by Jill Mansell
***
Miranda, ringing him on Sunday morning, sounded breathless and distracted.
‘Darling, I’ll have to meet you there. I’m helping with the bridesmaid’s hair. You can make your own way to the hotel, can’t you?’
The Salinger, in Kensington, was one of London’s classiest and most discreet hotels.
‘As long as they let me in,’ said Greg. It was all right for celebrities, with their instantly recognizable faces, but he would be turning up alone, without so much as a printed invitation. So, for that matter, would Buzz.
‘Don’t panic. Security will ask for the password,’ Miranda explained. ‘You have to tell them you’re here to see Mr O’Hare.’
‘O’Hare.’ Greg acknowledged the feeble pun with a grimace.
‘Then you have to sing “Here Comes the Bride”.’
‘What!’
‘It’s a two-part password,’ Miranda told him. ‘You don’t have to do the whole song, just the first two lines. Then they’ll let you through.’
‘God.’ Greg pulled a face; he wasn’t much of a singer at the best of times.
‘Have you missed me?’
‘Of course I’ve missed you. Are you sure you’re feeling better?’
‘Oh, tons. Face all back to normal.’ Miranda certainly sounded cheerful enough. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’
Greg smiled. He really had missed her.
‘What are you wearing?’
‘Bra, knickers, grey T-shirt with a picture of Screaming Lord Sutch on the front—’
‘I meant to the wedding.’
‘Oh, a new dress. You’ll love it!’
‘So long as it doesn’t have Screaming Lord Sutch on the front.’
‘Greg, I have to go, we’re going to be rushed off our feet for the next couple of hours. See you at the Salinger, okay?’
‘Twelve o’clock. I won’t be late.’
‘Blimey, better not be!’
‘I love you,’ Greg blurted out.
There was a brief pause.
‘I love you too.’
***
‘When security stops you, you tell them you’re there to see Mr O’Hare,’ Greg explained importantly.
‘Right.’
‘Then you have to sing the first two lines of “Here Comes the Bride”.’
‘Is this a wind-up?’
‘No.’
‘Can’t I just hum it?’
‘No!’
‘Fucking celebrities,’ sighed Buzz.
***
‘There he is,’ Chloe squealed delightedly, peeping through the curtains down to the street below. ‘Buzz Baxter, lovely, lovely chap. Danced with me at our wedding reception, tried to undo my bra on the dance floor and asked if I’d like to have sex with him in the back of his Austin Montego.’
Miranda peered over Chloe’s shoulder at Buzz, glimpsing the camera under his baggy jacket as he fished out his wallet to pay off the cab. Moments later, Buzz smoothed the jacket back into place. The camera, like a concealed weapon, was undetectable. As he turned to mount the white marble steps, another gleaming black cab drew up behind him.
‘How did you know Greg would tip him off?’
Chloe, dryly, said, ‘I know Greg.’
At that moment the door of the cab swung open and Miranda’s head began to swim. Oh God, this was actually going to happen, it was really really about to happen. Just for a second, Miranda was choked with sorrow. So much for happy-ever-after. How could she have made such a monumental mistake?
No, no, I mustn’t feel sorry for myself, there’s no time for that now. Be brave, be strong, and smile like a bride…
‘New suit,’ Chloe observed with satisfaction. ‘Let’s hope it cost a bomb.’ She took a deep breath, adjusted the padding beneath her uniform and spun Miranda round so fast she almost fell off her high heels. ‘Right, the weasel has landed.’ Firmly, she propelled Miranda in the direction of the blue ballroom’s double doors. ‘Go, go, go!’
***
The security man stepped forward, blocking Greg’s path through the foyer. Greg knew he was security because he was wearing Blues Brothers dark glasses and an ill-fitting black suit.
‘May I help you, sir?’
‘I’m here to see Mr O’Hare,’ said Greg.
The Blues Brother nodded impassively.
And waited.
‘Um…Here comes the bride,’ Greg sang in a quavering voice. He felt simultaneously foolish and important. ‘All…all dressed in whi-ite…’
White came out horribly off-key, which was embarrassing.
The Blues Brother didn’t smile. He nodded again, grimly, and stepped to one side.
‘Through reception, up the stairs and turn right. The ballroom’s straight ahead of you.’
His black suit was too tight for him. Greg, squaring his shoulders and instinctively straightening his own jacket, wondered if the man had any idea how it felt to wear a suit that had cost eight hundred quid.
He checked his cuffs, then his watch. Five to twelve.
Mustn’t be late.
***
When Greg was out of sight, Tony Vale removed his Blues Brothers glasses—Camden Market, £1.50—before turning and switching off the video camera concealed within the pedestal flower arrangement behind him. Then he headed for the staircase. Wouldn’t want to miss out on all the fun.
***
The double doors were closed. Fenn Lomax was pacing up and down outside like a nervous father-to-be.
‘Hi. Greg Malone.’ As he held out his perspiring-with-excitement hand, Greg wondered how much Fenn’s suit had cost. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Miranda’s fiancé. Nice to meet you at last.’ Fenn nodded and smiled, shaking the outstretched hand. ‘I have to congratulate you too.’
‘Is everyone in there?’ Greg jerked his head in the direction of the double doors.
‘Oh yes, all ready and waiting. Apart from the bride, of course. Right,’ said Fenn, taking a deep breath. ‘We’d better go through.’
***
For the first few moments, as the heavy doors swung shut behind them and he found himself being led up the central aisle by Fenn, Greg thought he must be in the wrong room.
He knew he couldn’t be, because he was with Fenn. But where, in that case, were all the celebrities?
No Kylie, no Daisy Schofield, no stars of stage and screen…and what was more, not a Mick in sight.
Bewildered, Greg wondered why Fenn hadn’t seemed to notice that something was seriously amiss. His confusion increased as he recognized Leila Monzani sitting two rows from the front. She was wearing a shocking-pink tube of a dress and Doc Marten’s.
And over there, in her wheelchair, was that old witch, Florence…
Greg’s neck muscles had by this time assumed a life of their own; his head swiveled from side to side as he spotted first Bev, in a hat the size of a kitchen table, then Buzz, looking as bemused as himself. Towards the back of the room he recognized Danny Delancey, but the dozen or so other guests were all total strangers.
For Christ’s sake, where’s Miranda?
‘Over here, please.’ The vicar indicated to Fenn and Greg where he wished them to stand.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ murmured Fenn.
In a daze, Greg shook his head. The Micks had evidently let Fenn down. He needed a best man. Jesus, what was Leila Monzani thinking of, getting married in Doc Marten’s?
Music flooded the room, making Greg jump. From hidden speakers poured the opening bars of the Wedding March. Next to him, a muscle twitched in Fenn’s jaw as he turned in response to the sound of the double doors swishing open.
Greg turned too.
Mi
randa, all in white, stood framed in the doorway.
Behind the veil, her dark eyes shone. Grinning broadly, she moved up the makeshift aisle towards him.
The music stopped.
Flinging out her arms, throwing them around Greg before he could react, Miranda cried, ‘Surprise!’
The icy trickle of anti-freeze seeped through Greg’s veins. Around him, the room erupted with laughter and applause. He felt his heart thudding like a tom-tom in his chest. It was the nightmare to end all nightmares and he could barely breathe.
‘I don’t…I don’t understand.’
Greg stammered the words out at last, understanding only too well but playing desperately for time.
‘I love you. You love me.’ Miranda’s cheeks were flushed with elation. ‘It’s what we both want, so why wait? I’ve never seen the point of long engagements. Oh darling, we’re getting married…today! Right here, right now!’
Greg couldn’t bear to look at her. Whichever way he turned, he saw something else he didn’t want to see…the vicar’s benign, smiling face…Danny Delancey with a video camera, capturing every moment on film…Fenn Lomax searching in his pocket and pulling out two wedding rings…
Could there be an experience more excruciating than this?
Miranda, reaching for his hands, laughed and said, ‘Darling, you’re shaking like a leaf. Don’t worry, I’ve thought of everything.’ Leaning closer, she added triumphantly, ‘I smuggled your birth certificate out of your flat last week.’
The ironic thing was, he would have married her. Like a shot. But what was the average sentence for bigamy? He might love Miranda, but he couldn’t face going to jail.
‘Could we have some quiet, please?’ The vicar raised his hands to the boisterous congregation and nodded genially at Greg. ‘If you’re ready, maybe we can proceed.’
Greg’s mouth opened and closed like a cod’s. No words came out. He wondered about slumping to the ground and feigning unconsciousness.
‘You are happy, I take it, for the ceremony to go ahead?’ The vicar lifted bushy, enquiring eyebrows at him.
Greg stared back in horror.
‘Darling?’ Anxiety creased Miranda’s forehead. ‘Please say something. You’re not going to turn me down, are you?’
Oh God, how could this be happening to him? How could he tell her?
Miranda’s bottom lip began to tremble.
‘Greg? What’s wrong? Don’t you want to marry me?’
She would never forgive him. Never. Oh, shit, why did this have to happen to him?
‘Well,’ declared Florence, her throaty voice carrying effortlessly across the room, ‘this is in danger of becoming embarrassing. Come on, Greg, let’s get this show on the road! The sooner we start, the sooner it’s over with, then we can all have a drink.’
A drink, God, what he wouldn’t give for a drink right now. For that matter, what he wouldn’t give for a bolt of lightning to crash through the ceiling and knock Florence—interfering old buzzard—out of her wheelchair.
Better still, Greg thought in desperation, one to flatten me.
Daniel Delancey was still filming. Turning to look at him, Greg forced himself to speak.
‘Switch it off,’ he croaked. ‘Please.’
‘I can’t do that.’ Danny sounded surprised. ‘This is the happiest day of Miranda’s life.’
Miranda, no longer smiling, said, ‘I’m beginning to wonder. Is this the happiest day of my life, Greg?’ Her eyes bored into him. ‘Is it?’
All heads swiveled in unison towards the double doors as they swung open. Desperately praying for some form—any form—of reprieve, Greg’s head swiveled too.
A waitress in a black uniform and a white frilled apron backed through the doors carrying a tray of glasses. She turned, balancing the tray against her heavily pregnant stomach, and surveyed the assembled guests.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you’d have finished by now. I was told—’
Chloe’s voice broke off as she saw Greg.
Paralyzed, Greg stared back at her. He was having an out-of-body experience. This couldn’t be happening to him.
‘What’s going on here?’ Chloe’s incredulous gaze flickered from the vicar to Miranda to Greg. ‘You can’t marry him.’
Greg’s legs began to tremble violently. He prayed he wouldn’t wet himself.
Miranda’s eyes were like saucers. Hotly she demanded, ‘Why can’t I?’
Chloe put the tray down carefully on the table beside her. She smoothed her apron over her swollen stomach—Jesus, Greg wondered wildly, how had she got that big so soon?—and calmly shrugged.
‘Because I’m his wife.’
Chapter 36
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ marveled Buzz Baxter as Greg stormed out of the ballroom and the place erupted once more. He nudged the tall girl who was crying with laughter next to him. ‘What’s going on?’
Bev wiped her streaming eyes with a tissue.
‘You’re the journalist, can’t you work it out?’
Greg’s wife Chloe was by this time hugging the girl in the wedding dress. The noisy old biddy in the wheelchair was wearing the vicar’s dog-collar. And the vicar, now minus his neck gear, was busy cracking open a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. When the girl next to him rushed up to join them, Buzz went along too.
Whooping at the sight of Bev, Miranda hurled her bouquet into the air. Automatically Bev caught it, then, horrified, let it drop, as if it were crawling with maggots.
‘That’s not fair,’ she wailed. ‘You didn’t get married! Now you’ve probably given me a thousand years’ bad luck.’
‘I almost got married,’ said Miranda. ‘For a few seconds there, I thought he was going to go through with it.’
Chloe, her waitress’s cap askew, nodded cheerfully at Buzz Baxter.
‘Hi, Buzz, sorry you didn’t get what you came for. I hope you didn’t give Greg any money upfront.’
Buzz grinned; he’d always fancied Chloe. He liked her even more now he knew she had balls.
‘You set the whole thing up.’
‘Well, it was a joint effort.’
‘Quite a lot of effort.’
‘Worth it, though,’ Chloe said with relish. ‘Worth every minute, just to see the look on his face.’
Buzz shook his head in admiration. Greg would never live this kind of public humiliation down.
‘And if he’d gone ahead with the ceremony, you’d have—?’
‘Made my entrance,’ Chloe supplied, ‘at the crucial point.’
Tom Barrett, handing out glasses of champagne, said, ‘Pity he didn’t, I was looking forward to that bit.’ He cleared his throat and intoned solemnly, ‘If anyone here present knows of any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, they should speak now…’
He paused dramatically, and Chloe mimed bursting through the door. Brightly she explained, ‘That’s where I would have come in.’
‘Isn’t he marvelous?’ Florence patted Tom Barrett’s arm with pride. ‘What a performance, better than Bill Nighy any day.’ Teasingly, she tugged his wide black sleeve. ‘This cassock suits you, too. I’ve always had a thing for men in uniform.’
Buzz wondered how many gaskets his boss was going to blow when he went back to the newspaper offices without a story. Ah well, sod it. He gulped down a brimming glass of champagne; may as well make the most of the free booze.
‘So who’s footing the bill for all this?’ He held out his glass for a swift refill.
Miranda’s mouth twitched.
‘Greg is,’ she joked. ‘Well, inadvertently.’
‘Blimey.’
Behind her, Danny was packing the video camera back into its case. Miranda gestured towards it.
‘We filmed the whole thing. There’s a new prime-time TV series going out in the autumn, called Sweet Revenge. People send in home videos and they pay five thousand pounds—’
‘I know, I’ve heard about it. This is great.’ Buzz started to laugh. Turning to Danny, he said, ‘I hope you remembered to take the lens cap off.’
***
The party spilled out into the walled garden at the rear of the hotel. Almost giving a couple of ancient residents heart attacks, Miranda paused at the top of the steps and peeled off her borrowed bridal gown, stepping out of it to reveal the orange vest and mauve Lycra skirt beneath. The next minute she was splashing around in the ornate Italian fountain with Buzz.
Fenn spotted Chloe sitting on a bench eating a plate of curried chicken salad from the restaurant. Joining her, he observed, ‘You’ve changed, too. Did I miss it?’
The black and white waitress’s uniform had been replaced by a long, floaty cotton dress the color of cinnamon, and her golden hair, no longer tied back, tumbled around her shoulders.
‘That would really have finished them off.’ Pulling a face, Chloe nodded at the elderly residents, who were still looking stunned. She had limited exposure of her own unlovely body to the confines of the downstairs loo.
‘Pretty color. It suits you,’ said Fenn.
The dress was ancient. Flustered by the compliment, Chloe attempted to cover the darns in the worn cotton, then realized that Fenn was watching her with amusement. Giving in, she laughed and held up her plate of food.
‘At least I’m perfectly coordinated.’
‘Until you eat it.’
‘For about the next three minutes, then.’ Ruefully, she gazed down at her stomach. ‘I can’t stop eating. It’s scary, having the appetite of a prop forward and being the shape of a rugby ball.’
Fenn didn’t think it was scary. Accustomed to the finicky eating habits of the models he’d spent the last few years knocking around with, it was a real breath of fresh air. He liked the way Chloe ate with such evident enjoyment, forking up the tender chicken and licking mayonnaise from her fingers. This was how eating should be, after all. You were meant to enjoy it.
Last week, Fenn had been cutting the hair of a knock-kneed, chain-smoking sixteen-year-old sent to him by one of the more ruthless agencies. When he had caught her scrutinizing the wording on her cigarette packet, he had said, ‘They damage your health.’