‘Maybe we should go down and help with the food,’ Skye says now, reading my mind.
We get ambushed halfway down the stairs by Honey, her white dress adjusted so it’s pretty much a mini, jaw-length blonde hair ruffled as if she has just got out of bed. She blinks at me over armfuls of garden flowers, blue eyes fringed with sooty mascara, model-girl cool.
‘Grandma Kate has put me in charge of the flowers,’ she says. ‘I know this is a shoestring wedding, but why scrimp on style? I’ve ransacked the garden. Can you two help make posies?’
Honey dumps the flowers in the bathroom sink before heading out to forage for more. Skye and I start making posies and Cherry joins in too, snipping bright carnations for buttonholes and twisting wire and silver foil around the stems. Cherry has given the petticoat dress her own cool twist, accessorizing with a Japanese parasol and chopsticks in her hair. Her mum was Japanese, so the look fits.
‘Dad’s gone into Kitnor with Uncle Shaun to get ready,’ she says. ‘He was SO nervous …’
‘He should be,’ Honey says, coming up behind us with a final haul of flowers. ‘If he ever hurts Mum, I’ll happily strangle him myself. No offence, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Cherry says, through gritted teeth.
The wedding was always going to be difficult for Honey. She doesn’t like Paddy and she can’t stand Cherry either, especially since our new stepsister started dating Honey’s ex. Avoiding bloodshed, catfights and major rows was always going to be a challenge today, but I suppose at least it’s limited to snide comments rather than door-slamming and screaming.
Across the landing, one of the art school friends appears carrying hairspray and curling tongs into Mum’s room. I catch the door before it swings shut, and we peep through to catch a glimpse of Mum having her make-up done. She looks so lovely that the breath catches in my throat.
‘Oh, girls!’ she says, face lighting up at the sight of us. ‘You look fabulous!’
‘Not as fabulous as you, Mum!’ I tell her.
Then the art school friends usher us away, closing the door firmly. My sisters are taking this houseful of strangers in their stride, but I can’t help feeling a little shut out, a little stressed by the chaos. I like things to be neat, orderly, under control … and they hardly ever are, not in this house. Today especially.
‘Scram,’ Honey says. ‘I want to get Mum’s bouquet done.’
Skye, Cherry and I go downstairs to clear up the kitchen, chasing Grandma Kate and Jules off to get changed. Outside, trestle tables, folding chairs and picnic blankets have appeared, scattered across the grass, and random relatives wander through the kitchen carrying tablecloths, plates and cutlery.
‘I wish it wasn’t such a muddle,’ I frown, stacking the dishwasher as Cherry hands out buttonholes and posies. ‘We’re supposed to be leaving in a few minutes …’
‘We will,’ Skye laughs. ‘Relax!’
People begin to gather on the lawn, the chocolate-spread children, cleaned up to an angelic shine, the Yorkshire aunts like garish, well-upholstered sofas, scary hats balanced on tightly curled grey hair. JJ drives the gypsy caravan right up to the house and jumps down to hold the dappled grey horse. Someone has twined a string of tiny bells through her harness – I suspect it was probably Coco.
Grandma Kate and Jules appear, smiling and proud, and Grandma Kate takes the reins and climbs up on to the caravan step. Our real grandad died before Skye and I were born, so Grandma Kate is giving Mum away. She knows how to drive the wagon because she used to do it, years ago, when she lived here at Tanglewood.
‘Here they come!’ someone yells, and then the art school friends spill out of the house, a riot of bright hair and red lippy, and finally Mum is in the doorway.
Her hair is pinned up in a loose, messy bun with corkscrew curls falling down around her face, tiny blue flowers threaded into the tawny-blonde waves. Her dress is a gorgeous, vintage-inspired sheath of soft white velvet; her tanned legs are bare and on her feet she wears jewelled flip-flops that cost £2.99 in a cut-price shoe shop in Minehead. She is holding a spray of starry white jasmine and roses tied with ribbon and her face is lit up with happiness and hope.
My heart swells with pride. I am happy for Mum, I really am, but sad too, for the family we used to be. Everything is changing, and I am not sure I like change.
Jules helps Mum up on to the wagon seat, Grandma Kate snaps the reins and the dappled grey horse moves forward, jingling, down towards the church.
3
We walk down to the village behind the gypsy wagon, bridesmaids first and everyone else following. It is slightly weird to be at your own mum’s wedding, but there’s lots of laughter and chat, as if we are setting off for some kind of crazy family picnic. When we pass the inn at the edge of the village, Paddy’s musician friends from Scotland latch on, playing guitar and fiddle and flute, so we arrive at the church in style.
The aunts and cousins and art school friends file into the church to the sound of leaping Scottish fiddle music while the rest of us gather on the church steps. Mum smoothes down her white velvet dress and tucks a stray ringlet behind her ear.
The church is full to the brim and Paddy and his brother are standing down at the altar with the vicar. Then the church organ strikes up ‘Here Comes the Bride’, and Grandma Kate takes Mum’s arm and the two of them walk inside and move slowly down the aisle with us following along behind.
All eyes are on us, and even though I have had my moments in the spotlight, this is a whole lot more nerve-wracking. On stage I am a performer, hiding behind a role, lost in the dance. Here I’m just me, with nothing to hide behind, awkward in a petticoat dress I’d never have picked out for myself. Two spots of colour burn in my cheeks, but I link Skye’s arm and we fall into step together.
We squash into the front seats, Coco struggling to keep Humbug the lamb on a short leash, and the ceremony starts. It all goes smoothly, and then we get to the point where the vicar asks whether anyone has any reason why Mum and Paddy should not be legally wed, and I look around anxiously in case Dad should stride suddenly into the church to object. Of course he doesn’t because a) he is in Australia and b) he doesn’t care whether Mum gets married or not. All that actually happens is that Honey whispers, ‘Because Paddy is a jerk,’ under her breath, but luckily nobody hears except me.
When I was younger, I used to think Dad would change his mind about the divorce, see that he couldn’t live without us and swoop back in with armfuls of flowers and apologies to put things back together again. He never did, of course, and I started to see that happy endings aren’t always the way you think they’ll be.
The vicar announces that Paddy and Mum are man and wife, and then they’re kissing and Coco says ‘Eeeewww!’ and everyone laughs. I swallow back a knot of emotion that is part sadness for what might have been and part happiness for Mum, and I hope that nobody else can see the conflict in my eyes. My dad won’t win any awards for ‘best dad in the universe’, that’s for sure, but I can’t help wishing, sometimes, that I could turn the clock back. I’d try a little harder to make him love me, to make him proud, and maybe then he’d have stayed.
Or maybe not.
We crowd out on to the church steps in a blizzard of confetti, and the next half-hour is a blur of smiles and photos … standing on the steps, standing under the trees, posing with the gypsy caravan while JJ holds the horse and shoots flirty glances at Honey.
At last, Mum and Paddy climb up into the wagon seat. Paddy twitches the reins and the dappled grey horse breaks into a trot as Mum throws her flowers into the crowd. They say that whoever catches the bride’s bouquet will be next down the aisle, and one of the Yorkshire aunts makes a lunge for it and hangs on tight. She is in her seventies and has never married, so this causes a stir, especially when she giggles and says she has her eye on the vicar.
Back at Tanglewood, the party unfolds. The garden is filled with people hugging Mum and Paddy, handing over presents, helping themselves
to the buffet. People who weren’t at the church service begin to arrive too, friends and neighbours from the village, Tia and Millie from school, Mrs Lee from the post office, and even Mr and Mrs Anderson from the health-food store, with their hippy-dippy clothes and their cute little girls and their deeply annoying son Alfie who seems to be making it his life’s work to bug me.
‘Cool wedding,’ Alfie remarks. ‘I like your dress, Summer …’
I roll my eyes. ‘Like your dress’ is probably Alfie Anderson code for ‘you look like you’re wearing a net curtain’. That boy has been winding me up since the day we first met, back in Reception class, when he came up to me in the lunch queue and asked if I’d be his girlfriend, then blew a raspberry right in my ear and made me drop my rice pudding and jam.
I have never really forgiven him for that.
‘Get lost, Alfie,’ I say.
And then I am rescued because someone slides their hands over my eyes and whispers ‘Guess who?’ into my hair.
Sometimes I think I must be the luckiest girl in the world, because Aaron Jones is the cutest boy at Exmoor Park Middle School and every girl in my year has been crushing on him since forever. And he chose me.
‘Aaron,’ I grin. ‘Who else?’
He takes my hands and spins me round, laughing. ‘How did it go?’ he asks. ‘Cool, I bet. Nice dress … clingy … it really shows off your figure!’
I blush furiously and try to fold my arms over my chest, but Aaron is laughing. ‘That’s a good thing, Summer! This is an amazing party – have you eaten yet?’
‘I wasn’t hungry … my tummy’s all butterflies …’
He hands me a plate and takes one himself, piling it up with sausage rolls and quiche and a mountain of potato salad. ‘Nerves,’ he says wisely. ‘It’s a big day for your family, Summer. I get like that before a footy match sometimes. Then afterwards, I could eat for Britain. This pizza looks amazing …’
I reach out to take a slice, then remember Aaron’s remark about my figure and take a forkful of salad leaves instead.
The music dies and the best man takes hold of the mike. He talks about how Mum and Paddy were friends way back at art college, then found each other again so many years later and fell in love. He says that Mum must be crazy to put up with Paddy. ‘Either that or she’s fallen in love with his chocolate-making skills,’ he says, and tells everyone how Paddy used to send Mum home-made truffles to woo her.
‘The best one was the truffle Paddy made for me last August, just after he and Cherry moved down here,’ Mum chips in. ‘It was the day we got our bank loan for the chocolate business. Paddy made my favourite coffee truffle, but there was an extra ingredient, one I really hadn’t expected …’
She holds out her left hand so that the diamond engagement ring glints in the sunlight, a plain gold band now next to it, and everyone cheers and whistles. I remember that day – I thought that hiding the ring inside a chocolate was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen.
Aaron slides an arm round my waist, and I smile and wriggle free again because I am still a little shy about the dress, and besides, I am actually not too good at the touchy-feely boyfriend/girlfriend stuff. Not yet, and definitely not while people are watching.
Mum and Paddy cut the towering chocolate wedding cake and Jules and the Yorkshire aunts move through the crowd, topping up champagne glasses and handing out lemonade punch for the kids. Grandma Kate raises her glass to make a toast, then Paddy’s musician friends strike up a tune and Paddy takes Mum’s hand and leads her out across the grass. They begin to dance, slowly, gazing into each other’s eyes and smiling so softly I swear it would melt a heart of stone.
It melts mine, and I push all thoughts of Dad away because they can only end in tears. Today is a day for Mum and Paddy, for new starts and celebrations.
Honey’s heart must be harder than mine, though, because I see her slip away through the cherry trees with JJ, making pukey faces at it all.
4
The party goes on till past midnight, beneath the stars and the fairy lights strung through the trees. I dance with Skye and Cherry and Coco. I dance with Tia and Millie and the little cousins who are hyper and giggling from too many cupcakes and too much lemonade punch. I waltz with the Yorkshire aunts and boogie with Mum’s art school friends and jig with Paddy’s musician mates. Last of all, I slow-dance with Aaron and he holds me close, closer than I really want to be held, and tells me I am the prettiest girl he has ever dated.
It makes my heart race, although whether from happiness or panic I can’t quite tell. Aaron has had a few girlfriends in the past, and there’s even a rumour that a girl from the high school called Marisa McKenna is crushing on him. Marisa wears her skirts so short it sometimes looks like she’s forgotten to put one on at all, but when I asked Aaron about her, he laughed and told me that the only girl he wanted was me.
‘Are you and Aaron in love?’ my twin asks later, as we snuggle down in our beds, music and laughter still drifting up from the garden below. ‘What’s it like, Summer? Honestly?’
I frown in the darkness. I like Aaron a lot, of course – who wouldn’t? I’m just not sure I love him. Not true love, like Mum and Paddy have.
‘I don’t know,’ I tell Skye. ‘It’s early days.’
‘It’s been four months,’ Skye points out. ‘You must have some idea. Does he make your heart beat faster? Does he make you melt inside? Do you lie awake, tossing and turning, thinking about him?’
‘You make it sound like some kind of sickness,’ I say. ‘It’s complicated … Aaron’s been out with lots of girls. I worry that he’ll move on, find someone he likes better …’
Someone who’s better at the kissing and cuddling stuff, who doesn’t flinch away when he pulls them close. In real life, kissing isn’t as dreamy as the magazines make out. You worry about whether your noses will bump, whether your teeth will clash, whether the pasta sauce you had for tea is making your breath smell of onions. You feel awkward, anxious, slightly bored … at least I do.
‘He won’t,’ Skye says. ‘He’s mad about you, anyone can see that!’
I sigh in the darkness. ‘Maybe.’
‘D’you think a boy will feel that way about me some day?’ Skye asks softly.
‘Of course!’
It’s only later, when Skye’s breathing has slowed into sleep, that I think to wonder if she has a particular boy in mind.
The next day, the house is filled with sleepy relatives and art school friends with hangovers and sticky-up hair, clearing up slowly, gathering bottles and cans for the recycling centre, stacking and unstacking the dishwasher a dozen times. We find a stiletto shoe floating in the fish pond, a bottle of whisky hidden in the flower bed and the best man asleep in the gypsy caravan wearing nothing but a pair of polka-dot boxer shorts, mirrored sunglasses and a trilby hat.
‘Great party,’ Paddy grins. ‘What I can remember of it anyhow!’
‘Aren’t you two supposed to be on honeymoon?’ I tease, mopping the kitchen floor. ‘It’s traditional, you know!’
‘And miss our own wedding party?’ Paddy retorts. ‘No chance!’
‘No money, more like,’ Mum says. ‘Besides, we’ve you girls to look after, and the B&B and the chocolate business to run!’
‘I may have something up my sleeve for once the school holidays start,’ Paddy hints, and Mum says she won’t hold her breath because most likely it will be a day trip to Minehead, and everyone laughs.
Morning slides into afternoon, and people begin to pack up and head for home. By evening, all our guests are gone except for Grandma Kate and Jules, and it feels like the house is ours again.
I take time out to run through some ballet exercises in my bedroom because I missed yesterday’s lesson and I get restless and edgy if I don’t practise. I love the way my body feels as it spins and stretches, strong and light and powerful. I love the way the music fills my head, my heart. Dancing is like a cleaner, simpler version of life. I know the rules. I d
on’t have to worry about unflattering dresses or boyfriends who want to dance too close.
I dance until my muscles ache, until the smell of roast chicken wafts up the stairs and Mum calls me down to eat. Everyone is sitting round the kitchen table, even Honey, who vanished from the party early on yesterday and escaped the clean-up duties today by hiding out in her room.
‘Well,’ Paddy says as he carves the chicken. ‘What a weekend! You’ve made me the happiest man alive, Charlotte, and girls … Kate, Jules … well, thanks, all of you, for making Cherry and me so welcome here. I guess we’re a proper family now.’
Honey snorts her disgust, but I nudge her underneath the table and she bites her tongue.
‘So … Minehead for the honeymoon, is it?’ Grandma Kate grins.
‘I don’t care,’ Mum shrugs. ‘I’d be happy anywhere with Paddy.’
‘Good,’ Paddy says. ‘Because Kate and Jules have a surprise for you …’
‘A surprise?’ Mum echoes. ‘What kind of a surprise?’
‘We want to send you on honeymoon,’ Grandma Kate says. ‘You deserve it after all the hard work you’ve put in on the B&B and the chocolate business. We want to give you a holiday to remember, something special … It’s our wedding present to you both. We talked to Paddy and between us we’ve arranged it all …’
‘Arranged what?’ Mum says.
Grandma Kate pushes a thick white envelope across the table, and Mum opens it, frowning. There are two tickets, a sheaf of printed itineraries and a glossy holiday brochure inside.
For Peru.
Mum’s eyes brim with tears. ‘I – I don’t understand! Three weeks in Peru? It’s wonderful, but we can’t accept. Mum, Jules, you can’t possibly … and besides, we can’t leave the girls … or the business … and don’t forget the film crew are using Tanglewood as a base this summer! I don’t see how we can do it!’
3: Chocolate Box Girls: Summer's Dream Page 2
