Suze’s career is designing photograph frames, which sell all over the country, and last year she diversified into photograph albums, wrapping paper, and gift boxes too.
“The whole theme is shell shapes,” she says proudly. “D’you like it?”
“It’s beautiful!” I say, running my finger round the spirals. “How did you come up with it?”
“I got the idea from Tarkie, actually! We were out walking one day and he was saying how he used to collect shells when he was a child and about all the different amazing shapes in nature . . . and then it hit me!”
I look at her face, all lit up, and have a sudden image of her and Tarquin walking hand in hand on the blustery moors, in Aran sweaters by The Scotch House.
“Suze, you’re going to be so happy with Tarquin,” I say heartfeltly.
“D’you think?” She flushes with pleasure. “Really?”
“Definitely. I mean, look at you! You’re simply glowing!”
Which is true. I hadn’t really noticed it before, but she looks completely different from the old Suze. She’s still got the same delicate nose and high cheekbones, but her face is rounder, and kind of softer. And she’s still slim, but there’s a kind of a fullness . . . almost a . . .
My gaze runs down her body and stops.
Hang on a minute.
No. Surely . . .
No.
“Suze?”
“Yes?”
“Suze, are you . . .” I swallow. “You’re not . . . pregnant?”
“No!” she replies indignantly. “Of course not! Honestly, whatever can have given you—” She meets my eye, breaks off, and shrugs. “Oh, all right then, yes I am. How did you guess?”
“How did I guess? From you . . . I mean, you look pregnant.”
“No, I don’t! No one else has guessed!”
“They must have. It’s completely obvious!”
“No, it isn’t!” She sucks in her stomach and looks at herself in the mirror. “You see? And once I’ve got my Rigby and Peller on . . .”
I can’t get my head round this. Suze is pregnant!
“So—is it a secret? Don’t your parents know?”
“Oh no! Nobody knows. Not even Tarkie.” She pulls a face. “It’s a bit tacksville, being pregnant on your wedding day, don’t you think? I thought I’d pretend it’s a honeymoon baby.”
“But you must be at least three months gone.”
“Four months. It’s due at the beginning of June.”
I stare at her. “So how on earth are you going to pretend it’s a honeymoon baby?”
“Um . . .” She thinks for a moment. “It could be a bit premature.”
“Four whole months?”
“Well, OK then. I’ll think of something else,” says Suze airily. “It’s ages away. Anyway, the important thing is, don’t tell anyone.”
“OK. I won’t.” Gingerly I reach out and touch her stomach. Suze is having a baby. She’s going to be a mother. And Tarquin’s going to be a father. God, it’s like we’re all suddenly growing up or something.
Suze is right on one point at least. Once she’s squeezed into her corset, you can’t see the bulge at all. In fact, as we both sit in front of her dressing table on the morning of the wedding, grinning excitedly at each other, she actually looks thinner than me, which is a tad unfair.
We’ve had such a great couple of days, chilling out, watching old videos and eating endless KitKats. (Suze is eating for two, and I need energy after my transatlantic flight.) Luke brought some paperwork with him and has spent most of the time in the library—but for once I don’t mind. It’s just been so nice to be able to spend some time with Suze. I’ve heard all about the flat she and Tarquin are buying in London and I’ve seen pictures of the gorgeous hotel on Antigua where she and Tarquin are going for their honeymoon, and I’ve tried on most of the new clothes in her wardrobe.
There’s been loads going on all over the house, with florists and caterers and relations arriving every minute. What’s a bit weird is, none of the family seems particularly bothered by it. Suze’s mother has been out hunting both the days that I’ve been here, and her father has been in his study. Mrs. Gearing, their housekeeper, is the one who’s been organizing the marquee and flowers and everything—and even she seems pretty relaxed. When I asked Suze about it she just shrugged and said, “I suppose we’re used to throwing big parties.”
Last night there was a grand drinks party for Suze and Tarquin’s relations who have all come down from Scotland, and I was expecting everyone to be talking about the wedding then, at least. But every time I tried to get anyone excited about the flowers, or how romantic it all was, I got blank looks. It was only when Suze mentioned that Tarquin was going to buy her a horse as a wedding present that they all suddenly got animated, and started talking about breeders they knew, and horses they’d bought, and how their great chum had a very nice young chestnut mare Suze might be interested in.
I mean, honestly. No one even asked me what my dress was like.
Anyway. I don’t care, because it looks wonderful. We both look wonderful. We’ve both been made up by a fantastic makeup artist, and our hair is up in sleek chignons. The photographer has taken so-called “candid” pictures of me buttoning Suze into her dress (he made us do it three times, in fact my arms were aching by the end). Now Suze is umming and aahing over about six family tiaras while I take sips of champagne. Just to keep me from getting nervous.
“What about your mother?” says the hairdresser to Suze, as she pulls wispy blond tendrils round her face. “Does she want a blow-dry?”
“I doubt it,” says Suze, pulling a face. “She’s not really into that kind of stuff.”
“What’s she wearing?” I ask.
“God knows,” says Suze. “The first thing that comes to hand, probably.” She meets my eye, and I pull a tiny sympathetic face. Last night Suze’s mother came downstairs for drinks in a dirndl skirt and patterned woolly jumper, with a large diamond brooch on the front. Mind you, Tarquin’s mother looked even worse. I really don’t know where Suze has managed to get her sense of style.
“Bex, could you just go and make sure she doesn’t put on some hideous old gardening dress?” says Suze. “She’ll listen to you, I know she will.”
“Well . . . OK,” I say doubtfully. “I’ll try.”
As I let myself out of the room, I see Luke coming along the corridor in his morning dress.
“You look very beautiful,” he says with a smile.
“Do I?” I do a little twirl. “It’s a lovely dress, isn’t it? And it fits so well—”
“I wasn’t looking at the dress,” says Luke. His eyes meet mine with a wicked glint and I feel a flicker of pleasure. “Is Suze decent?” he adds. “I just wanted to wish her well.”
“Oh yes,” I say. “Go on in. Hey, Luke, you’ll never guess!”
I’ve been absolutely dying to tell Luke about Suze’s baby for the last two days, and now the words slip out before I can stop them.
“What?”
“She’s . . .” I can’t tell him, I just can’t. Suze would kill me. “She’s . . . got a really nice wedding dress,” I finish lamely.
“Good!” says Luke, giving me a curious look. “There’s a surprise. Well, I’ll just pop in and have a quick word. See you later.”
I cautiously make my way to Suze’s mother’s bedroom and give a gentle knock.
“Hellooo?” thunders a voice in return, and the door is flung open by Suze’s mother, Caroline. She’s about six feet tall with long rangy legs, gray hair in a knot, and a weatherbeaten face that creases into a smile when she sees me.
“Rebecca!” she booms, and looks at her watch. “Not time yet, is it?”
“Not quite!” I smile gingerly and run my eyes over her outfit of ancient navy blue sweatshirt, jodhpurs, and riding boots. She’s got an amazing figure for a woman her age. No wonder Suze is so skinny. I glance around the room, but I can’t see any telltale suit-carriers or h
atboxes.
“So, um, Caroline . . . I was just wondering what you were planning to wear today. As mother of the bride!”
“Mother of the bride?” She stares at me. “Good God, I suppose I am. Hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Right! So, you . . . haven’t got a special outfit ready?”
“Bit early to be dressing up, isn’t it?” says Caroline. “I’ll just fling something on before we go.”
“Well, why don’t I help you choose?” I say firmly, and head toward the wardrobe. I throw open the doors, preparing myself for a shock—and gape in astonishment.
This has got to be the most extraordinary collection of clothes I’ve ever seen. Riding habits, ball dresses, and thirties suits are jostling for space with Indian saris, Mexican ponchos . . . and an extraordinary array of tribal jewelry.
“These clothes!” I breathe.
“I know.” Caroline looks at them dismissively. “A load of old rubbish, really.”
“Old rubbish? My God, if you found any of these in a vintage shop in New York . . .” I pull out a pale blue satin coat edged with ribbon. “This is fantastic.”
“D’you like it?” says Caroline in surprise. “Have it.”
“I couldn’t!”
“Dear girl, I don’t want it.”
“But surely the sentimental value . . . I mean, your memories—”
“My memories are in here.” She taps her head. “Not in there.” She surveys the melee of clothes, then picks up a small piece of bone on a leather cord. “Now, this I’m rather fond of.”
“That?” I say, trying to summon some enthusiasm. “Well, it’s—”
“It was given to me by a Masai chief, many years ago now. We were driving at dawn to find a pride of elephants, when a chieftain flagged us down. A tribeswoman was in a fever after giving birth. We helped bring down her temperature and the tribe honored us with gifts. Have you been to the Masai Mara, Rebecca?”
“Er . . . no. I’ve never actually been to—”
“And this little lovely.” She picks up an embroidered purse. “I bought this at a street market in Konya. Bartered for it with my last packet of cigarettes before we trekked up the Nemrut Dagi. Have you been to Turkey?”
“No, not there, either,” I say, feeling rather inadequate. God, I feel undertraveled. I scrabble around in my mind, trying to think of somewhere I’ve been that will impress her—but it’s a pretty paltry lineup, now that I think about it. France a few times, Spain, Crete . . . and that’s about it. Why haven’t I been anywhere exciting? Why haven’t I been trekking round Mongolia?
I was going to go to Thailand once, come to think of it. But then I decided to go to France instead and spend the money I saved on a Lulu Guinness handbag.
“I haven’t really traveled much at all,” I admit reluctantly.
“Well, you must, dear girl!” booms Caroline. “You must broaden your horizons. Learn about life from real people. One of the dearest friends I have in the world is a Bolivian peasant woman. We ground maize together on the plains of the Llanos.”
“Wow.”
A little clock on the mantelpiece chimes the half hour, and I suddenly realize we’re not getting anywhere.
“So anyway . . . did you have any ideas for a wedding outfit?”
“Something warm and colorful,” says Caroline, reaching for a thick red and yellow poncho.
“Erm . . . I’m not so sure that would be entirely appropriate . . .” I push between the jackets and dresses, and suddenly see a flash of apricot silk. “Ooh! This is nice.” I haul it out—and I don’t believe it. It’s Balenciaga.
“My going-away outfit,” says Caroline reminiscently. “We traveled on the Orient Express to Venice, then explored the caves of Postojna. Do you know that region?”
“You have to wear this!” I say, my voice rising to a squeak of excitement. “You’ll look spectacular. And it’s so romantic, wearing your own going-away outfit!”
“I suppose it might be rather fun.” She holds it up against herself with red, weatherbeaten hands that make me wince every time I look at them. “That should still fit, shouldn’t it? Now, there must be a hat around here somewhere . . .” She puts down the suit and starts rooting around on a shelf.
“So—you must be really happy for Suze,” I say, picking up an enameled hand mirror and examining it.
“Tarquin’s a dear boy.” She turns round and taps her beaky nose confidentially. “Very well endowed.”
This is true. Tarquin is the fifteenth richest person in the country, or something. But I’m a bit surprised at Suze’s mother bringing it up.
“Well, yes . . .” I say. “Although I don’t suppose Suze really needs the money . . .”
“I’m not talking about money!” She gives me a knowing smile and suddenly I realize what she means.
“Oh!” I feel myself blushing furiously. “Right! I see!”
“All the Cleath-Stuart men are the same. They’re famous for it. Never a divorce in the family,” she adds, plonking a green felt hat on top of her head.
Gosh. I’m going to look at Tarquin a bit differently now.
It takes me a while to persuade Caroline out of the green felt hat and into a chic black cloche. As I’m walking back along the corridor toward Suze’s room, I hear some familiar voices in the hall downstairs.
“It’s common knowledge. Foot-and-mouth was caused by carrier pigeons.”
“Pigeons? You’re telling me that this huge epidemic, which has wiped out stocks of cattle across Europe, was caused by a few harmless pigeons?”
“Harmless? Graham, they’re vermin!”
Mum and Dad! I hurry to the banisters—and there they are, standing by the fireplace. Dad’s in morning dress with a top hat under his arm, and Mum’s dressed in a navy jacket, floral skirt, and bright red shoes, which don’t quite match her red hat.
“Mum?”
“Becky!”
“Mum! Dad!” I hurry down the stairs and envelop them both in a hug, breathing in the familiar scent of Yardley’s talc and Tweed.
This trip is getting more emotional by the minute. I haven’t seen my parents since they came out to visit me in New York four months ago. And even then, they only stayed for three days before going off to Florida to see the Everglades.
“Mum, you look amazing! Have you done something to your hair?”
“Maureen put some highlights in,” she says, looking pleased. “And I popped next door to Janice this morning, so she could do my face. You know, she’s taken a course in professional makeup. She’s a real expert!”
“I can . . . see!” I say feebly, looking at the lurid stripes of blusher and highlighter painted on Mum’s cheeks. Maybe I can manage to wipe them off accidentally on purpose.
“So, is Luke here?” says Mum, looking around with bright eyes, like a squirrel searching for a nut.
“Somewhere around,” I say—and Mum and Dad exchange glances.
“He is here, though?” Mum gives a tense little laugh. “You did fly on the same plane, didn’t you?”
“Mum, don’t worry. He’s here. Really.”
Mum still doesn’t look convinced—and I can’t honestly blame her. The truth is, there was this tiny incident at the last wedding we all attended. Luke didn’t turn up, and I was completely desperate, and I resorted to . . . um . . .
Well. It was only a tiny white lie. I mean, he could have been there, mingling somewhere. If they hadn’t had that stupid group photograph, no one would ever have known.
“Jane! Graham! Hello!”
There’s Luke, striding through the front door. Thank God for that.
“Luke!” Mum gives a relieved trill of laughter. “You’re here! Graham, he’s here!”
“Of course he’s here!” says my father, rolling his eyes. “Where did you think he was? On the moon?”
“How are you, Jane?” says Luke with a smile, and kisses her on the cheek.
Mum’s face is pink with happiness, and she’s clu
tching onto Luke’s arm as though he might vanish in a puff of smoke. He gives me a little smile, and I beam happily back. I’ve been looking forward to this day for so long, and now it’s actually here. It’s like Christmas. In fact, it’s better than Christmas. Through the open front door I can see wedding guests walking past on the snowy gravel in morning dress and smart hats. In the distance, the church bells are pealing, and there’s a kind of excited, expectant atmosphere.
“And where’s the blushing bride?” says Dad.
“I’m here,” comes Suze’s voice. We all look up—and there she is, floating down the stairs, clutching a stunning bouquet of roses and ivy.
“Oh, Suzie,” says Mum, and claps a hand to her mouth. “Oh, that dress! Oh . . . Becky! You’re going to look—” She turns to me with softened eyes and for the first time seems to take in my dress. “Becky . . . is that what you’re wearing? You’ll freeze!”
“No, I won’t. The church is going to be heated.”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” says Suze. “So unusual.”
“But it’s only a T-shirt!” She gives a dissatisfied tug at the sleeve. “And what’s this frayed bit? It isn’t even finished properly!”
“It’s customized,” I explain. “It’s completely unique.”
“Unique? Don’t you have to match the others?”
“There aren’t any others,” explains Suze. “The only other person I would have asked is Tarquin’s sister, Fenny. But she said if she was a bridesmaid again she’d jinx her chances of marriage. You know what they say, ‘Three times a bridesmaid.’ Well, she’s been one about ninety-three times! And she’s got her eye on this chap who works in the City, so she doesn’t want to take any chances.”
There’s a short silence. I can see Mum’s brain working hard. Oh God, please don’t—
“Becky love, how many times have you been a bridesmaid?” she says, a little too casually. “There was Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Sylvia’s wedding . . . but I think that’s it, isn’t it?”
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