Jonty smiled at her. “Ready?”
Andi smiled back. Her heart was so full of love and excitement that she could have flown without the helicopter. With Jonty beside her she knew she was more than ready for whatever might come next.
“Ready!” she replied firmly.
And bidding Angel, Gemma and their Cornish escape a silent thank you, Andi Evans flew up and away into the bright blue sky of her future.
Chapter 51
One Year Later
The National Television Awards
“And the award for Best Reality TV Show goes to...” the famous comedian paused for dramatic effect while the cameras panned across the audience, settling on the expectant faces of the UK’s most celebrated household names, all of whom were trying their hardest to look nonchalant. When the floor manager gave the nod, the comedian peeled the envelope open with painstaking slowness, before fixing the cameras with a blinding white grin. “I bloody love this show! Best Reality TV Show – it’s Bread and Butlers!”
“Yes!” Angel, Lady Kenniston, shot out of her chair and punched the air, a dangerous activity that threatened to bounce her from her stunning strapless Stella McCartney gown. Beaming at all the TOWIE stars, celebrity chefs and ex glamour models pretending to look thrilled for her, Angel tossed her golden mane back from her flushed face and flung her arms around Laurence.
“Oh my God! We did it! We really did it!”
In her wildest dreams – and Angel’s dreams were pretty wild, it had to be said – she had never imagined that her idea would be anywhere near this successful. Almost from the second the first episode aired, the nation had gone crazy for Bread and Butlers. With Callum South’s popularity, the stunning setting of Kenniston, an eccentric cast and constant disasters, the ingredients had been as successful as Cal and Gemma’s fledgling bakery business that the show followed. Sprinkle into that Angel’s stunning looks, Laurence’s blue blood and the ongoing stresses of trying to save a crumbling mansion, and it made for compulsive viewing. The everyday dramas, the rows, and the excitement that had built after Laurence’s dramatic on-screen proposal for the Bread and Butlers summer wedding had all raised the show high in the ratings.
Mr Yuri had been right. It did not fail. As the cheers rang out, the oligarch beamed. He’d already seen Joanna Lumley and had chatted to Katie Price; he was having the time of his life!
“We certainly did do it!” Laurence kissed his wife back while the room erupted. Since the episode where they’d been married amid the half-restored splendour of Kenniston and with three beribboned Labradors and a bemused Gemma as flower girls, Laurence and Angel had scarcely been out of the press. The British public had gone crazy for them; a week rarely passed when they weren’t featured in a tabloid or in Heat magazine. Apart from Angel being voted FHM’s sexiest woman of the year (take that, Kelly Brook) and regularly bumping into Peter Andre (she was far too busy now to attend any of his barbecues, no matter how many times he invited her), the high point so far had probably been when Tom, fresh from his community service and suspended fraud sentence, had sent his CV to Kenniston. As if! Was ever a man so deluded? Angel had filed it in the bin.
“Jaysus, you two! Snog later,” Cal said to Angel and Laurence. His DJ strained a little at the buttons, but this was no longer an issue now that he was the face of a successful artisan bakery and more famous for focaccia than football. His brown eyes twinkled. “This is your big moment.”
“Go on!” urged Gemma. Unlike her partner she seldom appeared on the show, preferring to support Cal from the wings. Her recipe book, however, based on the show, was proving to be a huge bestseller – and she was already being hailed as the new Nigella. Although Gemma was still curvy, happiness and (judging from all the early nights they had, thought Angel with a smile) lots of good sex had slimmed her down to the size fourteen she’d always longed to be. Gemma still acted in an amateur group but most of her time was spent behind the scenes, running the business and helping with Kenniston. Walking from one end of the house to the other non-stop was also a workout in itself. Angel reckoned that Gemma must trek miles every day. Maybe she should buy her friend a Segway? That could be great TV material! And Laurence’s ma, who’d turned out to be a most unlikely star of the show, would be an absolute hoot on it. She made a mental note to look into it as soon as the award ceremony was over and text the production team. Honestly! Her brain hadn’t had a minute off since she’d first thought up Bread and Butlers.
Claridge’s ballroom was still ringing with cheers. On the huge VT screen Angel saw a close-up of her smiling face, interspersed with clips from the show: Cal covered in flour kissing an equally floury Gemma, Laurence in a morning suit waiting nervously at the church, Angel in her underwear talking to the blushing builders, the dogs eating the cupcakes for a society soirée... Scene after scene flickered across the screen, a celluloid record of the best year of her life.
The cameras were panning back to her now. This was it, the moment where she would sweep through the gathered TV royalty and stand on the stage. It was the moment she’d dreamed about for so long; yet now it was here Angel was frozen. She glanced around the table, from face to face, and a knot formed in her throat at the thought of just how dear these people had become. Even Mr Yuri – although he still looked a bit like a pig in a suit – had been an invaluable ally, and Travis too had turned out to have quite a flair for television production. She couldn’t have done it without any of them, but there was one person without whom Angel knew she would never have made it this far. One person who had always supported her and looked out for her.
Applause rippled though the auditorium as Angel glided across the stage. The comedian dropped a kiss onto her cheek and tried to squeeze her backside, yelping when her sharp elbow caught him in the ribs. Angel smiled sweetly at the camera. She’d learned a lot this year. Clutching his chest, the comedian stepped back so that Angel could take the podium, and the audience fell silent.
“I’m not going to make you listen to a long speech,” Angel promised them. “I just want to say a big thank you to everyone who’s voted for us and supported the show. We love every minute of sharing our lives with you all. Although, I must admit that I could do without everyone seeing me without my make-up on such a regular basis. Laurence doesn’t have a choice – he married me – but the rest of you don’t deserve it!”
There was laughter at this. Angel always looked amazing with or without her foundation.
Angel clutched the award to her chest. “This is the part where I could do a Gwyneth Paltrow; there are so many people that deserve thanks, from my gorgeous husband right through to the fantastic crew. But before I do finish, there is one very special person I want to thank tonight. This is the person I owe everything to. She’s always been there, always believed in me and encouraged me. When our mother died she put her own grief aside and looked after me. I guess she’s been doing it ever since in one way or another. She’s always put me first.”
The auditorium was silent. On the big screen Angel’s eyes shimmered with emotion. “She can’t be here tonight because she’s in Mumbai with her partner, Jonty Teague, and working with the Safe T Net Safe Sight charity, but I want everyone to know just how much she means to me and how much I love her.” She raised the golden trophy and spoke directly to the camera. “Andi Evans, sister, best friend and fellow Rock chick, this is for you!”
The room erupted into applause and Angel’s heart swelled with pride as she rejoined her table.
“That was wonderful,” said Gemma, hugging her tightly. “Didn’t I tell you that going to Cornwall was the start of amazing things? And just look at how it turned out for all of us.”
Nodding, Angel hugged her back. Three girls, two hundred miles and one golden summer. Gemma had been right all along: their escape to Cornwall had been the start of wonderful adventures – and as she smiled at her friends, Angel knew for certain there were plenty more to come.
The End
The Wedding C
ountdown
Chapter 1
I’m seeing red.
Everywhere I look I see different shades: rubies and crimsons, burnt umbers and rusts, sunsets and burgundies. I never knew so many reds existed. What is all this red stuff? It’s on my clothes, my hands and all over my body. Am I the victim of some frenzied knife attack by our friendly neighbourhood psycho, or have my twin sisters, Fizz and Roma, made the mistake of pinching my make-up again, provoking me to ensure that they never do it again?
Then, to my intense relief, I realise it’s nothing more sinister than layers upon layers of maroon and scarlet georgette, and the appliqué of henna on my hands. But this relief is short-lived when I realise the georgette is my zardosi-embroidered lehenga choli jora.
Or in plain English: my wedding dress. Red is the colour worn by an Asian bride, and it appears that the bride is me, Amelia ‘Mills’ Ali. How on earth has that happened?
Try as I might, I can’t move. I’m desperate to reach out and grasp something solid, to cling to it like a barnacle, in order to stop my life spinning out of control. But every finger is heavily ringed with wedding gold. I focus all of my effort and concentration into wiggling those poor fingers. If I’d put this much effort into revising for my finals I’d have got a first for sure. Not that I’ll probably have much use for a first in English Literature where I’m headed once this is over. My chapatti-making skills will be far more useful.
Who’s the bridegroom anyway? With my luck it’s probably a goat-herder with a body odour problem rather than Atif Aslam, Pakistan’s lushest singer. Or, knowing the Alis’ preference for ‘keeping it in the family’, some interbred third cousin with a monobrow and more overbite than Goofy. How can my parents do this to me? The ink’s barely dried on my degree certificate and already they’ve shipped me back home to Pakistan.
Except it isn’t home, is it? My home’s here, in Bradford.
I can’t sneak a look at my intended thanks to the weight of the headdress, the sohna, which is practically bolted into my skull. Its purpose, I’m sure, is to keep my head bowed and my gaze modestly on the floor. Good brides are supposed to be demure, sad and a little afraid at the thought of the wedding night, a daunting prospect for any virginal bride, especially if your parents have made the decision for you. My mother finds Terry Wogan attractive, for Heaven’s sake. God only knows who she’s lined up for me.
Do I really want to know?
With the sort of effort normally reserved for Olympic weightlifters I lift my head very slowly and, as I do so, almost take out the auntie-ji on my left.
I take a deep breath. How bad can it be?
I turn.
Oh, no.
I know it’s rude to stare, and I don’t want you to think my parents have done a terrible job of raising me as a respectful and dutiful Muslim daughter, but I can’t help myself. I have just never seen so much hair in one place.
First there’s the monobrow; it looks like someone’s glued a furry draft excluder on his forehead. Then there’s the massive mole sprouting a lone hair the exact width of piano wire. And I can’t even see his mouth. How does he breathe with all the fuzz blocking his nasal passages? Maybe he has gills? If his face is that hairy, what must the rest of him be like?
I am so out of here.
Oh, Allah-ji. I think I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack. Breathe, Mills, breathe.
Then something else stops me in my tracks.
Uh-oh.
He. Is. Wearing. Make-up.
For those of you not familiar with Asian weddings, this may provide you with a false picture. You’re probably imagining me standing next to a Boy George lookalike circa 1980, all pouting pink lips, slashes of blusher and emerald eye shadow.
I wish. I’d be over the moon.
No. My groom is wearing surma, black kohl that, traditionally, female family members use to line the groom’s eyes. Not often a problem, except the loving mummy-ji who did this must have all the motor skills of Mr Bean and the make-up sense of Marilyn Manson, because he’s a dead ringer for Chi Chi the giant panda. I half expect him to start munching on a bamboo shoot at any minute.
Any road, you get my gist. This is so not a sexy look.
Now, in Bollywood movies this is the part where the heroine cries ‘Nahin!’ – ‘No!’ – just when she is on the brink of taking her vows and realises she simply cannot marry the guy with the foul breath/nostril hair/monobrow who is sitting next to her. That’s right, folks, you guessed it, the guy chosen by her parents, who are proudly expecting her to shout, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ But our heroine loves another, and cannot live without him. Just as she’s contemplating suicide (by Veet inhalation?), her bruised and battered lover – who has survived the dishum dishum session with the local thugs hired by her parents to beat the crap out of him so that he couldn’t gatecrash the wedding – miraculously appears on a white charger…
I look around frantically but alas I have no one true love (Atif Aslam has yet to make it to Yorkshire and One Direction are on tour) and souped-up Ford Escorts are more popular in Bradford than white chargers.
Bollocks.
I can’t go through with this! I simply can’t! Around me the room starts to fray around the edges, then blurs and dips alarmingly, like a fairground ride. Before I can stop myself I’m screaming…
I wake to pitch darkness. My heart’s thudding frantically against my chest and I am drenched in icy sweat. The duvet is tangled tightly around my body and my copy of The Canterbury Tales has slipped from the bedside table and lies across my head. There is an awful crick in my neck and my hands, which are tucked beneath the pillow, tingle as I withdraw them. My dark hair tickles my nose.
Oh Allah-ji, thank you. Thank you! I’m still in my own bed. I’m not at the wedding from Hell. I’m not getting married.
I sit up, knees hunched up under my chin, and listen to my breathing as it calms. Somewhere in the distance I hear a siren, and a car swishes past, casting a sweep of orange light across my room. It’s raining and the patter of raindrops on the glass is as familiar and as comforting as the warmth of my own bed. Good old miserable British weather, about as different from the relentless heat and airless nights in Pakistan as any weather could ever be. The house creaks and sighs, and, from the attic conversion, I hear a toilet flush. It soothes me to know that my brother, Qas, is also awake. Gradually my breathing returns to normal and the horror of my dream fades. I plump up my pillows, shake out my crumpled duvet and fall back onto my bed.
It was only a dream, Amelia, just a silly dream. Mummy-ji is right; a vivid imagination is such a curse. Maybe it’s time I put it to good use.
OK, I’m writing the script this time. Let’s rearrange this wedding…
I’m wearing a gossamer-light wedding lehenga. It’s a beautiful pale pink and, as I move, it shimmers like the heat on a summer’s day, with over five thousand Swarovski crystals. Each crystal has been lovingly (and painfully) stitched by hand, and the dress itself is designed by Manish Malhotra, India’s premier designer, dresser to the royalty of Bollywood, the Aishwarya Rais, Preity Zintas and Shilpa Shettys who grace the silver screen.
I’m still wearing my sohna bling but this time my head feels like a feather and I’m finding it hard not to smile. I sneak a look at the man beside me and find myself gazing into eyes the same melting brown colour as warm chocolate buttons. He’s got the cutest dimple, and hair as glossy and blue-black as a raven’s wing. He’s wearing an Armani suit, too. Being a girl who really knows her labels I’m impressed. Things are looking up.
Yep. Mr Lush has it all. Good looks, style and, beneath that suit, the firm lines of a fit body. High cheekbones, flawless café au lait skin, darkened here and there by stubble, a curly, kissable mouth. He’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, and what’s more, he’s staring at me with eyes that brim with passion. Then he winks.
Now that’s more like it!
The only problem is – he doesn’t actually exist. Maybe I’ve spent far
too long reading romances?
My nickname is no coincidence. I was rebranded as Mills after my parents caught me devouring a Mills and Boon novel instead of the intellectual material they thought I was reading for my GCSEs. I must have read thousands of the things and of course I know they all have the same plot. Doh. I’m not stupid! I just enjoyed seeing the plot unfurl and the happy-ever-afters arrive with satisfying regularity. Who doesn’t want a happy ending? Honestly?
I know I do. I want what most girls want. I want to have my wedding cake and gobble it, too. I want the whole works – the dress, the confetti, the honeymoon and the outrageously attractive groom who’s crazy about me. I want a gorgeous husband that I’m head over heels in love with.
What’s wrong with that?
The problem is that I’m not in charge of the search for him.
Find my own husband? Are you kidding?
‘Love? No such thing! Love comes after marriage,’ say all my elders. Yak yak yak, until my ears are practically bleeding. Marriage, they say, is a tradition. Almost all the parents I know have taken their son’s or daughter’s marriage into their own hands, because that’s just what happened to them, and to their parents, too. No one in our family has ever denied their parents’ wishes. Mummy-ji and Daddy-ji had an arranged marriage when they were really young. I think that Mum was only about seventeen and Dad couldn’t have been more than twenty, and of course it all worked out brilliantly, which is great news for them but more down to luck than judgment if you ask me. Not that you could ever convince them of that.
I don’t think I could take the emotional pressure if I don’t ‘see reason’ and agree to their choice. My parents are fantastic. Not fanatics, dictators or control freaks, and all they want for me is my happiness. They see themselves as wholly responsible for this, and if I go against their wishes they’ll be failures and bad parents in the eyes of our community. How could I live with that? I might be a Muslim but believe me I can give the Catholics a run for their money when it comes to guilt.
Escape for the Summer Page 46
