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‘Although Lottie was looking forward to being bridesmaid,’ she adds in a whisper. ‘I’m not sure we should tell her today, at least until not after lunch. You know, so as not to spoil things.’ I glance behind me. Lottie waves enthusiastically, her thin limbs tapering like ribbons on a maypole. I feel a dollop of guilt at the thought of disappointing her by not having a big wedding and allowing her to wear the floaty bridesmaid dress of her dreams.

I try to explain. ‘You know I told you we were going to visit St Adelaide’s in Hodstone?’ My friends nod in unison. ‘Matthew reacted really badly.’ Now I find I’m the one lowering my voice. The men are about ten metres ahead of us; it’s unlikely they can catch our conversation, but I don’t want to embarrass Matthew as I explain why we’ve made the decision we have.

‘In what way?’ Gina asks.

‘Like a post-traumatic stress thing. He sort of froze.’

‘Matthew did?’ Heidi makes sure her intonation communicates her surprise at this; more, her two-word question implies that he had no right to get upset there in particular.

‘He just wouldn’t cross the threshold and go to talk to the vicar as planned. Well, when I say planned, it was my plan really. I sprang it on him. My bad.’ I don’t know why I feel the need to justify, but I do. ‘He’s explained that it’s all mixed up with his feelings about Becky – their wedding, her funeral. He says that he no longer associates churches with anything good.’

‘Wow.’ Gina lets out a low whistle.

‘But you were OK with it being there?’ Heidi clarifies.

I know what she’s thinking. ‘I buried my parents years ago,’ I mutter. Despite the shade of the trees, I still feel uncomfortably hot. Sweat is pooling at the back of my knees and under my arms. Come to think of it, everyone looks a little flustered. I focus on taking a drink from my water flask.

When we pick up the pace again, Heidi says, ‘Well, it doesn’t have to be a church wedding. Hardly anyone does that any more. It doesn’t mean you have to elope. You can have a civil ceremony in a hotel or stately home or something.’

‘Yes, we could. We talked about all the options, but on reflection, I’m forty-seven, I’m not sure I want a huge fuss.’

‘You do,’ she insists.

She’s right, I do. I stopped expecting a wedding when I turned thirty-five, I stopped hoping for one aged forty-five. It’s been fun thinking about a big party, a Jenny Packham dress, flowers, champagne, a choir, menus. But it’s not the be all and end all, is it? Matthew is right.

‘I didn’t enjoy it the first time around, if I’m honest,’ he explained. ‘A big bash was something Becky wanted, so I went along with it, but I’ve always thought it’s about the marriage, not the wedding day.’

We’d come home from Hodstone exhausted and confused after tidying my parents’ graves. I’d talked to the vicar; he and the church warden both expressed great shock and sadness. They’d offered to help me clean up the plot, but Matthew and I managed on our own. We drove to the B&Q on the outskirts of town, bought a bucket, some turps, more topsoil.

‘People get carried away; they spend a fortune they don’t have on just one day. Becky and I couldn’t even afford a honeymoon after we’d overextended ourselves to pay for the wedding. We were back at work the following Monday.’ He wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. ‘I’m guessing you’ll feel the same,’ he murmured. I didn’t want to contradict him; it’s lovely that he assumes we think alike.

I melted into his chest, feeling safe and thrilled at being favourably compared to extravagant and profligate Becky. The fact that he had a big wedding when he married her and didn’t think it was the ideal route gives me an opportunity. So I didn’t point out that money is not really an object for us. Instead, I said, ‘I think the perfect solution would be combining the marriage with a holiday. Going somewhere hot and exotic. Coming back with tans and rings.’ I made myself sound enthusiastic, almost giddy.

‘Oh, that’s a brilliant idea.’ His face lit up; relief and joy oozed from every pore. ‘You work so hard. You’re always under a lot of pressure. You do need a holiday. Where were you thinking?’

I had seen an advert on the side of a bus the last time I was in London. It had stood out like a beacon of serenity amongst the London crush and chaos. ‘The Maldives.’

‘Love that plan. Let’s do it. Soon,’ he added with a wide grin. He tilted my face towards his and kissed me. I thought we’d make love then, but instead we made plans. It thrilled me how much he wanted to formalise what we had. Make me his wife as quickly as possible.

‘But when you say you’re eloping, you don’t mean just the two of you?’ Heidi asks me now. ‘We’re obviously all coming along. And you’ll give us plenty of warning. Time to save up for the flights and accommodation, right?’ Her voice quivers with uncertainty on the word ‘right’. It’s not like us to feel unsure of one another. It’s not like us to lie to one another either, but somehow I can’t bring myself to tell her that the first-class flights are already booked. We’re going next week. Alone.

I shrug and fudge, ‘We haven’t absolutely finalised everything.’ This is clearly going to be a situation where it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. When I come back from the Maldives as Mrs Charlton, Heidi will deal with it. She’ll see I’m happy and that will be all that matters to her. Won’t it?



21

Lottie pushes past us as she heads towards her dad in an excited rush to tell him a joke that Fifi has just told her. Unfortunately, as she does so, she steps off the path and into a patch of nettles. She reacts badly to the stings, raw red bumps erupting all over her shin. She starts to cry, partially through pain but mostly because she doesn’t like the look of it. Mick hoists her onto his shoulders, and although we’ve only done about a third of the planned walk, we decide to head back to Woodview.

Matthew finds his way to my side and asks, ‘Have you told them our wedding plans?’

‘Mostly. Not the detail about timings.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘I think that will be fun to keep as a surprise,’ I add.

I drop back to walk with Leon and nervously watch as Matthew, Heidi and Gina form a cluster. I hope he doesn’t mention the date of the wedding. Whatever he does say makes them glance my way. Leon nudges me in the ribs. ‘I guess they’re plotting your hen, right?’

The three girls hop into the pool as soon as we arrive home. I encourage everyone to join them, as I feel the overwhelming heat of the day is creating an undefinable sense of irritation, even malaise. It turns out none of the adults have brought swimwear. Matthew says he can loan trunks to Leon and Mick – they’re all about the same size, and I bought him a few pairs from Paul Smith in preparation for our trip to the Maldives. Heidi clocks the fact that the tags are still attached and reads the price. I feel judged. I don’t offer my swimwear to Heidi and Gina; we’re not the same shape or size. Gina is tall and very long in the body, and Heidi has huge boobs that require supported swimwear that she refers to as her ‘boulder holder swimwear’. We know our figures are different; it’s never an issue, none of us care. I get the feeling that today it might be an issue. Heidi has been complaining that she’s piling weight on just looking at food, and I think she’s feeling more self-conscious than usual.

Matthew thoughtfully suggests we sit in the garden, leave Mick and Leon to supervise the swimming while he fixes drinks and puts the finishing touches to lunch. ‘What can I get you ladies to drink?’ he asks, the perfect host. ‘I have rosé chilling. Or maybe an Aperol spritz?’

Rosé is Heidi’s favourite tipple, Aperol is Gina’s. He checked with me yesterday.

‘I’m having a day off alcohol,’ says Heidi. ‘It’s too hot to drink. I’ll fall asleep if I do.’

‘I promised Mick I’d drive home,’ Gina adds. ‘He’ll have a beer, though, when he gets out of the pool.’

‘You could have just one,’ I suggest, aware that Matthew has made an effort to get their favourite drinks in, and also aware that a glass of something might make everyone a little more relaxed.

‘No, that’s stupid. She’s driving a child,’ snaps Heidi. ‘I think we can all cope with one day off alcohol, don’t you?’

I’m not driving anywhere, and in fact I was looking forward to a crisp glass of rosé, but her tone is so definitive that I tell Matthew I’m happy with sparkling water.

Matthew starts to bring out some of the food he has prepared. He emerges with tuna tartare and king prawns with garlic and chilli. I’m glad we opted for a tapas-style lunch, so we can all pick at it casually rather than sit formally around a table. With food in front of us, we seem to find a cordial groove, and some of our usual energy and verve. My friends talk appreciatively about the dishes. ‘This seafood is yummy. You really live your life like you’re in a magazine,’ comments Heidi.

‘Well done for finding a man who can cook,’ adds Gina.

Once we are settled with the first round of plates, I expect Matthew to peel off to join the men and kids in the pool. He doesn’t. Instead, he sits next to me and takes my hand, which is sweet but makes eating tricky. We are opposite Gina and Heidi. ‘There’s something else Emma has been wanting to talk to you about,’ he says. ‘Some weird things have been happening and she needs your support.’ My friends stop discussing which salad is the perfect accompaniment to garlic and chilli prawns and give me their full attention.

Matthew’s formal introduction to the topic isn’t how I would have approached it, but once I start speaking, the words flow freely. They already know about the plant pots and globes being smashed. Like Matthew, they suggested extra security cameras and being more vigilant when alone. I didn’t tell them about the bolognese sauce. It’s not that I wanted to hide the incident from them, it’s just that Matthew proposed the same night and that became the big news. Then we got into the prenup thing, so I never got round to telling them about the strange vandalism that was so upsetting. But now I must. Matthew holds my hand throughout. I realise he’s trying to show support and solidarity, but my palm is sweating and generally I’m the sort of person who uses my hands when I talk. I feel bound, restricted.

Heidi and Gina listen carefully, not interrupting, which leads me to reveal more than I was planning on saying. I tell them that I often get the sense I’m being watched; that sometimes I think someone else has been in the house. I am certain – OK, almost certain – that between us we’ll find an alternative explanation, something sane and probable. Something less devastating than the current ideas that are swilling around my mind.

Are sens

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