‘Let’s sit down.’
His worried frown deepens.
‘There’s no easy way to tell you this, and I have no idea how you’ll react, but honesty is the best policy, right?’
He clasps my hands. ‘You’re worrying me. What is it?’
I can feel my eyes start to sting. What if he freaks out? What if it’s all too much? We’re only young. He didn’t bargain for this when we met. We’re supposed to get years of fun before we have all the responsibility of having a family.
But I’ve got to admit it: it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I’ve known and I’m already getting broody. I want this baby. As difficult as it’ll be. ‘I won’t be the only one in the wedding dress when I walk up the aisle, either.’ My hand goes to my tummy as his eyes widen.
‘Are you serious?’ he whispers. ‘Are you…?’
I nod, watching his expression. ‘It’s a shock, I know.’
His eyes fill with tears. They spill down his cheeks as the smile spreads across his face. ‘Too bloody right it is,’ he chokes out. ‘Wow. Just… wow.’ He puts his hand over mine. ‘Our baby is in there? You’re sure?’
‘I took two tests with Kelly to be sure.’
‘Of course Kelly knows.’ He smirks. ‘I’d have been surprised if she didn’t. How do you feel?’
‘Like throwing up!’
‘That’s why you–’
‘Vommed on the pavement.’
‘And why your–’
‘Boobs are huge, yep. I guess I’ll need to go to the doctor for the official test, but it does seem like I’m going to have a baby.’
‘We’re going to have a baby. Are you pleased?’
I nod. ‘Are you?’ I think I know the answer.
His grin is nearly splitting his face in two. Yes, I know the answer as he kisses me.
‘There’s just one thing,’ I say. ‘Can we not tell anyone until after the wedding?’
At first he thinks I’m nuts, old-fashioned and nuts, but he understands when I explain my reasoning. Neither of us wants anyone to suspect that we’re only marrying for the baby. Some of his mum’s friends have already been snidey about how fast our wedding is approaching.
So this is going to be our secret. Ours and Mum’s. And Kelly’s.
Every light in the house is glowing when we get to Daniel’s parents’ for dinner. ‘Do you feel okay?’ he asks as he opens the door.
‘Mmm. A bit delicate, to be honest. I’ll be okay, though.’
‘Just say when you want to leave. You need to rest.’
‘Hey,’ I say as he takes his shoes off in the hall. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ he says, kissing me deeply.
‘Get a room,’ Abby calls when she sees us. ‘God, you’re rampant. Hellair!’
I smirk, as always, at her pronunciation. I shouldn’t really. I know I sound as funny to them. ‘Hiya. Are there many people in there?’ I whisper. Better to know how big a crowd we’re in for before we’re amongst them.
‘Just George and India, Lord and Lady Mucking, you remember. He’s got that huge nose. And Harold, of course.’
Philippa is the first to notice us come in. ‘Darlings, I was just talking about you!’
Daniel grabs my hand. I’m not sure if it’s for his support or mine. ‘Hiya, Philippa.’ I kiss her ruddy cheek. ‘Hiya, Hugh.’
‘Emma, my dear, come in. Nice to see you as always.’ Hugh doesn’t hug me, exactly. It’s more of a fleeting wrestling hold, but I appreciate the gesture. It’s Philippa I’ve got to thank for Daniel being so tactile.
Lord and Lady Mucking are as interested in me as they were when we first met. I don’t feel like a performing monkey, but I definitely get the feeling they’re amused by me.
Hugh drifts off to talk to Daniel’s godfather, but George, Lord Mucking, stays near his wife. The men’s business talk is probably too boring even for him.
‘We must get the invitations out soon,’ says Philippa to me. ‘Otherwise people will be booked up already.’
‘Yah,’ George says. ‘Everyone will jet off once the holidays start.’
He says this like having to jet off is a great bother. ‘You don’t have to worry about that with my lot! They all know when the wedding is.’ Plus hardly anyone goes away outside the M25.
‘Yes, dear, but our side hasn’t been notified.’
‘But I told you, Mummy, it’s the fifteenth of July. You have been notified.’
‘Yes, but we haven’t told people, Daniel. Officially. We can send out a Save the Date card if you’d like to wait a few more weeks to send the invitations, but rahly, it must be one or the other.’
‘We’re not sending out a card to say we’re sending out an invitation, Mummy. We can send out the invites soon, I’m sure.’ Daniel looks at me for confirmation.
I shrug. ‘As long as we have all the names and addresses then it shouldn’t take very long. I was thinking of something simple. Maybe even an email. Nearly everyone has an email address, right?’
Philippa looks like I’ve just offered to invite people by megaphone. ‘Oh no, that won’t do at all. We have to have proper invitations.’ She goes to one of the sideboards. ‘I’ve been looking at some options for you, and here’s an idea that I think is just darling. Open it!’ She hands Daniel a long flat box, about the size and shape of a Thornton’s chocolate collection. But something tells me it’s not.
He unties the ribbon and lifts the lid as I squeeze in for a look. Inside is a pair of gaily patterned gardening gloves and some seed packs and cardboard labels.
‘Open the note on top!’ Philippa urges me.
It reads: Plant these seeds wherever love may grow.
‘Now look under the gloves,’ she says.
There’s a piece of stiff card decorated with pen drawings of flowers and pots. In calligraphy is a sample wedding invitation.
‘It wouldn’t have to be exactly like this, of course. I only thought of this as an idea because, you know, I have my gardening consultancy, but you might like a theme that ties in with your family instead. We could put anything inside the box you’d like, but wouldn’t this be a divine way to invite guests? So romantic!’
Yeah, right. I imagine putting in a Mum-themed pair of washing-up gloves, a few dusting cloths and some Windex.
‘It is really marvellous,’ Daniel says through his smile.
Marvellous? Marvellous?! Of course it’s bloody marvellous, if we want to spend a fortune on each invitation. Sure, Daniel, I want to snipe, who would you like to invite to sit and stare at each other for the day, because there’ll be no money left over to actually have a wedding?
‘It’s a clever idea, Philippa,’ I say out loud. ‘But I think a simpler invitation will be better.’
‘Right, yes,’ Daniel says. ‘Definitely simpler.’
‘Whatever you want, darlings, it’s your wedding. Just be sure to order them soon so they don’t go out too late. I’ve started a guest list for our side, though I’m sure I’ve forgotten someone. There are bound to be a few stragglers, yah? Right, shall we eat?’
‘I’m Hank Marvin!’ India says. ‘Starving. Is that right, Emma?’
‘Perfect.’ I have to give her full marks for Cockney rhyming slang effort, though something tells me she wouldn’t last long in East London.
‘Darlings, I’ve been meaning to say,’ says Philippa when we’ve sat at the long dining table. ‘Wedding favours. Why don’t we give everyone sterling silver frames and have a photo booth set up with rahly funny props and they can take pictures to fill their frames? We could engrave each frame with the person’s name. Wouldn’t that be amahzing?’
‘Mummy, the engraving’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?’ says Daniel.
Right, it’s the engraving that’s over the top, not buying sterling silver for your wedding guests. Dear Daniel is trying, but he hasn’t got the hang of economising yet.
‘Will you have a band?’ Daniel’s godfather, Harold, asks.
&nb
sp; A black-clad waitress sets a plate before me. The smell of the sea nearly floors me.
‘Mmm, I love oysters, thanks Mummy!’ says Abby. ‘You must have a band, Emma. They could play covers, but a DJ is just too naff.’ She squeezes lemon juice over the oysters, picks up a shell and slurps down the slimy bit of snot.
Everyone else is slurping away.
I wouldn’t eat one of those with a gun to my head. I’m not even sure that I can. Can pregnant women eat raw animals? Raw living animals? I can feel my mouth start to sweat.
Daniel catches my eye. ‘Sorry, Mummy, I should have mentioned that Emma once had a bad reaction to oysters.’
I shake my head like this is devastating. ‘I’d better not risk it. Would anyone like mine?’
‘Me, me!’ Abby says.
‘Don’t be greedy, Abby,’ Philippa admonishes. ‘Share them. Would anyone else like one?’
Abby looks heartbroken when five of my six oysters end up on other diners’ plates. ‘There, and one for you,’ Philippa says to her. ‘So, darlings, a band, then?’
‘We haven’t decided yet,’ I say. ‘We could look for one, I guess.’ Though I was hoping we could set up Kelly’s iPhone with a couple of speakers and use her Spotify account.
‘Miriam found a cracking band for our wedding, do you remember, Philippa?’ Harold says. ‘The bassist got so drunk he fell off the stage and broke his shoulder.’
‘And Pips split the back of her dress, remember?’ Hugh adds. ‘If anyone should have been wearing knickers…’
They all laugh like hyenas over Pip’s backside and the bassist’s broken bones.
‘We were thinking we might just do a playlist,’ Daniel says. ‘On iTunes or something. That way everyone can have a few of their favourites.’
The table falls silent.
I know he’s trying to be supportive, but the less they know about our cheap plans, the better. ‘But we’ll go listen to some bands too,’ I say, smiling at my fiancé as more dishes come out from the kitchen.
What’s the worst thing for someone with a delicate constitution to eat? I mean the most vomm-inducing thing you can think of? Maybe a big plate of stinky sprouts. Or super-runny eggs, or that fermented herring that crazy Swedes eat.
No, I can tell you that it’s definitely stir-fried chicken with oyster sauce. Just looking at the gloopy, slimy sauce glistening over pink-hued chicken makes my head swim. They’re putting big serving bowls of it all over the table, and spooning out rice to everyone.
Then, without asking, the waitress ladles the goo all over my plate.
The sight alone is bad enough to make me retch. The smell that hits me tips me over the edge. ‘I’m sorry!’ I shout just as I throw myself over the side of my chair.
At least my splash manages to miss the rug under the table. I crawl closer to the edge of the room where giant vases sit (probably Ming, if I know Philippa). I’m vaguely aware that everyone starts talking at once.
Suddenly Daniel shouts ‘Oh no!’ and pitches himself off his chair. Before I know it, he’s joined me. The two of us must make a pretty sight, retching into his mother’s silk plants.
‘What on earth is wrong with you two?’ Philippa demands.
Taking a deep breath, I take my head out of the plant pot. ‘I’m so sorry. I felt sick all of a sudden.’
‘Me too,’ says Daniel. ‘We must have food poisoning.’
This is news to me.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy, we had bacon sandwiches earlier. The bacon must have been off.’ Daniel shoots me a look.
‘We’re definitely never going back to that caff!’ I say.
‘I think we’d better go. I’m so sorry, Mummy, everyone. I hope we didn’t ruin your meal.’
‘You bloody ruined mine!’ Abby says. She’s just cross about the oysters.
‘Abby, shush. Can’t you see that they’re ill? My poor darlings. There’s some bread in the kitchen, and take some of the steamed rice with you in case you can eat anything later. You will ring if you need anything, won’t you?’
Meekly we nod. Understandably, nobody kisses us as we depart.
Outside, Daniel asks, ‘Feeling better?’
I nod. ‘Much, thanks. I’m sorry, it was the sheen on that chicken.’ Just saying it is making me woozy. ‘Why did you get sick? Do you really think you’ve got food poisoning?’
Daniel grins. ‘I couldn’t let you be the only one. Otherwise they might suspect.’
‘You faked being sick?’
‘I didn’t fake anything. I stuck my finger down my throat. I have a very sensitive gag reflex.’ He looks proud of this.
‘That might be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.’
His face falls. ‘You’re not angry, are you?’ He raises his fist in a salute. ‘Solidarity.’
‘I’ve never loved you more. Thank you.’
He pulls me into an embrace before rethinking the kiss. ‘We’re in this together, Emma. You, me and our baby. Even if it means throwing up with you in my mother’s dining room. Now, you may not feel like eating but I’m actually starving. Do you mind if we get something on the way back?’
‘I bet I could stomach some pizza,’ I say. ‘I am eating for two.’
We chatter together all the way to our favourite pizza place.
Chapter 9
It’s only a blood test. I expected more fanfare somehow – you know, for a rabbit to be involved.
‘Do you have any questions?’ my GP, Helen, asks after she’s made our heads spin with everything that’s coming our way in the next nine months.
‘When will the nausea stop?’ I ask.
‘Is it safe to have sex?’ Daniel wants to know. ‘Sorry. Inappropriate.’
I can’t meet her eyes. Helen’s known me since I was in nappies.
‘Sex is perfectly safe,’ she says. ‘You can’t harm the baby, and most women feel better after the first three months. Congratulations, both of you. How’re wedding plans coming along? Colin says you’ve booked Bromley?’
That’s the good and the bad thing about everyone knowing everyone around here. It’s great when you’re a quid short for your shopping, for example, and your GP happens to be walking by with her purse. But it would be embarrassing if you had to explain about some suspicious itching to the woman you see every week in the pub.
‘I guess we’ll sort some more out this week,’ I tell her. ‘Our parents are meeting for the first time.’
‘Oh, good luck!’ she says. ‘I hope it goes better than when my parents met Jimmy’s.’
‘They get along now though, right?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Uh, yeah, sure.’
I hope our parents won’t hate each other, like Helen and Jimmy’s do.
We’ve both got to go back to work after the appointment, but I’ll see Daniel later anyway, when I bring my parents to his flat to meet my future in-laws. That should be fun.
Zane’s with a customer when I get to the dealership and our boss is behind the counter, which almost never happens. ‘What time you call this?’ he shouts when he sees me come in.
Marco is a small Italian man of about fifty with a curly head of salt-and-pepper hair and the ruddy complexion of a drinker. I never see him in the pub like everyone else, though. He likes his wine at home over dinner with his wife. Like a lot of our neighbours, being born in another country doesn’t stop him from feeling like an East Londoner.
‘I call it time off for a doctor’s appointment. Hello to you too.’ I throw my bag behind the counter.
‘I don’t pay you to go to no doctor’s appointments.’
‘You hardly pay me to work, but it’s no use going over old ground. I was gone forty-five minutes. I won’t take lunch.’
‘Right you won’t.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘I’m saying yes, you won’t.’
Marco loves getting in the last word. He might sound like a twenty-first-century Dickensian Fagin but he’s not bad to work for. He just
blusters a lot.
‘Where’s Ant?’ I ask just to wind him up. ‘Is he not working today?’
‘He’s busy,’ Marco murmurs.
‘He’s going to have to learn the business soon if you want him to take over for me when I go.’
Marco’s red face turns redder. ‘When you’re going?’
‘I’ve told you, as soon as I find a job that uses my degree. My exams are finished, so I should have my certificate in a few months. I can start looking now, though.’
‘It’s a hard job market. Takes time.’
‘I know. I’m giving you time to train my replacement.’ That’s supposed to be his son.
‘Might take longer,’ he says.
‘I’ve told you I’ll give you a month’s notice, but, Marco, when I go, I go. You can’t make me keep working, you know.’ He sometimes confuses employment with indentured servitude.
I do feel for him. None of his sons want to take over his business. It’s the same story for a lot of people we know. Our parents are in trade, but my generation wants something different. You can’t blame us, really. Times have changed. I’m lucky that Dad never wanted me to do The Knowledge, and what would Mum have handed down to me anyway? Her buckets and mops? Like she said, I can do something else.
Kelly’s not so lucky. I wonder if she’d choose being a fishmonger if it wasn’t in her family, or if she wasn’t her parents’ last chance to pass it down. Her two sisters were always clear that they wanted nothing to do with the business. Kell made the mistake of letting her dad teach her to clean fish. Now she’s stuck for being a soft touch.
After work, Mrs Delaney is just shutting up when I stop in with Mum’s dress. She likes to keep regular hours despite not having regular customers. ‘All right, Mrs Delaney?’ I ask as she locks the door behind me.
‘Can’t complain. Well, I could, but who’d listen?’
She always says this. I always laugh like it’s the first time. ‘I’ve got Mum’s dress for you to look at. Do you think you could alter it for my wedding?’
Her fingers work over the fabric and seams with the concentration of a forensics expert looking for clues. ‘Your mum’s dress? Your gran did a fine job on this.’
I feel immensely proud when she says this, like one pro footballer is praising another. ‘I’d want to update it, though.’
The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square Page 11