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‘Will the cherry blossom still be on the trees?’

‘The light-pink trees will have shed their blossom, but the darker ones will still be blooming, I think they said. It’s going to look so pretty. I can’t believe I’m getting married in New York next week!’ I squeal. ‘Now, are you sure my dress is OK?’

‘Your dress looks wonderful, Arielle,’ Mum gushes with a hint of pride. ‘You’re going to make the most beautiful bride.’

I laugh, embarrassed. ‘Mum! You have to say that, I’m your daughter. You’d be saying that if I walked down the aisle in a bin bag, not that there is an aisle. OK, if I walked down the path in a bin bag,’ I correct.

If that’s all I had to marry Piers in, I still would. I’d marry him naked!

‘Is that all you have left to organise, the flowers?’

‘Yep! We’ve applied for our marriage licence, we have our permit for Central Park and we confirmed the photographer yesterday. Piers has his suit, you have my dress, and I have my make-up and hair trial booked in for today.’

I quickly run through my very short wedding checklist and wonder why it was going to take us a few years to organise our wedding at Tharnham Hall. OK, some of that was down to venue availability, and I suspect we’ve been
very
lucky not to hit any snags in New York, but this all feels
too
easy. I’m slightly terrified it’s all going to go horribly wrong – happy tears are the only thing I want on the big day!

‘Evening venue is confirmed,’ I continue, ‘and the menu is sorted. We don’t need to go to town on the decorations, and as there’s only six of us we don’t need a table plan or favours. There also won’t be a band or anything like that. I think that’s it, right? Am I missing anything?’

‘Annabelle’s dress?’ Mum prompts.

‘Oh, yes! We’re picking it up at the weekend. Are your outfits sorted?’

‘Yes, don’t worry about us, dear. What about the rings?’

I scan down my list, and then I scan back up it, but there is no mention of wedding rings on it. I can’t believe we forgot about our wedding rings!

I groan.

‘Arielle?’

‘No, we don’t even have rings on our list... OK, we’ll do that at the weekend.’

I pick up my pen and scrawl “wedding rings” on it in big letters. What a thing to forget!
With this ring, I thee wed
... Oh.

‘Did you speak to Helen about Atlas?’ I cross my fingers.

‘Yes, she’s happy to pop in and feed him, though I bet she’ll take him round to theirs. They’ve got Creighton’s parents visiting at the moment, figuring out their move down south, and you know Ob’s granny is crazy about cats.’ Mum laughs. ‘He won’t want to go back to ours after a week of being spoiled by the Thomas family.’

‘He will be going back,’ I say sternly. I really miss the little furball. ‘They must be excited about Ob’s wedding.’

‘Yes, yes.
Thrilled
about Tharnham. They’re very grateful to you and Piers for your generosity.’

Generosity? I suspect they must mean using our booking. It’s not as if Piers and I are paying for their wedding... I’d better double-check that Ob realises this.

‘I’m almost jealous that you won’t be getting married there,’ Mum continues, ‘and I’m definitely jealous that Helen and Creighton are becoming grandparents before we do!’ she teases.

The generosity remark is forgotten as I really do not want to get caught up in
another
baby conversation. We’re not even married, yet my parents are already dropping heavy hints that Piers and I get cracking with popping out some grandchildren for them. I’d like a career before that happens – something I never thought
I
would say after my stint at being a “kept” woman. Ha! I realise now that whilst I was happy with Piers – and don’t get me wrong, I loved the trips and experiences – I was never fulfilled. I was living in a dream world.

‘I should call Ob back. He’s sent me several texts.’

This isn’t even a lie; I really do need to speak to him.

‘OK, well I’ll talk to you later. Let me know how the trial goes. Send photos!’

‘Will do!’

I say goodbye to Mum and immediately call Ob. My phone bill is going to be massive with all these calls to the UK, but it feels too late to pick up a cheap US sim card. We’ll be honeymooning after the wedding and then, hopefully, we will be flying home since Piers is recovering nicely.

‘Why, hello.’ Ob puts on an air of surprise.

‘Sorry!’ I trill to Obélix. ‘I’ve been a completely shit friend.’

‘Understandable really,’ Ob says, which is unlike him. Where’s the sarcasm and semi-witty banter from him? Is that all I’m getting from him – a mock surprised tone?

‘Is Jade there?’

‘Yep, she’s moved in.’

I stop myself from saying that’s fast work – Mum could have warned me though – and instead offer up my congratulations.

Why wouldn’t they be living together though? They’re having a baby and getting married. It would be stranger if they were living apart, but this all feels super fast. In a month Ob has gone from being single and living alone to living with Jade, his fiancée who is carrying his baby – that’s some turnaround.

‘Awesome,’ I force myself to say brightly. ‘Well, I can’t stay on the phone long as I have my hair and make-up trial, but I just wanted to check that Tharnham is OK with you taking over the booking and Violet is helping you?’

Violet was our wedding planner at Tharnham Hall and an absolutely brilliant one compared to some of the snotty ones we met. Ob and Jade should be in safe hands with her.    

‘All fine, thanks Fatty.’

Ha, I knew it wouldn’t be long before he forgot himself; I’m sure I hear Jade tut in the background though.

‘And she had good news for us. There’s been a cancellation so we can get married in July. Jade won’t be showing too much, so it’s a win-win for us!’

‘
This July?
’

I try to keep the incredulity out of my voice but fail miserably.
Did I hear that right?
The last time I heard from Ob there was a cancellation in March next year – not ideal as they wanted to get married before Jade had the baby but beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to the calendar at Tharnham Hall. How has next March become July? That’s sudden.

‘Yep! You’ll be back then, right? It’s the first Friday of the month.’

‘We’ll be home by then, fingers crossed.’ I’m going to need Piers’ moral support to get through this wedding, so if he’s not well enough to travel, I’m not sure I’m selfless enough to go by myself. ‘That’s soon though,’ I mutter.

‘You can talk. Haven’t you and Piers organised a New York wedding in a couple of weeks?’

‘True,’ I admit, though that’s not my point. My point is Ob and Jade have only been going out for the past month, and now they are getting married in, what is it, five or six weeks. Who gets married that quickly? It’s madness, baby or no baby, but I know it’s not my place to say this to Ob. If this is what he wants to do and he is happy –
they
are happy – then I will support this shotgun wedding. (And won’t act too elated when the inevitable divorce happens.)

‘You know Violet’s a marvel. She’s already been in touch with the vendors who were booked for this cancelled wedding and we can take over some of those orders.’

‘Doesn’t Jade mind?’

I know I’d mind if I took over some other bride’s wedding. Sure, I’m not having certain elements that I would have had if we were getting married back in England, but everything in our new wedding has been picked by me.

‘Nah, she just wants to get married as quickly as possible.’

Before Ob can come to his senses.

‘It’s just the flowers she wants to change, and arriving on Sheba instead of in a car,’ Ob continues.

‘Sheba?’

‘Jade’s horse.’

Ah, yes. The one that got them into this mess.

‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘Are you happy with all of this?’ I bite back my question about a pregnant woman riding a horse because, let’s face it, what do I know? Maybe it’s OK to ride when you’re pregnant, exactly like it’s OK to wish for your baby to be born prematurely.

‘Of course,’ Ob answers, but his tone suggests otherwise. Is he having second thoughts?

‘Cool. Look, I need to go, but I’m glad that Tharnham is sorted out and that Violet is being a superstar. I’ll speak to you later, OK?’

By which I mean: I’ll speak to you later when you’re away from Jade’s prying ears and then we can have a 
proper
chat.

After saying goodbye to Ob I head straight out to have my hair and make-up trial. I’m so pleased with the results that I stay out later than planned to record some videos – I might as well make the most of my glowing skin and swishy hair.

When I get back Piers is home from his physiotherapy session, but he doesn’t look well at all.

‘Are you OK?’ I drop my bags on the floor and rush to Piers’ side. Leaning down next to him where he’s resting on the sofa, I don’t even care that he’s now seen my wedding hair and make-up.

He grimaces. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Piers, you’re not. What happened?’

‘Nothing,’ he snaps as he sits up a bit on the sofa and immediately starts coughing – deep, racking coughs which sound like his lung tissue is going to split. His skin looks deathly pale and there’s a sheen of sweat resting on his forehead. But, it’s his eyes that scare me the most. Those gorgeous brown eyes of his have no sparkle – he looks half-dead.

‘You’re not fine,’ I say as I lean over and rub his back. ‘What’s wrong really? What have you done?’

‘Noth–’

‘Piers!’

He’s struggling not to cough and looks ready to drop. He can’t sweep this under the rug.

‘OK, maybe I pushed myself too far in my session, and then I called in at the office when I got your text.’ He looks anywhere but at me. ‘I’ll be fine once I’ve rested up, and I was only at the office an hour,’ he adds when he sees my face. He was
not
supposed to enter that office again.

‘Piers!’

‘I know, I know. I just want to get work sorted out so we can fly somewhere for our honeymoon.’

‘We’re going to one of the swankiest places in the Hamptons,’ I point out. ‘Our own private paradise. I’m perfectly happy with our honeymoon destination. We don’t need to fly anywhere, and you don’t need to be concerning yourself with the financial world. Can you concentrate on getting better, please? Look at you.’

I swear he’s looking paler than he did a moment ago.

‘But I was thinking we could go to the Bahamas. It’s only a short flight.’

‘As long as I’m with you,’ I remark pointedly, ‘I don’t care where we are. What I do care about though is your recovery.’ I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe Brett pushed you this far. He should know better.’

I refrain from pointing out that Piers should know better, too. His grey pallor is definitely back. Whilst it’s not as intense as it was when he was recovering from surgery, he doesn’t look well.

‘Brett wasn’t there today,’ he admits, ‘and–’ His hacking cough stops him from finishing that sentence.

‘I’ll get you a drink.’

I rush through to the kitchen, his cough ringing in my ears, but when I come back I’m greeted by silence and the sight of Piers slumped half on, half off the sofa.

‘Piers!’ I scream, dropping the glass and running over to him. I don’t even register that the glass has smashed all over the floor.

When he doesn’t move as I prop him up, I grab my phone, swearing as I stumble twice with the passcode to unlock it, and I call 911 in a daze.

How does it feel to lose the one you love? I thought about that a lot on the plane after Giles called me and told me I needed to get to New York because Piers was having surgery. As I sit in the waiting room of a hospital that has become so painfully familiar, I think the exact same thoughts again.
How could Piers have been so stupid?

‘Arielle?’

I snap my head up as Doctor Teddy walks towards me in his scrubs. He must see the fear in my eyes because he starts talking as he approaches me.

‘He’s going to be OK, don’t worry, but he needs to rest. I’m going to keep him in hospital for the next few days, and then we’ll take it from there.’

‘We’re getting married next week,’ I whisper.

Now Doctor Teddy has told me that Piers is going to be OK, it’s like all my energy has been released and I only realise I am shaking like mad when he puts a steadying hand on my arm and I see his hand move because of my spasms.

‘Do you need me to prescribe you something for your anxiety?’ he asks. ‘You look very shocked.’

What is it with medical people wanting to drug me in this country?

‘I’m fine,’ I mutter, staring down at my feet. I feel like this is all my fault, like I could have stopped Piers, forced him to rest. ‘Can I see him?’

‘You can, but I need you to do something for me.’

My head snaps up. His hand is still on my arm and I move it slightly. He gets the hint and sticks it back in his pocket.

‘Be gentle with Piers. He knows he was stupid, but he needs to rest and not get more stressed out. I don’t think he’ll do this again,’ he adds.

‘I can do that,’ I whisper, though Doctor Teddy is wrong. Piers
isn’t
stupid, yet he pushed himself knowing he shouldn’t have. It could have been Piers’
funeral
rather than our wedding next week. At this morbid thought I start sobbing.

After I start to take big breaths to calm down, forcing the air slowly out of my mouth and then filling up my lungs as Doctor Teddy instructs me, he starts talking again. There is a woman with a toddler watching me from across the waiting room. The little boy has dark hair, like Piers, and I’m hit with an overwhelming broodiness that quickly dissolves as I focus my attention on what Doctor Teddy is saying.

‘All better?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Look, compose yourself and then go and see Piers for a few minutes. He’s in room 668, just down the corridor. I’ll see you tomorrow when I’m doing my rounds, but look after yourself. We don’t need both of you in here.’

He’s gone with a quick dazzling grin leaving the woman opposite me sighing wistfully, and me dabbing my face self-consciously.

When I enter Piers’ private room, my fiancé does not look well, but I force myself to push down my fear, push away my anger, and not have a go at him for thinking he knows better than the experts.

I take a seat next to him and reach for his hand. He squeezes it feebly. There isn’t a tube sticking out of his chest this time – a small mercy – but he’s hooked up to a machine and there’s an IV stuck in the back of his hand again. I had hoped that I wouldn’t be visiting him in hospital again for many years to come.

‘I’m sorry,’ he croaks, his eyes half-open as he tries to look at me, but then the exhaustion and pain get the better of him and he squeezes them shut with a whimper.

‘Don’t worry,’ I mutter. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats.

‘It’s OK. Concentrate on resting.’

We sit there in silence, me holding his hand as I try to fight back my tears, until a nurse pops her head around the door and I know it’s time to go.

I want to scream out loud in frustration, but instead I start pounding the pavement as I briskly walk the ten-minute journey back to the apartment. I bite the inside of my cheek as I stomp along, hoping that the sharp pain will stop me from crying.

It’s much cooler at this time of night and I feel on edge. What happened to Piers is playing over and over in my head, but I make it back home unscathed and quicker than I usually would – a passerby got a choice swear word thrown at him, however, when he barged past me.

When I plonk myself on the sofa with a large glass of wine that I immediately set to one side – irgh, is it corked? – I call Giles. I’ve spoken to him more in the past few months than I have in the entire time that I’ve known him.

‘How is he?’

‘He’s OK.’

I wish Atlas was here. I feel all alone in New York and Piers’ absence reinforces my loneliness.

‘Arielle?’

I sigh. ‘Is it always going to be like this, Giles? Is Piers always going to hide things from me and ignore his health?’

There’s an awful pause.

‘Giles?’ I demand sharply.

It’s his turn to sigh. ‘Look, I don’t know. Probably. But only about his health, old girl,’ he hurriedly adds. ‘I know if he gets what Dad had he won’t tell you.’

‘Who’s that?’ I hear Annabelle ask before I can blast out Piers to Giles for his stupid secrecy. We’re supposed to be declaring “for better, for worse... in
sickness
and in health” next week. My fiancé needs to get better at sharing his life-changing conditions with me.

‘It’s Aunty Arielle, and what are you doing up? It’s past your bedtime.’

I don’t hear exactly what Annabelle says but I know it can’t have been polite when I hear Giles’ yell at her, though I feel bad because I realise it’s past midnight back home – I probably woke her up by calling the landline.

Where has the day gone? What started out as an exciting day with my hair and make-up trials has turned into another one of the worst days of my life. Will Piers even be strong enough for us to get married next week?

‘Sorry about that,’ he says when he returns to the phone a few minutes later. ‘She’s a little high-spirited at the moment. She’s convinced we can bring BoJo to New York with us and won’t take no for an answer, so she’s been getting out of bed and making protest banners.’

BoJo is Annabelle’s Shetland pony who bears more than a passing resemblance to the new London Mayor, Boris Johnson.

‘How are the wedding plans coming along? You must be almost there now,’ Giles continues in a jolly tone.

I realise I can’t call him out on Piers’ behaviour – he’s not Piers’ keeper – and I do not want to talk about the wedding. What’s the point? It might not even happen.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ I say robotically. ‘I’ve just realised the time. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry, old girl. I couldn’t have gone to sleep anyway until I knew my baby brother was all right.’

We chat for a few minutes more before I cry off claiming exhaustion.

As I pour my glass of wine and the rest of the bottle down the sink, I’m hit by an overwhelming wave of both exhaustion and nausea, probably because I’ve not eaten since breakfast.

If we do manage to make it down the aisle I’ll be looking as sickly as Piers looked earlier. What awesome wedding photos they will be of the two of us...
not
.