by JL Merrow
Nobody asked why Mike Novak appeared in half the family groupings, so I guessed they’d all quietly got the gossip at Cherry and Greg’s do. I made a mental note to appreciate the two of them more in future.
I got started on this after the photographer had finally allowed us to slope off for the wedding breakfast. “So what’s with all the waterworks?” I asked Cherry as we ambled into the hall.
She gazed mistily at Greg. He beamed and patted her hand.
Phil huffed. “Got an announcement to make?”
“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of trespassing on your joyous occasion with our own happy news,” Greg boomed out with a definite twinkle in his eye.
I stared. “Bloody hell, Sis, are you up the spout?” I mean, I’d noticed she’d put on weight, but I’d thought that was just Greg’s cooking.
“Yes! Isn’t it fantastic? I know you’re both going to be wonderful uncles.” Cherry’s eyes weren’t merely misty now; they were threatening to drown the whole wedding party.
“That’s great. Congrats.” I was trying to wrap my head around the idea of my big sister being a mummy, and failing dismally. “Uh, you planned it, right?”
“Honeymoon baby,” Greg put in with a smirk and, ye gods, an actual wink.
I managed not to shudder, but come on, mate. This was my sister we were talking about.
“Still, no danger of that for you two,” he went on, looking between me and Phil. Then he burst out in a hearty guffaw.
Catching sight of Raz, my sort of honorary step-cousin (long story) who happens to be trans, spurred me on to say, “Oi, some blokes are capable of getting knocked up.”
“Ah, but I’m quite certain that’s not the case for you, Tom. Don’t forget, we’ve shared a bed.” Greg winked again and nudged me painfully in the ribs. I manfully held back a wince. I wasn’t sure if it was the winks, Cherry’s subsequent giggle, or just the memory I’d up till now been doing a decent job of repressing that traumatised me the most.
Mind you, the horrified looks sent me by Phil’s brothers made up for a lot.
“I don’t understand it,” I muttered to Phil after Greg and Sis had tripped blissfully off together, the glint of impending parenthood in their eyes. “She hasn’t fainted, she hasn’t been rubbing her stomach with a dreamy look in her eye, and if she’s been chucking up at the drop of a hat, I haven’t flippin’ noticed.”
Phil huffed a laugh. “Right, because every pregnant woman behaves like they do in EastEnders. If you’re expecting the baby to pop out in ten minutes flat in a taxi on the way to hospital, be prepared for a disappointment.”
Mum had insisted on a formal receiving line, so we got to shake everyone’s hand as they went in. Luckily she’d also insisted we all have a glass of bubbly before we had to deal with forty-seven variations on “Don’t you both look handsome?” and “Haven’t we been lucky with the weather?”
Hazel Lovett was wearing an outfit her mum clearly hadn’t picked out for her: a high-necked lacy blouse tucked into a full skirt that covered her down to her ankles. It showed she had a figure without actually revealing anything, and she could have been an extra from Downton Abbey—the early series, before Lady Mary chopped her hair off and started looking like she ought to be off running a chocolate factory. Okay, it wasn’t remotely like the sort of outfit your average nineteen-stroke-twenty-year-old would be seen dead in, but the whole look suited her, down to the wispy little fingerless mitts.
Pete, on her arm and appearing even skinnier than usual in his drainpipe trousers and dapper waistcoat, seemed to have more colour in his chops, most likely because Darren had found him a job with a mate working days. Of course, Darren’s mate being in the market trade, days actually started in the wee small hours, but it was a step in the right direction.
We still hadn’t found out if Darren’s insistence on taking a paternal interest in Hazel was due to him literally having a paternal interest in her—after all, if it was down to a work-related incident, maybe he didn’t know himself, so Phil reckoned it’d be rude to ask—but it’d seemed safest to send her and Pete an invite just in case.
She’d even brought a dainty parasol, so if nothing else, she’d raised the tone of the wedding pics a notch.
“How’s it going, Hazel?” I asked her. “Business doing okay?”
She’d started her own designer knitwear company, the Smithy having closed for the foreseeable on account of all the rest of its staff and management being either dead or in jail.
“It’s early days, yet, but yeah, it’s doing okay. And Axel’s doing really well,” she added, which had been going to be my next question. “Mum’s hired someone to help with the business and she’s been spending loads more time with him. They’ve been seeing a counsellor too.” She’d probably clocked the doubt on my face as to whether Lilah spending time with her son would actually help him in the slightest, based on what I’d seen of them together. “She’s really trying.”
“Yeah? Good to hear it.”
“And congratulations to both of you. You both look so handsome. Oh, and I’m going by Lorelei, these days. Or Lola.” She beamed at Darren, who flashed his gold tooth at her fondly in return.
“She’s a chip off the old block, this one is, ain’t you, babe?” he said.
Yeah, but which block, mate? That was the question.
I didn’t ask it, obviously.
The conservatory, where we were eating, was a picture. They’d done us proud, Cottonmill Hall had. Everything was decked out in white with a forest of greenery to set it off, and the tables were in serious danger of making me feel underdressed.
I’m sure the food was delicious, but I’m buggered if I can remember what we ate. Too busy looking at the ring on my finger and the husband by my side. Yeah, I know. But if you can’t be mushy on your wedding day, when can you be?
Me and Phil both stood up to speak, but we kept it short and sweet. Or, as Darren might have put it, I was short and Phil was sweet. We’d used Phil not having a dad still alive as an excuse to avoid the whole Mike/Dad question for my side of the family, but then his mum insisted on standing up and saying a few words anyhow.
It wasn’t too embarrassing. Although Leanne, Jase, and Nige all squirmed in their seats when she made a pointed dig about wanting to know when she was going to get to buy a hat for their weddings, seeing as here was Phil on his second one already and wasn’t it way past bleedin’ time they all pulled their fingers out?
Okay, Phil might have looked uncomfortable at that point too. She ended on a high note, reminding us all she wasn’t getting any younger and it was about time someone made her a granny. Dad, who’s never had much of a head for bubbly, interrupted her with “Oh you’re far too young to be a grandmother,” and she was so gobsmacked she sat back in her chair, lost for words. Phil gave Darren a nudge, sharpish, to stop her getting any ideas about standing up again.
Our best men, Gary and Darren, had been firmly (and repeatedly) instructed to keep it clean when it came to the speeches. They managed—just—and Darren in particular did a bang-up job of the traditional best man’s task of (a) entertaining the masses and (b) embarrassing the grooms. All in good fun, mind. DCI Dave, who was wearing the suit he kept for court appearances and funerals, and bouncing the littlest Jedi proudly on his knee, certainly seemed to enjoy the anecdotes about yours truly. Actually, come to think of it, he’d probably supplied some of them.
After the speeches, the tables were shifted to the side to make way for the band. Some people danced (mostly Gary, Darren, and Phil’s mum in an unholy trinity), some glued themselves to their chairs for the foreseeable (Mum and Dad and the rest of the pensioner brigade), and some spilled out through the French windows into the gardens to enjoy the evening sunshine (the rest of us). It was pretty bloody idyllic. I was almost sorry when it was time to leave to get changed for our flight.
Seeing as we were heading off in a taxi, there was none of this tying tin cans to the bumpers malarkey, and although Darren was se
en lurking with a can of spray snow, Phil managed to catch him before he spray-painted the cab with Just Married (or, knowing him, something much, much worse).
Everyone came out the front to wave us off. I might or might not have had recourse to the silk hanky in my top pocket.
“Don’t forget to see Naples and die,” Gary called after us, which I personally found less than encouraging.
Still, I couldn’t wait to be on honeymoon with my—get this—husband. Two weeks of hot sunshine and even hotter . . . well, do I have to spell it out? And not a dead body in sight. And, okay, maybe I was tempting fate there, but whatever went wrong in sunny Italy?
Apart, obviously, from volcanoes erupting and swallowing Pompeii; the Mafia; the fall of the Roman Empire . . .
Nah. We’d be fine.
Definitely.
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With thanks to Kristin Matherly, Susan Sorrentino, Stevie Carroll, and Jennifer Bales, and to Sue Brown, for fun, brainstorming, and research in Camden Market.
The Plumber’s Mate Mysteries
Pressure Head
Relief Valve
Heat Trap
Blow Down
Porthkennack
Wake Up Call
One Under
The Shamwell Tales
Caught!
Played!
Out!
Spun!
The Midwinter Manor Series
Poacher’s Fall
Keeper’s Pledge
Southampton Stories
Pricks and Pragmatism
Hard Tail
Lovers Leap
It’s All Geek to Me
Damned If You Do
Camwolf
Muscling Through
Wight Mischief
Midnight in Berlin
Slam!
Fall Hard
Raising the Rent
To Love a Traitor
Trick of Time
Snared
A Flirty Dozen
JL Merrow is that rare beast, an English person who refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge, where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.
She writes across genres, with a preference for contemporary gay romance and mysteries, and is frequently accused of humour. Her novel Slam! won the 2013 Rainbow Award for Best LGBT Romantic Comedy, and her novella Muscling Through and novel Relief Valve were both EPIC Awards finalists.
JL Merrow is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, International Thriller Writers, Verulam Writers and the UK GLBTQ Fiction Meet organising team.
Find JL Merrow on Twitter as @jlmerrow, and on Facebook at facebook.com/jl.merrow
For a full list of books available, see: jlmerrow.com or JL Merrow’s Amazon author page: viewauthor.at/JLMerrow
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