Shut Your Eyes (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 3)

by Lee, Mandy

  ‘Jesus.’

  Twelve thousand five hundred pounds’ worth of creamy silk balloon out from the waist down. And from the waist up, the bodice hangs loose, my boobs dangling precariously in a strapless bra that’s barely doing its job. Maybe I shouldn’t have wriggled out of that one last fitting. I just hope I can do it up.

  ‘Shit.’

  I’ve been determined to control every last bit of our wedding, banishing Dan from all preparations apart from the rings and the men’s suits, investing in months of planning for it, hell-bent on organising something traditional, romantic and perfect. But the closer we’ve got to the special day, the more the nerves have played me up, taunting me that I’ve forgotten something important. And it seems I’ve fallen at the first hurdle. An expensive, disastrous joke of a wedding dress. I hear a peel of laughter from outside, sense a prickle of anxiety deep inside. There’s a whole host of people waiting out there for me, including Dan. I check my mobile. Almost time to go. In less than an hour, I’ll no longer be Maya Scotton. Looking like half a tonne of potatoes squeezed into a silk purse, I’ll be Maya Foster. And there’s only one question now.

  ‘What the fuck else can go wrong?’

  The door to the en suite springs open and Lucy flies out, holding the ribbon from the back of her lilac dress.

  ‘This has just gone down the toilet.’

  ‘Lucy!’

  ‘It’s not my bloody fault. Why does it have to have a stupid ribbon at the back? I’ve washed it in the sink. It’s soaking.’

  ‘Never mind about that. It’ll dry. Come and do me up.’

  I watch in the mirror as Lucy sets about lacing the bodice.

  ‘Oh ...’ she murmurs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s going to be a bit tight.’

  ‘Oooooh, fuck.’

  ‘If you’d gone to that fitting …’

  ‘I know,’ I squeak. ‘But I couldn’t face it. Shit, Lucy. It’s awful.’

  ‘Calm down. I’ll fix it. You’ll just have to have bigger gaps in the lacing. It’ll look like it’s supposed to be that way.’

  I stare at the front. Somehow, with the lacing loosened, it doesn’t look like it’s supposed to be that way at all. I turn to inspect the back, and sense a lump in my throat.

  ‘It’s a mess.’

  Suddenly engulfed by wedding madness, I burst into tears.

  ‘Trust me, it’s the best anyone can do.’

  ‘I’m a stupid fat pregnant idiot,’ I wail. ‘And I’ve got tits like melons.’

  ‘You’re not fat, Maya. And you’ve always had tits like melons. You’ve just gone from cantaloupe to full-on watermelon. It’s only temporary. Don’t let the hormones get to you. Put a cardy over the top.’

  ‘I am not getting married in a cardigan.’

  For a split second, I think about stamping my feet and throwing myself onto the bed. But that wouldn’t do. Instead, I carry on weeping, watching helplessly as Lucy rummages through my wardrobe.

  ‘This,’ she announces, presenting me with something I’ve never seen before: a dainty green cardigan that must have come from Harrods. ‘Put it on. Don’t do it up.’

  I follow her instructions.

  ‘It’s green.’

  ‘And it’s all you’ve got.’

  ‘But it doesn’t go …’

  While I sob uncontrollably, she squeezes my arms into the cardigan and tugs it up over my shoulders.

  ‘There. You look fine.’ She pats my stomach, lightly. ‘Trust you to be pregnant on your wedding day. You never do anything by halves. Who am I going to get drunk with?’

  And trust Lucy’s brain to fixate on booze.

  ‘This isn’t an excuse for a piss-up. Even if I wasn’t pregnant, I’d be staying sober.’

  With a shrug, she grabs a tissue from the dressing table and offers it to me.

  ‘Clean up your face and give me a break. I’ve been a virtual saint since I got back with Clive.’

  Which is completely true. Now that she’s co-habiting with her pet accountant, she’s happy enough to drink in moderation, apart from on the big occasions. She’s reined it in for months, and I shouldn’t resent her letting loose.

  ‘Why don’t you get pissed with Clive?’ I suggest, dabbing my eyes and sniffing away the tears.

  ‘No way. He’s a nightmare when he’s had a few.’

  ‘Then how about Lily? She needs cheering up.’

  It’s not an entirely mad suggestion. For weeks now, we’ve all been trying to jolly her along. And as part of Operation Let’s-Get-Lily-Back-On-Track, Lucy’s met up with her on several occasions.

  ‘Lily,’ she muses. ‘She can knock it back, you know.’

  ‘Well then, there’s your mission for the day, and there’s your drinking partner. Make sure she enjoys herself.’

  ‘Mission accepted.’

  While Lucy looks out of the window to check the current situation, I inspect myself one more time. I’m calm again, almost. But that cardigan …

  ‘How’s Dan’s leg today?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know. It was okay yesterday.’

  And in actual fact, it’s been okay for a while. Since the operation in January he’s suffered nothing more than an occasional twinge.

  ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘And how about you? Are you going to get through this in one piece?’

  ‘Of course.’ I place a hand on my stomach. ‘Full of energy today.’

  Because Mr Foster was banned from our bedroom last night, and although it was torture, I made the most of it with a full night’s sleep.

  ‘I mean with the weather.’ She turns from the window.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Didn’t you check the forecast?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Storms.’

  ‘Shit.’ My bottom lip plummets. The second hurdle falls. ‘You’re shitting me.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Perhaps we should move everything into the marquee.’

  ‘But the marquee’s set up for the meal.’

  ‘We’ve got enough hired hands to sort it out.’

  I’m sure we have, but seeing as I’m heavily pregnant and dangerously hormonal, and wearing a stupid green cardigan, I’m in no fit state to deal with complications. I took a quick look inside the marquee first thing this morning, and it’s beautiful: each table adorned with a crisp white cloth, glimmering silver cutlery, an array of glasses and a floral centrepiece – a shower of sweet peas. If we move one single thing, it’ll be completely ruined, and I’ll have a monumental breakdown.

  ‘It’s too late,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll get through the ceremony before anything happens.’

  ‘With any luck.’

  ‘And anyway, Norman’s built that arch …’

  ‘You and your sodding sweet peas.’

  ‘It’s romantic.’

  ‘It’s mad. That’s what it is.’

  It may well be mad, but it’s what I want. With more tables and chairs laid out in the orchard for guests to relax with drinks, we’ll be getting married on the lawn at the back of the kitchen garden, in the space reserved for my new studio. Norman’s spent weeks building a wooden arch out there, planting the sweet peas and training them over it. The end result is pretty amazing, and Norman’s rightly proud of his efforts.

  ‘The sweet peas are important,’ I remind her, as if it’s needed.

  ‘And you can bloody over-egg the pudding, you know. You could have had other flowers.’

  She’s on the verge of saying something else when we’re interrupted by a knock at the door. Without waiting for an invitation to enter, Mum appears, looking decidedly strange in a flouncy, knee-length peach-coloured dress.

  ‘Maya!’

  She rushes at me, like a crazed fan. From the grin on her face I’d say she’s already been helping herself to the champagne. She wraps me in her arms, squeezing the living daylights out of me before she finally remembers she’s creasing the bride, and squashing the bab
y bump.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Oh, my girl. My little girl’s getting married,’ she gushes.

  ‘No shit, Audrey,’ Lucy says. ‘Is that why she’s wearing that big posh dress?’

  ‘You look beautiful, Maya,’ Mum gasps. ‘But I’m not sure about this.’ She re-arranges the cardigan.

  ‘Leave it,’ I snarl.

  ‘He’s a lucky man.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘And you’re a very lucky woman.’

  ‘Well, I know that.’

  ‘Soon to be a very wet woman,’ Lucy grumbles.

  ‘He’s offered to pay for a conservatory. Did you know that, Lucy?’ Mum asks. ‘An early Christmas present. How lovely is that?’

  I tug on the sleeve of the peach-coloured dress and give her a bad-tempered ‘shush.’ On top of the conservatory, Dan’s also made sure his sisters have enough money to buy their own places in Limmingham. And, in spite of the past, he’s done exactly the same for Sara. Our respective families are safe and secure, and that’s all we both want. No gushing thanks. No publicity.

  ‘Is everyone here?’ I ask, doing my best to deflect the conversation.

  Mum gives an exaggerated sort of nod that threatens to dislodge her elaborate bun.

  ‘Everyone. Oh, Ethan and Damian look so smart in their little suits.’

  I bet they do. Like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. But I know my nephews better than that.

  ‘They’re all taking their seats for the ceremony. And Dan’s ready. Oh, he looks lovely, Maya. He’s so nervous. I don’t know why.’ She stops abruptly and glares at me. ‘You’re not going to run out on him, are you?’

  Whoa! Where did that come from?

  ‘No chance,’ I reassure her. ‘I gave up running away a long time ago.’

  ‘He’s not worried about that, Audrey,’ Lucy intervenes. ‘He’s nervous because he doesn’t want to cock it up. Clive told me.’

  ‘What’s he got to cock up?’ I demand, grabbing my flowers from the dressing table. Sweet peas again. More egg in the pudding. ‘If there’s any cocking-up to be done today, then it’s all down to me.’

  ‘Oh Maya,’ Mum sighs, putting an arm around me. ‘It’ll be lovely, whatever happens. Now … your dad’s waiting for you downstairs and I’d better get seated.’

  And with that, she skitters out of the room.

  Lucy examines her ribbon.

  ‘Still wet.’

  ‘And I’m still wearing a cardigan.’

  I push out the mother of all pregnant sighs and gaze at my friend. If I’m not much mistaken, those are tears in her eyes. And now I just want to push all the silly niggles to one side.

  ‘I don’t care if you don’t,’ I smile.

  Letting go of the ribbon, she comes forward, opens her arms and hugs me.

  ‘It’s the end of an era,’ she moans. ‘It really is.’

  I pull back and wipe away the tears, smudging her mascara in the process.

  ‘It’s not the end of anything, Luce. It’s the start of something new.’

  ‘A new beginning,’ she agrees. ‘We’re finally growing up.’

  ‘At last,’ I laugh. ‘And let’s face it, it’s about time.’

  As soon as Dad sees me, he smiles proudly, takes my hand in his and kisses me on the cheek.

  ‘Look at you. My beautiful daughter.’

  I’m sorely tempted to tell him the truth. I am, in fact, a beached whale, wrapped in expensive silk and squeezed into unwanted knitwear. But it’s my wedding day, and I’m going to rise above it all.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘You deserve the best, Maya. Love, respect and friendship.’

  ‘And that’s what I’m getting.’

  ‘I know.’

  With another smile, he leads me out over the lawn, through the orchard and past the gate to the kitchen garden, my first choice of location for the ceremony until I realised the destruction of Norman’s vegetable patch was out of the question. Skirting round the wall, we come to the meadow at the rear. Putting plans for the studio on hold for a few weeks, it seemed a perfect second choice. I’m confronted by two rows of white chairs, the backs of various heads, the arch set up ready on a low platform, and to the left, a string quartet working their way through a medley of our favourite songs.

  I pause, taking stock for a few seconds. The first time I ever came out here it was a warm summer’s day but now, almost a year down the line, the sky’s a brooding Prussian blue, the air too warm for comfort, the wind growing restless. I can only hope Lucy’s prediction doesn’t come true; that we manage to get through the ceremony without a downpour, or worse. Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply, focussing on the music, a string version of ‘You Don’t Know Me’. Stay calm, I tell myself. Remember what’s important here. The incredible journey that began with this song; the man who’s waiting patiently for you to join him.

  I sense a flutter of nerves in my stomach. It’s quickly followed by a bout of baby movement. Holding on to Dad’s arm, I give the tiny arms and legs time to settle into place. That’s a foot in my ribs, I’m sure of it, and I have no idea what’s pressing against my bowels, but suddenly I need to visit the toilet.

  ‘She’s here!’ Ethan squeals, leaping up and running down the aisle.

  There’s a rumble in the distance.

  ‘Fucking brilliant,’ I mutter.

  The music changes to Pachelbel’s Canon in D, the signal for me to move.

  So this is it.

  No time for the loo.

  ‘Ready?’ Dad asks.

  I swallow, watching as Dan rises to his feet, taking his place in front of the arch, his broad shoulders gorgeously accentuated in a morning suit. Clive stands next to him, and they nod at each other. Finally, Dan turns, giving me a tender smile that’s mine, and mine alone.

  ‘Ready,’ I reply, smiling back.

  On automatic pilot, I begin to walk down the aisle, casting acknowledgements at various familiar faces. On the left: The Steves, Mum, Sara and her boys, along with a host of my extended family – aunties, uncles and cousins I haven’t seen for years. On Dan’s side: Jodie and her mum; Norman and Betty; Bill, Charles, Kathy and the rest of their family, flown over from Bermuda; Gordon sitting with a man I’ve never seen before; Layla and her husband, Sophie, Dan’s niece and nephews. And then there’s Lily, seated with her mother and a few other people I don’t recognise, members of Lily’s and Clive’s families, people from Dan’s past.

  As I approach the arch, my eyes return to Dan, and I’m caught again, lost in the bright blue irises. My heart beat trembles and trips. Blood rushes through my veins. I don’t know whether I’m about to pass out or vomit as I step up onto the platform. Luckily, Dan takes my hand and steadies me. And then he draws me in close, leaning down to whisper in my ear.

  ‘You look fucking amazing.’

  ‘You look fucking amazing,’ I whisper back. ‘I’m a disaster.’

  ‘Not from here, you’re not.’ His arms tighten.

  ‘I need a wee.’

  ‘Jesus, now? Can’t you wait?’

  The baby stirs again, thankfully moving into a better position.

  ‘Possibly.’

  I hear another roll of thunder. It’s still miles away, but it still makes me jump.

  ‘We can postpone, you know.’

  ‘No. We’re doing it now.’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘You’re completely mad … but I love you.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope so. You’re about to marry me.’

  ‘Don’t get feisty.’ He brushes his mouth against my ear, setting off a host of tingles. ‘You’ll give me a stonker.’

  I hear a cough.

  ‘Are you ready to start?’ the registrar asks. ‘Only I think we’re running out of time.’

  I simply nod.

  And then it begins …

  In a dream world, I gaze into Dan’s eyes, doing my best to keep hold of the registrar’s words as the most import
ant minutes of my life pass by.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to witness the marriage of Daniel Foster and Maya Scotton …’

  I feel a rain drop, and then another.

  Before I know it, Dan’s reciting his vows, slipping a platinum ring onto my wedding finger.

  ‘I give you this ring, as a sign of our love, trust and marriage. I promise to care for you above all others, to give you my love, friendship and support, and to respect and cherish you throughout our life together.’

  It’s my turn now. Stumbling through my vows, I’m feeling the raindrops gradually gathering momentum.

  ‘You may now kiss the bride.’

  ‘Oh, thank fuck,’ I breathe.

  Big, firm hands encircle my waist and draw me in. And then his lips are on mine, absolutely perfect, as soft and warm as ever. I’m thinking of that first kiss, wedged up against a counter in his kitchen, the incredible chemistry that started then and still hasn’t waned. For a few long moments, I’m totally adrift, temporarily ignorant to the fact that the storm’s closing in, that there’s a foot in my ribs again, that I’m wearing a cardigan on my wedding day. And then I’m released, returned to reality. I’m aware of applause … and more rain.

  ‘You’ve got your happy ever after, Mrs Foster,’ he murmurs against my mouth.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Foster,’ I murmur back. ‘You do know it’s raining?’

  He smiles knowingly, turns and holds out a hand to Clive. I watch as a white umbrella sprouts into view. Clive hands it to Dan.

  ‘Fail to prepare,’ he raises it over our heads, ‘and prepare to fail.’

  I look around at our guests, all now sheltering under a forest of white umbrellas. And it’s a good job too. The shower quickly morphs into a violent downpour.

  ‘Sneaky git. What would I do without you?’

  ‘Well, for a start,’ he says proudly, ‘you’d get very wet.’

  A streak of lightning illuminates the sky in the distance. I give a start and crumble into Dan’s embrace, counting the seconds. Nine of them pass before the thunder follows.