Callie looked a bit embarrassed. “I don’t know if you remember, Pip, but when you were looking for wedding dresses, I mentioned the shop near home that makes them? I was worried you weren’t going to find a dress, because you’d left it so late. So Phoebs and I went and had one made, just in case, because you’re the same size.”
“And we chose the sash to match Callie’s bridesmaid dress,” Phoebe said. “So it all worked out quite well, don’t you think?”
“I can’t believe you bought me a back-up wedding dress, you loons!” But I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re right, it did work out well.”
Then there was another knock at the door, and this time it was the hair and makeup lady, and soon the photographer arrived, and the florist with the two bouquets she’d made instead of just one, and Callie and Phoebe’s mums, and the bridal suite filled with laughter and clinking champagne glasses and clouds of hairspray.
I took my glass and sat on the chaise-longue and let the excited chatter wash over me. I ought to feel sad, I thought, that my wedding day had come and I wasn’t getting married. But I didn’t – it was more Callie’s day than mine, it had been all along. And she and Phoebe were radiant with happiness, the most beautiful brides ever. There was only one thing that stopped it all being perfect.
At last, everyone was ready. The glasses of champagne had been drunk. The last pearl was wired into place on Phoebe’s cloud of auburn hair; the last flower pinned on to Callie’s sleek blonde chignon. The mums had checked their hats in the mirror for the thousandth time. The photographer said she had all the shots she needed for now. Imogen had rung up to confirm that the guests were all seated and waiting.
Callie and Phoebe posed for a photo together, holding champagne flutes, gazing into each other’s eyes and looking quite serious. But anyone looking at them (or at the photo, it’s up on their bedroom wall now) could see the laughter just below the surface, about to break through. For the first time that day, I felt a pang of envy. It could have been Nick and me there (well, we’d have got ready separately, but you know what I mean). It could have been me in the perfect dress, now hanging in our wardrobe in its garment bag, probably destined to be charity-shopped by Erica in a fit of altruistic decluttering. It could have been us, about to celebrate and declare our commitment in front of a crowd of people who loved us. It could have been my Mum dusting powder on her nose where it had gone all shiny from crying, and saying how proud she was of me.
But it wouldn’t have worked, I reminded myself. I wouldn’t have been happy and glowing like Callie and Phoebe. I’d have been white and drawn with nerves about saying such important words in front of all those people, cousins or not. I’d have been seething with resentment about the tomato soup. I’d have been fighting with every sinew not to rise to Erica’s subtle gibes. I’d have been wanting nothing more than to be on my own with Nick, at home on the sofa playing with Spanx, or in bed holding each other’s warm, sated bodies. Okay, the last bit I did want, right then, more than anything.
“I think it’s time for us to go downstairs,” said Callie at last, and down we went.
One of the dark-suited minions was hovering at the bottom of the staircase.
“There’s a gentleman here,” he said. “He says he doesn’t have an invitation, but would it be possible. . .”
My heart leaped. I could see the dark head and dark-suited shoulders of a man sitting in one of the brocade armchairs, his back to the staircase.
Then he stood up and turned around.
“Dad!” said Phoebe.
“Vernon!” said Phoebe’s mum.
It was the first time I’d seen this ogre in the flesh. He looked old, thin and embarrassed – not the fire-breathing tyrant I’d expected.
He walked over to Phoebe, slowly and hesitantly.
“I’ll quite understand if you want to have me thrown out,” he said. “But before you do, I’d be very grateful if you’ll allow me to say one or two things. The first, and most important, is that I’m sorry. The second is, I’ve been a bad father, but I’d be a worse one if I didn’t take the chance to wish my beautiful daughter and her new wife well on their wedding day. I don’t have the right to give you away and I don’t want to make a speech, but if there’s space for me to sit – or stand – at the back. . .”
Callie looked mutinous, but when she saw Phoebe run to her father and hug him, smearing lipstick on his white collar, her face relaxed back into a smile.
“I think he means it,” I whispered to her.
“He bloody well better had,” said Callie.
And so we all trooped into the Great Hall to take our seats and wait for the brides to make their entrance.
“If Callie ever gets disbarred, or whatever, from being a lawyer, she could so go into wedding planning,” I said later to Callie’s brother James, as we milled around in the drawing room sipping champagne and eating canapés (I was relieved that a last-minute consultation between Callie and Hugh, the chef, had resulted in Erica’s raw vegetable crudités being nixed in favour of nice, normal things like cheese straws and quails’ eggs with celery salt).
“She’s ace, isn’t she?” said James, and we beamed happily at each other.
It was true. Callie and Phoebe had taken the remains of Nick’s and my wedding plans, brought them back to life, and made them entirely their own. Okay, the pots of snowdrops might have been Erica’s idea and the canopy of fairy lights Nick’s, but Callie’s sense of extravagant style and Phoebe’s exuberance were everywhere.
In amongst the all-white colour theme were pale yellow roses to mach Phoebe’s dress. Sparkly crimson hearts were dotted in amongst the fairy lights. There were bowls of ‘Mrs and Mrs’ love hearts on the tables and the cake topper was two brides in dresses made of fondant icing that matched Callie and Phoebe’s. The Amazing Archibald proved to be an ace at table magic, and there wasn’t a balloon animal in sight – in fact, he was totally awesome and I felt very guilty about how much I’d dissed him and his fluffy white rabbit. And, most impressively of all, Phoebe and Callie had managed to get a hundred of their friends and family to drop everything at two weeks’ notice and be there to celebrate their wedding.
Callie had even worked her magic on the seating plan, putting me in between James (who I’ve known for so long it feels a bit like he’s my brother as well as Callie’s) and a university mate of Phoebe’s called Edward, who was not only extremely hot but extremely funny too. Between the two of them, they kept me in stitches throughout the meal, and tactfully no one mentioned Nick once, which was a relief, because to be completely honest every time I thought about him I wanted to cry. The idea that I might soon be in the market for a new boyfriend, sizing up the likes of Edward for the role, didn’t feel exciting in the slightest. It just filled me with aching sadness for what I’d had and lost.
Throughout the ceremony, the drinks reception, the dinner and the speeches (made by James, Phoebe’s mum and the two brides), the atmosphere was just easy, spontaneous and happy. Unfortunately I missed most of Callie’s speech because when James talked about his love and pride for his sister, I did start to cry great, embarrassing sobs, and had to take myself off and redo my makeup in the palatial ladies’ loo. But by the time I got back, I’d composed myself enough to enjoy the celebration and witness the cutting of the cake and the first dance.
The lights dimmed, the band played the opening chords of One Day Like This, and Callie and Phoebe walked out on to the dance floor. If they’d had more time, they might have splashed out on a few dancing lessons, like Nick and I were going to do, but they obviously hadn’t. There was nothing choreographed about their dance – in fact, they didn’t actually move much at all. They just stood together in the spotlight, staring into each other’s faces like there was no one else in the room – no one else in the world. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people look so happy. I felt tears threatening to squeeze out of my eyes again, and James gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. Then the song finished, Calli
e and Phoebe were kissing each other and laughing, and everyone was rushing out to join the dancing.
I danced with James, with both the brides, with Callie’s dad and Phoebe’s dad, and Edward claimed me for a few slow songs. Then the band started to play Beautiful Day, and I couldn’t keep up the pretence any more.
“I think I’ll sit this one out,” I said to Edward.
“Awww, no, come on!” he protested, pulling me closer.
“Honestly, I’m quite tired,” I said, and it was true. Suddenly I was feeling weary and sad, my feet were hurting, and the best strategy seemed to be to find a quiet corner and a bottle of champagne and get quietly pissed by myself, then go to bed.
Then a voice behind me said, “I’ll borrow Pippa for this one, if you don’t mind.”
I turned around, and there was Nick. He wasn’t wearing a suit like all the other men – he was wearing old, faded jeans and a jumper with cat hair on it. He hadn’t even shaved. But I’d never seen any man, ever, look as gorgeous.
“I wasn’t going to come,” he said. “But I said I’d think about things, and now I’ve thought, and I needed to tell you as soon as I could. I’ve decided that everything’s better with you, Pippa. I don’t care about getting married. If you’ve decided it’s over, and you’re sure, that’s cool. I’ll go. I don’t want to pressure you. But I do want to be with you, for the rest of our lives, if you want to be with me.”
“I’ve never wanted anything so much,” I said, and Nick took me in his arms.
“Slowed-down, sexy tango with some lifts?” he said.
Perhaps if we’d kept up with Giovanna’s classes we would have nailed it, but we hadn’t, so we were truly crap. We were out of step and the one lift Nick attempted ended with me over his shoulder like a sack of spuds. But we didn’t care. We laughed and danced and I cried again, and when the song ended we did go and find a quiet corner and a bottle of champagne, but long before it was finished we went to bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When Erica packed her bags to go back to Africa, I sneaked a cheque into her luggage to pay her back for everything she’d spent on the wedding. I would have thought that the post out in Liberia would be poor to non-existent, but evidently it’s better than I expected, because a couple of weeks later the cheque arrived back through our letterbox in a padded envelope with a jar of brick-red sludge and a note.
Dear Pippa
Thank you for this gesture. I can completely understand why you felt you had to make it, but I must decline it. Please use the money to buy yourself something you will enjoy, or treat yourself and Nick to a special holiday. You deserve it, and you also deserve an apology from me.
So here it is: I’m sorry for the way I behaved all those years ago, and for not welcoming you into our family as I should have. You make Nick very happy, and his happiness and yours is the most important thing in the world to me.
I’m also enclosing a jar of Liberian pepper sauce. This is the extra-hot blend. The woman in the shop told me she puts it on her mother-in-law’s food when she visits. Let me know what you think of it.
Love
Erica
A couple of days later, I emailed her to let her know that the sauce was delicious, and that I’d sent the money by electronic transfer as a donation to Vision for Liberia. I was extremely tempted to end the email, “So put that in your pipe and smoke it.” But I didn’t. She’d extended the hand of friendship, and I wanted her to know I’d taken it.
That week, I told Guido I wasn’t going to accept the job in Dubai. He said he was sorry but not surprised, and advertised the job in Caterer and Hotelkeeper. Loads of people applied, but Hugh Jameson got the gig. I saw him when he came to the office to sign the contract, and he told me he’d had it up to here with the unreasonable demands of fussy wedding parties at Brocklebury Manor.
Then he went absolutely scarlet and said, “Present company excepted, of course.” But we both knew he was just being polite.
Preparations for the opening of Falconi Dubai are going well, Eloise says, but the last time I met her for lunch, she told me Guido has had other things on his mind. She’s not quite sure when it started, but now Guido and Tamar are officially an item. There was even a picture of them together in the Daily Mail sidebar of shame the other day, with her apparently ‘flaunting her baby bump’ and much speculation about whether Guido was the father. The same day, there was a photo of Florence, ‘Falconi’s scorned ex’, in Regent’s Park with her personal trainer, alongside some gratuitously catty remarks about her muffin top and speculation that she’s going to be releasing a workout DVD.
Coulson Creative didn’t win the pitch for the Zweep business, in spite of Nick’s awesome design work. It was terrible news for Iain. He’s had to sell the Shoreditch penthouse, and he and Katharine have moved into a rented house in Stoke Newington.
Katharine’s baby is due in June. She and I have become much closer – although Callie is still my best friend, I don’t mind any more that Phoebe is hers. When we met the other day for coffee, Katharine asked me if I’d be a godmother. I reminded her that I’m crap with babies, and she gave me a secret little smile and said, “You won’t be crap with mine.”
Her pregnancy has done a weird thing to Iain. Whenever Nick suggests meeting up for a drink, he says no, because he wants to get home early. He’s even talking about jacking the agency in once Katharine goes back to work, and being a full-time father. Katharine says she’s never been so happy in all her life. Nick and I think maybe it’s possible for people to change.
Callie has been made a partner at the law firm where she works, so Khan Clarke Gardner is now Khan Clarke Travis. Phoebe’s mum and dad have separated, but it’s all been as amicable as it could have been, under the circumstances. Vernon has moved to a fourth-floor flat in a building with no lift, and apparently he says carrying shopping up the stairs is playing havoc with his back. He asked Phoebe if she could take him to the supermarket and help him carry it, but instead Phoebe gave him a fifteen percent discount code for Ocado.
The Westbourne Thespians are doing Oliver! this summer, and Mum’s been having singing lessons for her role as Mrs Bedwin. I may not have got my cooking talent from her, but I definitely blame her for my total lack of musical ability, so the show looks like being a classic of its kind. Apparently the opening night is a sell-out already. Mum also told me that she and Dad had accepted an invitation to tea with the Alcocks, their arch-rivals in the best-kept garden competition. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” she said darkly. This struck me as good advice, so I sent Bethany a friend request on Facebook, and she accepted.
It’s a strange thing, but after spending an hour or so obsessively looking through her photo albums and scrutinising her status updates, I began to feel quite differently about Bethany. She was no less tousled, blonde and cool, but she was also a normal girl. A girl whose slightly crooked front teeth showed when she smiled. A girl whose new boots got soaked when she stepped in a puddle on the way to work, and leaked. A girl who got Cersei in the ‘Which Game of Thrones character are you?’ quiz, same as me. I don’t know if we’ll ever meet in real life, but I have a feeling that if we do, we might not be enemies after all.
The other day, I was watching MasterChef South Africa on the Food Network, and there was a dining scene with a big group of guests eating barbequed fillet steak under the stars. The camera zoomed in on one of them, just as he was cramming a huge forkful of meat into his mouth. It was Gabriel. I expected to feel swamped with mortification at the sight of him, but I didn’t – I just laughed.
And Nick and I?
We got married last week. I put on my beautiful dress and my wedding shoes, and we walked down to Southwark Register Office and said our vows with Callie and Phoebe as witnesses. Afterwards we all went to the Hope and Anchor for a few pints, and then Nick and I went home and ate takeaway pizza in bed with Spanx and his friend, The Amazing Archibald’s stuffed bunny. Spanx and the bunny are ins
eparable – he carries it around with him in his mouth, which is extremely cute and also means our underwear mostly stays in the drawer where it belongs.
I’ve been making the pilot episode of Pippa’s Plates with Zack and the guys at Platinum. Working with kids was downright terrifying at first, but I’m liking it more and more, and they seem to like me. The other day I was showing a group of six-year-olds how to make pizza dough, and there was one little boy with dark hair and a dimple in his cheek, and in a certain light it was easy to imagine how a child of Nick’s might look, one day. When I told Zack I’d got married, he was thrilled, and announced that I’ll be billed as Pippa Pickford. Apparently it’s more memorable than Pippa Martin. Nick is trying very hard not to gloat about this.
All in all, we couldn’t be happier. But there’s one thing we can’t quite agree on. Erica doesn’t know yet that we’re married, and one of us is going to have to tell her.
Acknowledgements
When I started writing A Groom with a View, I’d just spent a weekend away with seventeen women I am incredibly fortunate to have as friends. We were celebrating the anniversary of the second Tuesday in November 2003, when a group of us first met up to drink wine, gossip and talk about books.
Since then, we’ve been through marriages, divorces, births, deaths and innumerable traumas ranging from horrific mothers-in-law to what to serve the vegan who’s coming for dinner. My book club friends have enriched my life so much: they are all beautiful, brilliant and inspiring, and I’m honoured to be part of their circle of fabulousness.
So I hope they will forgive me for shamelessly scavenging their lives to use in this book. I hope the snippets I’ve sneaked in make my readers laugh even a fraction as much as I have over the years.
Special thanks to the eagle-eyed Catherine Baigent, who proofread this book to within an inch of its life and improved it so much. Any remaining errors are definitely mine.
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