by Shari Low
‘It’s Saffron’s! She skived off school yesterday afternoon, asked me if she could come here, and when I asked why she went all weird.’
‘And that was before the whole Alamo thing at the library?’ Roxy had asked.
‘The Ala—what?’
‘Forget it–do they teach you lot nothing in history these days? The showdown. The big confrontation!’
‘Yes! Oh my God, that’s why she made Ben tell me. It’s Ben’s baby!’
Actually, as it transpired, it possibly wasn’t Ben’s baby as there were several other candidates whose sperm were in the frame. Turns out that Saffron wasn’t exactly reserved with her favours.
Juliet and Roxy had arrived at Saffron’s house half an hour later, a three-bedroom flat above the chippy that was straining under the occupancy of Saffron’s mother, father, and five younger brothers and sisters. At Juliet’s insistence, Saffron had moved in with her that afternoon and had never left.
‘We’ve been best friends since we were babies,’ Juliet had explained with a pragmatic shrug. ‘I can’t leave her now, she needs me.’
Back in the present, the memory gave Roxy a sudden thought.
‘Hey, do you remember in the hospital when I pretended it was me who was pregnant? I thought we were going to have to get Mum’s doctor down to revive you.’
Following a lifetime of tradition, Ginny tutted, rolled her eyes and assumed the approximate expression of someone who has just discovered that she is chewing a wasp.
‘Yeah, well, God got you back, you evil cow. Just keep looking in the mirror.’
Roxy tried to smooth her dress over her three-month bump. Nope, still visible. She couldn’t believe he’d knocked her up so quickly–only weeks into her ‘Youth Key Worker’ training course and she was throwing up in the college toilets every morning. Two of her fellow students had already slipped her leaflets on help for bulimics.
There was a soft rap on the door and Mitch popped his head in.
‘Ah, my two favourite ladies,’ he teased. ‘Your public awaits you!’
‘I warn you, I’m feeling particularly hormonal today, and overuse of smarmy crap may result in a fatal injury. Anyway, you’re not supposed to be here. Bugger off.’
He was yards down the hallway before the sound of his laughter subsided.
Roxy turned to Ginny, and held out her hand. ‘Ready?’
Ginny rose up, smoothed down her own dress and took her best friend’s hand.
‘You look gorgeous,’ she whispered.
Roxy’s eyes filled and she fanned her face with her hands, determined to prevent the downpour. ‘Don’t make me cry because this make-up cost me a fortune.’
‘Tell me you didn’t buy it with Felix’s credit card.’
‘Nope, it finally expired. It felt like losing a limb.’
They hugged each other tightly. ‘I love you, you know that, don’t you?’ Roxy whispered.
Ginny nodded. ‘And I love you. Oh no, there goes the make-up.’
Hand in hand, they made their way out to the garden, where the guests were all seated in dozens of rows, big hats and blooms everywhere. As they paused at the end of the aisle, waiting for the rest of the wedding party to assemble, Ginny cast a glance at the people in front of her.
In the back row of the right-hand section, Mrs Baxter from the village shop sat holding hands with one of the old blokes from the pub darts team.
Just in front of them was the whole of the fifth-year study group, an edgy Ben sitting next to Saffron, who had been placed nearest the aisle in case her waters broke and she had to make a run for it. Make that a waddle.
Over on the left sat Jude, with Goldie on one side and Cheska on the other. His crush on Ginny had lasted until Cheska’s court case had finished unexpectedly early, whereupon she had surprised him with an unannounced visit, discovered him with Goldie, and realised that three had much more fun than two. Six months later it was still working for them.
The rest of the wedding party joined them at the end of the aisle.
‘You look beautiful.’
‘Piss off, I feel like a tank.’
Sam took Roxy’s hand, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
Juliet pressed a button on the CD player and the first bars of ‘Here Comes the Bride’ boomed out.
As Ginny slowly marched up the red carpet, trying to avoid the holes that had been made by Mrs Robinson-Smith’s over-enthusiastic Yorkshire terriers, Ginny watched the couple in front of her.
Sam and Roxy. They’d only been together six months. His catering business was still in a start-up situation, he was relatively poor and he didn’t have a red American Express card. He was wrong for Roxy in every way. She’d never been happier. Or fatter.
‘Am I supposed to tell you that you look beautiful too?’ Mitch leaned over and whispered in her ear, a gargantuan task, considering he was trying to grin, walk in time to the music and avoid stepping on Roxy’s dress all at the same time.
‘Definitely,’ Ginny replied.
‘Hey, watch the dress, dumwit!’ Roxy spat, as the pull on her gown caused her to stumble.
Ginny and Mitch. They were on their six-month anniversary too. Six months since Roxy’s dumb prank and the subsequent hilarity at Ginny’s reaction had revealed that Roxy and Mitch were definitely not together. Six months since they’d spent the night together in the Travel Inn next door to the hospital. Six months since he’d finally found the courage to tell her that he’d been in love with her for months. And six months since she’d told him she loved him back. Oh, and that she’d recently shagged a stripper and his celebrity girlfriend. Well, it was only fair that he knew.
He hadn’t been upset and the story had now become the central plot for his third novel–it was about a small-time girl who went to London, got a job in a brothel, shared a flat with a male exotic dancer and had a love affair with a very high-profile female television star. His publisher was worried that it was too unrealistic.
The music faded out now as they reached the marble podium at the end of the carpet. The attendants parted to allow the happy couple to take their places.
The Reverend Stewart puffed out his chest, wiped a tear from his eye, and held up his arms in a gesture of embrace.
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here this morning to bless the union of a very special couple. A couple whose love for each other has weathered storms, touched hearts and leaves not a shadow of a doubt that these two special people will spend the rest of their lives by each other’s sides.’
Someone in the audience sniffed so loudly that several people turned to stare. Old Mrs Baxter from the village shop blushed furiously and buried her face in her lilac handkerchief. The reverend waited for quiet before proceeding.
‘Do you, Vera Ethel Galloway, take Violet Emily Wallis to be your lawfully wedded wife…’
THE END
Acknowledgements
Thank you first and foremost to Sheila Crowley (at AP Watt) and Maxine Hitchcock (at Avon), the two talented, fabulous women who encourage me, guide me in the right direction and hold my hand when it’s all going wrong.
Thanks to Caroline Ridding, Keshini Naidoo, Sammia Rafique and Sara Foster at Avon for their skill, patience and endless good humour.
As always, huge gratitude to Rob Kraitt, Linda Shaughnessy, Teresa Nicholls and the whole team at AP Watt for their belief, optimism and all the work that goes on behind the scenes.
Thanks to Melanie Harvey at the Daily Record for always understanding (and to her mum, Maureen, for bringing in the nuns!).
To the lovely Gemma Low for being nothing like the teenagers in this book.
And special thanks to Carmen Reid, Liz Murphy, Sadie Hill, Janice McCallum, Linda Lowery, Anne-Marie Low, Wendy Morton, Pamela McBurnie, Sylvia Lavizani, Frankie Plater, Jan Johnstone and Gillian Armstrong–who dragged me up the mountain of the last year with laughs, support and the promise of a big bucket of Lambrusco at the top.
Shari xx
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br /> About the Author
For much of Shari’s working life she was a nightclub manager, standing on club doors arguing with crazy drunk people in Glasgow and Shanghai. She also ran a leisure complex in Hong Kong, a position that, given her ample curves, made her the fattest health club manager in South East Asia. However, one March day in 2000 she got her first book deal. Ten minutes later she discovered that she was pregnant. Two children, stretch marks and oh-my-God-the-cellulite later, Shari now spends her days writing books, screenplays and two weekly columns for the Daily Record. It’s great…but she does miss the crazy drunk people…
Please visit www.sharilow.com for further information.
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Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
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www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008
Copyright © Shari Low 2008
Shari Low asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-1-84756-012-4
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EPub Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007334964
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