Scott gestured to the door. ‘Time to leave.’
David continued to yell at his wife and daughter, who remained entwined, both now crying. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And don’t come sobbing to me when it all falls apart.’
Lisa moved towards him. ‘They won’t, because they’ll have the rest of us to love and support them should things get tough. Because that’s what families do … apparently,’ she added as an afterthought, looking at Scott for confirmation.
Scott nodded. ‘Perfectly said, sis.’
Ben threw his arm around Lisa’s shoulder. ‘Good one, Mum.’
The sound of Ben calling Lisa ‘Mum’ had Scott’s tears surfacing faster than a tsunami. Shit. He wiped his eyes. He seriously needed to grow some balls. ‘I’ll show you out,’ he said to David, trying to reassert his masculinity.
But David was already leaving, kicking over a chair as he did so.
Amy was still crying, being comforted by Patricia. Ben was hugging Lisa, much to his sister’s horror; she looked as happy receiving physical affection as if Marlon was humping her leg. Talking of Marlon, where was Evie?
She was rallying the waiters, suggesting they serve more drinks and signalling for music to be put on. If he didn’t love her before, he did then. Shame he’d blown it.
Cliff Richard’s ‘Congratulations’ burst forth from the speakers. There was a moment’s shocked pause where everyone stopped their respective crying and turned to stare at Evie. She did this adorable shrug and mouthed ‘Oops’, before everyone resumed crying and consoling.
Scott rubbed his neck, praying the actual wedding would be a greater success than the rehearsal dinner. It couldn’t be any worse.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Friday, 27 June
The last time Patricia had been inside the honeymoon suite at the Bell Inn, she’d been screaming blue murder at her husband, having just caught him red-handed cheating on her. What a difference two weeks could make. Far from ranting and raving, she was eerily calm, feeling very much the contented mother of the bride as she styled her daughter’s hair.
Patricia had always loved doing Amy’s hair. Her daughter had beautiful long golden locks that Patricia used to twist into a tight bun for ballet classes and curl into ringlets for school discos. It was treasured mother and daughter time, the rhythm of brushing and curling soothingly therapeutic.
As Amy chatted away to the girl who was applying her gel nails, Patricia listened contentedly, dividing Amy’s hair into sections, using the straighteners to twist each strand into a wave. The repetitive motion allowed her mind to drift back over the events of the last two weeks.
Discovering David had been cheating on her wasn’t the horrendous experience she’d expected it to be. Physically catching David in the act had prevented him squirming his way out of it, bombarding her with implausible explanations and deflecting her accusations back at her. Having her suspicions confirmed in such stark fashion was the kick up the backside she’d needed. She could no longer hide from the truth. However scared she might be at venturing out into the world alone, continuing to live a lie was no longer an option.
Rather surprisingly, the world hadn’t stopped turning since she’d made her decision to leave David. The opposite had happened. She’d become empowered. She’d seen a family law solicitor who’d been wonderfully uplifting, correcting the many false assumptions she’d formed about her entitlement to their joint assets and the family home. Assumptions she had formed thanks to David’s controlling influence and scare tactics, all designed to ensure she wouldn’t leave him. She’d also applied for a part-time job at the tennis club, eager to become self-sufficient. Her savings wouldn’t last long, but until they reached a final settlement it would tide her over.
Amy giggled at something the nail technician had just said about Justin Bieber.
It was such a lovely sound. Her daughter was positively glowing, just as a bride should be on her wedding day.
Patricia pinned the top lengths of Amy’s hair loosely on top of her head, ensuring she followed her daughter’s request for a ‘relaxed’ look, which apparently was the current fashion. Amy didn’t want anything too formal, so Patricia resisted the instinct to make the style too neat. Being asked to dress Amy’s hair meant a lot; she wanted to get it right.
With Amy’s French manicure finished, the nail technician packed up, wished her luck and left.
Turning her attentions to her hair, Amy studied her reflection in the mirror. ‘Oh, Mum, it’s gorgeous.’
‘Is it all right, love?’ Patricia held up the hand mirror so Amy could see the back. ‘I hope it’s what you wanted.’
‘It’s perfect. Thank you so much.’ Amy swished her head from side to side, checking all angles.
Patricia glanced at her watch. ‘Time’s getting along. We need to get you into your dress.’
Amy got up from the dressing table and jumped onto the bed. ‘I can’t work out whether I’m nervous or excited. My tummy won’t stop fluttering.’
Patricia laughed at the sight of her daughter bouncing up and down. ‘A combination of both, I expect. Perfectly normal wedding jitters. I was the same.’
Amy clambered off the four-poster bed, anxiety troubling her made-up face. ‘Are you angry that I uninvited Dad to the wedding?’
‘Goodness me, no.’ Patricia squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I’m sorrier than I can say that he won’t be there, but that’s his doing, not yours. He’s had every opportunity to change his stance. He’s too stubborn for his own good, that man.’ She helped Amy off with her dressing gown.
Her daughter frowned. ‘Do you hate him?’
Patricia mulled over her daughter’s question. ‘Not hate, no. I feel sorry for him. At some point in the future he’s going to regret missing your wedding day, and it’ll be too late to do anything about it. That makes me sad.’ She unzipped the protective dress carrier and removed the plastic wrapping from Amy’s wedding dress.
Amy slipped her feet into her silver sandals. ‘Are you really going to divorce him?’
Patricia hated the disappointment in her daughter’s voice. ‘Yes, my love, I am. Your father and I don’t make each other happy any more. We both need to move on with our lives. He knows that just as much as I do.’ She went over to Amy, keen to reassure her. ‘But please know that we both love you very much. We will always be your parents. Your father doesn’t approve of the wedding, but it’s not because he doesn’t care. It’s because he cares too much. In his own overbearing way he’s trying to protect you.’
Amy sighed. ‘I get that, but it’s hard when he’s so cruel, especially to you. I hate him for it.’
Patricia cupped her daughter’s cheek. ‘He’s angry at the moment, mostly with me. Over time that will fade and when it does you’ll need to show all that maturity of yours and forgive him.’
Amy pouted. ‘I don’t feel like forgiving him.’
‘Of course you don’t. He’s upset you and let you down on the most important day of your life. Be mad with him, by all means. All I ask is that at some point in the future, when things have settled, get in touch with him and smooth things over. For your sake.’
Amy kissed her cheek. ‘You’re too good to him, Mum. He never deserved you.’
Patricia fought off the tears. ‘Now, let’s get you into that dress.’
As she unhooked the sparkling dress from the hanger, the memory of collecting it from Truly Scrumptious flooded back. She hadn’t relished seeing Laura Harper again – who would? But the last thing she wanted was for Amy to find out about her father’s latest indiscretion. So Patricia had suggested collecting the dress herself, a decision she was glad she’d made. Although Patricia had entered the shop feeling shamed by her husband’s ungentlemanly conduct, she’d left the boutique a different woman. Laura Harper had been the one on the back foot, full of apologies, embarrassed by her behaviour, mortified at having hurt her husband. Far from feeling like the stupid, clueless wife, Patricia had held th
e upper hand. She could have made Laura suffer, punished her again for cheating on poor Martin, but when faced with such obvious shame, she’d found herself offering forgiveness.
When Patricia left the shop, she’d phoned Martin. He’d been uncontactable since the incident two weeks before, but thankfully he answered her call. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that although that night had been the death sentence for her own marriage, it had been the saviour of Martin’s. The pair were determined to make their marriage work, both committed to staying together.
Funny how one person’s tragedy could be another person’s blessing.
Amy stepped into her dress, easing it up over her slim hips and holding it in place whilst Patricia closed the zip. It fitted perfectly. Patricia angled her daughter so that she could see her reflection in the mirror. A goddess. But then she supposed every mother thought that about their daughter.
Amy met her mother’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Thank you for supporting me, Mum. It means the world.’
‘My darling girl, it’s my pleasure. This is a new beginning for you. The next chapter in your life. Grab it with both hands. Never be afraid to be happy.’
Amy turned to her mother. ‘I want that for you as well, Mum.’ She looked so earnest. ‘You are going to be okay, aren’t you?’
Patricia smiled at her concerned daughter. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me.’ Slipping on her cream jacket, she placed the delicate feather fascinator onto her head and picked up the silver-beaded clutch bag Amy had bought her as a gift. ‘It’s my daughter’s wedding day. I intend to burst with pride and cry hysterically … for which I apologise in advance.’
Amy laughed.
She continued, ‘And dance the night away, and ensure all the guests drink far too much champagne.’
Amy pinned Patricia’s corsage to her jacket lapel. ‘Well, don’t forget it’s a paying bar, Mum. You need to hold onto your pennies, as you used to tell me.’
The scent of freesias and orchids made Patricia smile. ‘Oh, my darling. I’m not worried about that. I put your father’s credit card behind the bar and instructed the hotel to charge everyone’s drinks to it.’
Amy gasped. ‘Mum, you didn’t?’
‘I most certainly did.’ Patricia opened the bedroom door, offering Amy her arm. ‘The first lesson you need to learn about being married, my darling, is that revenge is a dish best served cold.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Friday, 27 June
Evie’s feet were killing her, burning from standing up all day. Laura’s black mesh stilettoes weren’t really designed for running around, arranging flowers, but Evie had wanted to make an effort with her appearance, so hadn’t turned down her friend’s offer of borrowing her sapphire-blue skater dress and killer heels to wear for the wedding. So far the day had gone off without a hitch. Evie had been at the venue since the crack of dawn to set up the floral arrangements, ably assisted by Saffy and Josh – who seemed to come as a pair these days. It made Evie smile to think of Saffy reluctantly succumbing to the young funeral director’s charms. Proof that there was someone out there for everyone.
Evie was particularly pleased with the perennial Michaelmas daisies in varying shades of violet and blue, ordered in especially for the day. They made for stunning designs, complementing the couple’s pastel colour scheme. The weather helped. A warm sunny day enhanced the floral displays, presenting them at their best. The ceremony had taken place inside the walled garden of the Bell Inn, the guests invited to walk through the decorated archway to reach their seats.
Amy looked divine, a modern-day angel dressed for prom night. The crystals sewn onto her floor-length dress caught the light as she walked down the makeshift aisle carrying her bouquet of Coral Charm peonies. Her smile radiated pure joy, her eyes glistening with teary happiness. If anyone questioned why Amy’s mother was giving her away rather than her father, they were polite enough not to mention it. Patricia Robinson rose to the challenge, accompanying her daughter as she made her way towards the celebrant, head high, fulfilling her role with poise.
The men looked dapper in their dinner suits, their aqua rose and muscari buttonholes suitably masculine yet flamboyant. Evie had received several enquiries for business, always the biggest compliment she could receive. Her confidence had risen further when she’d taken a call from Ann Hale, the photographer from Elite Wedding magazine, wanting to do a double-page spread following on from Evie’s success at the flower competition. All these endorsements were aiding her efforts to move forwards with her life, leave the sorrow of her past behind and become a successful businesswoman.
It was only when the photographs had been taken and the guests were called inside for the meal that Evie felt she could relax. Her job was done. It was time to enjoy herself.
She found herself seated on a table with a group of Ben and Amy’s school friends, a lively bunch who entertained her with their opinions on everything from Caitlyn Jenner’s sex change to Vladimir Putin’s fitness regime. The terms ‘bulking’ and ‘shredding’ were new to her. She preferred her own method of keeping fit: pounding the quaint streets of Heatherton with Marlon by her side – usually tripping her up.
Then it was time for the speeches. With no father-of-the-bride speech, they started with Ben’s groom’s speech, an emotional tribute to his new wife, followed by a touching thank you to his nan and uncle for helping him ‘become the man he was’. Ben mentioned his mother in his speech, expressing his pleasure at her travelling so far to join them. Evie could see Scott fighting back tears, pretending to drop his napkin so he could disappear under the table and compose himself. She rather liked the fact he couldn’t hide his emotions. It made him easier to read.
By the time Scott stood up to give the best man’s speech, expectations were high. Evie gripped the tablecloth, willing him to do well. She chastised herself for not having helped him more. A ruddy DVD wouldn’t have done much. He’d asked for her help, but she’d been so preoccupied keeping him at arm’s length and not wanting to encourage his attentions that she’d failed in her duty as his friend. And they were friends. Good friends … The problem was that she wanted to be more than that – but was that even possible any more?
Knowing how nervous she felt, Evie could only imagine how Scott must be feeling. His avoidance of writing anything down was so strong that penning a speech was probably his idea of hell. Especially when the audience were waiting with bated breath, ready to be regaled with funny stories about the groom’s life. Poor Scott.
The maître d’s formal announcement of the best man’s speech was welcomed with loud applause and heckling from Ben’s mates as Scott was handed the microphone. He might be nervous, but Evie was struck by how handsome he looked standing up there. She was used to seeing him in casual attire: jeans and T-shirts, usually covered in WD40, rugged, relaxed and bloody sexy. The sight of him dressed in a black evening suit, cleanly shaven, his hair styled and neat, set off a buzz in her blood that increased so rapidly she could barely hear anything above the pounding in her ears.
Scott cleared his throat. The lights dimmed and a photo of Ben riding a tricycle was projected onto a large screen behind him. His red helmet was too big, covering his eyes. ‘When Ben was six years old, he told me he was ready to ride his bike unassisted and asked me to remove the stabilisers. I told him he wasn’t ready. He was adamant he could do it.’
The next photo showed Ben lying in a hospital bed looking morose. ‘He fell off and knocked out two front teeth, resulting in six stiches and a fat lip.’
This was met with a mixture of laughter from Ben’s mates and a sympathetic ‘ahhh’ from older relatives.
Another photo came up on the screen, this one of a grinning Ben sitting astride a bigger bike. ‘But by the end of the day he was riding his bike unaided.’
‘That’s a girl’s bike!’ one of his mates shouted.
Evie spotted Scott’s hand shaking as he held the microphone. Thankfully, the laughter in the room se
emed to relax him a little. He pointed the gadget at the screen, changing the photo to one of Ben wearing his school uniform, his hair stuck up at the front. ‘When Ben was eleven years old he told his nan he was going to win the school poetry competition. His nan pointed out he’d never written a poem before, but this didn’t deter him.’
The next photo was of Ben holding a certificate. ‘He won second prize for his entry “Win or Die Trying”.’
More laughter.
Scott clicked the gadget again. A photo of a young Amy holding a silver cup filled the screen. ‘First place went to Amy Robinson. I wonder what happened to her?’
Boisterous laughter was accompanied by clapping, whoops and Ben’s mates shouting ‘Beaten by a girl!’
Scott waited for the laughter to subside. As far as Evie could see, he wasn’t using any notes. He never ceased to amaze her.
Another photo flashed up, this one of Ben holding up the same cup. ‘Not to be outdone, the following year Ben tried again. He won first prize.’
Everyone cheered.
Scott continued. ‘Ben’s headmaster told me he was particularly impressed by Ben’s ability to rhyme “Pope Benedict the sixteenth” with “I know heavyweights who fix teeth”.’
Ben stood up and took a bow. Someone threw a napkin at him.
Amy urged him to sit down.
The screen behind Scott changed to a picture of Ben with a camcorder. ‘By the age of fifteen Ben had written and directed his first short film, and announced his plans to become a film director.’
The next photo was of Billie before her stroke, kissing a film poster for Lethal Weapon, starring Mel Gibson. ‘I know your nan would be incredibly proud to know you’re on course to study film and TV production at Roehampton University next September.’ Scott gave Ben a thumbs up. ‘Good on you, mate.’
Amy kissed Ben, who wiped away a tear, causing more sighs of ‘ahhh’ from the adults and calls to ‘grow a pair’ from his mates. Ben replied by giving them the V-sign, followed by a mouthed apology at Patricia.
The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop Page 35
