Buch lesen: «The Wedding Favour»

An enormous Thank You to Beth Thomas for helping me understand the process that the Home Office requires when seeking to marry a foreign national. Your expertise was invaluable!

Prologue

‘Are you positive she’s not dead?’ My niece’s worried whisper is so close to my face that I catch a whiff of her sweet Frosties-breath. At six, she’s the perfect height to scooch onto the sofa where I’ve spent the night. The middle cushion has slid partway off, and no wonder, with its silvery brocade that always gave my clothes a fierce case of static cling when I perched there in happier days. My arse is wedged into the sofa’s murky depths, definitely touching whatever is underneath, but I’m not about to move a muscle now.

‘She’s not,’ Leo answers with his usual big brother authority. ‘Mum says she only wishes she was. She’s had a hard time so she’s sleeping.’

He whispers the words, as if I’ve got a terminal diagnosis. He’s not far off.

‘But it’s almost lunchtime.’ Little fingers poke at my shoulder.

‘Caitlin, don’t. Mum said to leave her.’ I can hear the start of a wrestling match as Leo subdues his sister.

I pry open one eye just in time to catch him snatching the biscuits Rowan left last night with my undrunk tea. ‘Leave me alone, rug rats, and put those back! Can’t a person have a mental breakdown in peace?’

Then I hear a ping. Finally! Better late than never. ‘That’s my phone!’ Frantically, I fling things from the coffee table: balled up tissues, my bra, more open packs of biscuits than you’d find at a blood donation clinic. ‘Where is it?!’

That sends them scattering. I must sound completely unhinged.

That’s because I am completely unhinged.

‘You’re up,’ Rowan calls from the lounge doorway. She doesn’t wait for an invite to come into what is, technically, at this moment, my bedroom. She simply makes her way towards me, picking her way past my overnight bag (or rather overnights, plural), discarded clothes and seemingly every toy in the house. Still, she manages to get a march on. My sister-in-law never lets any stumbling blocks, literal or otherwise, get in her way.

Everything about Rowan screams efficiency, from the top of her no-nonsense (but still very cute) pixie cut to her always-in-ballet-flats feet. Pretty Ballerinas too, not knock-offs, on account of her high-flying programming job for one of the big banks. I had hoped my niece and nephew would inherit her looks instead of my brother’s, but they’ve been cursed, like Paul and me, with the long Fraser nose, close-set eyes and furry brows that I have to pay good money at the salon to keep under control. Paul really should too, instead of walking around with a sleeping chinchilla on his brow. They did get our good lips, though, so that’s something, and Rowan’s pale blonde waves – though both Caitlin and Leo wear those longer than Rowan does – and they don’t turn beetroot in five minutes of sun like their mum.

I’d take Rowan’s lack of melatonin any day to get the rest of it. Imagine, if you will, the woman who really does have it all (without being smug about it like I’d probably be) … Well, that’s Rowan. To this day I don’t know how my brother ever convinced a gem like her to give him the time of day, let alone marry him.

But then, people are probably about to say the exact same thing about me and Matt.

‘My phone, where is it?’ How many times do I have to repeat myself before the importance of this question is impressed upon my family?

‘I don’t hear anything,’ Rowan says. She tips her head like a spaniel listening for the tin opener.

‘Not now. Before.’ I reach under the sofa in case it fell from my heartbroken hand when I finally drifted off into fitful sleep.

‘Oh, that. That was just the microwave. I’m heating up leftovers. Pizza. Mmm mmm. Want some? Oh, duck,’ she says, catching my sob face, ‘you don’t have to eat it.’

She sits beside me. Credit to her, she only reels back a little bit when I slump into her arms. Must shower one of these days. ‘I don’t want pizza,’ I snivel. ‘I’d never eat pizza again if I could have Matt back.’ Not that one has anything to do with the other. Or that I’d be able to keep the promise anyway. Blame my sorry state for making me resort to nonsense like this.

‘Here’s your phone.’ Caitlin unplugs it from the wall. That’s right. I’d wanted it charged in case his make-up call took more than 27% of my battery.

Now I’m fully charged but still broken up.

‘Nobody rang,’ she says, handing it to me.

‘You’re too young to be looking at phones,’ I snap. Which is also ridiculous considering that she could practically build her own apps before she was out of nappies.

I feel like a first-class arse when Rowan gathers her daughter in for a hug. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ I tell Caitlin. ‘I haven’t been myself lately.’

‘I know, Auntie Nelly, but there are other fish in the sea.’

‘You didn’t really just say that.’

Caitlin shrugs. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll take dating advice from you when the Tooth Fairy no longer has to visit, okay?’

She sticks her tongue in the hole where her bottom tooth had been. ‘I’m just saying what Mummy said.’

‘Way to belittle my breakdown, Rowan.’

Now it’s Rowan’s turn to cast evils at her daughter. ‘You’re not having a breakdown. This is a temporary situation.’

‘You mean you think we’ll get back together?’ I hear the desperation in my voice.

Rowan’s eyes slide from mine. ‘Maybe.’

‘You’re a hopeless liar.’

‘I mean it might not be the worst thing if you didn’t,’ she says. She starts to gather up my tissue mountain but changes her mind. Instead, she folds over the ends of the biscuit packets. ‘To be honest, he didn’t always seem totally committed. He stayed away for Christmas.’

The cushion slides further towards the floor when I sit up. ‘He got food poisoning, Rowan. You’re not suggesting he purposely ate bad chicken to get out of seeing Gran. Trust me, he’s totally committed. I mean, until we broke up. But I can fix this.’

Rowan shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure you should, though, duck. You shouldn’t have to convince a bloke to be with you.’

‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you, when my sap of a brother made it so easy. Meet, fall in love, get married, job done.’

Rowan, being Rowan, doesn’t take it personally that I’m being a complete cow. She knows I couldn’t have loved her more if she were my own blood sister. Luckily, she remembers it even when I talk like this.

‘I’m saying that you’re worth more, Nelly, that’s all. And you know it. If someone hasn’t got the brains to see that, then that’s his loss, not yours. He hasn’t bothered to ring you, has he?’

‘It’s only been three days.’

‘And how many days is okay before he’s an arse for not ringing his fiancée?’

‘Ex-fiancée, apparently.’

‘Just— Don’t ring him, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Really okay? Or are you just saying okay until I leave the room and then you’ll ring him?’

‘Really okay.’ I do have some pride left. Rationally, I know Rowan is right. I just need my heart to catch up with my head. And for Matt to ring me to apologise.

I can’t bear to think about what it will mean if he doesn’t.

I suppose I should come clean now, because you’ll realise it sooner or later anyway. I’m the family screw-up. Not jailbird level. Just as in nobody is surprised when something else doesn’t work out for me. There’s always that knowing eye-roll. Like it’s all my fault and what do you expect, it’s Nelly.

But this is jailbird level. I’m the one about to be jilted. Never mind that my heart feels like it has been ripped in two. Oh, how everyone will pick over that with their Christmas dinner. Nelly’s fiancé ran a mile rather than marry her.

Maybe I’ll fake food poisoning this year.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

I haven’t told anyone about me and Matt. And it’s been nearly three weeks now. That makes me either the world’s biggest optimist or completely delusional.

The problem is, the details of our last conversation are getting a little fuzzy. They say our minds do that when there’s been a traumatic event, but you’d think something like this would be cemented into my memory, given that it’s ruining my life. It’s fair to say that I wasn’t as coherent as I’d have liked, what with all the crying. I think I offered all kinds of promises when he started talking about taking a break.

A break. That’s one word away from a break-up, but that’s what he’s done. He’s gone on a break. Which is possibly why he hasn’t returned my calls.

Rowan knows about us, obviously, since I wallowed all over her sofa for more than a week, but she’s sworn to secrecy, and my brother’s been out of town on one of his consultancy assignments (Abu Dhabi this time), so there’s a chance it won’t get back to the family yet. There haven’t been any major events to cover for lately. Mum sometimes asks how Matt is when we talk, and I say ‘fine’ like I always have.

I suppose it’s too much to hope that I can keep this up, that they won’t notice the absence of a groom on the day itself.

I wish I had the stomach for it, but I cannot face everyone. Because it wasn’t me who called time, was it? I’m the one everyone is going to wonder about. No matter how I spin it, I’m the jiltee, the rejectee, the un-fiancéed.

They’re going to think I’m the defective one. Again.

I do remember that Matt was frustratingly vague about this whole break thing. That means there might still be a chance that we can make things okay. He’s got to come to his senses at some point. I will not believe that this is the end. We were too good together to just throw away the best two years of our lives. Anyone would get cold feet with all the wedding planning we’ve been doing. I probably have gone a bit overboard on it all. Naturally, I offered to pare everything down to the bare minimum, if that’s what he wanted. Even though we did decide on all the details together, and I’m not just saying that. Matt has made as many suggestions as I have, and we’ve agreed on them all. That’s what I mean: nobody is as well-aligned as we are. So why hasn’t he been in touch to admit he made a mistake?

It’s the silence that’s killing me. If we’d just broken up like normal people, then I’d get on with the usual stages of break-up grief. The share prices in Kleenex and Gordon’s would go up. I’d baffle friends and strangers with unanswerable questions, maybe do something ill-advised with my hair. At least I’d be tragically thin, even if losing that ten pounds for the wedding dress would be a moot point.

I hate this limbo. Are we getting married in three months or not? I need to know. My family needs to know.

The country’s biggest magazine definitely needs to know.

I should probably mention that too. The whole wedding is being paid for by Fantastic Magazine. All we have to do is let them cover the whole thing for the serialised wedding feature they’re running.

If only that feature contest hadn’t been so tempting, so perfect for us. Who wouldn’t want to be chosen as the most romantic couple of the year, win ten thousand quid and get an entire series written about them?

I’ll tell you the answer: a dumped fiancée, as it happens.

Sighing, I open the email again on my phone.

From: Martha@FantasticMagazine.co.uk

To: Nelly@FindingHappy.co.uk

Re: Release forms and prelim schedule

Dear Nelly,

Just a quick one to say again how excited we are to start the series. It’s going to be a total inspiration for Fantastic Magazine’s readers! Attached please find the release forms. An electronic signature is fine and we’ll need them from everyone who’ll be involved in the interviews and the photographing/filming. No rush to get them back.

Here’s a rough outline of what we’d like to photograph and interview about, but please do let me know if you have additional ideas – this is very much a collaborative effort, and it’s your wedding after all! Like you said in your pitch, the more loved-up couple-i-ness the better, and the candid ‘outtake’ filming is such a great idea for the website! I’m sure we’ll have more than enough for all three months’ stories.

  your falling-in-love story

  the dress (you said your mum will be there – anyone else?)

  decorations – will your friends/family help at all? That would make a great story

  flowers

  cake

Other ideas:

  wine tasting?

  will you do dance lessons?

  maybe bridesmaid’s dresses? It might be interesting if they’re different sizes and shapes

We’ll plan to be at your flat on the 27^th. Is 10am too early?

See you sooooon!

Martha x

As if it’s not bad enough that my fiancé might actually be calling off our wedding, I’ve got this to worry about. What am I supposed to do when Martha and her team turn up, expecting to follow us around for the next three months? Pretend Matt’s in the loo the whole time?

This seemed like such an amazing opportunity, right when I’d been planning an entire life change. But I can’t even face thinking about that right now.

It’s not that I’m overly loyal to Martha, although I would feel terrible pulling out now. It’s that I’ve also already spent the advance money for the feature on deposits for the wedding. I can’t pay them back if I cancel the series.

Which means I also can’t wait around for Matt to make up his mind.

I don’t expect him to answer. I tap his name on my mobile again, trying not to be embarrassed by how many times it’s said I’ve already rung.

‘Hi, Nelly.’

‘You answered! I mean, how are you?’ My mouth has gone dry.

‘Okay. Still trying to figure things out,’ he says. ‘That’s why I haven’t rung back. I did say I needed space.’

I can hear people in the background. Obviously he doesn’t need space from everyone. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Just some people I’ve met here.’

‘Here? Where are you?’

He hesitates. ‘Tarifa.’

Tarifa? As in Tarifa, Spain? ‘You’re on holiday while I’m worrying myself sick about our relationship?’

‘It’s not like that, Nelly,’ he says. ‘I told you I needed time to think. I had to get away from London. Everything reminds me of us. I took a sabbatical to sort my head out.’

‘While you’re on a beach.’

‘It doesn’t matter where I am. And it’s not a holiday. I’m in an apartment.’

‘You’ve moved there?’ How has this happened? One minute we’re making our guest list and the next he’s making Spanish omelettes in his new apartment.

‘Nelly, relax, of course I haven’t moved. It’s just that an apartment is cheaper than a hotel. I’m not having fun here, you know. I’m trying to figure things out.’

‘If that was true, you could have gone to … I don’t know, somewhere that doesn’t have twenty-four-hour sangria and wall-to-wall bikinis. Who are you figuring things out with anyway?’

‘No one! Nelly, this isn’t about anyone else. It’s about me. Us. Besides, I’d never do that to you.’

‘But you would leave me three months before our wedding.’

‘I haven’t left you.’

‘Matt, you’re in a different time zone. What’s your definition of leaving? Can you blame me for being worried? I don’t even know if you love me anymore.’

‘Of course I do. That’s not the issue.’

‘What’s the issue, then? Because I’m more than a little confused. The last time I checked, we were in love and about to get married. Now you’re partying it up on a windsurfer.’ That Kleenex and Gordon’s binge is fast looming on the horizon. ‘The magazine is coming on the twenty-seventh. Exactly what am I supposed to tell them?’

‘I don’t give a damn about the magazine, Nelly, though clearly that’s still uppermost in your mind.’

I’m so sick of this argument. It’s not my fault that Matt doesn’t get the whole social-media thing, or that I’m trying to build a career out of it. He thinks I’m Instagramming pouty selfies and photos of my breakfast. He can’t see that this is how I’m finally going to make a success of myself.

You see, I’ve got this blog. So far, so shallow, but hear me out.

It started as somewhere to dump all my thoughts. Hardly anyone read it and that was fine with me. My friends were sick of hearing the same stories over and over. I wanted to offload into an anonymous void. It’s what helped me be brutally honest about my life. About myself. And finally, instead of feeling awful, I actually started looking for ways to be happy.

Well, apparently I’m not the only one looking, because what started as a few people commenting on my posts has, four years later, turned into a community of thousands who read the blog every single day.

We gee each other up on Instagram. We’re there for each other. And though we’ve never met in person, some feel like real friends – they are real friends, and I love them. They’ve been with me through all the ups and downs, and the ups again when I met Matt. They’re looking forward to our wedding almost as much as I am. #superromantic!

It was easy to start posting on Instagram – and I admit that there was a bit of trout-mouth and breakfast-snapping in those early days – but once more people started engaging with the blog, my account really built up.

Then one day I got an email from a company. They wanted me to feature their inspirational tote bags! Well, things sort of took off from there.

With the magazine deal, the blog will get the exposure it needs to let me quit my day job and become a full-time influencer. I know, what a ludicrous word. Call it what you like, the point is that I can’t earn a living as a blogger without a deal like this.

But if Matt breaks up with me, it won’t only be my relationship that ends. My future career goes too. I can’t give readers a break-up story. It’s too depressing. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but we made a commitment,’ I tell Matt. ‘You agreed, remember? While you’re working on your tan, I’m trying to hold everything together here.’ Then I get a terrible thought. ‘Did you tell anyone? That you’re backing out?’

‘I’m not definitely backing out. Can’t you give me some space?’

‘Matt. Space is not seeing each other for a few nights so we can go home to do our laundry. Why can’t you just admit that you’re backing out? Did you tell anyone?’ I know he didn’t put anything on Facebook, because he’s not on there. I guess I should be grateful for that, though it does make it impossible to see what he’s doing every second of the day like I want to.

‘Only my parents,’ he says. ‘I had to when I went away.’

That explains why I haven’t heard from his mother. She usually checks in. Now she’s avoiding me. ‘Matt, help me understand what’s wrong. Please.’

I can hear him take a sip of something. I bet it’s alcoholic and frosty in the sunshine. It’s overcast here. ‘I keep thinking back to when we were first together,’ he says. ‘We were perfect for each other.’

I’m so tempted to answer him, to tell him I feel the exact same way. But I have to let him talk. I’ve asked the question. Now I need to hear the answer.

‘And you know I wasn’t looking for a relationship. It just sort of went that way. With everything being so nice and fun between us, it was easy. I’m just not sure it’s really what I want.’

‘But you asked me to marry you,’ I point out. He definitely did. I might be fuzzy on more recent details, but I remember every second of that morning: the overcooked scrambled eggs in bed, just ‘because’, he’d claimed. The way he’d kept watching me while we ate, until I asked him what was wrong. How awkwardly he’d held my hand over the breakfast tray, dragging my sleeve through the buttered toast. And then his question, without preamble: will you marry me?

‘I know,’ he says now. ‘That’s because I do love you. I do. You’ve got to believe that. Even if I’m not sure about being married, I do love you. This really isn’t about you. I hope you can believe me. I might not be ready for such a commitment. Not yet. But you’ve got everything planned already, and with the magazine coming … it makes it so official.’

Finally, an answer! I’ve been wracking my brains for weeks trying to figure out how to fix this, and finally I know. ‘What if I cancelled the magazine? Would that help?’ It won’t help me, but sod it. My relationship is more important. I’ll figure out how to pay Martha the advance back later. Maybe I can get a second job. The important thing is that I can fix this now.

‘It might,’ Matt says.

That doesn’t sound completely fixed. ‘Might? Or would?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he says.

‘That’s not enough for me.’

‘No, I didn’t think so. That’s why I didn’t ask you to do it.’

What am I supposed to do now? Give up the magazine and my chance to change my career along with it, in the hope that he’ll eventually come around?

‘This is why I need the time, Nelly,’ he goes on. ‘I’ve got to figure things out before we can go forward. I’m sorry. I know it’s not ideal.’

‘I can’t wait around forever for you to decide what you want, Matt. I’ve got a week before I need to know. It’s the twenty-seventh when the magazine gets here. At least give me the courtesy of telling me by then.’

This is just great. He’s off at the beach and I’m stuck holding the wedding goodie bag. Or not, as the case may be.