Kit shook his head, pulling her close so that their foreheads were touching. ‘Are your family this awful?’
‘In a very different way,’ Chelsea said.
‘Just a few days,’ he whispered, eyes closed, ‘just so they recognise you when you’re walking down the aisle.’
‘From very, very far away.’
‘Agreed,’ Chris nodded, kissing her briefly. ‘I guess we should get ready for dinner.’
He moved to get up and she pulled him back. ‘No wait, tell me what the sleep laughing was about! What was it this time?’
‘I was having a chat with a senile owl. He told me that the buses would look better painted purple.’
Chelsea laughed, releasing him. ‘I’m not sure if that’s better than the bees who thought all spaghetti should be made of liquorice.’
‘My brain is a strange place,’ Kit shrugged, getting up and throwing a pillow at her. ‘Get dressed. There’s gonna be fireworks at dinner.’
***
‘What happened to Mike?’ Evie asked her, watching as he stalked off through the park, anger vibrating through his backbone.
‘I broke up with him.’
Evie’s eyes widened, lined in purple eyeliner so that she looked even more alarming. ‘Why?’
Chelsea felt herself shrug, reaching for her pack of cigarettes. ‘He was a good guy. I’d chew him up in the end.’
Evie raised an eyebrow, sitting beside her on the swings, stamping her fake Doc Martens into the sand.
‘It’s like a fucking hundred degrees, Eves. Have you got to be a goth all summer?’ She pointed at her friend’s boots.
‘I like them, good for stamping on things…like poor nice boys’ hearts…’ She looked at Chelsea knowingly. ‘He wasn’t too nice, what happened?’
‘He cheated.’
Evie rolled her eyes. ‘You haven’t even tried to make that sound true.’
Chelsea looked out across the park, where she could make out Mike’s low-hanging jeans and baggy red T-shirt in the distance.
‘He invited me round for dinner. His mum made lasagne. From scratch. There was this salad with all this random stuff in it. They sit at the dinner table in the evenings, him and his mum and dad and his little sister. They talk about what they did during the day…’
Evie looked at her friend, frowning.
‘His dad asked my opinion about things, he asked what I thought about stuff on TV, and what I liked at school and what I wanted to be.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I didn’t know,’ Chelsea shrugged, ‘no one’s ever asked me that before.’
‘Chels, you have a fucking opinion on everything. You couldn’t tell the guy you wanted to be a dancer?’
‘I did, eventually, I did.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He didn’t say anything,’ Chelsea said darkly, ‘his mum said that she was sure I would end up dancing somewhere, someday. She was almost one hundred percent sure.’
‘That’s nice,’ Evie shrugged. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
Chelsea looked at the space where Mike used to be. ‘She meant the pole, Eves. She meant I’d be dancing on a pole. One hundred percent.’
Evie’s shoulders dropped, she shook her head. ‘What a fucking bitch. What did Mike do?’
‘He thought she was being nice,’ Chelsea shrugged, ‘he doesn’t see the world our way. How can he, with a picket fence and a perfect family? So he had to go.’
‘He seemed nice,’ Evie shrugged, swinging sideways so that she bumped gently against her friend.
‘Too nice. Too nice for someone like me.’ Chelsea stubbed out the cigarette on the underside of the swing, pretending not to care.
Chapter Five
‘So…dinner starts early,’ Chelsea said, finishing her make-up in the mirror, watching with the slightest bit of longing as Kit buttoned up his shirt.
‘Pre-dinner cocktails, starters, dinner, dessert, cheeseboard, post-dinner drinks, coffee, post-dinner drinks…post–post-dinner drinks…’ Kit raised an eyebrow.
‘Seriously?’
‘Playing with the big dogs now, babe.’
‘Woof,’ she said sadly, looking down at the sparkling ring on her finger.
He put his arms around her, their faces next to each other in the mirror as he talked to her reflection. ‘A couple of days. Just a couple of days. And then…adventures!’
‘Adventures,’ she nodded, breathing out slowly, ‘okay.’
He reached for her hand, twirling her beneath his arm as they walked along, the dark blue dress swirling around her ankles.
‘Into the lion’s den we go,’ Kit laughed, kissing her cheek.
‘I thought they were dogs a minute ago?’
‘Dogs, big cats, whatever.’ He shook his head. ‘Things with teeth.’
They walked down the stairs, delicious smells rising through the house, the sound of Jem’s brash laugh echoing as they got closer.
‘They’ll be in the bar.’ Kit led her through the empty kitchen, lit only by candles.
‘The bar, of course.’ Chelsea rolled her eyes. ‘So, where’s all this cooking going on?’ Chelsea gestured around them.
Kit dipped his head. ‘Okay, don’t make a face but…’
‘What?’
‘This is just the family kitchen.’
‘Family kitchen,’ Chelsea blinked.
‘Yeah, ’cause, well…there’s a lot of us, and a lot of food, and this is quite a small kitchen…’ Kit shrugged, nodding towards the state of the art American fridge freezer, the gleaming marble surfaces and the six-burner hob with two ovens. The kitchen was almost bigger than Chelsea’s studio.
‘Right.’ She stood there, looking at him, trying to find something to say. Something that wasn’t ‘Aren’t you disgusted by all this? Isn’t it just too much?’
Jemima breezed in, empty wine Champagne flute in hand. ‘Don’t look so impressed, darling. You’ll give yourself away.’
Chelsea’s neck almost snapped as she turned to look at her future mother-in-law, hitting the nail on the head entirely. It was the first rule. Never seem impressed. The only way they’d think you were rich was if you had never even considered that their lifestyle might not be available to everyone. Don’t let them see you’re impressed. The first rule. And she’d broken it over a kitchen. One client once showed her a picture of her pet tiger, and she was impressed by a second kitchen?
‘What?’ she said breathlessly, waiting for Jemima to go in for the kill.
The older blonde lady looked at her in confusion. ‘I was talking to Christopher, looking at you like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. He’s giving himself away, it’s never good to be too impressed by your partner.’
‘Why not?’ Chelsea asked, sharing an amused look with Kit.
‘Because they’ll take advantage,’ Jem said shortly, sighing. ‘Anyway, through here, darlings, Daddy’s making drinks in the bar.’
‘Not Alistair?’ Chelsea asked, linking her fingers with Kit’s as they followed his tottering mother through to the living room, full of soft white furnishings and a huge chandelier, and down some steps to another room, all wooden but with huge windows that went from floor to ceiling, looking out over the lake. Even in the dull light of the early evening, Chelsea could see the overwhelming blue of the water, the greenery surrounding it, the colourful little boats bobbing in the harbours.
‘Dad’s probably showing off for your benefit. Don’t drink it to be polite, the man has no taste buds and I’m not sure he’s been able to judge appropriate measurements since the early 80s,’ Kit whispered, his breath tickling her neck.
Chelsea tried not to be impressed at the view, instead focusing on the half-cut old man trying to toss a cocktail shaker around. ‘Ah, the beautiful Chelsea!’ Bartie bellowed. ‘A drink, my darling?’
‘Whatever you like,’ she shrugged, settling into a bar stool. ‘I trust you.’
‘Famous last words,�
� Kit muttered. ‘I’ll just have a beer, Dad.’
Bartie grinned and Alistair nodded, handing him one from the small fridge behind the wooden bar. Chelsea looked out longingly at the view, the blues of the lake and the sky painfully far away. The windows were open and she breathed in the warm, damp air. Summer on the water, that smell that always seemed to bring back memories, even if it was just her and Ruby and the girls, cutting school to jump on a train to Brighton for the day, staying out way too late so that their sunburnt shoulders could be cooled by the sea air after dark.
Bartie watched her gaze, presenting her with a pink drink in a Martini glass, garnished with some mint and a slice of lemon. It looked safe, at least.
‘You should go out on the boat tomorrow,’ he told her, suddenly turning back to his son. ‘Kit, you still know how to drive it, don’t you?’
Kit shrugged, his head lowered like a sullen teenager. ‘It’s been a while, maybe.’
‘It’s not something you forget, darling,’ Jemima cooed, tapping his cheek gently with her hand. ‘Like playing a good hand of golf or knowing how to negotiate. Some people just…have it.’ She shrugged lightly, putting her glass on the bar for a refill.
‘And some people will never have it,’ Chelsea added knowingly, looking at Jemima with a raised eyebrow.
‘Of course. See, Chelsea understands.’
Chelsea’s gaze didn’t falter as she looked into the watery grey eyes of Kit’s mother, edged with blue eyeliner, lashes spiky with mascara. ‘Oh, I understand completely.’ She took a sip of her drink, holding back the desire to choke on the taste of vodka and the sharp tang of lemon. ‘I mean, you’re completely wrong of course.’
‘I am?’ Jemima’s stare was cold and sharper than the lemons.
Chelsea grinned. ‘Of course, anyone can perfect a golf swing with enough free time.’ She swirled on her chair, seeing Celia enter the room and grin at her, before hiding it behind her palm and curling up in an arm chair. Chelsea changed the subject.
‘Bartie, this cocktail, it’s brilliant!’ She coughed slightly. ‘Eye-wateringly brilliant.’
‘All the best ones are, my dear,’ he saluted her, then nodded at his daughter. ‘Still refusing the gift of the nectar of the gods, my youngest angel child?’
Celia snorted. ‘I’m good, Dad. Tonic is fine.’
‘Seventeen, and refuses to drink! Never gets in trouble, it’s shameful! Completely shameful! Throwing away all those teenage memories!’ Bartie bowed his head, pouring out a tonic and sliding it across the bar. Celia unfurled like a cat, stretching onto her tiptoes, her oversized shirt dress floating around her, looking at once casual and so stylish. Chelsea was not often jealous of seventeen-year-olds, but something about Celia was so calm. Like she sat in the centre of a storm and barely made a noise. She reached out her hand for the drink, her dainty fingers reaching across the bar. The other arm she bent, leaning an elbow gently on Chelsea’s shoulder, not making eye contact.
‘So, when’s the wedding?’ she asked them, turning to Kit. ‘And is it going to be a very Monroe affair?’
Chelsea frowned, tilting her head to look at the younger woman. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, Chelsea, I don’t suppose you would understand this,’ Jemima said lightly, ‘but we have certain…responsibilities that come with our name. Expectations of what it means to be a Monroe.’
‘Like what?’ Chelsea felt her stomach drop, noticing Jemima’s sharp head movements, her golden hair swishing behind her as she clenched her Champagne glass. A golden eagle, that’s what she looked like, hawklike and sharp, sleek. A beak that could rip your eyes out before you knew it.
‘Mum,’ Kit widened his eyes, staring at her, ‘stop.’
‘Well, obviously, you’ll be married here, on the lake, at the castle…’ Jemima said as if Kit hadn’t spoken, ‘and we’ll need enough time to plan, obviously Celeste will be the wedding planner, and Daddy’s friends from the bank will need to be invited…’
Chelsea felt her chest constrict and she looked to Kit in horror, wanting him to say something serious. Something strong and certain, like all those times she’d heard him working out arguments out loud in his home office, pacing back and forth, arguing for truth and justice against himself until 2am.
‘Mum…’ he sighed, shaking his head, ‘Chels and I haven’t discussed any of that.’
‘What’s to discuss?’ Bartie looked incredulous. ‘Look if it’s the expense, don’t worry about it, we’re happy to help. It’s hard for young people these days.’
‘We’ve got some of the best designers on speed dial, darling.’ Jemima smiled sweetly at Chelsea, who felt her blood turn to ice, waiting for the punchline. ‘I mean they’re not used to making bigger sizes, but you could always slim down, or we could pay for more material…’
‘Mother,’ Celia said, rolling her eyes like the whole thing was too boring for words, ‘wasn’t it time to put your head in the oven?’
Jemima raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh dinner, right. I’ll go check on how Alphonse is doing.’
‘Alfie, mother, his name’s Alfie,’ Celia sighed as Jemima sauntered from the room, almost swaying her hips to the sound of applause in her head. ‘The man is a chef from Bromley, but I suppose if she pays him enough, she can call him whatever the fuck she wants.’
‘Language,’ Bartie said half-heartedly, ‘if you’re going to swear, be a bit more fucking inventive.’
Alistair smirked a little. ‘If you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to check the table is set for dinner.’ He exited the room, out through onto the patio they had been out on that afternoon.
Celia stretched up onto her tiptoes, her greyish-blue eyes meeting Chelsea’s bolder ones. ‘It’s not too late to back out of being part of this family. It’s like an anchor.’
‘Keeps you steady in a storm?’
‘You keep it to stop you drowning but it consistently weighs you down,’ Kit smirked, looking suddenly like his sister, ‘and you, no talking her out of it. Took me years to talk her into it.’
Chelsea looked at him in surprise. ‘And when did all this talking me into it happen?’
‘Very slowly, picking away at you until, before you knew it, against reason and rhyme, you loved me.’ He kissed her briefly, light eyes shining.
‘Well, figures it would take work,’ Celia winked, turning to the door when Alistair appeared.
‘Dinner is about to be served, if everyone would like to come through to the table.’
Chelsea frowned, unsure how the man who was sitting at the table that afternoon, drinking with them like a favourite uncle, was suddenly reduced to staff again. Would he eat dinner with them? It didn’t seem like it.
Kit put a hand on the small of her back, leading her through to the patio. Chelsea wanted to ask how it all worked, how they could distinguish between the workers and the guests, but she supposed she probably did not really want to know the answer to that question.
The table was decorated beautifully, tea lights glowing, glasses and cutlery shining as the fresh dark flowers sat in small vases. Jemima sat, preening and ready, at the head of the table, forcing the rest of them down to that end.
‘Should have sat at the smaller table, Mum,’ Celia pointed out, ‘don’t have enough guests for this.’
Jemima shrugged. ‘Well, tomorrow Eric’s coming too. With Claudia.’
‘Oh good, another bimbo.’ Celia rolled her eyes. ‘He’s ever so good at picking money-grabbing “It” girls with no personality.’
‘Is this the fashion blogger?’ Kit asked, filling up Chelsea’s glass with Prosecco.
‘Oh no, Christopher, don’t be silly,’ Jemima said, rolling her eyes, ‘this one’s the heiress. Her father created Toast.’
‘Toast?’ Chelsea blinked. ‘Like…hot bread. That people have been creating for centuries, ever since we figured out how to put it on a stick over a fire?’
‘No, goodness darling, where have you been? Toast!’
�
��It’s a toy range, Toast Toys, created those creepy crying dolls that all the little girls wanted in the nineties,’ Kit added. ‘He met her through work.’
‘I think he met her as an extra on Made in Chelsea, and she desperately clung on when she realised his cologne smelled like pathetic egotistical banker.’ Celia rolled her eyes again.
‘He has a penchant for the outward appearance of things, my brother. Likes women who make him feel important and drag him to pointless social events to mix with people who have never worked a day in their life. Makes him feel superior,’ Kit added, grinning at his sister.
‘You two are horrible,’ Bartie grinned, ‘at least wait until the poor sod is here to tear him to pieces. The only honest thing to do.’
‘So Eric and Claudia arrive in the afternoon, and then Tatty is coming over in the afternoon. Won’t that be lovely, Kit?’ Jemima looked at him, those light eyes piercing and triumphant in the soft glow of the tea lights.
Chelsea considered her fiancé, shuffling in his chair, his back rigid and neck tight. ‘Why would she be here, Mum?’
‘Well, she’s getting married, darling, at the castle. When she heard you were visiting, she just insisted on stopping by. I didn’t want to be rude.’ Jemima shrugged, gesturing with her glass. ‘There’s such history there.’
‘Who’s Tatty?’ Chelsea asked, holding back the desire to also ask why she had such a ridiculous name and why her parents had been so cruel.
Jemima seemed to crow in triumph, pausing dramatically. ‘Didn’t you know, darling? She was Kit’s fiancée.’
***
‘I’m late.’ The words sounded like a lie. They couldn’t be real. Her life couldn’t be an EastEnders special. Not now.
‘No you’re fucking not,’ Ruby said certainly, sitting up on Chelsea’s bed. ‘Who?’
‘No one.’
‘Sure, you’ve been magically impregnated, you’re the virgin freaking Mary. Who?’
‘Could we deal with this?’ Chelsea’s voice took an edge of panic. She was in control, she wasn’t the person this happened to, she was the person who got out, who did something else with her life. She left and went to Oxford, got filthy rich and then she set up an arts centre with her friends and taught dance, that was the plan. She didn’t end up in Badgeley like her mum, living the same life, day in, day out with no change. She had plans.
Nice Day For a White Wedding Page 7
