Lindsey Kelk 5-Book 'I Heart...' Collection (155 page)

‘How long do you think we’ve got before they come looking for us?’ Alex whispered, although how I was supposed to concentrate on what he was saying when all I was aware off was the sound of his fly popping open was beyond me.

‘Not long enough.’ I pressed my lips against his and tried to pretend I hadn’t just kicked over a can of Mr Muscle as I wrapped my legs around his waist. ‘So shut up.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

I loved it when he did as he was told.

Monday morning was bright, sunny and filled with bird song. Unlike me. Fifteen seconds after opening my eyes, I vaulted over Jenny and hurtled into the bathroom, face first into the toilet.

‘Angela, are you OK?’ Mum knocked on the bathroom door that I’d kicked closed with impeccable parental timing.

‘I’m fine,’ I called, ignoring the echo of the toilet bowl. ‘Just ate too much yesterday.’

And worried too much. And was jetlagged too much. And did it on the bathroom floor too much. Maybe that last one didn’t add to my nausea, but it certainly didn’t help me get enough rest.

There was a brief silence while she did some motherly calculations. ‘I’m going to make you some dry toast,’ she announced. ‘That always helped me. Come downstairs when you can.’

Pulling up my T-shirt, I rested my bare back against the cool tiles and closed my eyes. Weddings really were the answer. Somehow, in the space of twenty-four hours, I’d managed to press Jenny’s reset button, reawaken the bridezilla within Louisa and find a way to stop my mum being mad when I puked the morning after night before. And whatever fire it had lit under Alex was fine by me, even if I was never going to be able to look at the bathmat in the same way again.

‘Angie, did you vom?’ Jenny didn’t bother to knock, she just barged through the door in her vest and knickers combo. Fingers crossed my dad was already down the garden; I didn’t need him having another funny turn. ‘Are you sick?’

‘My stomach is just a bit unsettled from too much excitement,’ I explained, heaving myself up. ‘I’ll be fine once I’ve eaten.’

‘Oh.’ Jenny looked disappointed. ‘I was going to say don’t eat. You know, trying on dresses?’

‘Right.’ I never thought I’d be thankful for throwing up. ‘I suppose. Although I’m not actually going to be able to lose weight between now and the weekend so it might be better to get something with a bit of give.’

Jenny shook her head so very slowly, never taking her eyes off me. ‘You are so lucky I’m here. Get downstairs − I’ll be fifteen minutes. And no carbs!’

That was the toast out the window, then.

The kitchen table was set to feed an army of thousands, but as far as I could see, it was just me, Alex and Jenny who were eating. Dad was nowhere to be seen and I knew Annette Clark never made it past eight a.m. without her bowl of All-Bran. It was just after nine-thirty − nearly tea and biscuit time.

‘I hope you’re hungry.’ I sat beside Alex and squeezed his hand under the table. He leaned over to kiss me, a full-on hands in hair, lip-to-lip, filthy snog while my mum was busy removing half the contents of the fridge.

‘Not for that.’ I pushed him away and ignored his chuckles as my mum turned round, laden with jars of jam.

‘Well, you’ve got some colour in your cheeks, at least,’ she commented, placing everything Robinsons had ever created on the table. ‘Ready for the dress shopping?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ I said, taking a banana and ignoring her frown as well as her Dorothy Perkins Special cropped trousers. They did her no favours. We’d been through this. We Clarks were short-legged women and few things hated us as much as Capri pants. She never listened. ‘Don’t fancy toast.’ Really, I just didn’t fancy getting my arse kicked when Jenny came downstairs.

‘Jenny gave me a list of things to do,’ Alex said, putting his hand over his mouth while he chewed his toast and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘This is what I’m in charge off. I’m pretty psyched.’

Music (PA tbc − JL)

Suit (liaise with JL re: color scheme)

Stag (liaise with JL re: timings)

Write vows (submit to JL by Thursday p.m.)

Rings (confirm with JL)

I looked up at him, wide-eyed.

‘That’s it? That’s all you have to do?’

He nodded like a big, happy dog.

‘And basically she’s going to do it all for you?’

‘I’ll be amazed if I’m actually allowed to write my own vows.’ He brushed something off his plaid shirt. ‘And Graham called to say they’re coming out tomorrow, so that’s pretty cool.’

It was pretty cool. There were several worries gnawing away at my insides and one of them was that Alex’s friends were going to miss the wedding and that wasn’t right. I still didn’t feel great about his parents not coming, but Alex wasn’t a baby − he knew what he wanted, and if he didn’t want them there, he didn’t want them there. I’d meet them eventually. Probably.

‘I wish my list was that short.’ Mum sat down with her fifth cup of tea of the day. ‘Have a look.’

Mum’s list was triple the length of Alex’s and her jobs were twice as difficult or five times more depressing. She had the pleasure of hiring and overseeing cleaners, confirming RSVPs, making sure we had the right number of glasses for water, wine, cocktails and the champagne toast as well as all the correct flatware and table settings. There were also a million other dreary tasks involving toilet paper, napkins, trash cans (I had to translate on that one) and cloakroom storage. As far as I could tell, after I’d crashed out Jenny had spent the entire night working out every last possible necessity for Saturday and then picked out every single one of the most boring jobs and assigned them to my parents.

‘Your dad is in charge of chairs and tables.’ Mum sipped her tea and rubbed the burgeoning bags under her eyes. ‘He’s gone to B&Q on a recce.’

‘Did Jenny approve B&Q?’ I asked, wild-eyed. White plastic patio furniture did not emanate elegance and class. Simplicity, yes − but not in a good way.

‘No,’ she hissed. ‘And I told him he should check with her. But he said once I’d got a tablecloth on them, you wouldn’t be able to tell. But I’m not in charge of tablecloths, Angela. How am I supposed to cover up a contraband table if I’m not in charge of tablecloths? Tell me that?’

This was quite the predicament. On one hand, I was very happy that my wedding was clearly in good hands and would in no way be a right royal cock-up. On the other, I didn’t really want to have to forfeit my honeymoon in order to check my parents in at the Priory.

‘It’ll be fine, Mum,’ I said, feeling a bit distracted, as I wondered about what was going to be on my list. ‘She doesn’t know what B&Q is. Just don’t tell her. And don’t get anything from Ikea, whatever you do. She hates Ikea.’

‘Are we ready?’ Jenny appeared at the door fully dressed, fully made-up and carrying her handbag, notebook in hand. I immediately noticed she was wearing my green silk Marc by Marc Jacobs shirt as a dress and the same brown leather sandals I’d worn the day before. Not that I wasn’t excited that Jenny had stormed my wardrobe, but it was a little odd. And I could almost see her knickers. Plus that meant another outfit I’d brought for the Spencer Media presentation that was out of the running. Obviously I was planning to wear it with trousers. At least until the presentation started to go badly. ‘Angela, you need to get dressed.’

‘So do you,’ I retorted, sulkily putting down my banana. It was a poor rebellion because I was marching upstairs to find clothes before she even poured herself a coffee.

‘Well, if she’s going to steal my clothes,’ I thought, slamming the door shut and stamping a foot, ‘maybe I’ll borrow some of hers.’

Living in my teenage bedroom was making me behave like a teenager, and teenaged Angela was a petulant little mare. Safely shut inside my bedroom, I opened up Jenny’s suitcase, excited about what treats might be inside. Maybe a little Chloé shirt dress. Or a Missoni maxi. Even a little Alexander Wang mini dress − the weather was nice enough. I’d get myself warmed up for wedding-dress shopping by doing a bit of bargain hunting in Jenny’s suitcase.

Or, I realized as I sat back on my heels and stared into the empty depths before me, I’d be shit out of luck. Flipping the zip-up compartments back and forth, I tried to work out why Jenny’s suitcase contained absolutely nothing but several pairs of underwear, two bras and a pair of Havaianas. Hmm. Dragging her other case out from under the bed, I opened it up to find her jeans from the day before, the leather leggings she’d travelled in, two dirty Tshirts, a neon-orange Stella McCartney clutch, five bottles of flesh-toned nail polish and a battered copy of How To Get The Love You Want.

‘Maybe she unpacked?’ I pondered out loud, trying to work out where she was hiding her stuff. My clothes were in the wardrobe and there was nothing of hers in there. ‘Maybe I’m just being stupid?’

It wouldn’t have been the first time.

‘Angie, get your ass down here,’ the world’s lightest packer bellowed from the bottom of the stairs. ‘And make sure your underwear matches. And is nice. And don’t wear pants. And freaking hurry up.’

By pants, I assumed she meant trousers. And by nice, I assumed she meant not falling apart. And by hurry up, I knew she meant be ready already.

Well, I told myself. Today should be fun.

‘Should I be leaving Alex alone at home?’ I asked no one in particular from the back of my mum’s car, simultaneously checking my emails. I was all over multitasking. I was going to be the best bride, best editor, best darn Angela I could be. I had also had a lot of coffee. ‘He’s going to go stir crazy. I should be doing stuff with him.’

‘He’s got shit to do,’ Jenny replied from the front passenger seat. She’d called shotgun, much to my mother’s horror. It took a little while to explain that Jenny just wanted to sit next to her and had no intention of shooting her. ‘And so have you.’

‘I feel bad about leaving Grace with my mum.’ Louisa rested her head against the headrest of the back seat and pulled a sad panda face. ‘She wasn’t right this morning.’

I tried to look sympathetic, but really, all I was thinking was that Lou looked so much better now she’d washed her hair and put on some make-up. She looked like herself again in a fine-knit baby-blue jumper and white skinny jeans. Even Jenny had approved her on-trend outfit, and my mum had commended her ability to wear cashmere without getting spit-up all over it.

‘I’m sure we won’t be long,’ I lied, scrolling through my emails.

It was incredibly early in NYC, but I already had two messages from Delia. Mostly about work, but also to ask if I was seriously getting married on Saturday or had she driven me mad with too much pressure at work. And also where we were registered. She was an angel. Or at least she was until I got the second message that confirmed they’d moved the Gloss presentation to Friday. Perfect timing. I was meeting with the editorial team in the morning while Delia would be in Paris, presenting to the sales team, in the afternoon. Happily, it meant she would be able to make the wedding on Saturday. It also meant I would be spending the day before my wedding trying to convince a room full of people I didn’t know that they should back my hopes and dreams. But no big deal.

‘We are going to be super-long,’ Jenny corrected me. ‘We’re not going home until we’ve ticked everything off this list.’

Louisa rolled her eyes as Jenny waved a piece of paper over her shoulder. ‘We’re going to be for ever,’ she confirmed. ‘Don’t you remember buying my dress?’

I did remember. I would always remember. It took fucking ages. But that was her dress; this was my dress. Also known as the most amazingly awesome, beautiful, sexy yet tasteful, flattering and breathtaking dress of all time. Which we were going to find off the peg on a Monday afternoon.

‘You’re excited, though?’ Lou asked with a smile. ‘This is the fun part.’

‘I am,’ I nodded, sliding my favourite wedding mag out of my poor satchel. I might be feeling bad about leaving Alex, but I felt even worse about subjecting this shagged-out piece of leatherwork to all the beautiful designer dresses it was going to have to face today. ‘I’ve been looking at stuff. And I really love this one. I know we won’t be able to find exactly this, and I know these dresses take months to make, but I love it. Really love it.’

‘Lemme see.’ Jenny twisted in her seat and yanked the magazine out of my hands before Louisa could even cast an eye over it. ‘It’s cute,’ she agreed before tossing it back and almost taking out Louisa’s eye. ‘But I’m really seeing you in something more loose and flowing? To go with the garden setting? Like maybe Lanvin. Or Temperley, because you know, you really should wear a British designer.’

‘I guess?’ It made sense. I just needed to see some dresses before I made any decisions. I wanted to see them all, and I wanted them to make me look thin, but I really didn’t want to have to try on too many or walk around too much. Bridezilla? Maybe. Lazy? Absolutely.

‘I think it’s gorgeous,’ Louisa said quietly, stroking the page. ‘I can absolutely see you in it. Any thoughts on the bridesmaids’ dresses?’

I looked at Jenny. Olive-skinned, dark hair, brown eyes. I looked at Louisa. Pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes. Jenny with her Latina bombshell curves, Louisa with her willowy long limbs. Eep.

‘I’m thinking neon.’ Jenny came alive in the front of the car. Her arms flailed around wildly while Louisa shook her head at me in silence. ‘Neon Zac Posen. Something that pops against the garden. Tangerine is supposed to be The Colour this year. We could so rock a coral number. Or a Matthew Williamson flapper number. Or, you know, something a little more edgy.’

‘At least it’s going to be easy to get Grace a dress,’ Lou said, flicking her phone into life and waving around the screensaver shot of her baby. Who I still hadn’t actually held. Or spoken to. Or looked directly at. It was too much pressure − I was sure I was going to break her or ruin her in some way. ‘Do they make neon Zac Posen flower-girl dresses?’

‘Flower-girl?’ Jenny hauled herself around again. ‘We’re doing a flower-girl? We’re having a baby at the wedding?’

‘She’s not a baby.’ Louisa sat up straight. ‘She’s my baby. She’s Angela’s goddaughter, and yes, of course she’s coming.’