by Beth Moran
He replied that evening, as I lay in bed mooning at the borrowed dress hanging on the back of my door:
Too early. I’ve booked a couple of hotel rooms for the night before. If you feel the need to pay me back, we can work it out later. What time can you leave Thursday?
I threw good sense and sound moral judgement out of the window, and replied:
Can be ready 6.
I quickly followed it up:
And thanks, hotel sounds great. I can pay you back in cake or cash, you choose.
Him:
Always cake. What information do I need from that invitation? Hit me with the worst of it.
Me:
Being over twenty-five, it’d be impossible to type all that out without developing thumb blisters. Not a good sister-of-the-bride look. I’ll drop it round in the morning.
Him:
Along with a dossier on my fake identity? As a professional agent I expect full background, work history, hobbies, habits, style of underpants etc. if I’m going to pull this off. Who is Mack Macintyre?? And what is the nature of his relationship with Jenny Birkenshaw?
Oh, boy. I put my phone down.
I knew, knew, this man should not be making me feel like this. My heart should not be pounding for another woman’s husband. Skin humming. Stomach swooping. I sent one more message:
Just be yourself (I might get to learn something about you!) And Jenny is totally happy being FRIENDS with Mack Macintyre. See you Thursday.
I switched my phone off and picked up a gardening book I’d salvaged from the Hoard, forcing myself to concentrate on organic composting techniques until I was too tired to think any more.
I was flapping about in my bra, changing my top for the ninth time in an attempt to achieve that classic ‘don’t care, but somehow happen to appear stylish and stunning nonetheless’ look, when a jaunty toot from the front of the house signalled my wingman was ready to go.
Stuffing my head into the original T-shirt I’d chosen three days ago, I yanked a brush through the cloud of static that was once my hair, swiped my rucksack off the bed and half ran, half tripped down the stairs.
I came to an abrupt stop at the kitchen doorway, pausing to take a big breath before I opened the door and saw Mack standing in front of me, arms folded, eyes crinkled.
‘You’re fine.’ He grabbed my rucksack and disappeared.
‘What the hell am I doing?’ I muttered, as the reality of the next three days, pressing down on me for weeks now, grew to suffocating.
‘You’ll be fine. I’m with you, buddy.’ Mack had reappeared.
‘Mmmmf.’ I didn’t tell Mack that him being here was part of the issue.
‘We’re going to have enormous fun rigorously mocking your preposterous sister and her twazzock life-partner’s ludicrous nuptials. We’re going to laugh off their scorn, play up to their judgemental pre-conceptions, eat a huge amount of food and drink gallons of pretentious wine at their expense. Plus, I’m dying to see how many of those wedding etiquette rules we can break in the next thirty-six hours.’
As a degree of feeling returned to my arms and legs, Mack took hold of my hand and walked me round to the car.
‘In you get.’ He opened the door.
‘Wait.’ I reached one hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture as he started to move round to the driver’s side.
‘What? Have you forgotten something?’
‘For the record, can I stress, while it’s easier if we go with Mack Macintyre for the sake of the seating plan, guest book and whatever other dreadful nonsense has been planned, I’m not asking you to pretend we’re something we aren’t. I’m so grateful not to be walking into that wedding alone, but I don’t think it’s okay for a married man to pretend he’s with someone else. And I don’t care if everyone else there thinks I’m a sad, sorry failure. I’m starting to realise that might not be true. So, who cares what they think?’
Mack winked at me. Not helpful. ‘Okay. But while we’re on the record, I wouldn’t do anything that might upset my wife. Even if you cried. Or tripped and lost your glasses again.’
‘Okay. Great.’ More helpful, thank you.
‘Great. Let’s go. Mack Macintyre’s hoping to squeeze in a couple of wee drams before bed.’
Was there anything as bittersweet as driving through the rain at night, cheesy old pop songs crackling in the background, laughing, gently bickering, telling stories, playing Revels roulette, sometimes saying nothing at all, with a lovely man, who made your heart pound whenever he glanced across at you, or barked with amusement, or crinkled up the two lines between his eyebrows as he listened to the story of your life, when that man happened to be married?
I knew I liked Mack. Liked him plus found him attractive. I could work at keeping those two feelings in separate boxes. But in the quiet moments, with the only sound the radio and the swish of windscreen wipers, I became painfully aware that we were huddled side by side in one of the smallest cars ever invented. In the intimacy of the darkness, I didn’t feel like friends, or neighbours. I felt like a woman sitting inches apart from a man she was teetering on the edge of falling in love with.
I didn’t want the journey to end. I wanted us to get lost in the moors and end up driving all night. Or at least as long as my bladder held out. Honestly? I wanted to stay in that car forever. For the rest of my life to be one long, intimate, funny, tender, heart-wide-open journey with Mack.
After a stop for coffee and fuel (Mack wanted a full tank in case a speedy getaway became necessary), we arrived at the hotel around eleven. Crunching up a long drive to a floodlit courtyard, we pulled to a stop in front of what could only be accurately described as a castle.
‘We’re staying at the wedding venue?’ I asked, my voice a tad strangled, eyes fixed on the turrets towering above us.
Mack shrugged. ‘I figured it would be easiest. Is there a problem? The reviews were excellent. Apparently, it’s got the best venison in the—’
‘Whole of Ayrshire,’ I finished.
‘You don’t sound very happy about that.’ He turned to face me.
I pushed my glasses up, rubbed my tired eyes. ‘I’ve stayed here before. Several times. With Richard.’
‘Ah.’ He peered out through the windscreen. ‘Kind of a weird choice for his wedding, then.’
‘He likes venison.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Mack, I know how much a room here costs. When you said a hotel I was thinking a Travelodge, or a crusty B and B.’
‘Well, at the risk of sounding like the infamous blowhard Richard the Richest, I can afford it.’
‘Still, though…’
‘Still though, I’m shattered, I really want to try a whisky and the deal I got on the rooms is non-refundable so we might as well enjoy it.’
We checked in, and went to the bar for a drink. My nerves too jittery to contemplate alcohol, I sipped on lemonade until Mack asked me to go to bed so he could enjoy his whisky in peace.
‘Try to get some sleep. And if you say sorry or thank you again I’m going to abandon you to the golf course. It’s going to be fun, remember, breaking the wedding rules, drinking champagne and hunting for Z-list celebrities.’
I nodded and left before my mouth popped open and said the words expanding in my head like an airbag: Thank you, Mack Macintyre, for everything. Thank you for being you. And thank you for letting me be me. And I’m really, truly, sorry but I LOVE YOU. Goodnight.
It wasn’t a good night. But the next day? Better than I hoped.
35
I didn’t attend the pre-reception brunch, held in a private dining room and clearly marked as invitation only. Instead, Mack and I whiled away the morning with tea and mince pies in the lobby, which had been transformed into a Christmas wonderland overnight, along with the rest of the hotel. We sat beside the enormous tree, covered in red and silver bows and topped with a figurine that looked remarkably like Zara, and played ‘spot the wedding guest’ as tall, slim women in enormous hats glided past a
ccompanied by men in tight suits brushing the fake snow off shiny shoes.
‘They all look the same,’ Mack mused. ‘It’s a good job your sister will be in a wedding dress or I might end up congratulating the wrong person. Do you know any of these people?’
‘One or two. I’ve not seen anyone from work yet.’
‘Well, I’m guessing she won’t be at the wedding,’ Mack whispered, as a woman in a blue habit and black veil walked past. ‘Can’t picture Richard or Zara knocking about with nuns.’
‘Well, you lose.’ I picked up my oversized teacup and attempted to hide behind it as someone else swished past. ‘That nun is the bride’s mother.’
‘Really?’ Mack looked delighted. ‘Her outfit must break about six different guidelines in the dress code. Wearing a veil to someone else’s wedding is one thing. But a black veil?’
It would be funny if it weren’t true. Zara was either going to flip out, disinvite her own mother or force her into an emergency dress from Jaeger.
‘Do you think she’ll join in the dancing later? Or, wouldn’t it be great if she’s got some flash mob, choreographed routine up her sleeve?’
By the time I’d wiped up the tea laugh-snorted out through my nose at that image, Mum had vanished.
‘Can you call her?’ Mack asked.
‘She doesn’t own a phone.’ I wasn’t going to mention anything about the house or the journals until after the ceremony. The risk was too high that it’d send her running again. Or, even worse, crying… that would not go down well. What kind of person made a nun cry? Made her mum cry? At a wedding? When it was her own daughter getting married?
I could wait a few more hours.
Ten minutes before we were due in the ballroom, I rustled down the stairs in Frances’ dove-grey swing dress and the fancy shoes I’d bought myself. With my hair pinned up, new glasses and a simple silver necklace round my neck, I hoped I might look elegant. At the very least I looked tasteful. And, most importantly, I felt like me. Not a cheap imitation of my twin. She might not even recognise me. I was fairly hopeful Richard wouldn’t, having never looked that closely in the first place.
A man stood up from where he’d been leaning on a pillar wrapped in ivy and tipped his head in acknowledgement.
Wowee – I must have looked even better than I thought. He was, to put it bluntly, gorgeous. After living in Scotland for five years, I now finally got the hype about a man in a kilt. This guy had the whole shebang – white shirt, jacket, sporran, those funny brogues with laces up his ankles. Short dark hair, a Celtic warrior’s jawline, he stood there grinning at me, and I felt the blush from my silver shoes right up to the diamond clip in my hair.
Flustered, I wobbled precariously, keeping my eyes down, hand gripping the bannister until I reached the bottom.
The kilt-man was Mack. Hair cut, beard gone. Shoulders back.
He offered the crook of one arm, leaning in and whispering in a fake Scottish burr, ‘Aye, you’ll do, then.’
‘You’ll do, yourself,’ I said, wondering if my heart was thumping hard enough for him to see it bouncing against the bodice of the dress.
‘Well, you know, it’s traditional for Macintyre men to don the family tartan at special occasions.’
‘That’s Macintyre tartan?’
He winked as we joined the queue of guests waiting to enter the ballroom. ‘It is now.’
I hadn’t been to many weddings, so didn’t know if it was normal to have a seating plan for the actual ceremony. I suspected that, short of high-level aristocrats, seating plans didn’t get beyond the one side for bride, one for groom. But at least this way I could avoid that sticky question. I knew which one I’d had more conversations with in the past couple of years. And only one of them had, well, done stuff with me I’d rather not think about now. Or ever again.
I swallowed a wave of nausea, tucked my arm more firmly in Mack’s and we shuffled to our seats, three rows from the back. A scan of the plan told me Zara’s housekeeper, Claudia, and my dad weren’t there. I recognised a few names from Dougal and Duff, but unsurprisingly none of the minions I’d hung about with were on the list.
As we sat and waited for things to start, I felt a genuine twinge of pity for my sister. Twenty-eight years old and the only family here were a mum who’d ditched all earthly attachments and responsibilities, including her own children, for a God Zara didn’t believe in, and a twin sister she’d treated like dog poo and then wiped off and disposed of accordingly.
None of these women, with their over-the-top air-kisses and five-figure handbags, was a real friend to Zara. They’d be scouring the whole event like starving vultures, gorging on the tiniest flaws and relishing the catty remarks and gossipy criticism. The stupidest thing about competition (and, believe me, every detail of this day was part of the great who’s-winning-at-life competition) was that you ended up feeling either superior and isolated, or inferior and therefore jealous. Nobody won. I breathed a deep sigh of relief that, despite my mother’s past attempts, I had never even qualified to enter.
I leant to the side slightly, nudging Mack with my arm.
‘Is it okay if I say hello to Mum?’
He sat to attention. ‘I insist. Let’s go.’
‘Feel free to stay here and read your programme.’ Having not seen Mum since she took her vows, I still wasn’t sure quite who I’d be saying hello to.
‘No chance. I promised to stick by your side today. We’ve barely started and you want me shirking my responsibility? Us Macintyres are made of stronger stuff than that.’
‘I know your surname isn’t really Macintyre. I made it up, remember?’
His mouth twitched, and I couldn’t help wondering how much that bushy beard had previously kept hidden. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Rolling my eyes, I led him to my mother.
‘Mum, this is my friend Mack. Mack, Isobel.’
Mum nodded her head. ‘Call me Sister Claire.’
‘I’ll try.’ Mack smiled. ‘But I’ve got two sisters and that wouldn’t necessarily be a compliment.’
‘How are you?’ I asked Mum – or was I supposed to call her Sister Claire too? ‘How long are you staying?’
‘I’m very well, thank you. And I’m flying back this evening. I hope we can spend some time together before then.’
Watching her making small talk with Mack, I had to agree that, despite the grey hair and lack of make-up, she did look well. I tried to put a word to what was different about her… and then I realised, I’d never seen her so still. She looked peaceful.
Wow. I guessed the whole religious conversion thing was genuine, then. And seemed to have worked.
She suddenly took my hand. ‘Jenny. I’ve missed you so much.’
Um, what?
Thankfully, at that moment Rob Duff, as in Dougal and, who thought Richard was an irritating upstart in need of a good kicking (according to his PA, Meg), assumed his role of best man and called the two hundred guests to take their seats.
Richard entered the room being pulled on a sleigh by four groomsmen dressed as elves, as the ‘Sleigh Ride’ Christmas song jingled in the background, a ludicrously jolly accompaniment to the strenuous job of heaving a sleigh down a white carpet in twenty-three-degree heat while wearing stripy green and white tights.
‘This is brilliant.’ Mack grinned, settling in to enjoy the spectacle.
I would have answered, but was too busy fighting the panic now twisting itself up and around my head like a musty blanket as my stupid, idiot eyes refused to move off Richard. That swagger. The way he jerked his head when he greeted people. His preposterously fake laugh. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen for it. Let him use me.
‘I think I’m going to throw up.’
Mack’s hand gripped mine, and held on. ‘You’re fine. I’ve got you.’
I concentrated on those smooth, warm fingers, let them steady me, like an anchor in the storm of memories, feelings and regrets. And for the next ho
ur, allowing everything to pass in a blur meant I was, just about, fine. Throughout Zara riding in on a donkey, which I assume was some twisted reference to the nativity story, being given away by Ian Dougal (her boss – really?); the carols, the ten bridesmaids, the doves, the first kiss under a bunch of mistletoe. The pretend tears, the genuinely atrocious bride and groom duet of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ and the fake snowstorm as they walked back down the aisle. I held onto that hand, like a lifeline to reality, and I listened to Zara pledge herself to the man I’d thought I loved, and I tried hard to wish them well.
We trooped out into the muggy heat for a fir-tree-planting ceremony in the enormous blanket of fake snow, no one asking what the point of planting a tree here, rather than in their own garden, was. Everyone pretending to ignore Zara’s choice of language when her husband flicked a clod of dirt onto her dress.
Trooped back inside for photographs in the great hall while those who didn’t make the cut drank mulled wine and nibbled endless tiny canapés.
I hid at the back, trying to remember not to look as if I was being strangled by my own awkwardness. Most people ignored me, after their automatic full-body scan classified me as either: INSIGNIFICANT or AVOID! Two women, having given me the once-over, sidled in towards Mack. ‘Are you with the bride or groom?’ they purred.
‘No,’ Mack replied, causing blinks of surprise as he looked away, uninterested.
‘So why are you here, then?’ one of them persisted, squeezing in next to me.
‘I’m with Jenny,’ Mack said, no less fierce for lack of facial hair.
‘Really?’ She screwed up her tight face as best she could in sympathy and disbelief. ‘And is that a fixed arrangement, for the whole night?’ She took a long slurp on her straw. ‘Or are you open to a better offer?’
