by Clare Lydon
Behind her, Abby burst into a round of applause. “First hit ball! It’s only up from here.”
Jordan turned and raised an eyebrow. She knew sympathy clapping when she heard it.
An hour later, all the balls had been hit. Jordan was at the bar, getting drinks. She’d insisted as a thank you for Abby’s patience. The truth was, Abby had enjoyed it. She was good at golf, particularly the driving part, and she thought more women should do it as a form of exercise and a way of letting off steam. Jordan hadn’t been proficient at first, but halfway through, after she got her first decent connection and sent a ball airborne, her manner had changed. Then, she’d been eager to hit more balls, and sad when it ended.
Abby had invited Marcus because she thought she had to. She’d never brought Delta, who was golf-averse. Her mum had come once, and loved it, but hadn’t had time to return with her crazy work schedule. When Jordan had asked Abby to take her to a place that described who she was, the driving range was what first sprang to mind. It wasn’t her job, which was something she did for money. It wasn’t her home, which she hadn’t taken the time to furnish as she should.
For Abby, this was where she came to think, to be herself. Sometimes, she just came to have a beer on this patio, overlooking the range. Marcus didn’t like bars like these, preferring restaurants or cocktail bars. It felt strangely thrilling to be in here with someone else. Someone she felt at home with already. She’d invited Jordan into her inner sanctuary, and it felt okay. That wasn’t lost on Abby.
Jordan was walking towards her now, concentration on her face as she tried not to spill their beers, a packet of Walkers Salt & Vinegar crisps dangling from her mouth. The last button on her black shirt was undone, revealing a little of Jordan’s flat midriff. Her golden hair was styled just-so, and she was wearing a pair of Nike trainers that Abby had looked at herself a few weeks ago. Marcus had told her they were “unclassy”.
They didn’t look unclassy on Jordan.
Nothing had so far.
Maybe she should have bought them. Although it would have been embarrassing if they’d both turned up wearing the same style.
“Here you go.” Jordan put the drinks on the table, then took the bag of crisps from her mouth. “I wasn’t sure if you were a crisp eater or whether you’d banned carbs in the run-up to your wedding. Most brides do. However, you did order an IPA, so I figured it was worth the risk. Plus, if you don’t want them, I’m sure I could polish them off.”
Abby shook her head as she took a sip of her beer. “I can help, have no fear. This is dinner tonight, so I think I can spare a crisp or two for today’s calories. Although no Instagram stories. If Marjorie saw this, she might have a heart attack.”
Jordan laughed, opening the pack wide so they could both dip in. “I met Marjorie the other day, and she was very nice to me.”
“Because you’re skinny. And pretty.”
Jordan looked at her like she was mad. “Says you. You’re hardly ugly. And I bet the last time you knowingly ate a slice of white bread was at least four years ago.”
Abby let out a howl of laughter. “Maybe three.” She liked the way she laughed with Jordan.
She’d liked the feel of her in her arms earlier, too, when she was showing her how to swing.
But she wasn’t going to think about that.
After all, they were friendly feelings, nothing more.
“In my defence, I ate enough of it during my childhood to last a lifetime. Growing up in Glasgow, white bread was a staple of any diet.” Abby sat back in her chair, stroking the rim of her glass. “Now I’ve taught you how to drive a golf ball, it’s your turn to teach me how to pretend we know each other well. I’m still not sure I can pull this off.”
Jordan shook her head. “Course you can. Nothing to it. Plus, because I am a long-lost friend from your past, you’re not going to know everything about my life in detail, seeing as we’re just catching up. So the story is perfect. The key thing is to spend as much time together before the wedding. Not every waking moment, obviously, but times like this. You show me what makes you tick, and it’s a two-way street. Ask me anything you like, too. I’m happy to answer.”
Abby nodded. It made sense. She wasn’t worried about the wedding day itself, because nobody was going to quiz her about their past then. It was more the hen weekend. The lead-up drinks. The rehearsal dinner. Delta knew, along with Marcus’s parents. Her parents would know by then. Everybody else, they had to convince.
“So you were whisked away from my school when we were what age?”
Jordan stroked her chin. “Let’s say nine. That way, it gives us a few years of being besties. The beauty of this story is that I’m not really lying. Like I said, my childhood was studded with moves, and leaving behind new friends. In the end, I didn’t try so hard to make friends. It was easier that way. Saved the heartache.”
“My childhood was the opposite to you. I had a very settled time. My mum worked full-time, my dad worked from home and did the school run most days.”
“I could only dream of that,” Jordan said. “Do you still see friends from your childhood?”
Abby shook her head. “Not so much now I live down here. But some of them will be coming to the wedding. But I’m not worried about our cover being blown. Give them enough wine and they won’t ask any questions.”
“Works every time.” Jordan paused. “When little Abby was running around her Scottish playground, dreaming of white bread sandwiches, did you want to work in finance then?”
Abby scoffed. “Does anyone dream of that?”
“My cousin did. But he is a little odd.”
“You’ll be surprised to hear the answer is no. In fact, I’m currently going for a promotion which will mean longer hours at a job I hate.” When she put it like that, she made herself question her life. “I wanted to be a golfer in my teens, but I left it a little late to start. Tiger Woods started playing aged one. So my second choice was to work for a charity, achieve big things, and save the world.”
Jordan nodded. “Start small.”
“That’s what I thought. I went to Oxford University because I read that’s where all the big decision-makers in life went. I wanted to be on their team. However, I didn’t really like many of them. The only one I did like was Marcus. He was kind and considerate.”
“Wow, you’ve been together for a while.”
Abby shook her head. “No, we never got together at uni. Our paths crossed, we had mutual friends, but we never got romantically involved. That didn’t happen until just over 18 months ago, when I met him again at a work function. We had a drink to chat about old times, then he asked me to dinner. The rest is history.”
Jordan smiled. “A classic second-chance romance.”
Clouds formed on Abby’s brain, but she nodded anyway. She and Marcus were no love’s young dream, she knew that. Perhaps that was truer for Marcus than for her. But she did love him. And she knew that Marcus would always be there for her, no matter what.
“Something like that,” she replied.
“And when you’re married, do you think you’re going to take up those childhood dreams of saving the world?”
Was she? Abby hadn’t really thought about it. Marrying Marcus and moving in with him had been consuming all her thoughts of late. She hadn’t thought much about anything past the wedding.
Not even the honeymoon.
Getting married, changing her name, moving house.
One step at a time.
“I live on Charity Street. I thought that was a good start.”
Jordan tilted her head. “But you always said you wanted to save the world when we were eight. You wanted to be a name on everyone’s lips. Someone who really made a difference, and did it for reasons known only to herself. You also wanted to be the sixth member of the Spice Girls, and I applauded such lofty ambition.”
For a moment, Abby thought she was telling the truth. “You’re good.” She stared at Jordan. A good actress. Si
lver-screen smile to match. Firm arms which she’d held earlier.
She shook herself.
“Now you’re making me believe we really did know each other when we were little, because I did have such grandiose thoughts back then. I was a little girl who wanted to stretch myself beyond my limits even from a young age. I also wanted to be a cross between Baby and Sporty Spice.”
“You could have been Golfy Spice.”
“The member they never knew they were missing.”
The corners of Jordan’s mouth turned upwards. “You could still do it.”
“Be a Spice Girl? I think that ship has sailed.”
“Not for your other ambitions. You’re young. Your business skills would still work in a new environment. Maybe it’s something you should think about when the wedding is done.”
Abby nodded. Maybe it was. Maybe she’d been cruising for far too long.
Including into this engagement?
Not now, Abby.
“Plus, this bodes well for our working relationship, right? If I can read you this well, we don’t need to have too many of these sessions.”
“Oh no, we definitely do,” Abby said. “I don’t know you and I don’t trust my reading of situations as much as you do. Plus, your golf swing needs work. Serious work.” Abby gave Jordan a grin, then looked away for a moment, as the blood rushed to her cheeks. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she was embarrassed about her life in front of Jordan, who was so clearly put together.
Whereas Abby was doing a job she’d accepted because it afforded her the lifestyle she’d become accustomed to. Meeting someone new like Jordan shone a light on that fact. Abby had drifted very far from her childhood goals. Very far from even where she wanted to be in the previous decade when she graduated from university. Then, armed with the most prestigious degree certificate, the world was her oyster. She could have gone into charity work as she’d intended, but her head was turned by what all her friends were doing. She wanted the inflated pay cheque they were all getting. Now, she’d forgotten she ever wanted anything different.
Until Jordan turned up. With her bad golf swing. Her easy smile. Somehow, Jordan had made Abby start to question her life.
Just by asking one simple question, Jordan had pulled at a loose thread in Abby’s life she’d been ignoring for years.
Another tug, and Abby might begin to slowly unravel.
Chapter 8
“Have you sorted the bagpiper, or do you need Dad to ring his uncle?”
Abby’s mum, Gloria, sat on her red velvet sofa, eating fish and chips out of the paper they arrived in. She said they tasted much better that way.
Abby had to agree. Although, her life these days didn’t often feature things like eating chips out of paper. She could just imagine Marjorie’s face. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure neat-freak Marcus would cope, either. He’d have a fit about this amount of grease near velvet.
“No, Jordan’s sorted it.”
“Who?”
Abby blushed. “Just someone who’s helping out with the wedding.” She had to tell her mum that Jordan was working for her, but she’d been putting it off. She wasn’t sure how to say it without it sounding like she truly had turned into the sort of people they used to ridicule when she was growing up.
Posh people.
Abby wasn’t posh. She hadn’t forgotten her roots. She was getting a bagpiper. She still enjoyed eating chips out of paper. She was still very much grounded.
“The wedding planner? I thought her name was Lauren?”
Abby ate another chip. Then she put them down. She couldn’t afford to eat too many chips, could she? The wedding was only three weeks away, and she had a dress to get into. Society people to impress. Marcus had told her that morning their wedding was going to feature in the pages of a society magazine.
It was a very different world from where she sat with grease-stained fingers.
“No, that’s right. Lauren is still the wedding planner, and she’s sorting the bigger stuff. But she’s still on Marjorie’s staff. Jordan is someone new that Marcus hired.”
“More staff at the Montgomery household?” Gloria held up her pinkie as she ate another chip. In her smart M&S trousers and shirt, she didn’t look that dissimilar to Marjorie. However, as soon as she opened her mouth, the differences were immense. That, plus Gloria’s proud mop of Scottish red hair.
Abby took a deep breath and looked Mum direct in the eye. “Not quite. Jordan’s come in to be my professional bridesmaid. She’s there to help me out before the wedding, and on the wedding day. Right up to the altar.”
“What do you mean, professional bridesmaid?” Gloria’s furrows deepened.
Abby knew it sounded mad at first. “She’s posing as my bridesmaid so she can be there for all the key events and truly help me out. And she is, believe me. She’s lovely.”
She’d chatted with Jordan that very morning and had come off the call uplifted. Jordan had a certain way about her, something Abby couldn’t quite pin down. “The thing is, because she is my bridesmaid, we’re telling everyone she’s a long-lost friend from my childhood. One who moved away when I was nine, and we’ve just got back in touch via social media. So if you could play along if that comes up in conversation, that would be great.” She knew it was a lot to take in, but she hoped her mum would agree.
Mum paused, a chip close to her mouth. “A wedding planner and a professional bridesmaid with a whole fake back story? Things really have changed since my day.” She patted Abby’s knee. “But you seem more relaxed. If that’s Jordan’s doing, well done her. I’ll go along with whatever you want.”
Relief flowed through Abby. “Thanks.”
“Of course. I’m your mum. What else am I going to do?” She paused. “So she’s taking over the hen weekend now Delta’s having a meltdown?”
Abby nodded. “She is. Delta was resistant at first, but she soon got over it. She’s still my maid of honour. Nothing’s changed on that score.”
“We’re still going to Cannes? Where it costs an arm and a leg for a gin and tonic? Did I tell you Janet went there last year, and came back with a second mortgage?”
They’d been through this. “Yes, we’re still going there. Plus, it’s not going to cost that much, seeing as the accommodation is free, as is the in-house chef.”
Mum clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Do I need to remind you where I went on my hen weekend?”
She didn’t. It was etched in Abby’s memory. “Blackpool. I know, I’ve been told once or twice.”
“Rained the whole bloody time, but we still had a ball. You don’t need to fly to fancy places to have a good time.”
“I know. But it’s a short flight and there’s a free house. Rude not to.” Abby gave her mum a look that she hoped told her to shut up.
Gloria heeded it.
Chapter 9
“I’ve told you before, Marcus. You’re having a top table, and that’s the end of it.” Marjorie bristled. From what Jordan had seen, bristling was her favourite pastime. “And you’ve got to have more flowers than Abby wants. At least two bouquets per table. Otherwise, what will people think?”
Jordan sat forward, tapping her pen on her pad. “On the contrary, Marjorie, less is more these days. I’ve been reading all the latest bridal magazines, and they all say that minimal is the new look. It’s all about browns and greens, nothing too ostentatious. Makes it more environmentally conscious.”
Marjorie sat up at that. “Is it really?”
Did her bobbed dark hair ever move? Jordan didn’t think so.
“It is. I was thinking, we could go with what Abby wanted — one bouquet per table — and then we could have some foliage on the tables, too. Something a little different.” She sat forward. “Apparently, it’s what all the young royals have at their weddings. Including Princess Olivia and Rosie.”
Marjorie raised both eyebrows. “If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for us.” She paused, looked
down at her list, then back up at Jordan. “Anything else you can advise us on, seeing as you’re in the know?”
Marcus gave Jordan a look that told her he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing, but Marjorie had said it. This was the third meeting she’d had with Jordan, and Jordan was acing it. The thing was, having been in this game for the past three years, she’d met Marjorie before in many different forms. Sometimes she was called Cressida. Sometimes she was called Sophia. Many times she’d been called Arabella. But they were always the same. They wanted the wedding to go off seamlessly. They wanted the best for their offspring. But mainly, they wanted to look good in front of their friends and family, and for people to think back to their child’s wedding for years to come and say it was the best they’d ever been to.
Jordan couldn’t guarantee that. However, she could guarantee that her suggestions would make the wedding the best it could possibly be.
“Let me see,” Jordan said, staring skywards in contemplation. “I’d say wood is definitely in this year. Earthy elements, and simplicity over anything too busy. It’s all clean lines, subtle colours, and traditional flavours with a twist for the food and drink. Which is why going overboard on the flowers isn’t the thing to do. Think less is more.” She leaned towards Marjorie. “I had lunch with the editor of Perfect Bride magazine last week. I got it direct from her mouth.”
A slight lie. Jordan had eaten lunch in the restaurant underneath where the magazine was produced. Her friend, Donald, worked for Vogue and had told her words to similar effect. That was good enough, surely?
Judging by Marjorie’s face, it was. She was eating it up. Every word.
“If Perfect Bride says so, we’ll follow suit.” Marjorie shuffled her notes, before nodding towards Jordan. “Lauren’s got all the details for the table arrangements and decorations, but perhaps you might be able to add a little something to them with your insider knowledge. You said you could take over the wedding planning too, now that Lauren’s mother is ill?”
