Both of them squealed in harmony.
10
Sometimes, even when you’ve known people for so long that you thought they couldn’t possibly do anything to surprise you, people do things that surprise you.
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ Mum was historically a very easy-going woman when it came to how we wanted to live our lives, particularly in her post-divorce, open a bakery era. But right now, she was not hiding her expression well. An expression – slightly wrinkled nose, skin a bit pale – that said, ‘I don’t think this is what you should want’.
Isla paused, midway through a monologue about risotto versus ravioli.
‘What? Ravioli?’ She fixed us with a stare. ‘No, I’m not sure. That’s the whole point of this conversation.’
I saw Mum shoot Joe a look. He was cramming the end piece of a garlic baguette into his mouth, refusing to meet her eyes. Dinner at Mum’s house was a biweekly tradition, one that had started as soon as we were all in London again. Joe’s shifts at the hospital meant that sometimes you didn’t see him for days at a time; having a date in the diary ensured you’d stay on his radar. It was the only item in my calendar that I treated as sacred. Plenty of other plans I sacked off for a late night in the office, but this was immovable. Only in exceptional circumstances.
Isla continued to stare at Mum, finally clocking. ‘You mean the whole wedding?’ There was an awkward pause. ‘I haven’t just said this on a whim, Caroline.’
Under the table, Joe gave me a gentle kick. I knew what it meant.
‘I think what Mum is trying to say,’ I said, pushing lasagne around my plate, ‘and I’m not trying to bring the vibe down here, but is it logistically possible to plan a wedding in two months?’
This was the bombshell that Isla – mainly Isla – and Joe had dropped on us over slow-cooker lasagne. They wanted to get married in June. This June. Which meant that we were only two months away.
Joe finally looked up from shovelling food into his mouth. The man ate like every meal was his last. ‘Isla’s done her research. Ow.’ He shot her a look. ‘We’ve both done our research.’
‘Obviously it won’t be a fairy tale wedding’ – Isla was on her phone, pulling up pictures of rustic table settings – ‘but that’s not what I want. I don’t care about all of that stuff, I just want everyone I love to be there, and I just want to be married to Joe. God knows I’ve had long enough to think about this.’
It was the right comment to throw into the equation, because Mum’s expression softened.
‘That’s a really nice idea, honey. If it’s what you want, then give us a list and we’ll crack on with it. I’ve been thinking about your wedding cake for over a decade.’
I spoke through a mouthful of cheesy goodness, earning me a scathing look from her. ‘Didn’t you have a Pinterest board for your wedding?’ I had vivid memories of Isla pinning photos of dresses and veils when we were teenagers.
‘I did …’
Another thought came to me, and I butted in to ask the question that Rory would have done, had he been here. ‘Is this a roundabout way of telling me I’m going to be an aunty?’
My brother coughed, choking on some garlic bread. ‘No, that’s definitely not it.’
Isla was looking put out. Which was hard to do, because she had that eternal-sunshine energy. It was like kicking a puppy.
‘Sorry, sorry. Cynicism not welcome. I think it’s a great idea.’ I dug deep for some romantic optimism. ‘You’ve been together since the dawn of time, it’s not like anyone needs to get used to the idea of you as husband and wife. Mum’s right. Tell us what you need us to do, and we’ll do it.’
From across the table, my brother mouthed ‘thank you’.
‘I really appreciate that.’ Isla was beaming again. ‘I knew we’d be able to convince you both. After all, you’re our family.’
It spoke volumes that Isla saw her fiancé’s mother as someone she needed to convince, rather than her own. ‘I’m thinking twenty-eighth of June, which will be a time crunch, but I’ve been making some calls. This gorgeous venue in Hackney has a cancellation on that day.’
She looked way too ecstatic about this, given that a cancelled wedding could never mean anything good for the original party. I said as much.
‘They mentioned something about cold feet …’ Isla remembered herself. ‘Which is obviously very sad, but some things are meant to be. Like us, on the twenty-eighth of June. I’ve found this pair of second-hand wedding shoes on Vinted that I just love, and I’ve been watching YouTube videos on how to make your own bunting.’
I listened to her chatter about invitations and confetti for a minute, watching how animated her facial expressions became when she spoke about being tied to my idiot brother forever. To me, the idea of sharing your life with someone was terrifying. I loved having my bed to myself, and not having to wait for someone else to wake up in the morning. Getting the ultimate decision on every takeaway, and jamming all of my free time with efforts to see my friends. But Isla and Joe made a shared life seem like the most exciting thing in the world.
‘I know you think ragu might be the more universally appreciated decision, but my heart says it’s overdone.’
They were back onto the main course dilemma. One of her friends’ husbands had offered his catering company at a mates’ rate, and the menu was clearly playing on Isla’s mind. Ragu ravioli or saffron risotto. Joe was firmly team ravioli, on the basis that saffron was a risky ingredient, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if she sent an email to all of us with an anonymous voting system. Isla loved things to be fair.
‘I don’t think we need to take the entire universe into consideration,’ I chipped in, speaking around another mouthful of pasta.
‘And you,’ Isla said, smiling at me, ‘I have another question to ask.’
She pulled out a small gossamer bag from her pocket, barely managing to contain her excitement. Joe was smirking into his bowl. ‘The wild Penny is a skittish creature, likely to run a mile at any mention of the word marriage. So now we see her outside of her natural habitat …’
He was doing his impressively realistic Attenborough impression.
Isla thumped him. ‘Stop! It’s a special moment. Here you go, Pen.’
I put down my fork, opening the bag to reveal a tiny vintage locket. I’d always loved hunting down antique jewellery; the older and more previously loved the better. The obsession had started with a gorgeous emerald that I’d inherited from my maternal grandmother and wore around my neck without fail every day, and from there it had only grown. My jewellery stand was full of hidden gems I’d picked up over the years, a fact which Isla knew from the number of times I’d dragged her with me. This locket was a worn oval made of silver, and I ran my fingers over the mottled metal.
‘This is gorgeous.’
Isla clapped her hands together. ‘Read the back.’
I did as she asked, turning it over and reading the intricately engraved letters. It read ‘Maid of Honour?’ and the photo inside was a tiny one of us both on New Year’s Eve five years ago, sparklers in hand. I’d been home from Edinburgh for the week spanning Christmas to New Year, and Isla had spent the entirety of it with us. I’d been heading back to university a couple of days later, so we’d made the most of the evening, the three of us staying up in the garden with a bottle of red wine until way past midnight. I knew that, technically, my loyalties always had to lie with Joe, but I loved Isla (even her morning affirmations and the way she put chia seeds in everything).
‘Are you serious?’ When she nodded, I sniffed. ‘I would love to.’
Joe was smirking. ‘Is that raw emotion I’m seeing?’
