Two Weddings and a Baby

by Scarlett Bailey

  ‘I did a bit, yes,’ Tamsyn admitted.

  ‘Because you are in love with me?’ Jed said. ‘I mean really, like, for life? It’s not just the lure of the dog collar?’

  Tamsyn had laughed a lot, and Jed had flushed red, smiling as he waited for her to stop.

  ‘Is that a thing? Vicar-fancying?’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ he said.

  ‘Well, no, it’s not just that,’ Tamsyn took a step back from him, turning away a little. ‘No one expects to fall in love with a vicar she’s only just met; no one. But you … you make me believe in life, and in people, and in possibilities. And you make me want to be better, to be true to myself, to be happy. And you make me want to take your clothes off, quite a lot, if I’m honest. And to be with you, I have to be brave, braver than I have ever been. To be with you I have to be certain, and now that I know I am, then what else is there to do but to ask you to marry me?’

  ‘Even knowing what you know, about the PTSD, knowing it’s still there? Because I want you to be sure.’

  ‘The way you handle that only makes me love you more,’ Tamsyn told him. ‘And if you’ll let me, I’ll be there with you, helping you get better.’

  There was silence behind her, and Tamsyn closed her eyes for a moment.

  And then she felt Jed’s fingers in her hair, sweeping it aside as he kissed the back of her neck, turning her to face him.

  ‘I didn’t think I could ever be this happy,’ he told her. ‘I love you, Tamsyn.’

  ‘You do know we are standing in Kissing Alley, right?’ Tamsyn smiled. ‘Be rude not to.’

  What wonderful weeks had followed, what blissful times, getting to know more about the man that she felt she already knew in the truest way: they argued over films and music, debated long into the night about books and politics and told each other all of their secrets, all of their hopes and dreams. And best of all, there had been a lot more kissing, headier, glorious, delirious kissing, so much so that sometimes Tamsyn worried that when they were actually married, nothing would get done.

  And when she thought about what she’d had with Bernard, and what she had found with Jed, she laughed at how naive she had been to think that Bernard could ever have made her happy. She was making him happy, though, as her coats had featured in all the previews of his new ready-to-wear range in the fashion magazines across two continents, and he had been photographed in Milan with an Italian movie star who was a foot taller than him, looking like the cat that got the cream. And yet when Tamsyn looked at her designs with someone else’s name on them, she discovered that she couldn’t care less. Because she knew it wasn’t her best work; her best work, her career-defining work, was yet to come.

  Catriona turned out to be a natural mother. Mo had stayed with Tamsyn for another two weeks, as she recovered; one week while Catriona was in hospital, although Tamsyn took the baby to see her mother every day, and one week after she was discharged. And then for the first few nights Tamsyn had stayed with Catriona in her newly decorated house, the first of the wrecked cottages to be put right, the townspeople of Poldore having made sure it would be ready for Catriona to bring her baby home. And although Tamsyn remained as one of Mo’s official carers, until Tess decided to sign her off completely, she felt like her job was done. In the weeks since she and Buoy had first found the baby, Mo had blossomed, putting on weight, hand over chubby fist, smiling at everyone, guzzling milk like there was no tomorrow and becoming really quite a beauty. And as she flowered, so did her mother, and as Catriona’s confidence grew, so did her happiness. And before long, she could be seen going about her verger duties again, with Mo tucked cheerfully into a sling, the pair of them inseparable. At some point, Tamsyn didn’t know when, Catriona must have decided to do what Jed had advised, which was to contact Mo’s father, and to his credit he had arrived in Poldore only a few days later to meet his daughter. Between them they were working out the best way for him to be part of Mo’s life, and the more Tamsyn saw of him and Catriona together, the less she found herself surprised if he didn’t end up being part of Catriona’s life too.

  ‘You know, we have to go in there at some point, otherwise Jed’s going to take it personally,’ Ruan said. ‘I don’t think they usually marry people when the bride is standing outside of the church …’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Tamsyn took a deep breath and looked at her brother. ‘I’m sorry, I was just taking stock, working out how I came to be standing here on this day in this frankly stunning Regency-inspired Tamsyn Thorne organza gown about to get married to the most amazing man I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Does it matter how?’ Ruan asked her. ‘You’re here, and that’s what’s important. And I don’t just mean here, taking a really long time to make your way up the aisle, but I mean here, in Poldore. Home again. Now if I can only find a way to lure Mum and Keira back for good, I’ll have a complete set.’

  ‘You don’t want the twins living permanently in Poldore,’ Tamsyn assured him. ‘What that storm did to the town, it’s nothing compared to what destruction they can bring.’

  ‘Seriously,’ Ruan said, ‘it’s good to have you back, sis.’

  ‘It’s good to have you back too,’ Tamsyn said. ‘And thank you for giving me away.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Ruan chuckled as they entered the church at last. ‘I’ve been waiting all my life to get rid of you.’

  It was Kirsten, dressed in a simple rose-coloured, knee-length bridesmaid’s dress that Tamsyn had designed for her, who was waiting with her flowers, as she walked into the church. Tamsyn had asked her sisters if they would mind not being bridesmaids, because she wanted the wedding to be as simple as possible, and they had been really rather glad to get out of the duty. In the end she’d asked Kirsten, because Mo was not big enough, and because since she had got to know the girl in the last six weeks, they had become friends, despite the age difference, which Kirsten liked to tease her about as much as possible, and it turned out that she had a flair for design, not to mention needlework. She had virtually made the dress she was wearing herself.

  ‘You look like you might throw up,’ Kirsten told her as she handed her the flowers, arranged especially by Keira.

  ‘Really? I was going for luminous and serene,’ Tamsyn whispered.

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s what I meant,’ Kirsten assured her. ‘Seriously, you look lovely, and all of the Poldore girls are totally pig-sick about me being your bridesmaid, plus Ben texted me this morning to see if I fancied a coffee. What do you think? Should I go?’

  ‘I think I’m getting married, and that we should discuss your love life a bit later,’ Tamsyn suggested.

  ‘Totally,’ Kirsten nodded, falling into place behind Tamsyn, who hooked her arm through Ruan’s to steady herself.

  And there he was, waiting for her at the end of the aisle, and Tamsyn discovered that Ruan had to slow her down at bit, as she was rather trotting up the aisle to be at his side.

  ‘You look stunning,’ Jed whispered, taking her hand. ‘And you’re here. I’m so glad that you are here.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Tamsyn said. ‘Where else would I be, but at your side?’

  Acknowledgements

  With lots of love and thanks to my brilliant team at Ebury who works so hard on my behalf, especially my wonderful editor Gillian Green and the lovely Emily Yau. Also Amelia Harvell and Louise Jones.

  Thank you to my agent and friend Lizzy Kremer; also to Harriet Moore and Laura West; and all at David Higham Associates, who I feel very lucky to be represented by.

  Once again, a warm thank you to the people of Fowey, Cornwall, where I wrote a good deal of this book, and especially to the staff at Fowey Hall Hotel who are always unfailingly kind and brilliant, and bring me cream teas in a constant stream. Thanks especially to Robin Ashley who gave me some help with constructing a corset out of thin air!

  Love and thanks to my lovely family, who let me go to Cornwall to eat cream teas and write a book: my husband Adam and my childre
n Lily, Harry, Freddie, Stanley and Aubrey, who are inspirational, wonderful and delightful – not to mention exhausting.

  Enjoyed Two Weddings and a Baby?

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  The Memory Book

  The uplifting and beautiful novel about mothers and daughters

  Also by Rowan Coleman

  ‘Painfully real and utterly heartbreaking, every page will leave you an emotional wreck but, ultimately, this is a wonderfully uplifting novel about mothers and daughters’ Lisa Jewell

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I loved this book. It did make me cry but it also made me laugh. Like Me Before You by Jojo Moyes, I couldn’t put it down. A tender testament to maternal love’ Katie Fforde

  ‘Written with great tenderness, The Memory Book manages to be heartbreakingly sad yet uplifting too. You’ll hold your loved ones that little bit closer after reading this novel. I absolutely loved it!’ Lucy Diamond

  ‘The Memory Book is warm, sad, and life-affirming, with an unforgettable heroine who will make you laugh and cry. It’s a tender book about treasuring the past and living fully in the present; you’ll finish it and immediately go give your loved ones a hug’ Julie Cohen

  ‘Warm, funny and totally heartbreaking, The Memory Book is a wonderful read’ Polly Williams

  ‘… just stunning … incredibly beautiful … the story took me on a journey that was at turns, devastating and then so uplifting. It made my heart soar at the strength of the human spirit and how capable human beings are of true, selfless love. An unforgettable and courageous story … This story has the ingredients to capture the world’ Katy Regan

  ‘A heart-breaking story that will stay with you long after you’ve finished the book’ Carole Matthews

  ‘… terrific … incredibly moving but also witty and warm’ Kate Harrison

  ‘… breath-takingly gut-wrenchingly heart-breakingly wonderful. Exquisitely crafted and with huge emotional depth … extraordinary’ Veronica Henry

  ‘An absolutely beautiful, stunningly written story – you HAVE to read The Memory Book by Rowan Coleman!’ Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Heartbreakingly good stuff – just be sure to stock up on tissues’ Fabulous Magazine, The Sun on Sunday

  ‘This is a heart-rending story, but it’s also completely absorbing, uplifting, tender, sad and wise’ Sunday Mirror

  Prologue

  Greg is looking at me; he thinks I don’t know it. I’ve been chopping onions at the kitchen counter for almost five minutes, and I can see his reflection – inside out, convex and stretched – in the chrome kettle we got as a wedding present. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, checking me out.

  The first time I noticed him looking at me like this I thought I must have had something stuck in my teeth, or a cobweb in my hair, or something, because I couldn’t think of any reason my sexy young builder would be looking at me. Especially not on that day when I was dressed in old jeans and a T-shirt, with my hair scraped back into a bun, ready to paint my brand-new attic room – the room that marked the beginning of everything.

  It was the end of his last day; he’d been working at the house for just over a month. It was still really hot, especially up there, even with my new Velux windows open. Covered in sweat, he climbed down the newly installed pull-down ladder. I gave him a pint glass of lemonade rattling with ice cubes, which he drank in one go, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallowed. I think I must have sighed out loud at his sheer gloriousness because he looked curiously at me. I laughed and shrugged, and he smiled and then looked at his boots. I poured him another glass of lemonade and went back to my last box – Caitlin’s things – yet another box of stuff I couldn’t bring myself to throw out and that I knew I’d be clogging up the garage with instead. It was then that I sensed him looking at me. I touched my hair, expecting to find something there, and ran my tongue over my teeth.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I asked him, wondering if he was trying to work out how to tell me that my bill had doubled.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, nodding. He was – is – a man of few words.

  ‘Good, and are you finished?’ I asked, still prepared for bad news.

  ‘Yep, all done,’ he said. ‘So …’

  ‘Oh, God, you want paying. I’m so sorry.’ I felt myself blush as I rooted around in the kitchen drawer for my cheque book, which wasn’t there – it was never where it was supposed to be. Flustered, I looked around, feeling his gaze on me as I tried to remember where I’d last had it. ‘It’s around here somewhere …’

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ he said.

  ‘I had it when I was paying some bills, so …’ I just kept wittering on, desperate, if I’m honest, for him to be gone and for me to be able to breathe out and drink the half bottle of Grigio that was waiting for me in the fridge.

  ‘You can pay me another time,’ he said. ‘Like maybe when you come out with me for a drink.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I said, stopping halfway through searching a drawer that seemed to be full only of rubber bands. I must have misheard.

  ‘Come out with me for a drink?’ he asked tentatively. ‘I don’t normally ask my clients out, but … you’re not normal.’

  I laughed and it was his turn to blush.

  ‘That didn’t quite come out the way I thought it,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest.

  ‘You’re asking me on a date?’ I said, just to confirm it, because the whole thing seemed so absurd that I had to say it out loud to test I’d got it right. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you coming?’

  ‘OK,’ I said. It had all seemed so perfectly plausible to him: him and me, ten years between us, going out on a date. ‘Why not?’

  That was the first time I noticed him looking at me, looking at me with this sort of mingled heat and joy that I instantly felt mirrored inside me, like my body was answering his call in a way that my conscious mind had no control over. Yes, ever since then I’ve felt his looks long before I’ve seen them. I feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck, and a sense of anticipation washing over me in one long delicious shudder, because I know that soon after he looks at me, he will be touching me, kissing me.

  Now I feel his hand on my shoulder and I lean my cheek against his fingers.

  ‘You’re crying,’ he says.

  ‘I’m chopping onions,’ I say, putting down the knife and turning round to face him. ‘You know that all Esther will eat is Mummy’s homemade lasagne? Here, you should watch me make it, so you know the recipe. First, chop the onions …’

  ‘Claire …’ Greg stops me from picking up the knife again, and turns me towards him. ‘Claire, we have to talk about it, don’t we?’

  He looks so uncertain, so lost and so reluctant, that I want to say no – no, we don’t have to talk about it, we can just pretend that today is like yesterday, and all the days before that when we didn’t know any better. We can pretend not to know, and who knows how long we might be able to go on like this, so happy, so perfect?

  ‘She likes a lot of tomato purée in the sauce,’ I say. ‘And also a really big slug of ketchup …’

  ‘I don’t know what to do or say,’ Greg says, his voice breaking on an inward breath. ‘I’m not sure how to be.’

  ‘And then, just at the end, add a teaspoon of Marmite.’

  ‘Claire,’ he says with a sob, and draws me into his arms. And I stand there in his embrace with my eyes closed, breathing in his scent, my arms at my side, feeling my heart pounding in my chest. ‘Claire, how are we going to tell the children?’

  Friday, 13 March 1992

  Caitlin Is Born

  This is the bracelet they gave you in the hospital – pink because you are a girl. It says: ‘Baby Armstrong.’ They put it on your ankle, and it kept slipping off because you were so tiny, a whole month early, to the day. You were supposed to be an April baby. I had imagined daffodils and blue skies and April showers, but you decided to be born one month early on a cold wet Friday, Friday 13th, no less, not
that we were worried about that. If anyone was ever born to overcome bad omens it was you, and you knew it, greeting the world with an almighty shout – not a cry or a wail, but a roar of intent, I thought. A declaration of war.

  There wasn’t anybody there with us for a long time. Because you were early, and Gran lived far away. So for about the first six hours it was just you and me. You smelled sweet, like a cake, and you felt so warm and … exactly right. We were at the end of the ward and we kept the curtain closed around us. I could hear the other mums talking, visitors coming and going, babies crying and fussing, but I didn’t want to be part of it. I didn’t want to be part of anything ever again except for you and me. I held you, so tiny and scrunched up like a new bud waiting to flower, and I just looked at you, slumbering against my breast, a deep frown on your tiny face, and I told you it was all going to be fine, because you and I were together: we were the whole universe, and that was all that mattered.

  1

  Claire

  I’ve just got to get away from my mother: she is driving me mad, which would be funny if I wasn’t already that way inclined. No, I’m not mad, that’s not right. Although I feel pretty angry.

  It was the look on her face when we came out of the hospital appointment; the look she had all the way home. Stoical, stalwart, strong but bleak. She didn’t say the words, but I could hear them buzzing around in her head: ‘This is so typically Claire. To ruin everything just when it’s getting good.’

  ‘I’ll move in,’ she says, even though she blatantly already has, silently secreting herself in the spare bedroom, like I wouldn’t notice her, arranging her personal items on the shelf in the bathroom. I knew she would come when she found out. I knew she would and I wanted her to, I suppose; but I wanted to ask her, or for her to ask me. Instead she simply arrived, all hushed tones and sorrowful glances. ‘I’ll move into the spare room.’