by Shari Low
Also by Shari Low
The Story of Our Life
A Life Without You
The Other Wives Club
With or Without You
This Is Me
WINTER DAY SERIES
One Day in Winter
Another Day in Winter
The Last Day of Winter
NON-FICTION
Because Mummy Said So
THE LAST DAY OF WINTER
Shari Low
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Shari Low, 2019
The moral right of Shari Low to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788541442
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s note
Who is there…
Prologue
Friday 20 December: 8 a.m. – 10 a.m.
One: Caro
Two: Seb
Three: Josie
Four: Stacey
Five
10 a.m. – Noon
Six: Caro
Seven: Seb
Eight: Josie
Nine: Stacey
Noon – 2 p.m.
Ten: Caro
Eleven: Seb
Twelve: Josie
Thirteen: Stacey
Fourteen
2 p.m. – 4 p.m.
Fifteen: Caro
Sixteen: Seb
Seventeen: Josie
Eighteen: Stacey
4 p.m. – 6 p.m.
Nineteen: Caro
Twenty: Seb
Twenty-One: Josie
Twenty-Two: Stacey
Twenty-Three
6 p.m. – 8 p.m.
Twenty-Four: Caro
Twenty-Five: Seb
Twenty-Six: Josie
Twenty-Seven: Stacey
Twenty-Eight
8 p.m. – 10 p.m.
Twenty-Nine: Caro
Thirty: Seb
Thirty-One: Josie
Thirty-Two: Stacey
10 p.m. – Midnight
Thirty-Three: Caro
Thirty-Four: Seb
Thirty-Five: Josie
Thirty-Six: Stacey
Thirty-Seven
Saturday 21 December: Midnight – 8 a.m.
Thirty-Eight: Caro
Thirty-Nine: Seb
Forty: Josie
Forty-One: Stacey
Epilogue: Nine Months Later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
To my much loved grandmother, Sarah (Sadie) Hill – a strong, wise, brilliantly funny force of nature and a true inspiration to us all.
And to J, C & B… Everything always.
Author’s note
The Botanic Gardens in the west end of Glasgow, is one of my favourite places on earth. Inside the lush, glorious, green space sits the Kibble Palace, a stunning glass and iron structure originally built by Victorian entrepreneur John Kibble at his home on the shores of Loch Long. In the 1870s the Palace was moved to the Botanic Gardens and it’s been a much loved attraction for Glaswegians and tourists ever since.
When I started writing this book, it was my first and only choice of setting for the day. However, I confess I’ve taken outrageous artistic licence with the gardens, the buildings and the statues within, tweaking the layout, moving things around, adding a few extras, and turning it into a wedding venue to fit the story.
Please forgive me. And the next time you visit Glasgow, please go there and marvel. I promise you’ll love it just as much as Caro, Cammy, Seb and Josie. And me.
Love, Shari x
Who is there…
Caro Anderson – it’s the day of her wedding to her love, Cammy Jones.
Cammy Jones – Caro’s fiancé, owner of menswear boutique CAMDEN.
Chrissie – bridesmaid number one, lives with her partner, Tom, and their son Ben, 14.
Jen – bridesmaid number two, married to Luke, adopted daughter of Val.
Val – sixty-something treasure, friend and self-appointed surrogate mother to Caro and Cammy and anyone else who needs her.
Josie – in her seventies (she hasn’t told anyone her actual age since around 1980), a force of nature, rebel, Val’s partner in crime and wedding planning.
Pearl and Bob Smith – Caro’s aunt and uncle. Mahogany-tanned Scots, enjoying a very comfortable retirement in Spain.
Yvonne Anderson – Caro’s late mum, died two years ago.
Jack Anderson – Caro’s cheating, duplicitous father. Married to Louise.
Lila Anderson – Caro’s half-sister, daughter of Jack and Louise, former social media darling and selfie addict.
Seb Lloyd – an expat golf pro with a broken heart.
Juliet (Embers) Lloyd – Seb’s late wife.
Stacey Summers – Glasgow native living in LA, presenter of USA Speed Freaks, secretly in love with Cammy Jones.
Jax Green – Stacey’s boyfriend and co-presenter of USA Speed Freaks.
Senga Summers – Stacey’s mum, Josie’s pal, and founding partner in the cleaning company, Manky Scrubbers.
Ida, Ina, Agnes, Jean and Montana – Senga’s lifelong friends, self-made family, and co-founders of Manky Scrubbers.
Zac Benson – fashion buyer, Stacey’s new-found travel buddy.
Prologue
Website – www.itshouldhavebeenme.com
Members Discussion Forum
Post by member, screen name NotOverYet:
Okay, so the day has come. The love of my life is marrying someone else. Even typing that makes me want to scream. I know this is a forum for mutual support and consolation, but right now I don’t want to hear anything that will make me feel better. I’m pissed off and I’m heartbroken. How could he do this? Why isn’t he marrying me? Why am I not the one sipping champagne and looking at the white dress hanging on the front of the wardrobe, waiting to say I Do in front of the world? I need to move on, to find someone else, to let him go.
Well, screw that.
I’m not doing it. I want him and if he doesn’t want me, then at least I’m going down fighting. I’m going to that wedding today and I’m going to be heard. When you’ve got nothing left to lose, doing something is better than watching the future you dreamed of slip through your fingers
Friday 20 December
8 a.m. – 10 a.m.
One
Caro
Dum dum de dum, dum dum de dum.
The vicar opened his sleek leather Bible as the congregation, the women resplendent in deep jewel tones befitting a winter wedding, turned to watch the bride slowly glide down the aisle. The diamanté edged veil that covered her face scanned from left to right and back again, as if the eyes beneath it were taking in the beaming smi
les, the tissues being dabbed under brush-like eyelash extensions, the hats so large they could double as manhole covers and the men who were surreptitiously checking their watches to see if there was any chance of getting out of there and to a TV before the game started on Sky Sports.
The steps of her ivory shoes slowed as she neared the front, where her groom waited. Her soulmate. Her best friend. And all the other clichés that almost every bride spouted about the man she was marrying.
He reached over, lifted her veil and there she was… Caro could hear her own screams now as she took in the scene. It was her father who had lifted the veil, and it was her mother who was standing there at the end of the aisle, dressed in white, her face now revealed, her lips moving… ‘Don’t do it, Caro,’ she was saying. ‘Please don’t get married.’
There was a fearful gasp as Caro sat bolt upright in bed, her whole body in panicked fight or flight mode. Racing pulse. Shaking hands. Chest tighter than a bride’s corset. Every night this week, the same dream – every morning the same reactions. Fear. Dread. Denial. Panic. Realisation. Then a whole lot more fear, dread and panic.
The sound of her rapid breathing was loud enough to stir half of her duo of comatose bridesmaids, the one that was sleeping beside her on the superking bed.
Summoning huge effort, Chrissie managed to open one eye, but it came at the price of a loud groan, followed by a hoarse, ‘Are you okay? Holy crap, what did we drink last night?’
Caro paused, the deafening thud of her beating heart drowning out everything else. Until that moment she hadn’t realised that it was even possible to hear the functions of her internal organs. ‘Tequila,’ she murmured, wincing. ‘That might be why I can still hear a mariachi band banging in my skull.’
With a low moan of pain, Chrissie pushed herself up until her back rested against the headboard. Her chestnut hair looked like something eagles would nest in. The previous night’s make-up gave her a waxy look that wouldn’t be out of place in any Netflix series featuring the undead. And her red silk shirt, so sexy the night before, had lost some of its on-point style now that it was on backwards and adorned with a scarlet garland of tinsel procured from an unsuspecting tree in the early hours of the morning.
‘You should FaceTime Ben,’ Caro muttered, referring to Chrissie’s fourteen year old son. ‘It would save you the next few years of lecturing him about the evils of alcohol. One sight of us and he’ll never touch the stuff.’
‘Yeah, but he’d be scarred for life and it would cost me a fortune in therapy.’ Chrissie tried to shake her head, but realised the error of her ways when a searing pain shot through her left temple. ‘Ouch! I’m going to have to face forwards for the rest of my life.’ She continued speaking, using staccato words with absolutely no head movement. ‘Anyway, Happy Wedding Day, Mrs Cammy-To-Be. I would have said your new surname, but I think I’ve got amnesia.’
‘Jones,’ Caro murmured. How many times had she said that name in her head, yet still it didn’t feel real. Caro Jones. Mrs Caro Jones. Wife of Cameron Jones, commonly known as Cammy. Love of her life. Best friend. Easy on the eye.
In just a few hours, that was who she’d be. The thought brought on another lurch of panic and she could feel that familiar sensation of her ribs closing in to squeeze the life out of her.
There was a stirring from the floor at the end of the bed, before a head slowly appeared over the footboard, blinking in the light like someone emerging from underneath an avalanche after at least a fortnight in the snow. ‘What did I miss?’ Jen croaked.
‘It’s… it’s…’ Chrissie struggled to focus on her watch. ‘Quarter past eight on Caro’s wedding day and we’re the worst bridesmaids ever.’ Still no head movement, but her eyes flicked to Caro again. ‘How could we have let this happen? We were supposed to have you in bed by 9 p.m. so you’d wake up refreshed and glowing like a goddess for your big day. I remember a…’ she squeezed her eyes closed as her memory disc kicked into action, ‘Christmas party at the next table. And then dancing. And singing. And climbing on a chair and telling the whole restaurant that you were getting married today. And then… drinks. Vodka.’
‘Tequila,’ Caro corrected her.
‘Yes! Tequila. And a…’ Another squint. ‘Was there a mariachi band playing Christmas songs or have I completely lost it?’
‘There was,’ Caro reassured her.
‘Oh, thank God. I keep hearing myself sing Santa La Bamba in my head. I’m sorry, Caro, we should have done a much better job than this. I’ll understand if you sack us.’
‘I really should,’ Caro told her, feigning gravity. The truth was, sacking her bridesmaids would be a mere drop in the swirl of emotions that were currently sucking her down a dark well.
Her wedding day. Taking place, for extra cute points, on the last Friday before Christmas, exactly two years after she and Cammy first met. In fact, it was also two years since she’d stepped foot in Glasgow for the first time, after travelling there from her home in Aberdeen, in search of the father who’d deserted her and her mum. To her devastation, she’d found him – and a whole load of secrets and lies that she could never have anticipated. But it wasn’t all bad news. Thanks to that trip, she’d also found a new home, an incredible group of friends, a city she loved and a fiancé she adored.
Yet, right now, head thumping and stomach churning, it didn’t feel like she was in a fluffy haze of counting her blessings.
Breathe. Just breathe. It’ll pass. It has to.
Still dangling over the footboard at the end the bed, her eyes bloodshot, her mascara verging on panda, Jen squinted at her watch. ‘Oh Jesus, Val and Josie will be here soon. I haven’t had a bollocking from Val since I was fifteen and she found out I’d been smoking at the school disco. Somebody save me.’ Val had been Jen’s surrogate mum since she was a young teenager, when Val and her husband Don had swooped in to take care of a girl whose mother had died and whose father preferred a drink to raising his daughter. Val, and her best friend Josie, were the matriarchs in that incredible group of friends that Caro had found here. Some related, some not, they were a big, happy, mutually supportive, caring group of strong women and decent men, most of whom worked in the same row of shops in Glasgow’s Merchant City, a stylish area of the city centre packed with high-end boutiques, trendy bars and great restaurants. Back in Aberdeen, Caro had been a primary school teacher, but she was taking a sabbatical and enjoying working with Cammy in CAMDEN, his upmarket menswear boutique, while Jen and Chrissie were partners in Sun, Sea, Ski, the one-stop holiday shop next door.
Thankfully, extra staff had been brought in to run both shops that day, to let the bosses enjoy all things marital.
If they ever got there.
Despite the throbbing hangover, a mental image of Val chiding thirty-two year old Jen made Caro grin. Perhaps it was more of a grimace. ‘Nope, you’re on your own. But if you need coffee, I can just about cover that.’
Reacting to Jen’s strained nod, she tentatively placed her feet on the floor and pushed, managing to stabilise herself in a standing position, despite a sudden wave of nausea and another searing temple pain. Her legs hurt. Her body hurt. Hell, even her eyelashes hurt.
Wobbling with every step, she made it through to the kitchen. Morning coffee was normally Cammy’s domain, but he’d gone off to stay in a hotel last night, the first one they’d spent apart since becoming a couple.
After downing a large glass of water in one go, it took a few welcome moments of solitude to make three coffees and then load a plate with croissants and the butter dish. When all else fails, turn to carbs, Caro decided, popping a chunk of pastry in her mouth. It didn’t help, but it took her mind off her woes for a split second, before another wave of fear kicked in. She couldn’t. She just couldn’t.
She pressed her shaking hands together, attempting to stop the sheen of sweat that was forming on each palm.
The doorbell cut through her thoughts, as did an audible, ‘Fuck, I bet that’s Val. I’m a dea
d woman. Don’t answer it,’ coming from Jen in the bedroom.
Caro shuffled down the hall. ‘Ignoring it isn’t an option. She’d only call emergency services and demand they break the door down.’
No arguments came from the other room – mainly because they all knew it was true.
‘Jesus!’ Val exclaimed by way of greeting, shock at Caro’s dishevelled appearance turning her religious, her eyes so wide her blue eyeshadow almost disappeared.
‘Shhhhh,’ Caro chided her, as she stepped back to allow the new arrival to enter, standing flat against the wall to give enough space for Val’s blonde bob, a structure of unfathomable height and width and sprayed to the consistency of steel, to pass.
Caro paused, confused, as she waited for another arrival to materialise behind Val. It didn’t come.
‘Where’s Josie?’ she asked. Josie. The other half of the dynamic duo – a woman with a birth certificate that stated she was in her seventies, a face and body that suggested she was in her fifties, and a brain that remained a bitchy, rebellious, outrageous twenty-something. She was also chief wedding planner, having stepped in to organise every single aspect of the day with her trademark bolshy brilliance. Right from the moment they set the date, Josie had it all covered.
‘She texted to say she’d been held up and she’d meet us here. No doubt she’ll wander in any minute.’
There was a bang and a howl from the bedroom.
‘What’s that?’ Val asked, her instincts immediately going to deeply suspicious. This was a woman who had the interrogation skills of a trained intelligence agent, so Caro knew lying would be futile.
‘Jen and Chrissie are in there with hangovers from hell and a look of the walking dead about them.’
Despite the automatic purse of Val’s lips, Caro could see the amusement in her eyes.
‘I’ll let you go and shout at them in a minute, but can you help me with the coffees first?’
Val obliged, following Caro into the kitchen.