It’s… quite unique.”
“This dress is a real survivor!” says Mum delightedly. “We thought it was ruined, but all the coffee came out!”
“What a miracle!” says Danny.
“And even just this morning, little Ernie tried to throw apple puree over it—”
“Oh, really?” I say, glancing at Suze, who flushes slightly.
“But luckily I’d covered it in protective plastic!” says Mum. She reaches for the dress and shakes out the frills, slightly pink about the eyes. “This is a moment I’ve been dreaming about for so long. Becky wearing my wedding dress. I am a silly, aren’t I?”
“It’s not silly,” I say, and give her a hug. “It’s what weddings are all about.”
“Mrs. Bloomwood, Becky described the dress to me,” says Danny. “And I can honestly say she didn’t do it justice. But you won’t mind if I make a couple of teeny tiny alterations?”
“Not at all!” says Mum, and glances at her watch. “Well, I must get on. I’ve still got to chase these posies!”
As the door closes behind her, Danny and Suze exchange glances.
“OK,” says Danny. “What are we going to do with this?”
“You could cut the sleeves off, for a start,” says Suze. “And all those frills on the bodice.”
“I mean, how much of it do we actually need to keep?” Danny looks up. “Becky, what do you think?”
I don’t reply. I’m staring out of the window into the garden. I can see Luke and Annabel walking round the garden, their heads close together, talking. And there’s Mum talking to Janice, and gesturing to the flowering cherry tree.
“Becky?” says Danny again.
“Don’t touch it,” I say, turning round.
“What?”
“Don’t do anything to it.” I smile at Danny’s appalled face. “Just leave it as it is.”
By ten to three I’m ready. I’m wearing the sausage roll dress. My face has been made up by Janice as Radiant Spring Bride, only slightly toned down with a tissue and water. I’ve got a garland of bright pink carnations and gypsophila in my hair, which Mum ordered along with my bouquet. The only remotely stylish thing about me is my Christian Louboutin shoes, which you can’t even see.
And I don’t care. I look exactly how I want to look.
We’ve had our photos taken by the flowering cherry tree, and Mum has wept all down her “Summer Elegance” makeup and had to be retouched. And now everyone has gone off to the church. It’s me and Dad, waiting to go.
“Ready?” he says, as a white Rolls-Royce purrs into the drive.
“I think so,” I say, a slight wobble to my voice.
I’m getting married. I’m really getting married.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” I say, only half joking.
“Oh, I think so.” Dad looks into the hall stand mirror and adjusts his silk tie. “I remember saying to your mother, the very first day I met Luke, ‘This one will keep up with Becky.’ ” He meets my eye in the mirror. “Was I right, love? Does he keep up with you?”
“Not quite.” I grin at him. “But… he’s getting there.”
“Good.” Dad smiles back. “That’s probably all he can hope for.”
The driver is ringing the doorbell, and as I open the door, I peer at the face under the peaked cap. I don’t believe it. It’s my old driving instructor, Clive.
“Clive! Hi! how are you?”
“Becky Bloomwood!” he exclaims. “Well, I never! Becky Bloomwood, getting married! Did you ever pass your test, then?”
“Er… yes. Eventually.”
“Who would have thought it?” He shakes his head, marvelingly. “I used to go home to the wife and say, ‘If that girl passes her test, I’m a fried egg.’ And then of course, when it came to it—”
“Yes, well, anyway—”
“That examiner said he’d never known anything like it. Has your husband-to-be seen you drive?”
“Yes.”
“And he still wants to marry you?”
“Yes!” I say crossly.
Honestly. This is my wedding day. I shouldn’t have to be reminded about stupid driving tests that happened years ago.
“Shall we get in?” says Dad tactfully. “Hello, Clive. Nice to see you again.”
We walk out into the drive, and as we reach the car I look back at the house. When I see it again I’ll be a married woman. I take a deep breath and step into the car.